and all I loved, I loved alone

He’s left standing in the aftermath of the fight, buildings crumbled before him, sand dunes covering streets and cars. It’s as if the whole city turned into a desert within the short hours of the struggle.

“You look like shit.” Gwen appears behind the portal with a hand on her hip as she saunters over to him.

Hands on his knees, panting, he notices his trainers on her feet before looking up at her with a glare. “Are those my chucks?”

“Y/N let me borrow it since hers doesn’t fit me.” She shrugs, looking at his sand clad suit teasingly. “You better shake that off before you come home, she was having one of her cleaning maniac phases before I left.”

Sighing, just the thought of seeing you at home has him wanting to run away into your waiting arms. “Thank fuck…” he mumbles to himself before taking a step towards Gwen and then shaking his head and body as sand flies and flicks towards the blonde.

“Hey!” She pushes him away as Hobie chuckles. “I just washed this, man!” Wiping her suit, she groans when the sand sticks to the spandex of her gloves instead. “Oh, come on!”

“Now you have to clean up too before goin’ back home.” Flinging some sand away from his watch, even scrubbing at the screen to clear some stubborn bits away, he dials in his home dimension. He groans when he remembers something you asked him to do before giving him your usual kiss at the door. “Ah, shit.”

“What? Did it break in the fight?”

“No, I forgot that lovie wanted me to grab some walnut bread for dinner.”

“The one from Miles’ place?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.” Hobie blows a tired raspberry as he inputs 1612’s coordinates. “She fancies that stuff better than ours.”

“I could get it for her.”

Almost immediately, Hobie’s eyes flick back at Gwen with a teasing glint. “Alright.”

“Shut up and give me the cash.” He could tell that she’s blushing under her mask as she pats her open palm.

“I didn’t even say anythin’.” Handing her a couple of bills, she rolls her eyes and walks back to the portal. “While you’re there, invite him over.”

“Oh, fuck you!” Walking backwards, Gwen flips him the bird before the portal closes behind her.

Snorting, Hobie turns his attention back to his watch as the lights flicker for a moment before he smacks it and the screen returns to normal. He makes a mental note to clean it when he gets home, for now though, he needs to melt into your arms or else he’ll collapse with his own longing.

He needs a cold pint after all that, and maybe some ibuprofen for his aching muscles. So without wasting any more time as the clean up crew finally arrives at the scene, he opens the portal to home and steps into a kaleidoscope of orange and red lights. Hobie’s fatigued body floats around the colourful tunnel in precise directions until he speeds up abruptly, the kind of speed that could be felt through the neck, a quick snap of momentum that has his limbs flying about.

“What the fuck?!” Getting a glimpse of his watch, he sees it flicker in and out, colours inverting, gears buzzing and the screen turning to black. That can’t be good.

Suddenly freezing in mid air, the tunnel shifts backwards as if someone pressed rewind on a remote control. His body floats aimlessly in zero gravity for a moment, until the tunnel turns again. He’s then flung about, back and forth and then around and around like he’s being blended into a smoothie. The G force was enough to make his neck hurt, jaw tightening as he flexes his muscles when he sees the light at the end of the tunnel. He braces for impact.

He thanks all his spidey experience for handling the rough landing. Rolling onto the familiar wooden floor, a tactical roll over the couch that has his muscles throbbing even more, he finally falls on solid ground, limbs limping and relaxing when he’s face to face with the houseboat’s ceiling, complete with the chipping eggshell paint, and some plastic glow in the dark stars. Wait, he doesn’t remember putting those up.

“Love?” Calling for you on instinct, he keeps his gaze up on the ceiling as he feels the tiredness creep up on him. “I think ‘m goin’ to sleep ‘ere.”

“You’ll catch your death there, big man.” His own voice answers back at him, tone strikingly similar to a light southern drawl.

Hobie’s head immediately lifts up as he stares at the source of the voice. His eyes widens at the leather cowboy standing by his feet with a glass of whiskey in hand. As if having a cowboy inside his living room wasn’t enough, the said visitor sports his own face, complete with his signature nonchalant expression. Despite the obviously different style, he has a very noticeable scar across his neck.

“What the fuck?” You’re the first thing that pops in his mind, are you okay? Where the fuck are you? “Where—?!”

“I didn't know we ‘ave a new member, old man.” The sound of footfalls has both Hobies turning to look, where a sharply dressed version of him sits on his armchair with his leg casually thrown over his thigh. This Hobie smirks at shocked Hobie’s raised brow, knowing damn well that he’d never wear something as claustrophobic as a navy blue suit. He has more questions when he sees blood splattered across his dress shirt, and a holstered gun peeking underneath his coat. “I think we got a live one ‘ere.” Smirking, he swishes his martini casually.

“What’s happenin’? Why the fuck are you all in my house?! And where’s—?”

“I thought I was smarter than this.” Another Hobie says, casually leaning against the wall as he wears an almost exact same spider suit as him. Except that he wears a different leather vest that looks like it’s been worn down but well loved that includes a very obvious cherry patch right atop his heart. “You’re in a different dimension, bruv. Fell through the crevice like Alice, innit?”

Realization flickers in his eyes, groaning, head falling back onto the floor, he grimaces and checks his watch. Sure enough, the screen is buzzing with different streaks of light. The sand definitely did more damage to it than he thought. That’s what he gets for trusting Miguel’s tech instead of using his own.

“Fuck.” Biting the inside of his cheek, the smell of salt and sea breeze suddenly wafts over his nose. When he opens his eyes, he faces a large tricorn hat that hides the face of its wearer. For a moment he thinks that this one doesn’t bear his face, but when the pirate looking man crouches down and smirks, he knows that it’s a variant of him too. “What the fuck are you supposed to be?”

“This one got some fuckin’ lip.” This Hobie’s tone is commanding, like a captain running a tight ship but with all his Hobie-like flare with his silver chains dangling around and leather boots that look well tended to. “Like all of us, I suppose.” Tilting his head, the pirate narrows his eyes at Hobie’s full head of hair. “Am I the only fuckin’ one?”

“What?” Scrunching his nose, his eyes roam around the identical faces. “A pirate me? What’s next, a fucking cryptid version of me?”

“I guess the closest one is a minotaur version of us.” The most similar Hobie to himself says against the mouth of his pint.

“Oi,” the suited Hobie flashes his mismatched eyes. “Don’t forget ‘bout fairy and Vamp over there.” He gestures using his chin towards the kitchen, where two more Hobies stand side by side conversing amongst themselves.

The ethereal looking Hobie clad in green and with sad eyes knits his brows. “For the last time, Smith, ‘m not a fairy.”

“Tomato, tomato.”

“I’ve got no bloody wings.”

The chill velvet clad Hobie clasps the fae’s shoulder. Wine red eyes glowing under the kitchen lights as he swishes a suspicious red liquid inside his glass. “D’you want me to drain him? Jus’ say the word.”

“Alright, you broken souls.” An older Hobie steps up from the bedroom as the other variants stop their banter. He has smile lines around his lips, and crow’s feet around his brown eyes. His long braids have white hair weaved around each braid beautifully, salt and pepper hair that adds to his charm. Hobie could only hope that he’ll age that well. He guesses that he will be. “Welcome to the club, what’s your gimmick, hm?” The man smiles at him, dimples in full display, one that Hobie doesn’t have.

“My gimmick?”

“Aye, what’s so different ‘bout you that separates all of us from the other?” The pirate sits down on the couch with a groan. “Sometimes it’s more obvious.” He gestures around his 1700’s seafaring attire.

“Sometimes it’s not.” The cherry Spider-Man says as he leans away from his post to grab a spring roll from the dinner table. Suddenly Hobie’s feeling a lot hungrier than before. “I had a will they won’t they with my childhood best mate. My Y/N and I are together now, don’t worry.” He says while chewing.

There’s a sudden sobbing wail coming from the kitchen.

“Look what you’ve done, mate.” The vampire hisses, fangs sharp as he tries to soothe his fae counterpart by patting his back. “You’re bloody callous, I swear kids these days.”

“Can’t imagine bein’ away from my lovie.” Someone in the corner adds, the darkness hides him as Hobie could only see a purple outline around his eyes and form.

“Isn’t your lovie the black cat?” The older Hobie says with a teasing tone before the Hobie in the corner backs away into the dark once again. Shaking his head, the older one seems to be the one in charge, or tries to be as he keeps everyone from biting each other’s heads off. They do say that the ones who are similar to each other are the ones that end up not getting along. “Cowboy Hobie over there is obviously a cowboy—”

“An outlaw.” He corrects, shooting him a finger gun in his direction.

“Sure,” old man Hobie sighs tiredly. “the one in the corner is the prowler version of us from earth-616.”

Hobie looks over his shoulder to stare at the mysterious Prowler hunched in the corner as he hears munching coming from the dark. “How come I’ve never seen you lot at the society?”

“Not all of us got bit by a spider.” Reaching towards him, the silver fox gives him a helping hand. “I avoid the society, and Wallace over there,” he gestures towards the punk Spider-Man with a cherry patch on his vest. “Usually avoids spider variants of himself.”

“So what’s this then, a support group for us?”

“Sort of, we talk, give each other shit and sometimes a helpin’ hand.” The cowboy utters as he fidges with the bandana around his neck. “Shit, we are a support group.”

Once on his feet, Hobie dusts himself off, making sand fall from the crevices of his leather jacket and from his pockets down onto the carpet. The older Hobie raises a brow, russet eyes striking him like a chastising father.

“I’ll clean it up.” Hobie’s immediately looking around for a vacuum.

“Don’t even try to clean, I’ll vacuum it up later before my lovie gets home. Sit, eat, while they fix your watch.”

Shaking his head, locs dangling and charms clinking, he leads Hobie towards the dinner table where various plates of food are laid out, together with a familiar platter of chocolate chip cookies that just screams your recipe.

“My—” checking his wrist, he finds the interdimensional watch gone and in place of it is a blue bracelet that he has seen on visitors at the society. “Shit!”

“Calm down, it’s in good hands.” The prowler version of himself is now sitting on the living room floor together with the cherry Hobie, who are now tinkering with his watch. “What, you don’t trust yourself?”

“I trust myself but I don’t trust you, mate.” Knitting his brows, Hobie finds himself pushed down on the chair as a cold pint is shoved in his grasp.

“We all want you to go home. Trust me, I don’t want you stayin’ ‘ere any longer like these wankers.” The older Hobie says while looking over his shoulder at the cracked open bedroom door.

The dapper Hobie appears by his side at the dinner table, kneading at his shoulders with a mischievous glint in his eyes. Whispering against the shell of his ear like the devil at work. “Say, you have someone, right?”

“Yeah—”

“Oi, fairy, looks like you’re the odd one out again.”

“I will strangle you with my vines!” Vines slither out of his arms angrily, trying to lunge at the teasing Hobie. He’d be successful if not for the vampire holding him down with one hand whilst casually drinking.

“Calm down, Tinkerbell!” The suited Hobie fans the flames.

“That’ll work well in your favour.”

“Pissin’ off a mythical bein’, sounds ‘bout right for us.”

“I once fed a man to a gator.”

“We know, mate. And I bit a man’s throat open, we all have our traumas.”

“You’ll wake up my boy!” The older one steps in between them.

Their conversations fall in Hobie’s deaf ears the second he takes a sip of his beer. The cold drink is a cooling balm against his aching body as he sighs in content. The place might look the same as his home, but their beer definitely tastes better than the one from his world. As he munches on some cookies that are definitely your making, he looks around the houseboat, finding all the walls have empty spaces for picture frames that were clearly taken down based on the lighter shade of wallpaper that is in the shape of a frame.

Everything from the steady oak table and mismatched chairs is surely from his houseboat, but there are tiny details around that says differently. The kitchen cabinets are painted in lime green instead of soft blues that he’s used to. When he peeks inside the cracked open door of the bedroom, it has the same four poster bed, same wallpaper that he remembers you picking, and the same wardrobe. But he definitely doesn’t remember putting a baby crib in there with a homemade mobile circling atop it.

The older Hobie notices his gaze, chuckling and clasping his shoulder with the same comfort as one’s father would. “My youngest, you woke him up when you went through the portal, so be quiet, yeah?”

“You’ve got a kid?” He asks in wonderment. “I thought you were supposed to jus’ be...old?”

“No, well, kind of, I have kids with my girl. Three of the little buggers.” Fixing a plate, he gives him a generous amount of food that has Hobie immediately digging in. “Can’t tell ‘em their names though, or I might change the direction of where you’re headin’”

“What?” He asks mid chew as the father figure hands him a napkin, the others listen in, clearly trying to know the new bloke that managed to stumble upon them. The argument finally calmed enough in favour of listening.

“Y’know, like time travelin’” The other Spider-Man says as he carefully screws open the face of his watch, not elaborating any further even when Hobie’s expression wordlessly asks for it.

“Don’t you mean our kids?” The fae adds, glittering golden eyes flash with mirth.

“Don’t make it weird. I’ve got my limits, mate.” Groaning, dad Hobie shuts the bedroom door fully with an experienced aim with his webshooter.

“I’m hundreds of years old.” The being retorts back.

“You don’t act like it.”

“Wait, wait, do we all have the same bird?” Hobie interrupts the argument before it strikes a flame.

“Aye, we do.” The pirate version of him whips out a piece of parchment from his trousers, unfolding it to reveal an old timey portrait of you.

Hobie’s heart leaps in his chest, from your eyes down to the shape of your face, it’s clearly you.

“I know, that’s my scuttlebutt. ‘m guessin’ that she looks exactly like yours?”

“Aye, I mean, yeah.” Chuckling, he hands the picture back gingerly, as if the paper will crumble in his grasp.

“This one is mine,” vampire Hobie unlocks his phone and shows off his wallpaper of you in a coffin, pretending to be a corpse with a large grin on your pretty face. When Hobie raises a brow, the being clicks his tongue. “What? A thousand year old vampire can still learn technology.”

“It’s not that.”

There’s metal tapping against glass coming from the armchair. “This one’s mine.” The suited Hobie shows off his wedding band. “Is that enough proof?”

“You’re not actually married to her, bruv.” Prowler Hobie mumbles under his breath, fixated on the watch. Even then, he still manages to give him lip. “It’s a fake marriage, remember?”

“I don’t need a reminder, Barney.”

“Alright, enough, we’ve already gone over our time.” Dad Hobie checks his own watch, a plastic one with pink glitters on the watch face. “You two need to finish up before my girls get home. I have to put up the pictures and clean up.”

“No, no, slow down.” Fae Hobie says with a smile.

“Don’t make me throw you back inside your abode.”

“So we all end up with her?” Hobie utters softly amidst the group, a tender smile curling around the corner of his lips, eyes gentle, mirroring the others’ eyes from the mere mention of you. The thought of you being his soulmate crossed his mind a few times, but this supports that theory. You’re the one for him.

“Yeah,” the cowboy tips his hat at him. “Trust me when I say this, no matter the timeline, what universe we’re in, it’s always been her.” The whole room quiets down from his sweetened words, a hush falling around the room. Not a dangerous or awkward pause, but something sweeter and softer as Hobie could see it in their eyes that they’re reminiscing about you. “And it’s bloody amazin’, innit?”

When he doesn’t respond, Vampire Hobie steps forward, smiling softly as his fangs poke out from in between his lips. “Don’t tell me you find it borin’, Hobie.”

“No,” shaking his head, his eyes fall towards the plate of cookies. “I find it comfortin’.”

A grin spreads around the whole room, infectious as they all begin to chuckle. He guesses that they all agree.

“Couldn’t have said it better than myself.” Dad Hobie clasps his shoulder, smiling tenderly as he almost chokes on his words. “So, what’s your story, hm?” Sitting down beside Hobie, the rest follow behind, huddling around him, keen on listening.

“I think it’s less interestin’ than what you lot got goin’ on.”

“Try us.” With waiting gazes, Hobie gladly tells everyone his side of the universe as they all listen intently.

When the food and drinks are all gone, and the story is all finished, his newly fixed watch is done and dusted around his wrist. They stand in front of him, Spy Hobie leans against his fae counterpart, while Vampire Hobie snaps a photo of the newcomer.

“Jus’ like I said, you’re free to come back ‘ere, mate.” The silver fox utters, arms folded in front of him as he gives him a subtle smile. “Only if we have a meetin’ scheduled though. Don’t want you hoppin’ in my dimension while we’re havin’ our family dinner.”

“I won’t barge in next time.” Chortling, Hobie inputs his home dimension, checking it twice before pressing the button. He can’t risk falling into a different world again when he really just wants to come home to you.

“Get home safe, big man.” Fist bumping him, dad Hobie sends him off with an armful of tupperwares filled with food.

As Hobie nods, he can’t wait to tell you about the crazy day he had, especially with the bit of him finding out that you’re his love, and your soulmate in every universe where the two of you exist. As he steps into the glowing portal, the orange hues flicker off the second he gets in. But as the door closes, another opens.

The front door clicks open where you step through the doorway with a raised brow.

“Alright, which one of you is my husband?” You say with a smile, a hand on your hip as you meet with older Hobie’s eyes with a teasing glint.

“I wish I was your husband.” Fae Hobie mumbles under his breath, before getting yanked back by the older one of the group.

“Hi, love.” Older Hobie chuckles nervously while the others find the situation amusing. “The meetin’ kind of got away from us—”

Suddenly, the bathroom door creakily opens, and out comes Hobie with box dyed blonde and chopped hair, together with bright blue eyes.

“What’d I miss?” He says with an american accent.

You back away with a yelp, clutching your imaginary pearls with a shocked expression as if you were whiplashed by his presence. Your surprised hop was enough to have the whole room laughing.

—

“So you’re telling me that you already had dinner?” You ask as you stare at your Hobie like he grew three heads. He smells like your flowery soap, all clean and free of sand. He has a bandage over his cut, courtesy of you.

“Love, I jus’ told you that I met different versions of my self.” Sauntering close, he holds out his arms, embracing you as he cages you in between the kitchen counters and himself. “Including a vampire and a bloody pirate, and you’re more surprised at the fact that I already ate?”

Chin resting atop his clavicle, you flutter your lashes as you pout. “But I made carbonara, it’s your favourite.” Your thumb rubs along his windswept brow. “And we already know that there are different versions of us in other dimensions.”

“Yeah, but there’s a swashbucklin’ version of me out there somewhere.” Squeezing you, Hobie nuzzles the crook of your neck, nose brushing along your jaw line. “And you like vampires and ethereal blokes. They also said that there’s a venom me, can’t imagine meetin’ him.”

“I like you more than dusty old beings.” Cupping his cheek, you gently lift his head up to meet with his pout. “I’m sure that you’re the best out of all of them.” You whisper atop his lips, making him chase the kiss as you lean away with a giggle. Hobie resists the urge to carry you to bed “I’m a bit biased, but I know so.”

“I’ll still eat the carbonara, I made room for it.” He practically whines above your lips.

“You did?” Nosing his cheek, he sighs in content, he’s more tired than he thought he was. “It’s cool by the way, I’m glad you met some new friends at the Hobie tea party.”

“I learned somethin’ new today too, but I’ll tell you later after dinner.” Based on his tender gaze, you have a feeling on what it is, and you resist the urge to usher him to bed just to hear him say the words. Smiling and snorting, Hobie pecks your lips, tasting the pasta sauce on your lips when you most probably taste tested it beforehand. “Maybe you could have some sort of group with your variants.”

“Bold of you to assume that I don’t have one already.” A grin spreads across your lips as Hobie’s eyes widen. “Tell your spy version to man up and just confess to his missus.”

“What the fuck did he do?”

“He already knows.” Sending him a wink, you lean close to kiss his cheek. “I have my own gossip circle too. Please help me with the table, Gwen got the walnut bread I liked.” Hobie’s immediately grabbing the utensils with a lopsided smile.

Yawning for the umpteenth time, the crappy reality TV you put on doesn’t even help you stay awake anymore. You’d crawl in bed but you want to wait for Robert to get home when you feel like you haven’t seen him in ages. The only times that the two of you have crossed paths this week can be counted in one hand. Whenever you’d kiss him goodbye while he’s still half asleep, and when he’d greet you with a kiss when you’re already deep into slumber. Your schedules haven’t matched up as well as before with the amount of work the two of you had to do. If you’re not at home, he is, but when you’re home, he’s out there burning the midnight oil with the Z-team. Forget meeting up for lunch at work either when your breaks don’t match with his.

But now that it’s the weekend, you’re both free to see each other, hopefully more of each other.

Your hearing picks up the sound of keys outside and you immediately perk up with a smile. As if you were jolted with lightning, you’re vaulting over the couch and towards him in the speed that even Chase would be proud of.

The second the door opens, Robert is met with your smiling face, like a golden retriever, who’s excited to see him home.

“Hi.” Tilting his head, Robert smiles softly at you, feeling that you’re practically vibrating from the longing, waiting for his go signal. “C’mere.” He opens his arms and you’re immediately right on him like velcro. “Missed me?”

“Do you even have to ask?” You say whilst peppering his face with kisses. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“Fuck,” his facade falls as he drops his bag and keys onto the floor, arms patting the back of your leg as he tells you to hop and wrap yourself around him. You do as you’re asked without a second thought as he kicks the front door closed. He can’t ignore the fact that he heard his knees creak when he carried you, but if you did hear it, you didn’t say a word. But you did hear it though. “I missed you.”

Your back meets with the wall, his hand tucked in between your head and the hard wall, acting like a cushion to shield you. “I missed you too— wait, where’s beef?”

Robert clings to your warmth and the cucumber scent of your soap as he inhales deeply atop your neck. “With Chase.” Voice muffled, he tilts your head up with a nudge of his nose on your throat as you comply happily and give him space. “I figured…” his lips peck you sweetly, teeth grazing your skin, tongue brushing along your pulse point. “That we need alone time.”

“And you’re absolutely right.” Sighing with longing, your fingers dig into his hair as you push him impossibly close against you. Pulling his hair back to kiss him, you meet with his glossy eyes, cheeks flushed, mouth agape as he heaves and waits for your next move. And yet, you find his tired eyes and blanched face worrisome. “Have you eaten anything yet?”

“Does half a granola bar and three cups of coffee count?” He jokes, but you don’t find the humour in it when he tries to lean into your lips only for you to tug at him back. Robert would let out a satisfied hum if not for the worried look in your eyes. “Sweetheart, I’m fine, it’s just been a busy day. Fuck, I just need you, please—”

“What you need is food.” Unwrapping your legs around him, you stand and peck his cheek with a promise. While he looks utterly disappointed, like you dangled a candy bar to his face only to yank it back. “And sleep.” Brows furrowed, you wince at the heavy dark bags under his eyes. “And moisturizer. Lots of it.”

“Am I that crusty?” He chortles, hands still on your hips, thumbs pushing aside the waistband cheekily, waiting for you to change your mind.

“No,” you shake your head with a gentle smile. Taking his wrists away and pecking his knuckles. “Just a bit, come on, I’ll warm your food.”

“I’m really fine—”

“It’s lasagna.”

He doesn’t even contemplate or protest some more as he gratefully follows after you in the kitchen.

—

His stomach is so full of pasta and cheese that he could barely stand up from his seat. You went somewhere else while he was unbuttoning his pants to give him some breathing room. Robert signs in content, a hand wrapped around a glass of wine, that he doesn’t even know he had in the apartment, as his nails click against the glass rhythmically.

Robert hears the faucet squeak, and the sound of running water, as he tilts his head to take a peek inside the bathroom. He swears that you already took a bath judging from your still damp hair and the scent of the cucumber and citrus soap on your skin when he got home.

You feel his eyes on your back whilst you pour bubble bath inside the tub. “This’ll only take a minute, babe.”

“Take all the time you need.” Ogling you unabashedly, Robert smiles as you twist your hand back to flip him the bird playfully as if you have eyes on the back of your head. “Those shorts look good on you.”

“They’re your boxers.” Your voice bounces off the tiles, grabbing a clean fluffy robe from the cabinets, the same one that is all pink and girly that Chase gifted to Robert as a gag gift for his birthday. It even has his name bedazzled on the back like he’s some Victoria’s secret model.

Robert usually loves seeing you use it, especially when it has his name right on your back. But he can’t lie when he occasionally uses it to feel how soft it is after a shower.

“Everything looks good on you, sweetheart.” He watches you with a fond smile, eyes glimmering with want as you saunter out of the bathroom with the bathrobe in tow.

“You’re not getting lucky tonight until you’re properly taken care of.” Opening the robe and showing him how fluffy it is, you smile over it, wiggling your brows. “Take your clothes off. After this I’m putting a face mask on you and lathering you up in my finest lotion.”

“Can I suggest one thing though?”

“Of course.”

“How about a massage too?” He asks innocently, but you just know from the glint in his eyes and the slight smirk on his lips that it’s not so innocent.

“If you don’t fall asleep before then, sure.” You lean against the doorframe casually, acting nonchalant from his proposition and hugging the towel. You’re not the best at massages, but you’ll try your best, or at least for a minute or so before he pulls you on his lap instead. Or fall asleep the moment you squeeze his aching muscles.

He’s already stripping his clothes off with excitement. Starting from unbuttoning his work shirt that has become associated with your boyfriend. The colour does suit him though, but you’d rather see him wear something else that doesn’t smell like day old coffee.

You don’t notice him walking closer and closer to you whilst you’re utterly fixated to his bare torso.

“Calm down, Robert, this is for relaxing—” you’re suddenly lifted off the ground, finding that Robert has you over his shoulder, smacking your behind as he takes you to the bathroom. For someone who has only eaten a granola bar and inhaled three cups of caffeine today, he’s stronger than he looks. Maybe this is what people say when it comes to adrenaline, this is his lifting the car moment. “Robert!”

“What? If I’m going to relax then so will you.” He says casually, entering the steaming bathroom as he kicks the door shut with his foot.

Your squeals echo around the tiled walls, as Robert’s amused laughter mingles with the sound of splashing water and the towel landing right over his face.

The bathroom is quickly flooded with bubbles and sweet scented soap, and you find yourself back in the bath once again with him joining you.

—

The hair dryer blows hot air right at his silky tresses, now free from oil and whatever Golem accidentally spilled on him during his lunch break. Robert sits in between your legs, back pressed against your front, and eyes closed as the hot air flutters his lashes. He looks utterly blissed out, smelling like a bed and body works. He’s absolutely content in your arms as you gently rake the comb through his hair.

He has a face mask on, “it’s aloe vera,” you said, he doesn’t care whatever it is but it’s doing wonders to him. It’s like having a slice of frozen ham slapped right on your face minus the smell but with twice the cooling effect.

Robert feels fucking amazing.

His palms cup around your knees, thumbs drawing small gentle circles all over your well moisturized skin. The two of you smell incredibly good, enough to eat, and he’d kiss every bit of your skin if he wasn’t so sleepy.

Robert could sleep right there and then, he would, if not for the loud whirr of the hair dryer and the hot air blowing right at his head.

“You okay?” You whisper to the shell of his ear, gooseflesh immediately rises on his arms as he hums a reply. The hair dryer shuts off, and he could feel sleep take him. “I guess you’re too tired for massages.”

His eyes suddenly open at the speed of light. “No, I’m not.”

“Really?” Your hands knead at his arms tenderly, like you’re massaging herbs and spices onto a slab of beef. You truly have no idea what you’re doing, but it seems that Robert loves it. “Let me take care of you this time, okay?”

He would be on his knees begging for it if he wasn’t already in bed. Eyes gazing up at you sweetly, Robert’s brows furrow, lips pouting slightly as he lets out a sound from the back of his throat that is akin to a whine. “Please.”

“Anything for my Robert.” With a smile, fingers grasping at his chin, you lean down to press a saccharine kiss on his forehead, one of many for tonight.

—

“So I said to him, go suck a fat— what the fuck is that?” Sonar looks perturbed, eyes wide and staring at something, or someone that just walked through the door.

Malevola follows his line of sight, gasping at the sight, almost stumbling over herself. “What happened to you?” She asks, almost disturbed by the sight.

Chase hears the commotion from the bullpen, he peeks over the breakroom doorway and sees Robert walk in normally. “What the fuck are you two gawking at?” He asks, walking closer to the pair as he holds onto his cup of coffee.

“That!” Mal takes his head and turns him to face Robert.

“Holy shit…” he utters, spluttering out his coffee all over Sonar’s suit, earning an intense bat screech from the man bat that is quickly ignored by the others, who are completely perplexed at the sight in front of them. “Alright, who died?”

Robert makes a face, nose scrunched as he places his things on his table. “No one? Why do you all look at me like I just killed someone right in front of you?”

“Yeah, you killed Robert Robertson.” Chase sidles beside him, leaning against his table with suspicion in his eyes. “Why do you look like that?”

“Like what?” The dispatcher asks, lashes fluttering on the apples of his pinkish cheeks, looking healthy and glowing.

His lips shine with raspberry chapstick, and the dark circles underneath his eyes are almost non-existent, as if he made a deal with the devil to get rid of it and make him look ten years younger. The best part is the soft smile that is seemingly permanently etched on his face that remains even when he almost got a face full of Waterboy’s water splashed on him when he first walked inside the building.

“You look like how a skin walker would wear Robert’s skin.” Sonar says, leaning close to his face to examine him further. When he tries to poke him with his claw, Robert pushes him away with a grimace.

Robert rolls his eyes, he does feel rejuvenated, almost reborn from your pampering. Throughout the whole weekend, you took your pledge to heart, you did not let him lift a finger, and the two of you spent the whole weekend in bed together. Eating meals on it, catching up on your shows whilst cuddling underneath the covers while the blackout curtains are completely covering the light outside. Not to mention the ‘strenuous exercises’ that you two did together. It was absolute bliss, and Robert almost did not go to work today to extend the peace.

“You look good, buddy.” Malevola is the first to compliment him with a friendly clasp on his shoulder.

“Smells good too.” Sonar adds, taking a whiff of him. “Looking too good. Which way is the fountain of youth? Chase could use it.” He teases before chuckling at his own joke.

Chase punches him right in the gut, making him curl around himself with a sharp inhale through his nose. The others act like this is a normal occurrence in the office.

“Seriously though, what products did you use? I could use a good under eye mask.” Mal pulls down at her under eye for emphasis. “What’s your secret?”

Robert shrugs with a knowing smile. “Get the best girlfriend in the whole damn world.” The chorus of groans echo around the office that has him smiling in satisfaction.

“It's not that you weren’t nice about it, it’s just—” sighing, you finish packing a second lunch box for Oliver, already agreeing to Jason’s plea before even saying yes to him. “—I literally just watched him yesterday. I have a life too, you know.”

“You do?” You hear a pained groan on the other side as Jason huffs into the phone. He’s definitely out fighting crime again. “When was the last time you went on a date again?”

“Don’t remind me, asshole.” Rolling your eyes, you have a feeling that Jason could sense your sass through the phone, he has a sixth sense when it comes to your attitude.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me.”

“How’d you—?” You twist around as if there is a hidden camera around your apartment. “Can you please just fucking beat the guy, you breathing on the phone is annoying me.” On the contrary, you feel your cheeks warm just from the familiar sound.

“What, I can’t even breathe?”

“Oi, what the fuck, lady!” A stranger’s voice adds amidst the sound of a metallic clang.

“Am I on speaker?”

“So demanding as always.” You could just tell that he said that with a smirk. With the muffled sound of fist hitting skin, you finish packing. Waiting for Jason to answer, you grab the bags and head outside. The key fob clicks with a beep as you get inside your car. “You little shit.” Heaving, Jason returns to the call a minute later. “You’re already in your car aren’t you?”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Placing the phone on the dashboard, you stifle a chuckle. “That depends if you’ll pay me my regular fee.”

“Please, you like watching Ollie.”

“I do, but times are tough and I gotta pay bills too, ‘Mr. I have a billionaire for a dad.’ My regular nine to five isn’t cutting it much anymore.”

His soft chuckle has you grinning to yourself like a madwoman. Cheeks aflame, and hands suddenly clammy, even after all these years he still has that effect on you as if you’re a school girl having a crush.

“Fine, I never skimp out on your fees, I’m not going to start now.” His boots thump on the ground, “And you wouldn’t be having that problem if you agreed to stay with us.”

“And have your son question the nature of our relationship again?” Starting the car, you head out of the driveway towards the familiar road to Jason’s apartment that you have driven a thousand times before that you could practically drive there with your eyes closed.

“It’s not my fault that he could sense the tension.” There’s keyboard clacking on his end, as Jason puts the phone in between his shoulder and cheek that you could tell from the rustle of clothing. “He’s a smart kid, and smart kids see through everything.”

“If that’s you saying that our friends with benefits situation needs evaluating then tell that to yourself.” You say with a clear bite to your tone, knowing that you have tried several times to be more than his friend, not just to occasionally warm his bed. “You’re just making Ollie confused.” Your tone falls as you hear him shift on the other end.

He stops typing for a moment, a chill running in between the two of you as if he sits beside you in the car. There have been conversations about the exact same subject, and Jason would almost always segue out of it, or wave the topic away casually. Recently though, the tension is running higher than ever, you’ve been staying at their place more frequently, longer even.

You have a space in his closet where you always have fresh spare clothes tucked inside, your clothes smell like the citrus fabric conditioner he uses because Ollie can’t stand the smell of lavender. You have your own toothbrush in his bathroom, your own loofah, a bathrobe that he bought in your favorite color on a random day because you were complaining of using his towels. You even have an extra pair of shoes, your own mug in the kitchen that Oliver painted at school for you, and a bunch of hair ties left scattered in Jason’s bedroom, all belonging to you.

There is a routine now at his apartment whenever you stay the night or two, sometimes longer than in your own place where you only go home to grab new clothes. In the morning you’d make the boys breakfast, chocolate pancakes for Oliver, shaped like bats of course, and the usual egg and sausage for Jason that he always shares with you, chopping up pieces of the meat for you whilst you cut Oliver’s pancakes for him. Little Ollie, all toothy smiles and giggles, rambles on about some show that he forced you two to watch last night whilst you wiped the syrup from his cheek. The three of you would always have breakfast together that it’s basically ingrained in Ollie’s routine. It’s domestic bliss, but it’s all an act when you always leave. And Jason will only kiss you back when you’re both tangled under the sheets.

Over the years, you’ve found yourself becoming closer to Oliver, you met him when he was just a year old, barely walking straight, still teething as he seemingly imprinted on you like a little duckling. The poor kid has grown fond of you too, but now that he’s a bit older, he’s asking a lot of questions. Questions that you don’t even know the answer yourself.

You read him bedtime stories, you help him get ready for school, you kiss him goodbye, and you tell him that you love him. And yet you’re not his mom, his aunt or anyone important in his life, you’re just the woman who takes care of him and yet loves him like he’s your own.

You’ve left your mark in their lives, your life rotates around them, and yet, you’re still an outsider.

“Yeah, I know. I’ll talk to him.” Jason sounds defeated, tired and utterly conflicted.

“Good,” your tone snags at the end as you clear your throat. “I’m almost there, is he still with your neighbor or is Tim watching him now?”

“Tim,” Jason simply says through clenched jaw as he continues his work. “I told him that you’re coming.”

“You’re always so damn presumptuous, Jason Todd.”

“I know you couldn’t resist Ollie, even if you could resist me, only sometimes that is.”

You park the car as you shake your head with a small smile. “One of these days, I’ll say no.”

“I know,” he softly says, almost melancholic. “I’ll be back before his bedtime. Try not to eat all my yogurt this time.”

—

“Where’s my favorite guy?” Opening your arms, Ollie bolts out of the couch as he runs in between Tim’s legs, and launches himself into your arms within a second of his uncle opening the door.

“Here!” Oliver giggles and kicks his feet happily as he wraps his arms around your neck. “I missed you!” He grins toothily, voice squeaky as he tightens his hold on you with all of his five year old might.

“I missed you too, buddy!” Squeezing him, you start to stand up but struggle a bit. “Oh, what is your dad feeding you? You’re getting so big!”

Tim helps you up with his hand on your elbow whilst gathering your bags in his free hand. “I think he got into Jason’s protein powder again.” He jokingly says, but not too farfetched when you once caught him trying to open the big jar.

“You did!” Leaning away, you feign a shocked gasp, smiling at Ollie as he giggles and nods wildly, already distinguishing a joke. He has a striking resemblance to his dad, from his dark hair and brilliant green eyes, it’s as if someone cloned Jason. “What! You could go to jail for that!”

“No, you can’t!” Little Ollie answers in his adorable Robin Hood costume, complete with a green hood that has a bell at the end. It jingles whenever he moves his head, adding to the cuteness.

“Yes, you can!” You tickle his tummy, garnering a laugh that you’re familiar with that never fails to bring a laugh from your throat. “It’s illegal!”

“It’s not ill–gal!”

Tim closes the door behind you as you carry a squirming Oliver into the living room. You could just feel Tim’s eyes watch the two of you pensively. You already know what he’s thinking though, the same as his brothers and sisters that has driven you and Jason to question the relationship the moment Ollie called you ‘mommy’ for the first time.

You toss Ollie on your shoulder, garnering a happy squeal from him. “I’m surrendering you to the police!”

“That’s wrong!” He pats your back, “dad said to not be a…be a smitch!”

You snort a laugh, ruffling his hair whilst he kicks about. “It's snitch, baby.”

Seeing the mess they’ve made during playtime with all the plastic medieval weapons and shields around the place has you wincing if not for the mess you’ve grown accustomed to whenever you’re around their place. There’s even a handmade cardboard dragon, complete with green shimmery scales made from glitter that is sitting on the couch alongside a toy bow and arrow, courtesy of his aunt, Barbara. It seems that uncle Tim wants to overshadow uncle Damian’s arts and crafts skills when you could see the evidence of the art supplies laying on the coffee table.

You feign an offended gasp. “You’ve been playing Robin Hood without me.” Placing him down gently, Ollie looks up at you with his big green eyes. “What’s the story this time?”

“Lord Tim called his banners against me just ‘cause I ate an apple from his tree! But I won by calling my dragon!” He enthusiastically reenacts, arms wide around him, lifting off the fierce dragon as he ‘flies’ around the apartment.

“He cheated, he means.” Tim defends himself from the kitchen, opening the tupperware filled with cookies that you brought as he looks at it like he wants to marry the sweet treat.

“I did not!” Ollie abruptly stops and stomps his foot. “You had your own ogre forces!” He then points an accusing finger at his uncle. “Tell him that it was fair!” Turning to you, he flutters his lashes and pouts, the expression he always pulls whenever he wants you on his side, which is almost always. Especially when it’s against his dad, or in this case, against his uncle.

“How many knights did you have, Robin Hood?” Going around the fuming Ollie, you sidle beside Tim as you pick up a cookie, not taking a bite of it, just brandishing it around like a piece of meat in front of a lion. “Because it’s all in the numbers, you know.”

You know the kid well as he follows the cookie in between your fingers with his gaze. “I think…ten?” Pursing his lips, Ollie lets go of the paper dragon and steps forward. “Can I have some?”

“That depends, did Tim give you any sugar today?”

The boy contemplates, nose scrunching, and fingers flexing, just like a certain someone. It’s almost the exact same face Jason makes whenever he watches you go, as if he’s resisting the urge to ask you to stay.

“...no?”

“That sounds like a question, doesn’t that sound like a question?” You turn towards Tim, who is on his third cookie as you tilt your head at him and snatch the fourth one from his hand. “Did you give him any sweets today?”

“He had a popsicle because he was complaining about his tooth.” He looks offended, eyeing the cookie desperately. You relent with a sigh and give it back to him. Tim immediately perks up and devours it whilst Ollie looks at him with jealousy.

“Is your tooth still hurting, buddy?” With worry in your tone, you crouch down and Oliver crosses the short distance to embrace you. You know this reaction well enough, he’s embarrassed. You pat his back lovingly, moving some stray hair away from his eyes as you peck his temple. “I told your dad that you should go to the dentist—”

“No dentist!” He flinches, but doesn’t move away from you. “I’m okay, sweetheart.” Sweetheart, he calls you sweetheart just because he has heard his dad call you that a million times before that it just stuck. Better than ‘mommy’ that has opened Pandora’s box. “I really am.” Cheek laying atop your chest, you hold him close.

“Yeah, but your tooth will keep hurting if you don’t go. Dad will be there the whole time.” You reassure him, giving him a loving squeeze.

“I know…” he raises his head, looking up at you worriedly. “Susie said that they have drills and knives and scary masks— and it will hurt more.”

“What does Susie know?” Tim adds, cookie crumbs all over his shirt and cheek. “Susie eats glue.”

That garners a laugh from Ollie as you stifle a chuckle. “How about I come with you and dad, hm? Then you can have all the cookies and ice cream you want after the dentist.”

“All I want?” His eyes sparkles. “Even rocky road? And— and your triple chocolate cookies?”

“Of course.” You might regret it later but at least you finally got him agreeing when no one else could.

“Okay, deal!” In true Jason Todd form, Ollie stretches his hand for you to shake. Taking his smaller hand in yours, you then shake it with a smile. “Can I have one now, please?”

Jason’s right, you cannot say no to his son. “Fine, just half though. And if your tooth starts hurting again you have to stop eating.”

“Okay!” He hops in place until you give him half a cookie. “Can I watch TV now?”

“Go, thirty minutes and then dinner for you.” Patting him in the back, you watch him skip over to the living room, clutching the cookie like it's the most precious thing he has. You turn towards the tupperware as it’s almost half empty thanks to Tim. You glare at him whilst you close the lid right in front of him.

“He can’t even eat it!” He protests.

“It’s for Jason.”

Tim groans and goes to wash the crumbs off his hands. “Just get married already, damn.”

“Tim, c’mon.” You slap his bicep, palm meeting a wall. “Ollie might hear you.”

“Fine, I’m just saying…” Sighing, Tim gathers his things from the kitchen counter and shoves them inside his backpack. “Four years together, if you even call it that, and you’re still around after all the ‘will they won’t they’ situation you two got going on.” He zips up the bag, and slings it over his shoulder with a huff. “I mean, shit, I’d go fucking crazy.” He utters lowly, for your ears only as Bluey echoes around the living room.

Your eyes wander towards Ollie as he kicks his legs on the couch happily, then over to the framed picture on the mantle where the three of you smile at the camera during Ollie’s third birthday. “It’s not like that. Jason and I are happy like this. It just…works.”

“Sure, keep telling yourself that.” Hand in his pocket, he lets out a breath, eyes flicking from Ollie then back to you. “Look, I just don’t want you to be miserable and feel like you’re being strung along by my idiot brother. You’re a fucking saint, honestly. Just… just know when to say no and leave. Ollie’s the one who’s going to get stuck in the middle of this. He’s getting older, and we both know that he doesn’t just see you as his babysitter when you’ve been here since he was in diapers.”

Arms crossing over your chest, you look at your socked feet. “Yeah, I know that.”

“If Jason keeps being a hardass to you after all the talks you’ve had with him then you don’t deserve this.”

Your jaw tightens, inhaling deeply as you look Tim in the eyes and shrug. “I guess I’m the idiot then.”

“I did not say that, but kind of yes. Just like him.” He chuckles and grasps your elbow gently. “Good luck with the gremlin.”

“One talk.” You say just as he’s putting on his shoes.

“What?”

“Jason and I had one talk about our situation. The others…well, never even finished.”

“Well, keep talking to him. Maybe he’ll wake the fuck up.”

With the click of the door, you deflate and thump your head against the wall. Tim’s heart was in the right place, and you understood his words. Just like all the other words his siblings have told you about your complicated relationship with Jason. Every holiday and birthdays, at least one of them would tell you almost the exact same thing, or you see one of them sidle beside Jason and whisper about the same topic. You knew it was getting serious when Alfred and Bruce had to step in after Dick’s wedding.

“I can see the way he looks at you.” Alfred whispered amidst the sound of the first dance music. “I have seen it on them,” he gestured to the happy married couple, then back to you as you gripped your champagne flute. “And on master Bruce’s parents. Jason’s complicated, but with you, the look just comes easy.”

You remembered the moment you looked at Jason across the room as he carried a sleeping Ollie in his arm, and a drink in the other, the way his gaze immediately gravitated to you was a shake to your core. If Alfred was wrong, then everyone else was. And that’s impossible when they’re the smartest family you’ve ever grown to know. And it’s Alfred, he has never been wrong the whole time you’ve known him.

Running a hand over your face, you turn your gaze over to someone you love without any complications.

“Alright, Robin Hood, grilled chicken for tonight or mac and cheese?”

“Mac and cheese!”

—

Jason comes home to a dark apartment, but unlike the time when he used to go home to an empty barely furnished place where it always feels cold and dim, this one is a comfortable darkness, where the warm lamplight from the living room spills over the couch where his two loves reside. He doesn’t feel alone, on the contrary, he feels complete.

The moment he sees you both sleeping peacefully that calms his anxious mind, he places his equipment quietly inside the closet. Unlacing his boots, he then takes off his jacket and mask, all without making a single peep, especially when his skin pulls at the movement, bruises aching, injuries flaring up as the adrenaline that masks the pain ebbs away.

When he goes around the corner, the TV’s lights flashes across your sleeping face whilst Ollie sleeps soundly on your lap. The sound of the show is quieted down in favour of sleeping. Your cheek is pressed against the back of the sofa, neck tilted uncomfortably as you cradle Ollie lovingly in your arms. He’s curled against you in his dinosaur pajamas, arms clinging onto a Batman plushie you made for him when he was only three after he begged you relentlessly.

The two of you look like any other mother and son pair, and Jason sighs longingly at the sight.

Smiling softly, he reaches for your face, until he realizes that he’s still wearing the same bloodstained gloves. His jaw tightens, how could he hold you with those hands?

You stir awake as you feel his presence, so used to the smell of copper on his suit, and the warmth that feels like home to you. “Jay?” Your voice crackles whilst you blink blearily at his large looming shadow. Some would be intimidated or even terrified of the sight, but not you, you reach out to the shadow softly, fingers wrapping around his outstretched wrist. “You’re late.”

“Hey, sweetheart.” Jason laughs through his nose, chortling under his breath. “Sorry, I ran into some trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?” Concern knits your brows as you pull him closer into the light to survey his appearance. “You okay?”

He feels your eyes rake around his face and his form, swallowing thickly when you have no idea the effect you have on him. “Yeah, I’m good, just need a shower and sleep.”

When your hand pulls away, Jason feels the longing come back in waves.

“Come sit with me for a bit.” You pat the space beside you, tucking Ollie’s feet further into the couch to make space for his dad. If it was anyone else asking him, he’d brush them off, but it’s you, so he obliges without a peep, groaning as his knees pop. “Need medical attention? The nurse is on call.” Lashes fluttering, cheek resting atop your shoulder, you smile fondly at him.

Jason shakes his head with a chuckle, yanking off his gloves and shoving it inside his pockets. “No, I’m good, nothing I can’t handle. The nurse can keep holding the little prince.” His head droops back over the backrest of the couch, corded neck in full display whilst he swallows thickly as his fingers rake through his dark tresses. If only he knows the effect he has on you. “How was your day?” His green eyes flutter open, gazing at you with tenderness.

“Well,” clearing your throat, you fix your hold on Oliver to disguise your flustering. “We played Robin Hood for two hours, got him to eat some grilled chicken with his mac and cheese. And get this, I actually talked him into going to the dentist.” You grin victoriously, tapping his broad chest proudly.

“Shit. How’d you manage that?” His brilliant green eyes glimmer with pride. “I’ve been trying to get him to go for weeks.”

“That’s the thing though,” you bite your lip, wincing as if you’ve done something wrong, or stepped over the line. “I promised him that I’d come along.”

“Why does it sound like you regret it?” Brows furrowed, he has the look of bewilderment. “I’m fine with that, Ollie’s fine with that if he agreed.”

“I mean, I thought it’s a dad and son exclusive thing. Like a bonding thing.”

“Sweetheart,” he sighs with a smile. “It’s the fucking dentist. If my son wants you there then the more I want you there with us.”

You let out a sigh of relief that he could feel. “That’s good then. Also I sort of promised him that he could have lots of sweets after.”

“Well that’s where we’re going to have a problem.” A growing teasing smile appears on his lips whilst you stifle a laugh. “He’d be up until dawn and that means we’d be up until dawn.”

“Who said I’ll be there after? I’m out after the dentist.” You scooch closer as he loops his leg around your own like usual, pulling you close, like how he always does during movie nights and days spent together whilst watching his energizer bunny of a son. “You’re on your own, Jay.”

“Oh, c’mon, not even for double the pay?” Jason takes Ollie’s legs gingerly and rests them above his lap so he could move closer to your side.

“No amount of money is worth it for running after a sugar high Oliver Todd.” You get the message as you place your head atop his shoulder. He winces before you could even rest fully on him. “Shit, you okay?”

“Yeah,” his face twists in pain. “Just— just give me a sec.” With his large palm covering his shoulder, he pushes in harshly as you hear a loud pop that has you reeling and covering your mouth in shock. Ollie stirs in his sleep but with Jason patting his back sweetly, he goes back to sleep. “There, you were saying?”

“That was…the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Thought you’d be disgusted.” The corner of his lips tug up into a smirk.

“Shocked, but I got over it when I realized that you fixed a dislocated shoulder without vomiting in pain.” You stifle a laugh, nudging his knee with yours. “Seriously though, do you need to go to the hospital to get that checked out?”

“No, I’m good. I’m used to this.”

“That’s not a good thing actually.” Nose scrunched, he scoffs out a chortle, rolling his eyes at your expression. “I still remember the first time the hospital called me years ago, I didn’t even know I was your emergency contact. I thought you’d have a gunshot wound or your face all melted but it was for a broken knee.” Your tone softens, eyes meeting his own. “You really scared me back then.”

“That was such a long time ago,” Jason still remembers the frantic look on your face when you pulled open the hospital curtains. “I told Dick that I was fine but he had to fireman carry me to the hospital, said something about having fucked up knees of an eighty year old. He got a black eye from me then.”

“I remember the selfies he took. While you were on the hospital bed in the hospital gown with the opened back.” You shake your head at the memory. “Has anyone told you that you have a nice ass?”

“Of course.” He says almost immediately with pride that makes you roll your eyes. “Say that again when I get Ollie to bed.”

“Noting that in, boss.” You tap your forehead comedically, tiredness forgotten as your shoulder presses against his comfortably.

“You know I…” Clearing his throat, fingers flexing on his thigh, Jason looks at Ollie before gazing back at you. “you’re still my emergency contact.”

You scoff. “Why? Alfred’s more reliable, he’ll be there on a heli or something. If you guys still do the whole hospital thing when it’s been years.”

“Because you’re not Alfred.” He says softly.

“I don’t have a sick mustache so.”

“Sweetheart, I’m trying to tell you something here.”

“Then tell me, Jason.” You inhale, smelling the iron on his suit and the baby powder that still clings to your hand. “We’ve known each other for years, practically co-parenting this gremlin together and have seen each other naked a million times before so just tell me.”

“I did it.”

“Did what?” Brows furrowed, your worry grows from his heavy expression. “Eat the lasagna I left in the freezer for Ollie?” You joke to ease him.

“No— actually that might be me, but no that’s not what I’m trying to say.” Jason fully turns to you, arm thrown over the back of the couch as his bruised knuckles brush along your neck.

“Okay.” You hold the back of his hand that rests atop his thigh. “I’m here. You can tell me.”

“Remember when you told me that you thought you were being followed?”

“Yeah, but that was,” you wrack your brain. “shit, that was years ago. Literally when Ollie was still a baby.”

“I love how we determine time with Ollie.” He takes a breath, wiping away a stray glitter from your cheek.

“BO, before Ollie, AO, after Ollie.” Sucking in your teeth, you wince. “Actually, BO doesn’t sound as nice.”

He pauses, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of your lips that has you quieting down.

“What was that for?”

“Just ‘cause.” His brilliant green eyes glance down at your lips, resisting the urge to kiss you.

“Right, sorry, I’m not taking this seriously, what were you saying, Jay? You can tell me, I won’t judge, whatever it is.”

“This isn’t like the mole I had.”

“I still think it looked like a hidden Mickey.” He chuckles, forehead resting on your temple before inhaling deeply and leaning away. “You’re acting weird, Jaybird. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Sweetheart,” pursing his lips, he squeezes your hand. “You were being followed that day. It wasn’t your imagination.”

“Shit.” You suddenly feel winded. “You found out about it? How—? Who would even do that? I’m no one.”

“You’re more than that. And someone figured it out too.”

He tells you how that simple passing comment that you told him once as you helped with unloading groceries you got him while he was too busy and sleep deprived with baby Ollie— and that he managed to uncover a whole crime syndicate hell bent on taking the Red Hood down and everyone who is associated with him. He tells you how he’s been tracking and taking them down for years, and occasionally with his siblings. But it got harder, he used his own methods when they got too close to you and Ollie one day in the playground. Unbeknownst to you, your life was in danger together with his son, he couldn’t just let them roam around freely and wait for them to strike, no, Jason had to eliminate every single one of them. Even though it would take him years, it has taken him years. But as of today, he has finished what he started, and he can finally do what he wanted to do from the start.

“You’ve been hunting them down for years? All this time?” Your eyes search his emerald eyes, looking for a joke or a lie, but you don’t find it.

“When I asked you to move in with us, they were getting too close to you, and I wanted to protect you as best I could.” Jason leans forward, elbows atop his knee, as if he’s in pain. His hair falls over his face, a dark curtain that hides his fatigue. “Thought that it might’ve helped if you were near. But it only led to an argument.”

“I said no because it would’ve confused Ollie.” Reaching for him, you retract your hand with hesitation as your brows furrow, holding onto Oliver as if he’s about to be taken. “Even then— I don’t know, you still felt so far away from me, Jay.”

“I know,” he sighs, shoulders taut as his shirt stretches from the movement. “I wanted to put an end to them before I could commit because I was fucking terrified that they’d get you, but at the same time I couldn’t let you go. I don’t know which one was harder.”

For a moment you have no words, as you could only hear Ollie’s soft breathing and Jason’s strained one. So with love in your heart for the man before you, you place your palm atop his nape, thumb pressing gently along his taut skin, caressing softly, right where you know a scar lies, one that he hasn’t told you the truth about how it came to be. That he got it for protecting you and his son.

Jason doesn’t pull away, it took him years to learn to not move away from your touch. A lot of unlearning too, that the whole world isn’t out to get him. That someone could love him enough to just be there and hold him for comfort. His muscles relax on instinct from your hand gently gliding along his shoulder blades.

“All I know is that I couldn’t lose you.” He finally says after a breath, fists clenching in front of him. His neck cranes to you, cheek pressed right atop your hand, eyes soft, and fully leaning into your touch. “But now that’s done, and I could— we could… I don’t know.”

You encourage him with a genuine sweet smile, one that you only reserve just for him and the boy you cradle in your arms. “Tell me, Jason, I’ve stuck around this long.”

His lips brush along the length of your fingers. “Together. If you want.”

“Jason Peter Todd, I’m cradling your son in my arms after running after him for hours on end and I still want to do it all over again. My clothes are in the dryer, my hair is stuck in your hairbrush. And I’m going to the dentist with you and Ollie even though I fucking hate it there too. What do you think?”

“That’s the clearest yes I’ve ever heard without someone actually saying it.” Chuckling, he mirrors your smile. “I think I should ask you out first. An actual date without eating mac and cheese while watching Bluey.”

Cheeks aflame, stomach doing somersaults, you scoff that is akin to a laugh. “I would love that.”

“Yeah?” His expression brightens, eyes glimmering as he sits up, taking your hand in his and intertwining his fingers around yours.

“Yeah, just kiss me, Jaybird.”

Jason does some maneuvering around Oliver that makes you bite your lip to stifle a laugh. He finally gets close to your lips as Ollie is completely on his lap and yours, still sleeping soundly as he kisses you chastely, and yet tender, enough to be a promise for more later. It’s the kind of kiss he gives you whenever everyone else is looking away, a simple kiss that reminds you that he’s there, quietly telling you to wait, and wait you did.

When he leans away, he has forgotten about all the aches. All the while your eyes stay on his parted lips with longing, then back to his eyes that you love unconditionally. “I’ll take your clothes out of the dryer and then take Ollie to bed. Meet me at our usual place?”

Your brows pinch together, but the smile on your face remains. “The bar downtown? It’s a bit too late for a drink.”

“No,” he laughs, cradling your cheek in his rough hand, gently rubbing away the sleep tucked in the corner of your eye. “The bedroom, my idiot.” Jason says it affectionately, moving closer as he gives you a peck, and another, and another until you’re both smiling into the kiss.

You whisper teasingly. “Ah, to continue our conversation, right?”

“Yeah,” Standing up, Jason sheds his body armour, and shirt with one swift movement that has you mesmerized. Just so he doesn’t dirty his son’s favorite pajamas, he then gently takes Ollie in his hold, pressing a quick peck on his temple, before tapping your foot with his own. “It’ll be a very productive conversation.” He bends at the waist, still carrying Ollie as if he weighs nothing just to kiss you as if he couldn’t help himself.

“I’ll be there.”

Support banner by @/cafekitsune

Sighing, your lower back aches, still weighing heavy even after the birth. Despite your exhaustion, you grab a cloak to tie around your shoulders and over your slip as you head for your daughter’s nursery. If Lyonel isn’t in the shared chambers, surely he would be there watching over her like usual. Recently, he has taken to watching Juniper sleep for a few minutes after you have placed her down on her cot. With a keen eye, he watches little Juniper’s chest rise and fall protectively, and with his hand gently grasping onto her tiny foot.

But when you enter the nursery, you don’t find him there, nor your daughter inside her cot. Your mind must still be addled by the unbalanced humours from the birth, but you were sure that you have put Juniper to bed. You would ask her nursemaid but she would already be fast asleep. So you take a candle from the table and set off to find your family within the vast keep.

Storm’s End is much gloomier and greyer at night. As if there are ghosts lingering around the halls whilst the storm winds howl outside. But you continue on, a hand hitching the skirt of your slip whilst the other keeps the candle upright. No ghosts will stop you from finding them.

As you go through the winding hallway with numerous sculpted Baratheon ancestors on the walls, you see a light flickering from the open doors of the library.

Slowly, you peek inside, seeing a lone figure hunched over a table filled with dozens of thick tomes as the shadow sways softly like a ship on gentle tides.

“You’re well fed, changed, and thank the seven you’re not ill.” Lyonel’s voice whispers at the bundle in his arms. “Gods be good, Juniper, why won’t you sleep, hm? Have you no mercy for your poor mother and father?”

Your giggle takes his attention. His head immediately moves towards the source, the corner of his lips tugging into the signature Lyonel smile that you adore. “Your daughter is petulant.”

“My daughter?” You slowly walk across the threshold and over to him, tender gaze never leaving him. “She is yours as she is mine. And our daughter is merely a month old, it is impossible for her to be petulant.”

“She takes after you.” He utters affectionately.

“She looks the most like you, my love.”

You expect for him to hand the babe over to you, too tired to carry her or too annoyed, so you reach for her, but instead of giving the babe over to you, Lyonel leans her away from your waiting arms. He pouts, brows furrowed at you, as if you have offended him and his child caring skills.

“No, this is my duty, I shall not hand her to you until she has fallen asleep in my arms.” He even dramatically turns her away from you as you bite your lip to hinder the laugh in your throat.

Meanwhile, Juniper gurgles in her father’s arms, legs kicking about under her swaddle as her tiny hand grasps onto Lyonel’s doublet.

“She was already asleep when I placed her down in her cot.” Raising a brow, you accuse him of waking her up just so he could put her to sleep himself, an act he sees through as a jest.

“I did not wake her up.” Defending himself, Lyonel, points accusingly at you. “Mayhaps you didn’t put her to sleep well enough. When I went to check on her she was gurgling and kicking about happily. Now I’m not a midwife but that was a very awake child.”

“Babes wake up for no reason, my love.” You answer lovingly, taking a good look at the tome he was reading. Some of them have dust on the covers, the books seem to have been there for quite some time. And each one is about childbirth or anything pertaining to raising children. Your eyes glistens with unshed tears when you look back at your husband. “You’ve been reading…”

“Contrary to the whispers, I know how to read.”

“Oh, my sweet Lyonel.” Your hands reach out to him, and he meets you halfway, placing his face in your open palms as you cradle his face. “You were learning how to raise our Juniper.” Cooing, Lyonel feels good when he’s the one on the receiving end of your cooing for once.

“Of course, I have.” He says matter-of-factly, eyes closing as your thumbs run along his cheek lovingly. “I can’t let you have all the glory.”

Grinning, you pull his face closer to your own, nudging his nose with yours sweetly. Gods, you want another babe with him. Especially if they’ll have his nose too and his smile.

“Oh, you’re already doing so well, my stag.” The reassurance fills his chest with warmth, the same warmth he feels whenever you place his head on your chest in bed so he could sleep soundly, the same warmth he feels whenever Juniper holds his finger in her tiny hand. “Juniper is lucky to have you as her father.” Peppering his face with kisses, you kiss every inch of his face until you see him give you a lopsided smile.

Pulling away, Lyonel immediately misses your lips upon his skin. “Tell me more about how good I am.”

“You’re doing marvelously, my love.” A grin spreads across his handsome face, beaming at you as his hand pats Juniper to sleep. “How about I accompany you here whenever you read? We could learn together.” Your hands don’t leave his side, holding him and Juniper close.

“That is a tremendous idea, my wife, but you and I both know that there won’t be much reading when we are left to our own devices.” His dark eyes sparkle with something familiar.

You make a face, chortling under your breath, “that is true.” Chuckling, you go to check Juniper in his arms, only to find that the quiet wasn’t just because she’s safely tucked in and content in her father’s arms, but because she has finally fallen asleep. “Look at that, you did it, she’s asleep.”

Lyonel looks at his daughter and grins from ear to ear, as if he just unhorsed another Targaryen. “I did it.” He says it with triumph, that you want to paint his expression on a canvas to look at it whenever you please. “It’s all because I’ve been reading.”

“I am sure it was.” Taking his hand and the candle on the other, you lead him out. “Now come and put her back to her cot so we may do some reading of our own.”

Who is he to say no? “Yes, my love.” He gladly follows your lead.

The room is slowly growing darker with every minute you spend inside, the cozy decorations around the small space with its carved woodland creatures, lace doilies and fluttering curtains are nothing but a mockery to you and what’s gnawing in your head. Their shadows loom over the walls, shapes cageing you in.

It’s quiet inside the familiar bathroom, what was once held a fond memory for you is now marred by the recent memory of James begging for you to shoot him. You can still hear his cries, pleading, begging for you to end him to keep you and your baby safe. The way his hands shook, cradling the bleeding bite and how his voice gurgled in his own blood, and yet he still smiled at you towards the end. Even then he was trying to comfort you.

Your protruding stomach bops up and down in the water, belly button peeking through the mix of blood and soap. You haven’t let out a single tear since Hobie helped you inside the tub, hoping that a warm bath will help. When all it did was numb you.

Gazing at the ceiling, mold dotted along the wood, your eyes sting as you tilt your head down, face half submerged in the water. Waves lapping at the sides of your face. You miss James, he was your companion, a friend that helped you survive the first days of the apocalypse. He was your anchor through it all, the voice of reason when all you wanted was to run outside and look for your lost love. It’s ironic, compared to before the world ended, you and the rest of the band were the ones holding him by the scruff of his neck.

As you run your palm over your stomach, the pinky ring shines atop it, you promise to yourself that you’ll live on so that his sacrifice wouldn’t be in vain. He would’ve wanted you to do just that, but that doesn’t make it alright. You have no idea how to tell Yuri and Ned that their best mate is dead, and that you killed him.

What if his parents are still alive? How would you tell them that their only child is dead? That he died protecting you while holding out hope that he would find them?

The door creaks open, and Hobie peeks through the crack. His cheeks are coated in dirt, and there’s soil underneath his fingernails as he knocks softly. He looks the same as you remember before you had to leave him in the car with hopes of coming back for him. You did come back for him, but he was nowhere to be seen. For three months you wonder where he was, if he’s eating, or if he’s even alive. Now that he’s here, standing in the same room as you, breathing the same air as you, your heart feels like it’s beating once again. Albeit cracked, but alive, thumping quietly as it keeps you and your baby breathing.

“Love,” his voice seeps with fatigue. “You’ll turn into a prune.”

“You like prunes.” You answer softly, tone as tired as his. “Come sit with me please?”

“I’m all dirty,” His boots thump against the floor mats, tracking mud and dirt. His hand clamps over his eyes playfully. “and you’re all naked.”

You manage a small smile. “How do you think I got this?” Gesturing around your stomach, he peeks through his fingers.

“A stork?”

“Nope, birds and the bees, Hobs.” Opening your palms, you gesture for him to join you.

“Yeah, I think I remember that in biology.” Kneeling down, knees creaking in protest, he places his arm over the rim of the bathtub, chin resting on his elbow. “How do you feel?”

“Like sun dried shit.” Your attempt at a half assed joke.

He manages a smile. “The baby?” His eyes gaze gently down, worry etched on his brows.

“I think the baby’s fine. I’m not at the stage where the baby could start kicking like a horse yet. But everything feels fine, considering.” Sniffing, you lean against his arm, a cold cheek pressed on his warm skin. “I really wanted to tell you… I really did.”

Hobie’s free hand reaches to cup your chin, turning you gently to face him. “I know, lovie.” He sighs, thumb brushing along your damp skin. “When did you know?”

“At the party, with Yuri.” The mere mention of her has your heart squeezing in your chest. The same feeling is clear on his face too. “We got a bunch of tests after I got sick all over the bathroom floor.”

“Is that what you wanted to tell me? Before…everythin’?”

“Yeah, I still have the test, kept it just in case.”

His eyes flick over to your growing stomach, belly button protruding above the surface like a buoy. “Well, I believe you, proof or no proof.”

You manage a small chuckle. “I’m way past doubting it. The morning sickness was the worst, and my feet are swollen.” Lifting a foot above the water to show him, Hobie’s brows knit in worry, it looks painful. You look like you’re in pain. He then sees the scar on your leg, a long scar tissue that is still red around the edges of skin. He doesn’t ask how it came to be when he doesn’t want to upset you even more.

He feels sorry that he wasn’t there, that he wasn’t there from the start, holding you, making you feel better. He should’ve been there, he should’ve been here before you. Maybe, just maybe, James would still be alive, that he would hear the muffled shuffling of the undead behind the closet door, and end it before it started. And he would welcome you both inside with a relieved smile.

“My boots would fit you now.” Hobie stifles his hurt, eyes glancing away from swollen feet before staring at the same pain in your eyes.

“Maybe, I’m going to need maternity clothes soon.” Inhaling, you purse your lips together. “I’m going to wear all those old lady dresses with the plain daisies and bland colours. You won’t think I’m fit anymore.” Your knuckles brush alongside his arm.

“Nah, you’re still peng in my eyes, lovie. Even if you dress up as Yuri’s grandma.” Taking your hand, he twists it gently to hold onto you better. Water mixing with soil.

“Remember when she used to make us all those sugar cookies during band practice?”

“Yeah, I’ve gained weight durin’ that.”

“We all did, Hobie.” You gently smile, squeezing him once. After a beat, your smile fades. “Is it horrible of me to think that it’s a good thing that she’s already gone before all this shit happened?”

“No, love.” His thumb runs along your palm. “I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.”

The back of your eyes stings, heat behind them as you swallow thickly. “I should’ve— I should’ve come looking for you. When I came back to the car, you weren’t there anymore.” You fight the tears from spilling. “And then we ran to the docks, and the houseboat wasn’t there either. I’m sorry, I should’ve tried harder. I could’ve tried harder.”

“Just the thought of you comin’ to look for me is enough.” With a gentle hand, he moves a damp strand of hair away from your face. “I’m jus’ glad you weren’t alone.”

Your eyes fall on his fingers, the dirt digs into his nailbeds, darkened by mud and soil. “Yeah, I wouldn’t have survived this long without him.” Your nail scrapes at the dirt, trying to get it clean. And he lets you. “You should’ve seen him, Hobie, he was…he’s great.” Vision glistening, you stifle a sob.

“I think he was a scout when he was a kid.” A smile curls in the corner of his lips at the image of James wearing those uniforms when he was just a boy. Green and khaki complete with a beret and sash filled with patches. Hobie beats himself up for not remembering if James really was a scout. “I know he was great, lovie, jus’ seein’ you here is proof enough.”

“He went full on survivor. We were stuck at his parent’s condo for a bit until we ran out of supplies and the electricity in the city was shut off.” Your palm is pruning, but you’re afraid of leaving the comfort of the tub. “I got a baby book though.”

“Yeah? Like the one with baby names?”

He wants to tell you what happened to him in those three months, how he struggled, how he longed to see you alive, how he was seeing you in his visions. And what he saw, what he had to do to get back to you. You know that the houseboat is gone from his expression alone, if it wasn’t you two would’ve sailed out of the town before the blood dried on the floor.

You gently shake your head, water sloshing softly. “No, the kind that has instructions on home births.” Voice wavering, you hold onto him tightly, realizing what he has to do when the time comes. “I’m scared, Hobie.” Your throat betrays you, closing up as you let out a sob. “What if something happens to the baby? There’s no hospitals or doctors anymore—”

Hobie brings your face to his chest, shushing you tenderly as he rubs at your back. Despite the water drenching his sleeve, he still holds onto you as waves of tears flow out of you. He’s scared too, afraid to lose the baby, afraid to lose you. For ten years, he has loved you, and for those ten years, he never once thought of a day without you in it. He can’t lose you when he needs to love you for the rest of his life.

“It’s alright, we can do it, yeah?” He feels you nod against him as you shiver in his arms. “We’ve watched enough hospital dramas to know all about givin’ birth.” Joking, Hobie kisses the crown of your damp head as you manage a chortle.

“That’s reassuring.”

“I’ve got you and the baby. I promise that you two will be safe and sound.” Leaning away to cradle your face, he meets with your shining eyes, tears still clinging to your lashes. “I promise you.” Even if it kills him.

“Okay.” Inhaling deeply, you grasp at his wrist, a firm yet affectionate hold. “And I’ll watch your back, like always.”

Hobie smiles, the kind that reminds you of the days where he would play on stage, giving you that same reassuring smile as the lights flicker on his handsome face. “To start off, let’s get you dry and warm before you catch a cold.”

—

When you pictured saying goodbye to one of your friends, you never envisioned burying them at an age where they shouldn’t be six feet under. That it’ll just be you and Hobie, staring at the freshly packed ground right in front of you with a crudely made headstone. James doesn’t deserve one that is made out of a broken window panel, he deserved a headstone that is carved out of marble, where his name would remain etched on it forever. Not like how you wrote his name on the wood with a sharpie.

His father’s hunting vest feels rough in your hands. Dried blood staining the very same fabric that James once wore. You’ve been told that his father wasn’t the best, but the vest brought him comfort throughout his survival, a reminder, his fuel to continue living. Now it remains in your trembling hands, fingers digging into the dark blood.

“D’you want to say a few words?” Hobie utters softly amidst the strong wind as trees rustle nearby. If he thinks hard enough, he can imagine that his best mate doesn’t lie six feet under him. That he didn’t bury him there with his bare hands.

You shake your head, chest aching, eyes heavy and hot with unshed tears. No words could ever stifle your grief, there are no words in the world that makes this right, no worthy words to describe how great a man James was.

He understands your grief and your guilt, he knows you well to know what’s rushing inside your head. His eyes wander towards your shaking hands, and the façade he built to keep you steady and anchored almost crumbles.

“J–James Jameson,” his tone cracks, fists shaking, nails leaving crescent shapes on his palms. “You’re the best damn drummer I know, save us a spot up there, yeah?”

You heave, tears streaming down your face as you take a careful step forward. With your heart in your stomach, you kneel before the headstone, laying the vest around it, imagining that you’re putting it on him for the last time. “You’ve done well, James.” Your words are carried by the wind, palm placed atop the fresh soil, where his head could lie underneath.

Hobie’s arm curls around you, chin resting atop your head as he faces the grey sky.

—

The days have gone by with silence. The surrounding woods let out a whisper of leaves and a howl at night. But inside the cabin, grief lingers in the air, staining the wooden walls, slithering on the floorboards.

James’ presence weighs heavy between the two of you. Even though Hobie never said that he blames you for it, you still beat yourself up for what happened. If only you were quicker, that you didn’t hesitate before pulling the trigger. Every day Hobie lets you know that he doesn’t, for one moment, blame you for James’ demise. Through his actions, taking care of you, making sure that you’ve eaten, slept, taken your prenatal vitamins, and his touch, he lets you know that he loves you, that the world hasn’t ended for him because you’re still by his side.

The two of you have just been surviving on sparse supplies, and the water taken from a well behind the house that he has to boil before letting you take a drink. But the quiet, and the stifling air inside the space makes it more unbearable. You’ve tried to turn on the telly when the solar panels on the roof have recharged, but you’re only met with static. Not even the radio plays crappy music anymore, just an incessant buzzing. It’s as if you’re the only people left in the world.

The books and board games on the shelf meant for guests are gathering dust. You’d rather spend your days studying the baby book, every word memorized and carved in your head. Hobie made himself the handyman of the house, he fixed the holes on the front door where your bullets hit it, and he has reinforced all the windows with planks of wood he found in the tool shed. In case a shambler comes too close to the perimeter he set up that he agrees is abysmal when he only has strings and cans to work with. It’s a crude version of an alarm, and he wishes he could make something better for a precaution.

Hobie barely sleeps, keeping watch at night and day, taking naps in between when his body shuts down. When you see him dozing off on the couch, you sit beside him and he’s immediately magnetized to your side. You always tug his head down on your lap, letting him sleep there as your old cardigan that he managed to save from the houseboat is draped on his shoulders. Sometimes you see him reading the same baby book, folding the edges of the important pages when it’s your turn to keep watch. You miss him, even though you two sleep on the same bed with his arms wrapped protectively around you. But the easy conversations, the laughter, you miss those. This isn’t a way of living anymore.

You can’t help it when your eyes wander towards the spot where you held James one last time. No matter how much you scrub at the walls and floor, the stain stays. A macabre reminder of that day amidst the comfortable cottage decorations placed by the same dead man resting beside James’ grave.

The bowl of canned chicken noodle soup in front of you warms your cheeks as Hobie’s palm leaves your shoulder with a squeeze. Your eyes dart towards his side of the table, noticing that he doesn’t have supper, only a glass of room temperature water.

“Hobie?” Clearing your throat, your hand rubs at your stomach. Your shirt has gotten smaller, making you pull it down occasionally over your swollen belly.

He sighs in relief just from hearing your voice, pausing by the counter tops, hands reaching above the cabinets. “Yeah, love? Feelin’ alright?”

“Where’s your soup?” Craning your neck, you see the opened cabinets, seeing it nearly empty, save for a can of chocolate pudding, and a pack of dried beef jerky that’s still unopened. Just by the look in his eyes, he doesn’t need to say it out loud. “We need to go into town.”

“I need to go into town.” He leans on the counter, arms on his side as the dark circles under his eyes are illuminated by the electric lamp that was recharged by the solar. “Before you say anythin’, I’ll be quick.”

“And alone. You need someone to watch your back. We’ve got two guns for a reason.”

“Sure, I’ll jus’ ask one of the woodland creatures to come with me.”

“I don’t want to fight, Hobie.” Standing up, hand braced under your stomach, you close the small distance towards the kitchen. The cabin used to carry good memories, now it only bears agony. “Please, let’s not argue.” Hands rubbing his arms, you gaze at him softly. “I’m still not that far along, I can still run if we need to.” You don’t want to tell him that your scarred leg aches when you run.

You feel all the heaviness that James left in your heart, but you can’t let it hinder you forever when you’ve got Hobie and the baby to think about. They’re now your reason to survive, just like how James held on because of the baby and in hopes of finding his best mates and his parents.

Hobie avoids your eyes, sighing as he takes your hands in his. He feels the small indents from the scars that you told him about after another night of crying. He doesn’t want to look at it when it only makes his heart break at the thought of you getting hurt. So he keeps his eyes on the promised ring around your pinky instead, the same one he saved for months just to get it for you.

“What if we see those things? Or worse, run into people?”

“We hide or run, and if need be, we fight.” You look at him with determination and with untapped bravery he hasn’t seen yet. “I don’t want you to starve yourself. Or for you to die when I’m stuck here waiting for you to come home when I don’t know if you’ll ever be back.” Reaching over him as his hand falls on your hips, you take the beef jerky and the lone can of chocolate pudding. “So which one will it be for tonight?” With a small smile, you weigh both in your hands. “I need you full of energy tomorrow.”

Chuckling, Hobie takes the beef jerky and then takes your chin daintily in his hand. “The last time you told me that was before a concert.”

“I remember.” Sunlight passes by your eyes. “You killed it that night.”

His eyes wander behind you where his guitar case is tucked in-between an armchair and the telly. He still hasn’t opened it. “You follow me, yeah? When I tell you to run, you run, when I tell you to leave me behind, you do just that.”

You take a second before nodding.

“Let’s share the puddin’” Throwing his arm over your shoulder, and a peck to your temple, he leads you back to the table.

Kissing his cheek, you giggle, the very first genuine laugh you’ve let out in a couple of weeks. “That’s what I like to hear.”

—

Hobie hesitated before taking the car into town. The engine could draw unwanted attention, or it could break down in the middle of a drive. But he can’t exactly make you walk for miles on end when you’re almost four months pregnant. If only he had a bicycle on hand, and go on a ride with you like when you were teenagers sneaking out to go wherever you please.

“I hope we find a shoe place.” Your mumbling gets his attention, hand reaching towards your thigh as he keeps his eyes on the road. You place your hand atop his, squeezing once as you smile fondly at him. It reminds you of a similar memory when the two of you were driving in his old car to a gig or a date at the park. Not driving towards what could be a dead town filled with rotting corpses. “Some new trainers would be good for my sasquatch feet.”

His piercings catch the light, glinting from the sun shining on them. Hobie looks incredibly handsome, you’ve always said that the sunlight suits him more, and he would always say that the moonlight fits you best. His locks are tied into a ponytail that you helped him with. He desperately needs a haircut when his curls are starting to cover his eyes that you always have to move them away, covering a new scar he got from the car crash right on his forehead. It’s not because you think it makes him look awful, but you hate the fact that he got hurt, that he had to tend to his wounds himself. Your guilt refuses to let you look at the scar.

Hobie snorts, noticing your lighter demeanour now that you’re out of the cabin. “I’ll keep a look out.” Thumb drawing circles over your jeans, he squeezes again. “And your feet aren’t that big, love. I’ve seen bigger.”

Pinching the back of his hand, he lets out a chuckle. “Yeah, yours.” Your eyes warn him before he could even smirk. “And don’t say it.”

“Wasn’t gonna.” From his smirk alone, you could tell that he was in fact ‘gonna.’

Smiling, for a moment you forgot that the world ended, that James isn’t laying six feet underground just beside the living room window.

Hobie senses the negative shift in your demeanor. From all his reading on the baby book you brought, he has read that when the mother is in good spirits, and not stressed, the baby will turn out healthy and happy. He has made it his mission that you and the baby remain in okay spirits, impossible to make it better on account of the things around you, but he still wants to try. After James and everything else, something as small as new trainers could help brighten you up. He’s even contemplating that the cabin might not be the best environment for you, but where would he bring you that is safer than a cabin in the middle of the woods?

“I’ve been thinkin’” Clearing his throat, he shifts in his seat with the town now in sight.

“A lot, I imagine.”

He glances at you with a small smile. “Yeah, too much.” Sighing, he slows down the car once the town’s faded banner greets him. The place doesn’t look any better like before, but it doesn’t look worse either. “What if we look for other places we could stay? Somewhere safer, quieter and away from cities for when the baby is born.”

“The cabin is already all of that.”

“Yeah, I mean…somewhere that doesn’t remind you of what happened.”

Your eyes cast down at your lap, index mindlessly picking at a hang nail as you gaze at your ring instead. “I don’t know, Hobie, James is there, he’d be alone.”

“He’ll understand, love.” Sighing, he parks the car on the side of the silent fishing town. “We don’t have to make a decision now, jus’ think ‘bout it, yeah?” With a hand on your thigh, he squeezes you reassuringly, and you smile right back at him with the same kind of comfort. “I see a cobbler over there, maybe someone didn’t pick up their shoes.”

Like always, he helps with your seatbelt gently, even avoiding grazing your stomach with his hand. Maybe it’s him being careful with you, but it’s as if he’s afraid to really hold onto your stomach, afraid to face the baby that could possibly end your life.

He smells faintly of the watered down minty shampoo and a coconut body wash that the last renter left at the cabin. While you probably smell of the milk formula for mothers that you’ve been rationing since you left the condo with James. Even then, Hobie pecks your temple sweetly.

“There, you ready?”

Taking his hand, you place his palm with apprehension on top of your stomach, letting his warmth ebb through your skin. “I’ve read that babies tend to already know their parents in the womb, but you haven’t been there the first months so I want them to get to know you more. Is that alright?”

His lips tug into a smile, chuckling softly as he feels around freely. “Yeah, ‘m the dad, love, of course it’s alright.”

You match his grin. “Just checking.”

Kissing your cheek, his lips linger for a moment before pulling away. He looks around with bated breath, making sure that there aren’t any surprises lurking around the corner shops. The town is quiet, eerily quiet, like in one of those apocalyptic shows Yuri pestered them into watching with her.

Cars are left on the road, some doors still open as the wind and rain ravage the leather seats. From the pink and yellow banners around, and the wilted flowers all tied with a pretty ribbon around the lampposts and shop windows, he’d think there was some celebration happening before the world ended. A flyer fluttering by gets stuck in the windshield wiper, it answers his question.

“‘Happy Mother’s day.’” You read solemnly. “Fuck me that’s ironic.”

Hobie scoffs a laugh, patting your stomach gingerly as he inhales deeply.

He doesn’t see any movement from the streets, no rustling, just some trash getting carried by the wind. But he spots something in the corner of his eye, a flash of movement inside the cobbler’s store, a quick shadow darting in between shelves of shoes.

“What is it?” You ask, brows furrowed as you feel his trepidation. “You okay?”

“We should move on.” Hobie starts the car again, as something gnaws at the back of his mind, telling him to move, telling him, ‘not here, there’s death lingering here.’

“I thought…” you don’t argue, trusting his instincts. “Okay. Maybe a house would be better.”

The car jolts to life as Hobie keeps his steely gaze on the road. “Yeah, the neighborhood is probably better to look through.”

The two of you drive around in silence, the fear sits between the two of you, heavy and permeating as the car rolls into a suburban area with white picket fences and blue windowsills. The place looks normal, still pristine and untouched by the dead and survivors.

Hobie looks around, car slowing down as he spots a two story home that he has probably seen dozens of times in his life. It looks fine, no blood on the walls, no corpses laying around, just an overgrown lawn and dusty windows.

“This is the one?” Your eyes narrow as the sunshine reflects onto the car windows and onto your eyes. It was a gloomy day when you went out, but the sun wanted to be seen for a moment. It’s a good reprieve from all the grey and darkness in your mind.

“Got your gear?” Hobie clicks his seatbelt off and then over to yours in a swift calculated movement.

“Yep,” you inhale deeply, taking his helping hand as you get out of the car. There’s a small ache on the pit of your stomach, and you chalk it up as nerves. You fix the hold on the backpack, a hand feeling for the kitchen knife on your belt and the gun hidden underneath your coat and tucked into your jeans. “Yours?”

“Ready,” Hobie shows you his backpack and the shotgun strapped on his shoulder, he then pats the hammer dangling on his belt before nudging your hand, resisting the urge to hold it instead. He needs his hands free to protect you. “Food and water first.” He instructs. “I’ll keep a lookout for shoes.”

“If we find the stuff we need for the home birth should we grab it? Or should we save space for food and toiletries?” You’re careful where you place your feet as you both walk onto what was probably a pristine lawn before the dead walked around.

“If we still have space in our packs, I don’t see why not.” Hobie keeps a careful eye around, making sure his hand never leaves the handle of the machete. And that you’re within his vision at all times.

“Maybe we’ll find some strings for your guitar too. They’re small, so it’ll fit my pockets.”

Hobie falters for a moment before stopping in front of the door. “You opened my guitar case?”

“Yeah,” you say as you cup your hands around a foggy window whilst you try to take a peek inside. When you’re met with silence, you lean away to look at him. “Am I not supposed to? I’m sorry, I got curious.”

“No, love, it’s alright.” His pinky brushes along the back of your hand. “It’s jus’ that I haven’t opened it since the houseboat broke down.”

“Oh, well, it’s fine, just that the stings are a bit fucked. No water got in or even a scratch on it.”

“That’s good.” With a relieved sigh, he gently taps the glass window to double check that there aren’t any shamblers hiding inside.

The two of you wait for a bit, but when a minute passes by without the sound of a pained groan or movement inside, Hobie grips the door handle.

He sees a wind chime a second earlier before he could open the door. With his height, he easily stops the chiming before it could chime out with a hand. Hobie then yanks it out, and gently places it on the ground.

“Good eye.”

“Thanks—” he’s about to push the door open, until your hand catches his wrist.

“Alarm.” You mutter with a shaky tone, pointing at the sign hidden behind the tall grass of the overgrown lawn. ‘This house is protected by Octavius security.’ It reads in big bold letters.

“Fuck me.” Slowly, he lets go of the door knob. “What are the chances that they don’t have power either?”

“I don’t know, but we can’t risk it.” You swallow thickly, a hand brushing along your stomach for comfort. Pursing your lips, you remember a conversation you had with James on one warm evening, warm enough that he made popsicles for you both. Yours was mango because he said that fruit was better for the baby, and he had chocolate instead. You’ve been craving mangoes nowadays, but can’t say anything to Hobie to add more to his stress. “I’ve got an idea, follow me.”

Slowly, with a hand on your knife, you carefully tread the lawn and over to the side of the house. Hobie follows closely behind, too afraid to lag behind you, afraid that you’ll get lost in the tall grass, or get snatched by one of the dead.

There’s a fallen kid’s bicycle on the ground, half buried in grass and dirt. Once upon a time a kid rode that up and down the neighborhood, now it lays there, rotting, slowly rusting, like the world around you.

“Here.” Clearing your throat, you both make it to the back door without a hitch. So far so good. “Okay, let’s hope that—” you begin to bend down, but Hobie stops you halfway with a hand on your chest.

“Let me. What are you looking for?” Crouching, Hobie looks up at you as the grey clouds start to obscure the sun behind your head, covering the halo around you.

“A key under the welcome mat.”

“Lovie, I don’t think…” and yet he still lifts the dirty mat, only to find a single key under it. “Well, fuck me sideways.”

“Already did that.” You cheekily joke, helping him stand up with a hand wrapped around his lean bicep.

Hobie smiles, really smiles, the kind of smile he would flash at you during lazy mornings where you two have nowhere to be that day. “You offerin’?”

Chuckling, you snatch the key from him as you insert it inside the lock. “Maybe if you find me some shoes.”

“Promise?” His lips curl into a mischievous smile, one that you’re incredibly familiar with.

“Yes,” biting your lip with a stifled laugh, you take a step back for him. “Could you please open the door?”

“How’d you know that the key would be there?”

“James’ dad owns a security company, and he told me that some people would usually forget their codes, or are afraid that when there’s no power they won’t be able to go inside because the system automatically locks the house. So sometimes they’d ask to not have an alarm at the back door, for big houses that is. For the key, well,” you shrug smugly. “I just applied common sense.”

He smiles proudly at you. “I keep forgettin’ that his dad had his hand in a lot of pies.”

“Just open the bloody door, Hobs.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He mocks a salute, unlocking the door slowly as the door creaks. Hobie peeks through the gap, waiting for any shamblers to appear. Tapping his blade on the door, once, twice, he waits some more, a precaution. Whilst you keep watch of the surroundings, heart beating loudly in your chest. “I think we’re good, lovie. Just need you to stay close to me, yeah?”

You nod, mouth feeling dry as you grip at the hilt of the kitchen knife. Your feet feel like you’re standing on warm sand, and your belly does somersaults, the baby could probably feel the tremors in your body as you enter the home with Hobie right in front of you.

This time, you’re making sure that you see the threat before it happens. The two of you sweep the kitchen first, the pantry has some food left but no monsters lurking in it. He finds the laundry room, same thing, no dead nor a soul inside.

You breathe a little better, and Hobie gives you a reassuring look, nudging your arm in a simple, ‘we’re okay,’ gesture.

While you keep watch, Hobie ransacks the pantry.

One thing has caught your eye though, on the counter, there is an empty flower vase with yellowing water, and beside it is a wilted and long dried up bouquet of roses. You take a peek inside the card, and it reads, ‘happy mother’s day!’ Scrawled by tiny hands written in crayon.

He loads up the duffle bag with food first, canned foods are the priority as he avoids the perishables. You wanted to check the fridge whilst he’s doing that but he can’t, or won’t let you out of his sight. You did promise to watch his back, so you did with your hand on the pistol right on your waist as he stacks cans upon cans of food.

Then he sees the biscuits, chocolate coated ones that he knows you like the most. He takes a box of those, checking the expiration date wouldn’t have meant anything when he has lost track of the date already. But if it doesn’t smell or isn’t covered in mold, it could still be good, so he packs it instead of another can of peas. He grabs a few seasonings too, and what’s left of the rice they had. He read that rice is good for the baby, so he takes it even though it weighs a ton.

The duffel bag is filled to the brim already when he finishes packing.

“Love.” He can’t help but smile, turning around to face you. “We’re not goin’ to starve.”

Chortling, you give him a quick yet loving peck on his shoulder. “Thank you.”

“There’s more in the fridge, and there are still jugs of water in here.” He whispers, in case there are lurkers upstairs.

“We also need soap.” Your eyes glances over to the laundry room. “What do we do?”

Pursing his lips, his eyes darts from the fridge, where there are magnet souvenirs and family photos on it, then over to the laundry room. He really needs clean clothes too. “We load this up in the trunk, dump it all in there then come back here.”

“Greedy, but I agree. I can’t sleep for another day in those sheets.”

With your approval, and a squeeze to your hand, the two of you trek back to the car, and carefully dump the canned goods inside the trunk of James’ car.

“I’ve never asked.” Hobie starts, a hand clasped around a can of peaches. “What happened to the window?” Glancing at the missing window at the back that was hastily wrapped in tarp and taped by duct tape, you follow his gaze.

“A horde got to us when we were leaving the condo building.” The stacking pauses on his end. “We were okay, we made it out by using molotov cocktails.”

He smiles fondly as something swims in his eyes, pride perhaps? Or perhaps jealousy. “You learned from the best.”

“We did, Hobie.” You tap the back of his knee with your foot as you finish your side. “I hope we find deodorant.”

Nodding, Hobie shuts the trunk as quietly as he could as he takes the empty duffel bag in his hand. “You smell great, love.”

“It’s because your brain started blocking the smell.” Giggling, you start your trek back again with him in tow. The steps are lighter, less careful now that you know what to expect.

“Nah, I think it’s your pheromones, you smell fit.”

“Never say that word ever again, Hobie.” That earns a kiss from him as he steals one from behind, right on your nape, before stepping around you to get to the laundry room before you could.

It goes like that for an hour, when the bags get full, he dumps it into the car and goes back again. It’s routine for the two of you, one that he refuses to go in and out alone when he can’t bear to leave you outside or inside the house for that matter. Even though it was tedious, going back and forth, he would still do it if it meant never straying too far from your side. He lost you once, he’s not planning on losing you ever again.

Both of you have cleared out the first floor, you found laundry detergents, food and water, now you’re on a mission to get some new clothes or maybe some pillows and blankets while it’s still light outside.

The walls of the house have grown familiar for you, the pictures on the walls of an unknown family, all strangers, and yet you found a connection to them. Somewhere in between taking their supplies, you wonder about them. Did they prefer beef over chicken when everything you found in their freezer was beef? Did their son ask for snacks before dinner like every kid does? How were they living now? Did they escape together? Or perhaps they’re shambling somewhere together with the rest of the dead.

Brows furrowed, your feet are on fire as you take a breather on the steps, taking hold of the bannister as you inhale through your nose and exhale out of your mouth. A breathing exercise that you read in your book.

“Love?” Hobie calls your name with worry. “You good?”

“Yeah, it’s just that…my feet are really fucking swolen and it kind of hurts. And I sort of need to pee.” Wincing, you give him an apologetic smile.

“Alright.” He sighs in relief, almost smiling. “I’ll take you to the loo.”

Hobie does a quick sweep of every room, there are only two bedrooms upstairs, and one office that is under lock and key. Every room is quiet and pristine, except for an odd smell coming from the master bedroom. Once he deems it safe, he helps you into the bathroom, keeping watch just outside the closed door.

Hand on his weapon, he keeps finding himself looking at the nursery right in front of him. It has light blue walls, powder blue like the sky on a good day in London, and it’s painted with fluttering birds and flowers. There’s a crib in there too, pristine, probably newly bought when there is still plastic wrapped around it. On the other side of the room is a small bed, meant for a toddler with rocketship bed sheets and glow in the dark stars tacked on the ceiling. In between them is an old rocking chair, oak and probably older than Hobie. And sitting on top of it is a box of trainers, with a neat pink bow on the lid. It’s from the brand that he knows you have been saving up for before the dead started walking.

He glances at the closed bathroom door, hearing you shuffle on the other side. The door is closed, and he didn’t find any undead inside the whole house. The place is safe and the nursery faces the loo where he could still keep an eye on you, so he takes a step away from the door and over to the rocking chair.

Hobie makes his strides quick and quiet, crossing the short distance over to the box as he takes it. He opens the lid, finding the same soft blue inside, the shoes seem to be larger than your usual size, but it would now fit you.

Grinning, his mission is accomplished. He shoves the pair inside the duffel bag, turning around with a triumphant smile on his face. “Love.” He shows you the box just as you exit the bathroom. “Look.”

The sheer happiness on your face makes his chest warm. He hasn’t seen you have that expression in a long while, it’s as if he’s a thirsty wanderer who finally found an oasis. For the first time ever since the party, he grins widely, the unabashed carefree smile that tugs at the corner of his lips first, right next to the piercing, a lopsided smile that never fails to turn your legs into jelly.

“Please tell me it’s my size.” Your hands reach for the box, squealing giddily once you see the size on the side.

“Open it.” His stomach thrums with excitement.

“Yes, new—!” Your face falls at the emptiness, and once you turn to look at the father of your unborn child, his cheeks are puffed, trying and failing to stifle a guffaw. “You wanker.”

“I couldn’t help it, lovie.” Tossing the box away that lands into the crib with a thump, he leads you to the rocking chair as you scowl at him like back when he accidentally ate your cheesecake in the fridge that you were saving for the end of the day. Hands on your shoulders, he’s still smiling at you, crouching down as he retrieves the shoes from the duffel bag. “‘m not evil.”

Your expression melts from annoyance to giddiness once again. “It’s blue.” You utter softly, lashes batting as Hobie slowly unlaces the old dirty shoes you have on.

“It is.” Chuckling fondly, he gently takes off your shoes, palm carefully cupping your heel, a thumb brushing along the hill of skin before slipping the new shoes on you. “Brand new too, we hit the jackpot.”

“I think it’s the exact same one I was saving for.” You still remember the road to and from work, where a shoe place is situated right on the road home, where you always look at the display longingly, waiting for the shoe to go on sale. “Just in blue.”

“What was the colour you wanted?” He slips the next one on your other foot, tying it twice, making sure that the laces won’t suddenly untie and make you trip and fall.

“Black,” you admire the shoes on you as you wiggle your feet about. “Easier to pair with my clothes.”

“Either one suits you.” Taking both feet, he taps the heels together playfully. “They fit you perfectly.”

“Thank you, Hobie.” You follow his smiling eyes as he stands up, a hand perched on the armrest of the rocking chair as his knees creak.

“Thank the bloke who got it.” His head tilts to gesture at the room. He wonders if the man who lived here got the shoes for his wife on mother’s day, or just because he wanted to show his love for her. Hobie knows he would do the same for you.

The irony doesn’t escape you when you find yourself sitting in the middle of a nursery. Maybe in another life, you and Hobie are refurbishing the spare room in his houseboat, the room you both use as a workspace slash art room slash library. It was littered with trinkets from you and Hobie the last time you saw it. You don’t remember much what was on the shelves when it’s been so long but you do remember the feeling whenever you spent a whole lazy afternoon with him in there.

The soft rocking of the boat would lull you to sleep whilst you read on an old lazyboy you two found abandoned on a street corner, the same one you had to call in James and Yuri to help haul it in the van. You would read and Hobie would tinker with his gadgets, sometimes taking odd fixing jobs from friends, fixing an antique clock, a radio, or a fan. The sound of the tinkling metal, the curses under his breath, and the water splashing against the side of the boat, it felt like home. It was warm and cozy, but it was colder in the winter when the space heater doesn’t help much with the chill. Those were the days where Hobie would huddle close to you on the armchair underneath all the blankets even when you both don’t fit in the chair. You miss those soft days, the peaceful days where you don’t have to be careful where you step, where the stench of death and decay doesn’t stick to your nostrils. It was just living, now all you know is surviving. Surviving to see Hobie for another day. Surviving to see the day your baby is born.

“Love,” he senses your heavy thoughts, hand reaching out to your chin, lifting it with his knuckle softly. Hobie doesn’t have the right words to comfort you, maybe there are no right words that will ever comfort you, but he tries, the only way he knows how, the only way that could get your mind out of the plague that is your mind. “You wanna take a look around? Maybe they’ve got something we could use for the baby.”

“We’re in a nursery, Hobs,” you say with a teasing tone. “I’m sure there’s baby stuff here we could use.”

Hobie chuckles, exhaling through his nose as he helps you off the rocking chair. He wonders if he could fit the chair in the car, the baby would love it, you would love it. The cabin already has a rocking chair but it’s old and weathered, looking like it’ll keel over once someone sits on it.

“I’ll check if they have books on giving birth.” His hand lingers on your hip before turning to the bookshelf with colourful children’s books.

“I’ll raid the closet.” Your hand instinctively brushes along your stomach, feeling the heaviness weigh you down.

You didn’t plan to get pregnant, moreso get pregnant during the end of the world where society has collapsed. You always knew from the moment you saw those two red lines that it wouldn’t be easy for the two of you, but now, you just feel regret and shame. Regret that this happened so soon in your life. Ashamed that you can’t be of any help to Hobie as the months go by. And when the inevitable comes, you could die, and you don’t want to leave the love of your life all alone in this world with a newborn to take care of. Or worse, you both don’t survive, and Hobie’s truly left alone.

You’re tired, exhausted already from carrying the extra weight on you. Bones aching on a microscopic level, as if you have a sack of cement on the small of your back. If you feel this tired just after a few months in your pregnancy, you fear for the coming months. What if you end up being bedridden? You’ve heard countless horror stories from women in your family at how terrifying it is to give birth. They said that when you’re giving birth, you have one foot buried in the ground. But they had doctors and medicine, while you have a book from the 90’s about childcare. You might die in front of Hobie while covered in blood and screaming in pain. You don’t want that to be the last thing he remembers of you.

Fists clenching, you feel the indents left on your palms. You take deep breaths, reminding yourself that stress isn’t good for the baby. So you start to distract yourself instead. You stare at the adorable clothes on the rack, all colour coded, from dinosaur onesies to tiny coats and matching beanies, you have the urge to take it all. The owners of the house have great taste, and you feel guilty for even being inside.

Taking a red and white plaid onesie that has matching socks, you turn to show Hobie.

“Lovie, look.”

“Hobs, look.”

You simultaneously turn to face the other.

You smile as he mirrors your expression. “‘Oh, the places you’ll go,’ really?”

“It’s a good read.” Shrugging, he shoves it in the dufflebag. “But look, baby names.”

You’re supposed to be happy, to smile at the book and imagine the names you could name the bundle born out of love, but you can’t find that happiness as you feel a lump on your throat form. Baby names are the last thing on your mind right now.

“That’s great, Hobs.”

“Couldn’t find any books about births, though.” Placing it inside the bag, right beside a teddy bear he nicked from the crib, Hobie smiles at the small pile he gathered. If he noticed your faltering expression, he doesn’t say anything about it. “What’d you find?”

“It looks kind of punk, doesn’t it?” Lifting the onesie, you peek over it, trying to hide your wobbly expression.

“Lovie…” taking the fabric in your hands, he grins fondly at the onesie. It’s so small, barely the size of his forearm, and he can’t help but imagine a little version of you wearing it. “This is the most fuckin’ adorable thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Take it?”

“Absolutely.” Peeking behind you, he sees more, eyes going wide at the swaddling cloths, tiny booties and the cutest bear onesie he has ever seen. “I say take ‘em all.”

You snort, backing away as he helps himself to the baby clothes. “That’s greedy, Hobie.” Despite your words, you help him shovel in the small socks and cute bibs. “Take some towels too, I read that they drool a lot.”

A laugh escapes his throat, barely contained as he almost forgets where he is, what might be lurking in the dark corners of the house. “Love, look at this one.”

He lifts up a plain yellow shirt with the bold pink letters that reads, ‘Daddy’s favorite.’ You clamp your mouth shut, before spluttering out a giggle.

“D’you think they have an adult sized version of this?” His eyes sparkle with playfulness. “For you, I mean.”

“Fuck, you’re so annoying.” And yet you shove the tiny shirt inside the bag with your cheeks aflame and a laugh bubbling in your throat.

“Love you too.” Pecking your temple, he moves away from the closet. “C’mon, we gotta move on to the bedroom.”

Your brows raise to your hairline, heat blossoming in the pit of your stomach. “What, right now?” You haven’t done that in a while, fuck, you just now realized that you haven’t done it since you found out about the baby. Your hands are suddenly at the hem of his shirt, desire filling your chest.

Hobie’s brows furrows for a moment before realization flickers on his expression. Eyes drifting down at your pawing, and then back over to your half lidded eyes. “Fuckin’ hell, love, not that. We need sheets and new clothes. Although that’s temptin’.” He pecks your pouting lips, giving you a sly smirk through the kiss. “Maybe later if you play your cards right, hm?” Now he’s in the mood too. It just crossed his mind when all he thought about recently was how to survive and finding you alive.

If your cheeks weren’t searing before then it’s fiery now. “I can’t believe I let you fuck me.” Groaning, head tilted back to hide your flustered expression, you walk past him towards the master’s bedroom.

“C’mon, lovie, that’s the reason why you’re pregnant.”

You flip him the bird on your way out that makes him smile even more. For a moment there he felt normal, that everything was back to normal and he’s at home with you while the houseboat rocks gently.

The two of you make it to the bedroom, and the smell hits you before he gets a whiff of it. It’s dank, like mold clinging to the damp walls, like the smell of wilted flowers downstairs, only stronger, more prominent.

“God, what is that smell?” Plugging your nose, you wince. “It kind of smells like teeth at the dentist. I’m gonna hurl if we stay here long.”

“Don’t know, but I don’t like it.” Hobie moves you aside gently before treading the dry carpet to open a window. The sun is beginning to set outside, and worry gnaws at his chest. Soon this place would be crawling with the undead. “We need to hurry, this is our last run before we head out.”

“Yeah, gotcha.” You don’t argue as you hastily grab everything you need. Some clothes that might not fit either of you perfectly, even a few maternity clothes you found, a couple of thick coats, and the sheets you’ve been eyeing.

The bags are almost full when you finish grabbing the things you needed, and Hobie even managed to find a couple of camping backpacks to fill it with two pillows and more blankets. He’s ready to leave when you remember the towels.

“Shit, Hobie, we need towels.”

“Love, we can wash the ones we already have.” Fixing his hold on the bags, he checks the ticking clock on the wall and the sun setting in the horizon that paints the sky a deep bloody orange.

“Those are threadbare, Hobie, I could the count strings on it. I’ll be quick, promise.” You’re already at the bathroom door, opening it as it creaks, the sound echoing through the hallway.

“Lovie, wait, let me—”

The stench permeates through the bedroom from the bathroom, stinking up the whole place, the same wilted flower smell. Teeth, it wasn’t just teeth, it’s bones.

“Fuck…” The bile rising up your throat and the spit filling your mouth almost made you retch. But the sight of the bodies hugging in the bathtub, surrounded by dead flowers makes your heart fall to your stomach.

The door is shut before you could let out a sound. Hobie holds you in his arms, and you stay there, frozen, still staring at the door, as if you could still see them decaying inside the tub.

“C’mon, love, we need to go.” Hobie whispers in your ear, gentle and reassuring as his hand rubs up and down your arm. He calls your name with the same gentleness, honeyed and saccharine, trying to get you to move.

Once you blink away the blurriness in your eyes, you turn to Hobie with an unreadable expression. There were three of them in there, no, four, a family, one still in the mother’s cleaved open belly. Their skin has turned to leather, sun dried, stretched over blanched bones.

“Love?” His thumb traces the length of your jaw, grounding you to the present. “We need to go.”

“Yeah, let’s go—”

There’s a shadow in the doorway.

It hunches in the dark, breathing, watching.

You act first, grabbing the shotgun from Hobie’s back as you aim.

Hobie exhales, eyes wide, before yanking at the barrel, pulling it up and away from the figure.

The shot rings out through the house and out of the opened window.

Pieces of the ceiling fall on the carpet, paint and wood cracking and splintered, falling upon the stranger like raindrops.

The figure now crouches, grasping at its ear, while a hand, a wrinkly old palm stretches at you, surrendering.

Your ears ring, a shrill deaf tone that rattles your teeth inside your mouth whilst Hobie nurses his singed hand.

“Fuck!” You yell, but you don’t hear your own voice.

The sounds are muffled in your ears as Hobie grabs the gun from your hands.

“What are you doing?!” His voice fades in and out in your hearing. His eyes are wide, frantic as he points at the crouched figure. “He’s alive!”

The words strike you like a fist.

“What?” You ask, befuddled, heaving heavily as you stare wide eyed at the stranger in the doorway.

“I’m s–sorry…” a trembling voice says, spluttering and weeping on the floor. “I’m sorry, I–I didn’t mean to—” he chokes on air, coughing as he desperately tries to clear his throat.

Narrowing your gaze, honing in to make out the man’s face, you see an old man cowering from your stare. Guilt gnaws at your conscience.

“Oh, fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t—” you wipe your hands at your jeans, as if it’ll clean the gunpowder on your skin. As if it’ll undo what you have done. “I didn’t know, I thought you were one of them.”

“Mate,” Hobie’s words feel dry on his tongue. “Who are you, how’d you get in here?” If the man was dead, he wouldn’t be so afraid, as he eyes you underneath his bucket hat. If he was, he wouldn’t have wasted time staring in the doorway instead of devouring you. Hobie’s wary as he stands in front of you protectively. He might’ve saved the stranger’s life, but he doesn’t know him and what he’s capable of. “You can stand up, we’re not goin’ to hurt you if you don’t try anythin’.”

You stand still, breathing heavily as you keep your weapon close while your hand shields your stomach.

The stranger is old, trembling as he stands up as instructed, back hunched, and messy hair untrimmed; his dirty blonde hair is matted under his hat. He looks frail, and you could easily outrun him, but you’ve learned never to underestimate anyone in this world.

“My—” his voice is crackly at the edges, tongue trying to wet his dry lips. “My name is Norman, I’ve been here since…since I don’t know.” His tone is weak and rough like someone who has a cold. “My son, he has a place here, but—but I forgot where it was, and I got lost. He…he said that he’ll meet me here in town.”

“Old man,” Hobie takes a step closer, while his free hand holds onto your wrist, keeping you close, all the while his other hand grasps at the weapon on his hip. “We’re not ‘ere to fight, but if you could jus’ move away from the stairs. We need to get out of ‘ere before any of the dead come.”

“I– I don’t know where I am.” His lips wobble, sniffing as his big brown eyes fill with unshed tears. “I’m sorry, who…who are you, lad?”

Hobie slowly inches towards the door as you hold onto his shoulder, blade at the ready as you peek over him.

Something in you pities the man. He reminds you of Yuri’s grandmother when she got sick, when there were days she wasn’t herself. You recognize the same condition in the man, how in the world has he survived this long all alone?

“Hobie, I think he’s unwell.” You whisper to him, feet feeling the dry carpet below you, the sky outside is going dark, and the automatic lights inside the hallways open. There’s power, and you could see the office door that was locked is now wide open.

“I know, love. We jus’ need to get out of ‘ere.”

The old man’s eyes pleads you for help. His face is gaunt underneath his salt and pepper beard, the skin around his eyes are darkened, and eyes beady. His nails are awfully long, curved and yellowed at the end. He has been surviving on his own whilst his own mind attacked him.

“He needs help.” Your grip on Hobie’s shoulder tightens desperately.

James would’ve helped him. Just like he helped you.

“Love.” The protest is on the edge of his tongue. But when Hobie turns to the man and his raggedy clothes, and the gaunt of his cheek, skin blemished and blanched, it reminds him of the people he would meet at the soup kitchen he volunteered at. The same place where he used to come to when he was struggling. “Norman, right?”

The old man reluctantly nods, as if he’s trying to recall his own name.

“C’mon, before the dead get ‘ere. They would’ve heard the shot.” Hobie grabs the fallen bags from the floor, glancing at you briefly as your expression is a mix of regret, relief, and pity. “Lovie, stay close. You too, Norm.”

“I haven’t heard that name in awhile.” He mutters under his breath, nodding along to his instructions.

Hobie lets him walk first, keeping a close eye on him, in case he is bitten. If he followed behind you, his mind wouldn’t be at peace if that was the case.

The whole house is lit up the moment the sun faded from the horizon. In the warm yellow lights, the place doesn’t feel so eerie. In another world he would have a place like this with you and the baby, maybe have the kid grow up in a nice house like this. It was near impossible before the world collapsed, now it’s just wishful thinking. Like how one would imagine winning the lottery.

“Where did you two come from?” Norman asks, arms curled around himself for comfort.

“The woods, we’ve got a cabin there.” Hobie adjusts his hold onto the bags, crossing the threshold towards the kitchen and to the back door where you two entered. Where he propped a can of peas on the door to keep it ajar just in case.

You watch as Norman’s face furrows, as if he’s trying to recall something deep in his mind.

“We have to hurry—”

Hobie sees it happen in slow motion, Norman’s hand wrapped around the door knob of the front entrance, tugging at it out of instinct.

“Norman, no!” You scream, but it’s too late.

The alarm blares around the house, echoing throughout the neighborhood. If the shot didn’t gather the dead’s attention, the alarm would.

There are rushed bare footsteps slapping against concrete outside.

“Run!” Hobie grabs you harshly, yanking and pulling you towards the back door as you reach your free hand over to Norman.

He takes your hand desperately. In his addled mind, he recognizes danger, and it makes him sprint behind you.

Hobie lugs the bags around his back and arms, whilst leading you outside. The same carefulness when you two arrived is out of the window the moment he heard gurgled groaning.

He turns his head towards the cul-de-sac, and he sees a gaggle of the shambling dead run at break neck speed towards him.

Their limbs flail right behind them without a care, they’re caked in blood, jaws unhinged, claws raised up as the wall of rotting stench follows them. Blood drips from their eyes, gnashing their teeth in the air as if they’re tasting him on their blackened tongues.

He makes it to the car, throwing the bags into the backseat and helps you inside the passenger seat before going around the hood to the driver’s side and hops in quickly. Thank fuck he had the foresight to not lock the doors. It was a horrible decision back then when there was danger of getting the car nicked, but he figured that you two were the only survivors in the whole town. He thought so at least.

“Love!” He yells your name, whilst you frantically put on your seatbelt. He could see the corpses run in the reflection of the side mirror.

“Norman!” You scream, waking the stranger from his terrified stupor, frozen just beside the car. “Get the fuck inside!”

The old man scrambles inside, tossing his whole body in the car whilst Hobie doesn’t waste time in starting the car, or even waits for Norman to shut the door.

The engine splutters weakly.

“Fuck you! C’mon you stupid, cu—!”

The pained shrieks of the dead come close as the car roars to life.

Exhaust fumes exit out of the car as Hobie steps on the gas. The wheels screech on the cement, leaving tire tracks as he drives quickly out of there.

A can of peaches rolls out of the backseat and onto the street just before the opened door beside Norman slams shut as Hobie turns a corner, watching the corpses fade in the rearview mirror.

“Holy fuck.” Panting, bad leg aching, you turn to Hobie with wide eyes. “Are you okay?” Your hand squeezes his trembling arm.

“Yeah, yeah…” Hobie swallows the bile in his throat, utterly relieved to be out of there. He takes your hand, and presses a heavy kiss on your knuckles whilst keeping an eye on the road. “You?”

“I’m good.” Smiling and chuckling, knees wobbly, you turn to Noman, who is still laying on the pile of canned goods and bags you got from the house. “You okay, Norm?”

The man’s lips stretches into an easy smile, “yes, thank you.”

You rub Hobie’s bicep, giving him a quick loving peck. “Let’s go home, Hobie.”

You’re used to the northern chill, how you could see your breath with each exhale, and how frost clings to your lashes. It’s a comforting cold that is so familiar to you that the freezing cold is etched into your bones. The cold in the Stormlands is vastly different, the kind of cold that sends your marrows into a dull ache, skin tugging with every deep inhale of petrichor that always hangs in the air. And the sound, the battering thuds of rainfall upon the stones of the great keep amidst the echoing splashes from the wild waves just outside. Whereas the sounds in the north are muffled by the snow, a mere whisper around the ancient soil.

Despite the fireplace of a man sleeping beside you, homesickness rushes through you like the lightning flashing just outside the chamber walls. You could see the flash of light just beyond the rattling windows, and you grip at your lord husband beside you, completely unbothered and used to all the noise.

Your cheek presses along his bare bicep to find the reprieve you’re looking for. You could smell the ink and parchment on his relaxed palms beside your head as his ring finger twitches in his sleep. Lyonel’s expression is soft and peaceful as he lays asleep beside you, absolutely exhausted from his duties as the new lord of Storm’s End, and his duties as your husband. His dangling earring is squished in between his cheek and the goosefeather pillow, and his lips are agape as he lets out an exhale that flutters your lashes.

You’d cuddle closer but you don’t want to stir him awake. As another thunder rolls and shakes the walls, you flinch, inhaling the lavender atop his skin to calm yourself. There were storms in Winterfell, but never to this degree. To think you would be used to it but the feeling of the ache of seeking your home doesn’t give you enough reprieve to fully feel at home in your husband’s land. Even when you really want to. You’re lady Baratheon now, and you must comport yourself and feel the rain upon your skin, but alas, you wish it would be snow instead.

“You look exceptionally pretty when you’re wallowing.” Lyonel’s voice cuts through the sound of the crackling braziers and the thunder clap outside. The lightning illuminates his features, the dark circles under his eyes, and the way his lips tug into a softened smile that is reserved only for you, you’d think that you did not just stir him awake from your clinging.

“Lyonel.” You sigh his name, smiling apologetically as you instinctively pull away, and yet he pulls you back by your nape gently, before rubbing at the crease in between your brows. “Did I wake you?”

“I felt a disturbance within my lady wife that made me so upset that it woke me up from my slumber.” Pulling you impossibly closer, he brings his lips to the crown of your head for a kiss, sniffing the scent of lavender in your hair. “That and the bloody storm is trying to reclaim our keep once again. Why are you awake, hm? Thought I exhausted you.”

You let out a chuckle, a thumb rubbing along the corner of his eye to rid of the crust clinging there. “I was for a moment, but I dreamt of home again.”

“Tell me, my she wolf.” Holding you close, he wraps his arms around you whilst pressing gentle pecks along your face until he could feel your shoulders ease.

“I dreamt of the snow beneath my feet, and the sound of direwolves howling in the distance.”

“Was I there to sweeten the dream even more?”

Chortling, you kiss his jaw with a smile. “You were, and you were completely freezing.”

“Sounds about right.” You could feel his smile on your cheek.

“I also dreamt of a fawn running around in the godswood. I think it’s quite telling.” His smile grows atop your skin. “Don’t you think?”

“I may not be a maester or a practitioner of magic but I think you are right.” Leaning away to look into your eyes lovingly, Lyonel shares a gentle smile with you, no matter how tired he is. “I suddenly had a profound thought.” His palm cups your cheek lovingly, thumb running over your skin affectionately.

“Tell me.” You whisper, a leg hooking over his waist and squeezing him to his delight.

“It’s high time we come visit your home. Perhaps the cold would be better for your disposition, the maester did recommend for you to not stress yourself too much. This old keep is not helping with that.”

“This keep is my home now too.”

“I know, but…” his rough knuckles instinctively brushes along your stomach that still doesn’t show the growing life within it, too early to show the signs. “It might be better for the babe to be born where his mother feels safer. I could manage my duties there through ravens, it would not be a burden to me. And it would make me feel at ease with you feeling comfortable there.”

“I feel safe here, Lyonel. It’s just that…I miss home, that’s all.”

“Has anyone told you that you’re far too kind for your own good?” His eyes narrow teasingly, before nuzzling his beard on the crook of your neck that sends you into a giggle.

“I’m a northerner, my love,” your laughter echoes around the chamber, quieting down the loudness of the thunder outside. Your fingers are in the curls of his hair, softly tugging as he kisses every space on your neck. “the ice just hides underneath all the softened snow.”

Head pulling away, cheeks reddened with a pink hue, Lyonel Baratheon, who once unseated the grey lion within fifteen lances, looks upon you with such love that it’s enough to part the grey clouds outside to make way for sunshine. “To the North then?”

You nod without question. “To the North.”

—

It has been a full month since you both settled in the north. Lyonel is still getting used to the cold that bites at his Stormlander skin, and yet he exudes the aura of a northerner. He’s trying his best and trying to keep up with your kin, and he’s doing quite well, more than you thought he would.

And he was right, being home is helping, and the maester has said that it’s doing wonders to the growing babe in your stomach. You’re starting to show now, and your dear father has commissioned a dozen or so gowns just for the occasion, citing that when your mother was with child, she always complained that her dresses were getting smaller each day. So he had all her old gowns repaired and made to fit your growing form.

You feel utterly coddled, Lyonel barely leaves you alone, and when he does rarely go out without you, he’d be home before the sun could set. And his arms would always be ready to receive you.

It’s one of those days where he has no choice but to leave your side. Your father and brothers had asked him to go hunting with them, so with some displeasure, Lyonel left to go on a three day hunt with them. You suspect that it’s your father’s ploy to give you some time for yourself, which you are grateful for, if not for the hunt taking three whole days without your stag by your side.

By the second day, you’ve become antsy. You don’t stay too long in your chambers because the room smells like Lyonel, even the furs and pillows smell like him. You dare not get the sheets changed though when it’s the only thing keeping you sane. Instead of walking aimlessly around the keep, you go to the godswood to pray, and each day he’s gone, you stay longer and longer. Despite the biting chill that runs down your spine, you stay there, just staring up at the red leaves and watching the frost cling to it like silk.

It’s the day when he’s supposed to come home, and yet the hunting party is still nowhere to be seen. You would worry, but you know that your kin wouldn’t let anything happen to your husband lest they see the ice in your veins.

A soft bark comes from the archway, and you turn to face the source, finding the said husband cradling a rather large and fluffy puppy.

“My love.” Your expression brightens the moment you meet with Lyonel’s eyes. “You’re late.”

“My apologies, my doe.” He mirrors your smile, crossing the distance as the snow crunches underneath his boots. “It’s this little one’s fault.” Moving the cloak over the hound, the puppy sets his dark eyes on you, tail wagging as his fine white coat looks as soft as the snow falling atop your shoulders. “We met him on our way to the hunt, and he never left my side. You and him have the same type in Stormlanders I see.”

Chuckling, you pet his fur, and you now know that he is as soft as you think he was. The puppy huffs at your hand, giving it a little lick, and it seems that he’s as taken with you just like he is to your husband. “He’s beautiful, I assume you’d want to keep him?”

“Only if my wife says so.” Lyonel has the softened look of a man pleading his wife, all big eyes, complete with his lashes fluttering and with a pout unbefitting of a lord paramount. The drifting snowflakes upon his dark hair like dotted stars along the night sky helps his case. You would’ve said yes anyway, you can’t just say no to him whilst he’s holding the most adorable creature. “The babe will have a companion.” He adds, brows raised to help convince you even more.

“Taking care of a direwolf would be hard work, my love. But I’m sure we’ll manage.” You peck the tip of Lyonel’s cold nose, before looking at his befuddled expression. “My father didn’t tell you it’s a direwolf, didn’t he?”

“He said it was a regular hound!”

—

“Thunder, where are you?” You waddle around Winterfell, your long furry cloak draping right behind you as you search every nook and cranny of the ancient keep. “It’s supper time, my sweet!”

“You’re calling the dog for supper before your husband?” Lyonel appears from behind a stone column, hands on his hips, a brow raised and looking like a northman in the bundle of thick furs and velvet he has on. If not for the Baratheon sigil and the golden hues on his doublet, people would’ve mistaken him for a Northman. Until he speaks that is. “You’re cruel, my love. It never crossed your mind that I’d want supper too?”

You stifle a chuckle, a hand caressing your growing belly as he walks closer in his longer strides. “I just thought that you were already at the great hall.”

Humming, Lyonel’s hand rests at the small of your back, massaging the ache there. Whilst the other rubs at your belly lovingly, as if the babe inside needed comforting too. “I came here to fetch you. I would never have supper without my lady wife.”

“Is it not because you needed a shield against my gossiping aunts?” Palms atop his sturdy chest, you gently caress him there, before rising up to intertwine your fingers above his nape, all the while gazing into his eyes lovingly.

“That too.” Leaning in and nuzzling your nose, he goes in for a kiss, savouring your warmth. But before his lips could meet with yours, he feels a wet snout poke his leg, and a tug right at the hem of his trousers. Lyonel lets out a defeated sigh while you laugh, a mirthful chime that is music to his ears. “Gods, Thunder, you always appear when you are not needed.”

Thunder barks softly, big puppy dog eyes gazing up at the two of you whilst his tail wags atop the stone floor, brushing away the freshly dropped snowflakes.

“Oh, he’s always needed.” Bending down, with Lyonel’s hand still on the small of your back, you scratch under Thunder’s snout, right where he favours being petted. “Aren’t you, boy?”

Lyonel feigns a huff, but from his smile alone you could tell that he’s resisting the urge to pat the growing direwolf, who is now almost the same size as the adult hounds roaming around Winterfell.

“Oh, come here, don’t be jealous, my stag.” You coo, standing back up to scratch Lyonel right under his beard. He rolled his eyes for a second, before melting at your touch and how your nails scraped gently at his jaw. “Look at you, I could practically see you wagging your tail, my good boy.”

His half lidded eyes open immediately, as if you offended him. The corners of his lips curl into a mischievous grin, and you know that you will be late to supper even more.

“Lyonel—!”

You’re lifted up, his arm hooked underneath your legs, and the other cradling your back. Your squeal echoes around the snowcapped courtyard, and Thunder gallops around the two of you, wanting to play too.

“You call me a hound? Let me show you how a hound shows his love, hm?”

—

Lyonel cannot deny it any longer but after four months at Winterfell freezing his antlers off, he could not bear to stay any longer. It’s not as dreary when you are near and whenever the Northmen have a feast it’s a good kind of revelry, but he finds that the walls have eyes in the ancient keep. As if the ghosts of last Starks stalk the halls, haunting his every move. He can’t believe it but he wants to go back to Storm’s End with you.

When he enters the shared chambers all weary and dreadful from another awful night of nightmares, and all he wants is to hold you and have a nap with his arms around you— Lyonel did not expect to find his side of the bed occupied.

There, laying down beside you with his head upon your belly is a sleeping direwolf, his white fur making it look like there is fresh snow fallen atop of you. The dog has grown as large as a foal, with long legs and a maw that could separate a man from his arm. But beside you, Thunder looks like any hound that now prefers you over him.

“Thunder.” Sighing, Lyonel yanks his cloak off and throws it haphazardly on the foot of the bed. “Move.”

“He’s asleep.” You mumble, eyes still shut as your fingers rake through his fur. “Don't wake him.”

“Where am I supposed to sleep?” Arms gesturing around the occupied bed, Lyonel runs a hand through his curls. “He’s a direwolf, he does not belong on the bed.”

Chuckling, you already know what your husband looks like before you could open your eyes. Reaching for him, his hand immediately slides around your own. “Come, there is plenty of space for an afternoon nap.” You scooch back, making the direwolf roll over before situating himself beside you once again. Opening the covers for him, you invite your husband to your side.

There is space for Lyonel beside you, but he’ll surely fall from the bed if he so much move a limb out of place.

“My love…” He points at the measly space when Thunder has a whole Dorne sized space on the bed.

“If you can move him then you can retake your bed, but as you can see…” you pat your belly. “I could not.”

Sighing, his eyes narrow at the sleeping direwolf. Thunder cracks one eye open, as if sizing him up, teasing and testing him before going back to sleep.

“Fuck me.” Head tossed back, Lyonel admits defeat to the direwolf, slithering underneath the covers beside you with a huff.

Your arm immediately curls around his torso, and he feels his frustration ebb out of him. “See, we fit.”

Grumbling, Lyonel cuddles closer, head pressed on your temple as his arm slithers from underneath you. You expect for that to be the end of the little one sided civil war he has going on with Thunder, but instead of your husband falling asleep with you curled around him, Lyonel takes you in his arms and hauls you around and away from Thunder, pulling you atop him and then back to his other side carefully and effortlessly.

You didn’t have enough time to process what happened when he’s the one curling around you protectively this time around. “Lyonel.” Chuckling, you muffle your laughter atop your palm.

“Shh, you’ll wake him.” He says atop your skin, nuzzling your neck and holding you tenderly. “Dream of me, my love.”

Lyonel took the direwolf home to be your sworn protector when he isn’t near, and to be the babe’s guard when he is born, but for now he shall battle with Thunder for your attention. All the while avoiding the large pointy teeth he has.

Sighing, your lower back aches, still weighing heavy even after the birth. Despite your exhaustion, you grab a cloak to tie around your shoulders and over your slip as you head for your daughter’s nursery. If Lyonel isn’t in the shared chambers, surely he would be there watching over her like usual. Recently, he has taken to watching Juniper sleep for a few minutes after you have placed her down on her cot. With a keen eye, he watches little Juniper’s chest rise and fall protectively, and with his hand gently grasping onto her tiny foot.

But when you enter the nursery, you don’t find him there, nor your daughter inside her cot. Your mind must still be addled by the unbalanced humours from the birth, but you were sure that you have put Juniper to bed. You would ask her nursemaid but she would already be fast asleep. So you take a candle from the table and set off to find your family within the vast keep.

Storm’s End is much gloomier and greyer at night. As if there are ghosts lingering around the halls whilst the storm winds howl outside. But you continue on, a hand hitching the skirt of your slip whilst the other keeps the candle upright. No ghosts will stop you from finding them.

As you go through the winding hallway with numerous sculpted Baratheon ancestors on the walls, you see a light flickering from the open doors of the library.

Slowly, you peek inside, seeing a lone figure hunched over a table filled with dozens of thick tomes as the shadow sways softly like a ship on gentle tides.

“You’re well fed, changed, and thank the seven you’re not ill.” Lyonel’s voice whispers at the bundle in his arms. “Gods be good, Juniper, why won’t you sleep, hm? Have you no mercy for your poor mother and father?”

Your giggle takes his attention. His head immediately moves towards the source, the corner of his lips tugging into the signature Lyonel smile that you adore. “Your daughter is petulant.”

“My daughter?” You slowly walk across the threshold and over to him, tender gaze never leaving him. “She is yours as she is mine. And our daughter is merely a month old, it is impossible for her to be petulant.”

“She takes after you.” He utters affectionately.

“She looks the most like you, my love.”

You expect for him to hand the babe over to you, too tired to carry her or too annoyed, so you reach for her, but instead of giving the babe over to you, Lyonel leans her away from your waiting arms. He pouts, brows furrowed at you, as if you have offended him and his child caring skills.

“No, this is my duty, I shall not hand her to you until she has fallen asleep in my arms.” He even dramatically turns her away from you as you bite your lip to hinder the laugh in your throat.

Meanwhile, Juniper gurgles in her father’s arms, legs kicking about under her swaddle as her tiny hand grasps onto Lyonel’s doublet.

“She was already asleep when I placed her down in her cot.” Raising a brow, you accuse him of waking her up just so he could put her to sleep himself, an act he sees through as a jest.

“I did not wake her up.” Defending himself, Lyonel, points accusingly at you. “Mayhaps you didn’t put her to sleep well enough. When I went to check on her she was gurgling and kicking about happily. Now I’m not a midwife but that was a very awake child.”

“Babes wake up for no reason, my love.” You answer lovingly, taking a good look at the tome he was reading. Some of them have dust on the covers, the books seem to have been there for quite some time. And each one is about childbirth or anything pertaining to raising children. Your eyes glistens with unshed tears when you look back at your husband. “You’ve been reading…”

“Contrary to the whispers, I know how to read.”

“Oh, my sweet Lyonel.” Your hands reach out to him, and he meets you halfway, placing his face in your open palms as you cradle his face. “You were learning how to raise our Juniper.” Cooing, Lyonel feels good when he’s the one on the receiving end of your cooing for once.

“Of course, I have.” He says matter-of-factly, eyes closing as your thumbs run along his cheek lovingly. “I can’t let you have all the glory.”

Grinning, you pull his face closer to your own, nudging his nose with yours sweetly. Gods, you want another babe with him. Especially if they’ll have his nose too and his smile.

“Oh, you’re already doing so well, my stag.” The reassurance fills his chest with warmth, the same warmth he feels whenever you place his head on your chest in bed so he could sleep soundly, the same warmth he feels whenever Juniper holds his finger in her tiny hand. “Juniper is lucky to have you as her father.” Peppering his face with kisses, you kiss every inch of his face until you see him give you a lopsided smile.

Pulling away, Lyonel immediately misses your lips upon his skin. “Tell me more about how good I am.”

“You’re doing marvelously, my love.” A grin spreads across his handsome face, beaming at you as his hand pats Juniper to sleep. “How about I accompany you here whenever you read? We could learn together.” Your hands don’t leave his side, holding him and Juniper close.

“That is a tremendous idea, my wife, but you and I both know that there won’t be much reading when we are left to our own devices.” His dark eyes sparkle with something familiar.

You make a face, chortling under your breath, “that is true.” Chuckling, you go to check Juniper in his arms, only to find that the quiet wasn’t just because she’s safely tucked in and content in her father’s arms, but because she has finally fallen asleep. “Look at that, you did it, she’s asleep.”

Lyonel looks at his daughter and grins from ear to ear, as if he just unhorsed another Targaryen. “I did it.” He says it with triumph, that you want to paint his expression on a canvas to look at it whenever you please. “It’s all because I’ve been reading.”

“I am sure it was.” Taking his hand and the candle on the other, you lead him out. “Now come and put her back to her cot so we may do some reading of our own.”

Who is he to say no? “Yes, my love.” He gladly follows your lead.

The room is slowly growing darker with every minute you spend inside, the cozy decorations around the small space with its carved woodland creatures, lace doilies and fluttering curtains are nothing but a mockery to you and what’s gnawing in your head. Their shadows loom over the walls, shapes cageing you in.

It’s quiet inside the familiar bathroom, what was once held a fond memory for you is now marred by the recent memory of James begging for you to shoot him. You can still hear his cries, pleading, begging for you to end him to keep you and your baby safe. The way his hands shook, cradling the bleeding bite and how his voice gurgled in his own blood, and yet he still smiled at you towards the end. Even then he was trying to comfort you.

Your protruding stomach bops up and down in the water, belly button peeking through the mix of blood and soap. You haven’t let out a single tear since Hobie helped you inside the tub, hoping that a warm bath will help. When all it did was numb you.

Gazing at the ceiling, mold dotted along the wood, your eyes sting as you tilt your head down, face half submerged in the water. Waves lapping at the sides of your face. You miss James, he was your companion, a friend that helped you survive the first days of the apocalypse. He was your anchor through it all, the voice of reason when all you wanted was to run outside and look for your lost love. It’s ironic, compared to before the world ended, you and the rest of the band were the ones holding him by the scruff of his neck.

As you run your palm over your stomach, the pinky ring shines atop it, you promise to yourself that you’ll live on so that his sacrifice wouldn’t be in vain. He would’ve wanted you to do just that, but that doesn’t make it alright. You have no idea how to tell Yuri and Ned that their best mate is dead, and that you killed him.

What if his parents are still alive? How would you tell them that their only child is dead? That he died protecting you while holding out hope that he would find them?

The door creaks open, and Hobie peeks through the crack. His cheeks are coated in dirt, and there’s soil underneath his fingernails as he knocks softly. He looks the same as you remember before you had to leave him in the car with hopes of coming back for him. You did come back for him, but he was nowhere to be seen. For three months you wonder where he was, if he’s eating, or if he’s even alive. Now that he’s here, standing in the same room as you, breathing the same air as you, your heart feels like it’s beating once again. Albeit cracked, but alive, thumping quietly as it keeps you and your baby breathing.

“Love,” his voice seeps with fatigue. “You’ll turn into a prune.”

“You like prunes.” You answer softly, tone as tired as his. “Come sit with me please?”

“I’m all dirty,” His boots thump against the floor mats, tracking mud and dirt. His hand clamps over his eyes playfully. “and you’re all naked.”

You manage a small smile. “How do you think I got this?” Gesturing around your stomach, he peeks through his fingers.

“A stork?”

“Nope, birds and the bees, Hobs.” Opening your palms, you gesture for him to join you.

“Yeah, I think I remember that in biology.” Kneeling down, knees creaking in protest, he places his arm over the rim of the bathtub, chin resting on his elbow. “How do you feel?”

“Like sun dried shit.” Your attempt at a half assed joke.

He manages a smile. “The baby?” His eyes gaze gently down, worry etched on his brows.

“I think the baby’s fine. I’m not at the stage where the baby could start kicking like a horse yet. But everything feels fine, considering.” Sniffing, you lean against his arm, a cold cheek pressed on his warm skin. “I really wanted to tell you… I really did.”

Hobie’s free hand reaches to cup your chin, turning you gently to face him. “I know, lovie.” He sighs, thumb brushing along your damp skin. “When did you know?”

“At the party, with Yuri.” The mere mention of her has your heart squeezing in your chest. The same feeling is clear on his face too. “We got a bunch of tests after I got sick all over the bathroom floor.”

“Is that what you wanted to tell me? Before…everythin’?”

“Yeah, I still have the test, kept it just in case.”

His eyes flick over to your growing stomach, belly button protruding above the surface like a buoy. “Well, I believe you, proof or no proof.”

You manage a small chuckle. “I’m way past doubting it. The morning sickness was the worst, and my feet are swollen.” Lifting a foot above the water to show him, Hobie’s brows knit in worry, it looks painful. You look like you’re in pain. He then sees the scar on your leg, a long scar tissue that is still red around the edges of skin. He doesn’t ask how it came to be when he doesn’t want to upset you even more.

He feels sorry that he wasn’t there, that he wasn’t there from the start, holding you, making you feel better. He should’ve been there, he should’ve been here before you. Maybe, just maybe, James would still be alive, that he would hear the muffled shuffling of the undead behind the closet door, and end it before it started. And he would welcome you both inside with a relieved smile.

“My boots would fit you now.” Hobie stifles his hurt, eyes glancing away from swollen feet before staring at the same pain in your eyes.

“Maybe, I’m going to need maternity clothes soon.” Inhaling, you purse your lips together. “I’m going to wear all those old lady dresses with the plain daisies and bland colours. You won’t think I’m fit anymore.” Your knuckles brush alongside his arm.

“Nah, you’re still peng in my eyes, lovie. Even if you dress up as Yuri’s grandma.” Taking your hand, he twists it gently to hold onto you better. Water mixing with soil.

“Remember when she used to make us all those sugar cookies during band practice?”

“Yeah, I’ve gained weight durin’ that.”

“We all did, Hobie.” You gently smile, squeezing him once. After a beat, your smile fades. “Is it horrible of me to think that it’s a good thing that she’s already gone before all this shit happened?”

“No, love.” His thumb runs along your palm. “I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.”

The back of your eyes stings, heat behind them as you swallow thickly. “I should’ve— I should’ve come looking for you. When I came back to the car, you weren’t there anymore.” You fight the tears from spilling. “And then we ran to the docks, and the houseboat wasn’t there either. I’m sorry, I should’ve tried harder. I could’ve tried harder.”

“Just the thought of you comin’ to look for me is enough.” With a gentle hand, he moves a damp strand of hair away from your face. “I’m jus’ glad you weren’t alone.”

Your eyes fall on his fingers, the dirt digs into his nailbeds, darkened by mud and soil. “Yeah, I wouldn’t have survived this long without him.” Your nail scrapes at the dirt, trying to get it clean. And he lets you. “You should’ve seen him, Hobie, he was…he’s great.” Vision glistening, you stifle a sob.

“I think he was a scout when he was a kid.” A smile curls in the corner of his lips at the image of James wearing those uniforms when he was just a boy. Green and khaki complete with a beret and sash filled with patches. Hobie beats himself up for not remembering if James really was a scout. “I know he was great, lovie, jus’ seein’ you here is proof enough.”

“He went full on survivor. We were stuck at his parent’s condo for a bit until we ran out of supplies and the electricity in the city was shut off.” Your palm is pruning, but you’re afraid of leaving the comfort of the tub. “I got a baby book though.”

“Yeah? Like the one with baby names?”

He wants to tell you what happened to him in those three months, how he struggled, how he longed to see you alive, how he was seeing you in his visions. And what he saw, what he had to do to get back to you. You know that the houseboat is gone from his expression alone, if it wasn’t you two would’ve sailed out of the town before the blood dried on the floor.

You gently shake your head, water sloshing softly. “No, the kind that has instructions on home births.” Voice wavering, you hold onto him tightly, realizing what he has to do when the time comes. “I’m scared, Hobie.” Your throat betrays you, closing up as you let out a sob. “What if something happens to the baby? There’s no hospitals or doctors anymore—”

Hobie brings your face to his chest, shushing you tenderly as he rubs at your back. Despite the water drenching his sleeve, he still holds onto you as waves of tears flow out of you. He’s scared too, afraid to lose the baby, afraid to lose you. For ten years, he has loved you, and for those ten years, he never once thought of a day without you in it. He can’t lose you when he needs to love you for the rest of his life.

“It’s alright, we can do it, yeah?” He feels you nod against him as you shiver in his arms. “We’ve watched enough hospital dramas to know all about givin’ birth.” Joking, Hobie kisses the crown of your damp head as you manage a chortle.

“That’s reassuring.”

“I’ve got you and the baby. I promise that you two will be safe and sound.” Leaning away to cradle your face, he meets with your shining eyes, tears still clinging to your lashes. “I promise you.” Even if it kills him.

“Okay.” Inhaling deeply, you grasp at his wrist, a firm yet affectionate hold. “And I’ll watch your back, like always.”

Hobie smiles, the kind that reminds you of the days where he would play on stage, giving you that same reassuring smile as the lights flicker on his handsome face. “To start off, let’s get you dry and warm before you catch a cold.”

—

When you pictured saying goodbye to one of your friends, you never envisioned burying them at an age where they shouldn’t be six feet under. That it’ll just be you and Hobie, staring at the freshly packed ground right in front of you with a crudely made headstone. James doesn’t deserve one that is made out of a broken window panel, he deserved a headstone that is carved out of marble, where his name would remain etched on it forever. Not like how you wrote his name on the wood with a sharpie.

His father’s hunting vest feels rough in your hands. Dried blood staining the very same fabric that James once wore. You’ve been told that his father wasn’t the best, but the vest brought him comfort throughout his survival, a reminder, his fuel to continue living. Now it remains in your trembling hands, fingers digging into the dark blood.

“D’you want to say a few words?” Hobie utters softly amidst the strong wind as trees rustle nearby. If he thinks hard enough, he can imagine that his best mate doesn’t lie six feet under him. That he didn’t bury him there with his bare hands.

You shake your head, chest aching, eyes heavy and hot with unshed tears. No words could ever stifle your grief, there are no words in the world that makes this right, no worthy words to describe how great a man James was.

He understands your grief and your guilt, he knows you well to know what’s rushing inside your head. His eyes wander towards your shaking hands, and the façade he built to keep you steady and anchored almost crumbles.

“J–James Jameson,” his tone cracks, fists shaking, nails leaving crescent shapes on his palms. “You’re the best damn drummer I know, save us a spot up there, yeah?”

You heave, tears streaming down your face as you take a careful step forward. With your heart in your stomach, you kneel before the headstone, laying the vest around it, imagining that you’re putting it on him for the last time. “You’ve done well, James.” Your words are carried by the wind, palm placed atop the fresh soil, where his head could lie underneath.

Hobie’s arm curls around you, chin resting atop your head as he faces the grey sky.

—

The days have gone by with silence. The surrounding woods let out a whisper of leaves and a howl at night. But inside the cabin, grief lingers in the air, staining the wooden walls, slithering on the floorboards.

James’ presence weighs heavy between the two of you. Even though Hobie never said that he blames you for it, you still beat yourself up for what happened. If only you were quicker, that you didn’t hesitate before pulling the trigger. Every day Hobie lets you know that he doesn’t, for one moment, blame you for James’ demise. Through his actions, taking care of you, making sure that you’ve eaten, slept, taken your prenatal vitamins, and his touch, he lets you know that he loves you, that the world hasn’t ended for him because you’re still by his side.

The two of you have just been surviving on sparse supplies, and the water taken from a well behind the house that he has to boil before letting you take a drink. But the quiet, and the stifling air inside the space makes it more unbearable. You’ve tried to turn on the telly when the solar panels on the roof have recharged, but you’re only met with static. Not even the radio plays crappy music anymore, just an incessant buzzing. It’s as if you’re the only people left in the world.

The books and board games on the shelf meant for guests are gathering dust. You’d rather spend your days studying the baby book, every word memorized and carved in your head. Hobie made himself the handyman of the house, he fixed the holes on the front door where your bullets hit it, and he has reinforced all the windows with planks of wood he found in the tool shed. In case a shambler comes too close to the perimeter he set up that he agrees is abysmal when he only has strings and cans to work with. It’s a crude version of an alarm, and he wishes he could make something better for a precaution.

Hobie barely sleeps, keeping watch at night and day, taking naps in between when his body shuts down. When you see him dozing off on the couch, you sit beside him and he’s immediately magnetized to your side. You always tug his head down on your lap, letting him sleep there as your old cardigan that he managed to save from the houseboat is draped on his shoulders. Sometimes you see him reading the same baby book, folding the edges of the important pages when it’s your turn to keep watch. You miss him, even though you two sleep on the same bed with his arms wrapped protectively around you. But the easy conversations, the laughter, you miss those. This isn’t a way of living anymore.

You can’t help it when your eyes wander towards the spot where you held James one last time. No matter how much you scrub at the walls and floor, the stain stays. A macabre reminder of that day amidst the comfortable cottage decorations placed by the same dead man resting beside James’ grave.

The bowl of canned chicken noodle soup in front of you warms your cheeks as Hobie’s palm leaves your shoulder with a squeeze. Your eyes dart towards his side of the table, noticing that he doesn’t have supper, only a glass of room temperature water.

“Hobie?” Clearing your throat, your hand rubs at your stomach. Your shirt has gotten smaller, making you pull it down occasionally over your swollen belly.

He sighs in relief just from hearing your voice, pausing by the counter tops, hands reaching above the cabinets. “Yeah, love? Feelin’ alright?”

“Where’s your soup?” Craning your neck, you see the opened cabinets, seeing it nearly empty, save for a can of chocolate pudding, and a pack of dried beef jerky that’s still unopened. Just by the look in his eyes, he doesn’t need to say it out loud. “We need to go into town.”

“I need to go into town.” He leans on the counter, arms on his side as the dark circles under his eyes are illuminated by the electric lamp that was recharged by the solar. “Before you say anythin’, I’ll be quick.”

“And alone. You need someone to watch your back. We’ve got two guns for a reason.”

“Sure, I’ll jus’ ask one of the woodland creatures to come with me.”

“I don’t want to fight, Hobie.” Standing up, hand braced under your stomach, you close the small distance towards the kitchen. The cabin used to carry good memories, now it only bears agony. “Please, let’s not argue.” Hands rubbing his arms, you gaze at him softly. “I’m still not that far along, I can still run if we need to.” You don’t want to tell him that your scarred leg aches when you run.

You feel all the heaviness that James left in your heart, but you can’t let it hinder you forever when you’ve got Hobie and the baby to think about. They’re now your reason to survive, just like how James held on because of the baby and in hopes of finding his best mates and his parents.

Hobie avoids your eyes, sighing as he takes your hands in his. He feels the small indents from the scars that you told him about after another night of crying. He doesn’t want to look at it when it only makes his heart break at the thought of you getting hurt. So he keeps his eyes on the promised ring around your pinky instead, the same one he saved for months just to get it for you.

“What if we see those things? Or worse, run into people?”

“We hide or run, and if need be, we fight.” You look at him with determination and with untapped bravery he hasn’t seen yet. “I don’t want you to starve yourself. Or for you to die when I’m stuck here waiting for you to come home when I don’t know if you’ll ever be back.” Reaching over him as his hand falls on your hips, you take the beef jerky and the lone can of chocolate pudding. “So which one will it be for tonight?” With a small smile, you weigh both in your hands. “I need you full of energy tomorrow.”

Chuckling, Hobie takes the beef jerky and then takes your chin daintily in his hand. “The last time you told me that was before a concert.”

“I remember.” Sunlight passes by your eyes. “You killed it that night.”

His eyes wander behind you where his guitar case is tucked in-between an armchair and the telly. He still hasn’t opened it. “You follow me, yeah? When I tell you to run, you run, when I tell you to leave me behind, you do just that.”

You take a second before nodding.

“Let’s share the puddin’” Throwing his arm over your shoulder, and a peck to your temple, he leads you back to the table.

Kissing his cheek, you giggle, the very first genuine laugh you’ve let out in a couple of weeks. “That’s what I like to hear.”

—

Hobie hesitated before taking the car into town. The engine could draw unwanted attention, or it could break down in the middle of a drive. But he can’t exactly make you walk for miles on end when you’re almost four months pregnant. If only he had a bicycle on hand, and go on a ride with you like when you were teenagers sneaking out to go wherever you please.

“I hope we find a shoe place.” Your mumbling gets his attention, hand reaching towards your thigh as he keeps his eyes on the road. You place your hand atop his, squeezing once as you smile fondly at him. It reminds you of a similar memory when the two of you were driving in his old car to a gig or a date at the park. Not driving towards what could be a dead town filled with rotting corpses. “Some new trainers would be good for my sasquatch feet.”

His piercings catch the light, glinting from the sun shining on them. Hobie looks incredibly handsome, you’ve always said that the sunlight suits him more, and he would always say that the moonlight fits you best. His locks are tied into a ponytail that you helped him with. He desperately needs a haircut when his curls are starting to cover his eyes that you always have to move them away, covering a new scar he got from the car crash right on his forehead. It’s not because you think it makes him look awful, but you hate the fact that he got hurt, that he had to tend to his wounds himself. Your guilt refuses to let you look at the scar.

Hobie snorts, noticing your lighter demeanour now that you’re out of the cabin. “I’ll keep a look out.” Thumb drawing circles over your jeans, he squeezes again. “And your feet aren’t that big, love. I’ve seen bigger.”

Pinching the back of his hand, he lets out a chuckle. “Yeah, yours.” Your eyes warn him before he could even smirk. “And don’t say it.”

“Wasn’t gonna.” From his smirk alone, you could tell that he was in fact ‘gonna.’

Smiling, for a moment you forgot that the world ended, that James isn’t laying six feet underground just beside the living room window.

Hobie senses the negative shift in your demeanor. From all his reading on the baby book you brought, he has read that when the mother is in good spirits, and not stressed, the baby will turn out healthy and happy. He has made it his mission that you and the baby remain in okay spirits, impossible to make it better on account of the things around you, but he still wants to try. After James and everything else, something as small as new trainers could help brighten you up. He’s even contemplating that the cabin might not be the best environment for you, but where would he bring you that is safer than a cabin in the middle of the woods?

“I’ve been thinkin’” Clearing his throat, he shifts in his seat with the town now in sight.

“A lot, I imagine.”

He glances at you with a small smile. “Yeah, too much.” Sighing, he slows down the car once the town’s faded banner greets him. The place doesn’t look any better like before, but it doesn’t look worse either. “What if we look for other places we could stay? Somewhere safer, quieter and away from cities for when the baby is born.”

“The cabin is already all of that.”

“Yeah, I mean…somewhere that doesn’t remind you of what happened.”

Your eyes cast down at your lap, index mindlessly picking at a hang nail as you gaze at your ring instead. “I don’t know, Hobie, James is there, he’d be alone.”

“He’ll understand, love.” Sighing, he parks the car on the side of the silent fishing town. “We don’t have to make a decision now, jus’ think ‘bout it, yeah?” With a hand on your thigh, he squeezes you reassuringly, and you smile right back at him with the same kind of comfort. “I see a cobbler over there, maybe someone didn’t pick up their shoes.”

Like always, he helps with your seatbelt gently, even avoiding grazing your stomach with his hand. Maybe it’s him being careful with you, but it’s as if he’s afraid to really hold onto your stomach, afraid to face the baby that could possibly end your life.

He smells faintly of the watered down minty shampoo and a coconut body wash that the last renter left at the cabin. While you probably smell of the milk formula for mothers that you’ve been rationing since you left the condo with James. Even then, Hobie pecks your temple sweetly.

“There, you ready?”

Taking his hand, you place his palm with apprehension on top of your stomach, letting his warmth ebb through your skin. “I’ve read that babies tend to already know their parents in the womb, but you haven’t been there the first months so I want them to get to know you more. Is that alright?”

His lips tug into a smile, chuckling softly as he feels around freely. “Yeah, ‘m the dad, love, of course it’s alright.”

You match his grin. “Just checking.”

Kissing your cheek, his lips linger for a moment before pulling away. He looks around with bated breath, making sure that there aren’t any surprises lurking around the corner shops. The town is quiet, eerily quiet, like in one of those apocalyptic shows Yuri pestered them into watching with her.

Cars are left on the road, some doors still open as the wind and rain ravage the leather seats. From the pink and yellow banners around, and the wilted flowers all tied with a pretty ribbon around the lampposts and shop windows, he’d think there was some celebration happening before the world ended. A flyer fluttering by gets stuck in the windshield wiper, it answers his question.

“‘Happy Mother’s day.’” You read solemnly. “Fuck me that’s ironic.”

Hobie scoffs a laugh, patting your stomach gingerly as he inhales deeply.

He doesn’t see any movement from the streets, no rustling, just some trash getting carried by the wind. But he spots something in the corner of his eye, a flash of movement inside the cobbler’s store, a quick shadow darting in between shelves of shoes.

“What is it?” You ask, brows furrowed as you feel his trepidation. “You okay?”

“We should move on.” Hobie starts the car again, as something gnaws at the back of his mind, telling him to move, telling him, ‘not here, there’s death lingering here.’

“I thought…” you don’t argue, trusting his instincts. “Okay. Maybe a house would be better.”

The car jolts to life as Hobie keeps his steely gaze on the road. “Yeah, the neighborhood is probably better to look through.”

The two of you drive around in silence, the fear sits between the two of you, heavy and permeating as the car rolls into a suburban area with white picket fences and blue windowsills. The place looks normal, still pristine and untouched by the dead and survivors.

Hobie looks around, car slowing down as he spots a two story home that he has probably seen dozens of times in his life. It looks fine, no blood on the walls, no corpses laying around, just an overgrown lawn and dusty windows.

“This is the one?” Your eyes narrow as the sunshine reflects onto the car windows and onto your eyes. It was a gloomy day when you went out, but the sun wanted to be seen for a moment. It’s a good reprieve from all the grey and darkness in your mind.

“Got your gear?” Hobie clicks his seatbelt off and then over to yours in a swift calculated movement.

“Yep,” you inhale deeply, taking his helping hand as you get out of the car. There’s a small ache on the pit of your stomach, and you chalk it up as nerves. You fix the hold on the backpack, a hand feeling for the kitchen knife on your belt and the gun hidden underneath your coat and tucked into your jeans. “Yours?”

“Ready,” Hobie shows you his backpack and the shotgun strapped on his shoulder, he then pats the hammer dangling on his belt before nudging your hand, resisting the urge to hold it instead. He needs his hands free to protect you. “Food and water first.” He instructs. “I’ll keep a lookout for shoes.”

“If we find the stuff we need for the home birth should we grab it? Or should we save space for food and toiletries?” You’re careful where you place your feet as you both walk onto what was probably a pristine lawn before the dead walked around.

“If we still have space in our packs, I don’t see why not.” Hobie keeps a careful eye around, making sure his hand never leaves the handle of the machete. And that you’re within his vision at all times.

“Maybe we’ll find some strings for your guitar too. They’re small, so it’ll fit my pockets.”

Hobie falters for a moment before stopping in front of the door. “You opened my guitar case?”

“Yeah,” you say as you cup your hands around a foggy window whilst you try to take a peek inside. When you’re met with silence, you lean away to look at him. “Am I not supposed to? I’m sorry, I got curious.”

“No, love, it’s alright.” His pinky brushes along the back of your hand. “It’s jus’ that I haven’t opened it since the houseboat broke down.”

“Oh, well, it’s fine, just that the stings are a bit fucked. No water got in or even a scratch on it.”

“That’s good.” With a relieved sigh, he gently taps the glass window to double check that there aren’t any shamblers hiding inside.

The two of you wait for a bit, but when a minute passes by without the sound of a pained groan or movement inside, Hobie grips the door handle.

He sees a wind chime a second earlier before he could open the door. With his height, he easily stops the chiming before it could chime out with a hand. Hobie then yanks it out, and gently places it on the ground.

“Good eye.”

“Thanks—” he’s about to push the door open, until your hand catches his wrist.

“Alarm.” You mutter with a shaky tone, pointing at the sign hidden behind the tall grass of the overgrown lawn. ‘This house is protected by Octavius security.’ It reads in big bold letters.

“Fuck me.” Slowly, he lets go of the door knob. “What are the chances that they don’t have power either?”

“I don’t know, but we can’t risk it.” You swallow thickly, a hand brushing along your stomach for comfort. Pursing your lips, you remember a conversation you had with James on one warm evening, warm enough that he made popsicles for you both. Yours was mango because he said that fruit was better for the baby, and he had chocolate instead. You’ve been craving mangoes nowadays, but can’t say anything to Hobie to add more to his stress. “I’ve got an idea, follow me.”

Slowly, with a hand on your knife, you carefully tread the lawn and over to the side of the house. Hobie follows closely behind, too afraid to lag behind you, afraid that you’ll get lost in the tall grass, or get snatched by one of the dead.

There’s a fallen kid’s bicycle on the ground, half buried in grass and dirt. Once upon a time a kid rode that up and down the neighborhood, now it lays there, rotting, slowly rusting, like the world around you.

“Here.” Clearing your throat, you both make it to the back door without a hitch. So far so good. “Okay, let’s hope that—” you begin to bend down, but Hobie stops you halfway with a hand on your chest.

“Let me. What are you looking for?” Crouching, Hobie looks up at you as the grey clouds start to obscure the sun behind your head, covering the halo around you.

“A key under the welcome mat.”

“Lovie, I don’t think…” and yet he still lifts the dirty mat, only to find a single key under it. “Well, fuck me sideways.”

“Already did that.” You cheekily joke, helping him stand up with a hand wrapped around his lean bicep.

Hobie smiles, really smiles, the kind of smile he would flash at you during lazy mornings where you two have nowhere to be that day. “You offerin’?”

Chuckling, you snatch the key from him as you insert it inside the lock. “Maybe if you find me some shoes.”

“Promise?” His lips curl into a mischievous smile, one that you’re incredibly familiar with.

“Yes,” biting your lip with a stifled laugh, you take a step back for him. “Could you please open the door?”

“How’d you know that the key would be there?”

“James’ dad owns a security company, and he told me that some people would usually forget their codes, or are afraid that when there’s no power they won’t be able to go inside because the system automatically locks the house. So sometimes they’d ask to not have an alarm at the back door, for big houses that is. For the key, well,” you shrug smugly. “I just applied common sense.”

He smiles proudly at you. “I keep forgettin’ that his dad had his hand in a lot of pies.”

“Just open the bloody door, Hobs.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He mocks a salute, unlocking the door slowly as the door creaks. Hobie peeks through the gap, waiting for any shamblers to appear. Tapping his blade on the door, once, twice, he waits some more, a precaution. Whilst you keep watch of the surroundings, heart beating loudly in your chest. “I think we’re good, lovie. Just need you to stay close to me, yeah?”

You nod, mouth feeling dry as you grip at the hilt of the kitchen knife. Your feet feel like you’re standing on warm sand, and your belly does somersaults, the baby could probably feel the tremors in your body as you enter the home with Hobie right in front of you.

This time, you’re making sure that you see the threat before it happens. The two of you sweep the kitchen first, the pantry has some food left but no monsters lurking in it. He finds the laundry room, same thing, no dead nor a soul inside.

You breathe a little better, and Hobie gives you a reassuring look, nudging your arm in a simple, ‘we’re okay,’ gesture.

While you keep watch, Hobie ransacks the pantry.

One thing has caught your eye though, on the counter, there is an empty flower vase with yellowing water, and beside it is a wilted and long dried up bouquet of roses. You take a peek inside the card, and it reads, ‘happy mother’s day!’ Scrawled by tiny hands written in crayon.

He loads up the duffle bag with food first, canned foods are the priority as he avoids the perishables. You wanted to check the fridge whilst he’s doing that but he can’t, or won’t let you out of his sight. You did promise to watch his back, so you did with your hand on the pistol right on your waist as he stacks cans upon cans of food.

Then he sees the biscuits, chocolate coated ones that he knows you like the most. He takes a box of those, checking the expiration date wouldn’t have meant anything when he has lost track of the date already. But if it doesn’t smell or isn’t covered in mold, it could still be good, so he packs it instead of another can of peas. He grabs a few seasonings too, and what’s left of the rice they had. He read that rice is good for the baby, so he takes it even though it weighs a ton.

The duffel bag is filled to the brim already when he finishes packing.

“Love.” He can’t help but smile, turning around to face you. “We’re not goin’ to starve.”

Chortling, you give him a quick yet loving peck on his shoulder. “Thank you.”

“There’s more in the fridge, and there are still jugs of water in here.” He whispers, in case there are lurkers upstairs.

“We also need soap.” Your eyes glances over to the laundry room. “What do we do?”

Pursing his lips, his eyes darts from the fridge, where there are magnet souvenirs and family photos on it, then over to the laundry room. He really needs clean clothes too. “We load this up in the trunk, dump it all in there then come back here.”

“Greedy, but I agree. I can’t sleep for another day in those sheets.”

With your approval, and a squeeze to your hand, the two of you trek back to the car, and carefully dump the canned goods inside the trunk of James’ car.

“I’ve never asked.” Hobie starts, a hand clasped around a can of peaches. “What happened to the window?” Glancing at the missing window at the back that was hastily wrapped in tarp and taped by duct tape, you follow his gaze.

“A horde got to us when we were leaving the condo building.” The stacking pauses on his end. “We were okay, we made it out by using molotov cocktails.”

He smiles fondly as something swims in his eyes, pride perhaps? Or perhaps jealousy. “You learned from the best.”

“We did, Hobie.” You tap the back of his knee with your foot as you finish your side. “I hope we find deodorant.”

Nodding, Hobie shuts the trunk as quietly as he could as he takes the empty duffel bag in his hand. “You smell great, love.”

“It’s because your brain started blocking the smell.” Giggling, you start your trek back again with him in tow. The steps are lighter, less careful now that you know what to expect.

“Nah, I think it’s your pheromones, you smell fit.”

“Never say that word ever again, Hobie.” That earns a kiss from him as he steals one from behind, right on your nape, before stepping around you to get to the laundry room before you could.

It goes like that for an hour, when the bags get full, he dumps it into the car and goes back again. It’s routine for the two of you, one that he refuses to go in and out alone when he can’t bear to leave you outside or inside the house for that matter. Even though it was tedious, going back and forth, he would still do it if it meant never straying too far from your side. He lost you once, he’s not planning on losing you ever again.

Both of you have cleared out the first floor, you found laundry detergents, food and water, now you’re on a mission to get some new clothes or maybe some pillows and blankets while it’s still light outside.

The walls of the house have grown familiar for you, the pictures on the walls of an unknown family, all strangers, and yet you found a connection to them. Somewhere in between taking their supplies, you wonder about them. Did they prefer beef over chicken when everything you found in their freezer was beef? Did their son ask for snacks before dinner like every kid does? How were they living now? Did they escape together? Or perhaps they’re shambling somewhere together with the rest of the dead.

Brows furrowed, your feet are on fire as you take a breather on the steps, taking hold of the bannister as you inhale through your nose and exhale out of your mouth. A breathing exercise that you read in your book.

“Love?” Hobie calls your name with worry. “You good?”

“Yeah, it’s just that…my feet are really fucking swolen and it kind of hurts. And I sort of need to pee.” Wincing, you give him an apologetic smile.

“Alright.” He sighs in relief, almost smiling. “I’ll take you to the loo.”

Hobie does a quick sweep of every room, there are only two bedrooms upstairs, and one office that is under lock and key. Every room is quiet and pristine, except for an odd smell coming from the master bedroom. Once he deems it safe, he helps you into the bathroom, keeping watch just outside the closed door.

Hand on his weapon, he keeps finding himself looking at the nursery right in front of him. It has light blue walls, powder blue like the sky on a good day in London, and it’s painted with fluttering birds and flowers. There’s a crib in there too, pristine, probably newly bought when there is still plastic wrapped around it. On the other side of the room is a small bed, meant for a toddler with rocketship bed sheets and glow in the dark stars tacked on the ceiling. In between them is an old rocking chair, oak and probably older than Hobie. And sitting on top of it is a box of trainers, with a neat pink bow on the lid. It’s from the brand that he knows you have been saving up for before the dead started walking.

He glances at the closed bathroom door, hearing you shuffle on the other side. The door is closed, and he didn’t find any undead inside the whole house. The place is safe and the nursery faces the loo where he could still keep an eye on you, so he takes a step away from the door and over to the rocking chair.

Hobie makes his strides quick and quiet, crossing the short distance over to the box as he takes it. He opens the lid, finding the same soft blue inside, the shoes seem to be larger than your usual size, but it would now fit you.

Grinning, his mission is accomplished. He shoves the pair inside the duffel bag, turning around with a triumphant smile on his face. “Love.” He shows you the box just as you exit the bathroom. “Look.”

The sheer happiness on your face makes his chest warm. He hasn’t seen you have that expression in a long while, it’s as if he’s a thirsty wanderer who finally found an oasis. For the first time ever since the party, he grins widely, the unabashed carefree smile that tugs at the corner of his lips first, right next to the piercing, a lopsided smile that never fails to turn your legs into jelly.

“Please tell me it’s my size.” Your hands reach for the box, squealing giddily once you see the size on the side.

“Open it.” His stomach thrums with excitement.

“Yes, new—!” Your face falls at the emptiness, and once you turn to look at the father of your unborn child, his cheeks are puffed, trying and failing to stifle a guffaw. “You wanker.”

“I couldn’t help it, lovie.” Tossing the box away that lands into the crib with a thump, he leads you to the rocking chair as you scowl at him like back when he accidentally ate your cheesecake in the fridge that you were saving for the end of the day. Hands on your shoulders, he’s still smiling at you, crouching down as he retrieves the shoes from the duffel bag. “‘m not evil.”

Your expression melts from annoyance to giddiness once again. “It’s blue.” You utter softly, lashes batting as Hobie slowly unlaces the old dirty shoes you have on.

“It is.” Chuckling fondly, he gently takes off your shoes, palm carefully cupping your heel, a thumb brushing along the hill of skin before slipping the new shoes on you. “Brand new too, we hit the jackpot.”

“I think it’s the exact same one I was saving for.” You still remember the road to and from work, where a shoe place is situated right on the road home, where you always look at the display longingly, waiting for the shoe to go on sale. “Just in blue.”

“What was the colour you wanted?” He slips the next one on your other foot, tying it twice, making sure that the laces won’t suddenly untie and make you trip and fall.

“Black,” you admire the shoes on you as you wiggle your feet about. “Easier to pair with my clothes.”

“Either one suits you.” Taking both feet, he taps the heels together playfully. “They fit you perfectly.”

“Thank you, Hobie.” You follow his smiling eyes as he stands up, a hand perched on the armrest of the rocking chair as his knees creak.

“Thank the bloke who got it.” His head tilts to gesture at the room. He wonders if the man who lived here got the shoes for his wife on mother’s day, or just because he wanted to show his love for her. Hobie knows he would do the same for you.

The irony doesn’t escape you when you find yourself sitting in the middle of a nursery. Maybe in another life, you and Hobie are refurbishing the spare room in his houseboat, the room you both use as a workspace slash art room slash library. It was littered with trinkets from you and Hobie the last time you saw it. You don’t remember much what was on the shelves when it’s been so long but you do remember the feeling whenever you spent a whole lazy afternoon with him in there.

The soft rocking of the boat would lull you to sleep whilst you read on an old lazyboy you two found abandoned on a street corner, the same one you had to call in James and Yuri to help haul it in the van. You would read and Hobie would tinker with his gadgets, sometimes taking odd fixing jobs from friends, fixing an antique clock, a radio, or a fan. The sound of the tinkling metal, the curses under his breath, and the water splashing against the side of the boat, it felt like home. It was warm and cozy, but it was colder in the winter when the space heater doesn’t help much with the chill. Those were the days where Hobie would huddle close to you on the armchair underneath all the blankets even when you both don’t fit in the chair. You miss those soft days, the peaceful days where you don’t have to be careful where you step, where the stench of death and decay doesn’t stick to your nostrils. It was just living, now all you know is surviving. Surviving to see Hobie for another day. Surviving to see the day your baby is born.

“Love,” he senses your heavy thoughts, hand reaching out to your chin, lifting it with his knuckle softly. Hobie doesn’t have the right words to comfort you, maybe there are no right words that will ever comfort you, but he tries, the only way he knows how, the only way that could get your mind out of the plague that is your mind. “You wanna take a look around? Maybe they’ve got something we could use for the baby.”

“We’re in a nursery, Hobs,” you say with a teasing tone. “I’m sure there’s baby stuff here we could use.”

Hobie chuckles, exhaling through his nose as he helps you off the rocking chair. He wonders if he could fit the chair in the car, the baby would love it, you would love it. The cabin already has a rocking chair but it’s old and weathered, looking like it’ll keel over once someone sits on it.

“I’ll check if they have books on giving birth.” His hand lingers on your hip before turning to the bookshelf with colourful children’s books.

“I’ll raid the closet.” Your hand instinctively brushes along your stomach, feeling the heaviness weigh you down.

You didn’t plan to get pregnant, moreso get pregnant during the end of the world where society has collapsed. You always knew from the moment you saw those two red lines that it wouldn’t be easy for the two of you, but now, you just feel regret and shame. Regret that this happened so soon in your life. Ashamed that you can’t be of any help to Hobie as the months go by. And when the inevitable comes, you could die, and you don’t want to leave the love of your life all alone in this world with a newborn to take care of. Or worse, you both don’t survive, and Hobie’s truly left alone.

You’re tired, exhausted already from carrying the extra weight on you. Bones aching on a microscopic level, as if you have a sack of cement on the small of your back. If you feel this tired just after a few months in your pregnancy, you fear for the coming months. What if you end up being bedridden? You’ve heard countless horror stories from women in your family at how terrifying it is to give birth. They said that when you’re giving birth, you have one foot buried in the ground. But they had doctors and medicine, while you have a book from the 90’s about childcare. You might die in front of Hobie while covered in blood and screaming in pain. You don’t want that to be the last thing he remembers of you.

Fists clenching, you feel the indents left on your palms. You take deep breaths, reminding yourself that stress isn’t good for the baby. So you start to distract yourself instead. You stare at the adorable clothes on the rack, all colour coded, from dinosaur onesies to tiny coats and matching beanies, you have the urge to take it all. The owners of the house have great taste, and you feel guilty for even being inside.

Taking a red and white plaid onesie that has matching socks, you turn to show Hobie.

“Lovie, look.”

“Hobs, look.”

You simultaneously turn to face the other.

You smile as he mirrors your expression. “‘Oh, the places you’ll go,’ really?”

“It’s a good read.” Shrugging, he shoves it in the dufflebag. “But look, baby names.”

You’re supposed to be happy, to smile at the book and imagine the names you could name the bundle born out of love, but you can’t find that happiness as you feel a lump on your throat form. Baby names are the last thing on your mind right now.

“That’s great, Hobs.”

“Couldn’t find any books about births, though.” Placing it inside the bag, right beside a teddy bear he nicked from the crib, Hobie smiles at the small pile he gathered. If he noticed your faltering expression, he doesn’t say anything about it. “What’d you find?”

“It looks kind of punk, doesn’t it?” Lifting the onesie, you peek over it, trying to hide your wobbly expression.

“Lovie…” taking the fabric in your hands, he grins fondly at the onesie. It’s so small, barely the size of his forearm, and he can’t help but imagine a little version of you wearing it. “This is the most fuckin’ adorable thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Take it?”

“Absolutely.” Peeking behind you, he sees more, eyes going wide at the swaddling cloths, tiny booties and the cutest bear onesie he has ever seen. “I say take ‘em all.”

You snort, backing away as he helps himself to the baby clothes. “That’s greedy, Hobie.” Despite your words, you help him shovel in the small socks and cute bibs. “Take some towels too, I read that they drool a lot.”

A laugh escapes his throat, barely contained as he almost forgets where he is, what might be lurking in the dark corners of the house. “Love, look at this one.”

He lifts up a plain yellow shirt with the bold pink letters that reads, ‘Daddy’s favorite.’ You clamp your mouth shut, before spluttering out a giggle.

“D’you think they have an adult sized version of this?” His eyes sparkle with playfulness. “For you, I mean.”

“Fuck, you’re so annoying.” And yet you shove the tiny shirt inside the bag with your cheeks aflame and a laugh bubbling in your throat.

“Love you too.” Pecking your temple, he moves away from the closet. “C’mon, we gotta move on to the bedroom.”

Your brows raise to your hairline, heat blossoming in the pit of your stomach. “What, right now?” You haven’t done that in a while, fuck, you just now realized that you haven’t done it since you found out about the baby. Your hands are suddenly at the hem of his shirt, desire filling your chest.

Hobie’s brows furrows for a moment before realization flickers on his expression. Eyes drifting down at your pawing, and then back over to your half lidded eyes. “Fuckin’ hell, love, not that. We need sheets and new clothes. Although that’s temptin’.” He pecks your pouting lips, giving you a sly smirk through the kiss. “Maybe later if you play your cards right, hm?” Now he’s in the mood too. It just crossed his mind when all he thought about recently was how to survive and finding you alive.

If your cheeks weren’t searing before then it’s fiery now. “I can’t believe I let you fuck me.” Groaning, head tilted back to hide your flustered expression, you walk past him towards the master’s bedroom.

“C’mon, lovie, that’s the reason why you’re pregnant.”

You flip him the bird on your way out that makes him smile even more. For a moment there he felt normal, that everything was back to normal and he’s at home with you while the houseboat rocks gently.

The two of you make it to the bedroom, and the smell hits you before he gets a whiff of it. It’s dank, like mold clinging to the damp walls, like the smell of wilted flowers downstairs, only stronger, more prominent.

“God, what is that smell?” Plugging your nose, you wince. “It kind of smells like teeth at the dentist. I’m gonna hurl if we stay here long.”

“Don’t know, but I don’t like it.” Hobie moves you aside gently before treading the dry carpet to open a window. The sun is beginning to set outside, and worry gnaws at his chest. Soon this place would be crawling with the undead. “We need to hurry, this is our last run before we head out.”

“Yeah, gotcha.” You don’t argue as you hastily grab everything you need. Some clothes that might not fit either of you perfectly, even a few maternity clothes you found, a couple of thick coats, and the sheets you’ve been eyeing.

The bags are almost full when you finish grabbing the things you needed, and Hobie even managed to find a couple of camping backpacks to fill it with two pillows and more blankets. He’s ready to leave when you remember the towels.

“Shit, Hobie, we need towels.”

“Love, we can wash the ones we already have.” Fixing his hold on the bags, he checks the ticking clock on the wall and the sun setting in the horizon that paints the sky a deep bloody orange.

“Those are threadbare, Hobie, I could the count strings on it. I’ll be quick, promise.” You’re already at the bathroom door, opening it as it creaks, the sound echoing through the hallway.

“Lovie, wait, let me—”

The stench permeates through the bedroom from the bathroom, stinking up the whole place, the same wilted flower smell. Teeth, it wasn’t just teeth, it’s bones.

“Fuck…” The bile rising up your throat and the spit filling your mouth almost made you retch. But the sight of the bodies hugging in the bathtub, surrounded by dead flowers makes your heart fall to your stomach.

The door is shut before you could let out a sound. Hobie holds you in his arms, and you stay there, frozen, still staring at the door, as if you could still see them decaying inside the tub.

“C’mon, love, we need to go.” Hobie whispers in your ear, gentle and reassuring as his hand rubs up and down your arm. He calls your name with the same gentleness, honeyed and saccharine, trying to get you to move.

Once you blink away the blurriness in your eyes, you turn to Hobie with an unreadable expression. There were three of them in there, no, four, a family, one still in the mother’s cleaved open belly. Their skin has turned to leather, sun dried, stretched over blanched bones.

“Love?” His thumb traces the length of your jaw, grounding you to the present. “We need to go.”

“Yeah, let’s go—”

There’s a shadow in the doorway.

It hunches in the dark, breathing, watching.

You act first, grabbing the shotgun from Hobie’s back as you aim.

Hobie exhales, eyes wide, before yanking at the barrel, pulling it up and away from the figure.

The shot rings out through the house and out of the opened window.

Pieces of the ceiling fall on the carpet, paint and wood cracking and splintered, falling upon the stranger like raindrops.

The figure now crouches, grasping at its ear, while a hand, a wrinkly old palm stretches at you, surrendering.

Your ears ring, a shrill deaf tone that rattles your teeth inside your mouth whilst Hobie nurses his singed hand.

“Fuck!” You yell, but you don’t hear your own voice.

The sounds are muffled in your ears as Hobie grabs the gun from your hands.

“What are you doing?!” His voice fades in and out in your hearing. His eyes are wide, frantic as he points at the crouched figure. “He’s alive!”

The words strike you like a fist.

“What?” You ask, befuddled, heaving heavily as you stare wide eyed at the stranger in the doorway.

“I’m s–sorry…” a trembling voice says, spluttering and weeping on the floor. “I’m sorry, I–I didn’t mean to—” he chokes on air, coughing as he desperately tries to clear his throat.

Narrowing your gaze, honing in to make out the man’s face, you see an old man cowering from your stare. Guilt gnaws at your conscience.

“Oh, fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t—” you wipe your hands at your jeans, as if it’ll clean the gunpowder on your skin. As if it’ll undo what you have done. “I didn’t know, I thought you were one of them.”

“Mate,” Hobie’s words feel dry on his tongue. “Who are you, how’d you get in here?” If the man was dead, he wouldn’t be so afraid, as he eyes you underneath his bucket hat. If he was, he wouldn’t have wasted time staring in the doorway instead of devouring you. Hobie’s wary as he stands in front of you protectively. He might’ve saved the stranger’s life, but he doesn’t know him and what he’s capable of. “You can stand up, we’re not goin’ to hurt you if you don’t try anythin’.”

You stand still, breathing heavily as you keep your weapon close while your hand shields your stomach.

The stranger is old, trembling as he stands up as instructed, back hunched, and messy hair untrimmed; his dirty blonde hair is matted under his hat. He looks frail, and you could easily outrun him, but you’ve learned never to underestimate anyone in this world.

“My—” his voice is crackly at the edges, tongue trying to wet his dry lips. “My name is Norman, I’ve been here since…since I don’t know.” His tone is weak and rough like someone who has a cold. “My son, he has a place here, but—but I forgot where it was, and I got lost. He…he said that he’ll meet me here in town.”

“Old man,” Hobie takes a step closer, while his free hand holds onto your wrist, keeping you close, all the while his other hand grasps at the weapon on his hip. “We’re not ‘ere to fight, but if you could jus’ move away from the stairs. We need to get out of ‘ere before any of the dead come.”

“I– I don’t know where I am.” His lips wobble, sniffing as his big brown eyes fill with unshed tears. “I’m sorry, who…who are you, lad?”

Hobie slowly inches towards the door as you hold onto his shoulder, blade at the ready as you peek over him.

Something in you pities the man. He reminds you of Yuri’s grandmother when she got sick, when there were days she wasn’t herself. You recognize the same condition in the man, how in the world has he survived this long all alone?

“Hobie, I think he’s unwell.” You whisper to him, feet feeling the dry carpet below you, the sky outside is going dark, and the automatic lights inside the hallways open. There’s power, and you could see the office door that was locked is now wide open.

“I know, love. We jus’ need to get out of ‘ere.”

The old man’s eyes pleads you for help. His face is gaunt underneath his salt and pepper beard, the skin around his eyes are darkened, and eyes beady. His nails are awfully long, curved and yellowed at the end. He has been surviving on his own whilst his own mind attacked him.

“He needs help.” Your grip on Hobie’s shoulder tightens desperately.

James would’ve helped him. Just like he helped you.

“Love.” The protest is on the edge of his tongue. But when Hobie turns to the man and his raggedy clothes, and the gaunt of his cheek, skin blemished and blanched, it reminds him of the people he would meet at the soup kitchen he volunteered at. The same place where he used to come to when he was struggling. “Norman, right?”

The old man reluctantly nods, as if he’s trying to recall his own name.

“C’mon, before the dead get ‘ere. They would’ve heard the shot.” Hobie grabs the fallen bags from the floor, glancing at you briefly as your expression is a mix of regret, relief, and pity. “Lovie, stay close. You too, Norm.”

“I haven’t heard that name in awhile.” He mutters under his breath, nodding along to his instructions.

Hobie lets him walk first, keeping a close eye on him, in case he is bitten. If he followed behind you, his mind wouldn’t be at peace if that was the case.

The whole house is lit up the moment the sun faded from the horizon. In the warm yellow lights, the place doesn’t feel so eerie. In another world he would have a place like this with you and the baby, maybe have the kid grow up in a nice house like this. It was near impossible before the world collapsed, now it’s just wishful thinking. Like how one would imagine winning the lottery.

“Where did you two come from?” Norman asks, arms curled around himself for comfort.

“The woods, we’ve got a cabin there.” Hobie adjusts his hold onto the bags, crossing the threshold towards the kitchen and to the back door where you two entered. Where he propped a can of peas on the door to keep it ajar just in case.

You watch as Norman’s face furrows, as if he’s trying to recall something deep in his mind.

“We have to hurry—”

Hobie sees it happen in slow motion, Norman’s hand wrapped around the door knob of the front entrance, tugging at it out of instinct.

“Norman, no!” You scream, but it’s too late.

The alarm blares around the house, echoing throughout the neighborhood. If the shot didn’t gather the dead’s attention, the alarm would.

There are rushed bare footsteps slapping against concrete outside.

“Run!” Hobie grabs you harshly, yanking and pulling you towards the back door as you reach your free hand over to Norman.

He takes your hand desperately. In his addled mind, he recognizes danger, and it makes him sprint behind you.

Hobie lugs the bags around his back and arms, whilst leading you outside. The same carefulness when you two arrived is out of the window the moment he heard gurgled groaning.

He turns his head towards the cul-de-sac, and he sees a gaggle of the shambling dead run at break neck speed towards him.

Their limbs flail right behind them without a care, they’re caked in blood, jaws unhinged, claws raised up as the wall of rotting stench follows them. Blood drips from their eyes, gnashing their teeth in the air as if they’re tasting him on their blackened tongues.

He makes it to the car, throwing the bags into the backseat and helps you inside the passenger seat before going around the hood to the driver’s side and hops in quickly. Thank fuck he had the foresight to not lock the doors. It was a horrible decision back then when there was danger of getting the car nicked, but he figured that you two were the only survivors in the whole town. He thought so at least.

“Love!” He yells your name, whilst you frantically put on your seatbelt. He could see the corpses run in the reflection of the side mirror.

“Norman!” You scream, waking the stranger from his terrified stupor, frozen just beside the car. “Get the fuck inside!”

The old man scrambles inside, tossing his whole body in the car whilst Hobie doesn’t waste time in starting the car, or even waits for Norman to shut the door.

The engine splutters weakly.

“Fuck you! C’mon you stupid, cu—!”

The pained shrieks of the dead come close as the car roars to life.

Exhaust fumes exit out of the car as Hobie steps on the gas. The wheels screech on the cement, leaving tire tracks as he drives quickly out of there.

A can of peaches rolls out of the backseat and onto the street just before the opened door beside Norman slams shut as Hobie turns a corner, watching the corpses fade in the rearview mirror.

“Holy fuck.” Panting, bad leg aching, you turn to Hobie with wide eyes. “Are you okay?” Your hand squeezes his trembling arm.

“Yeah, yeah…” Hobie swallows the bile in his throat, utterly relieved to be out of there. He takes your hand, and presses a heavy kiss on your knuckles whilst keeping an eye on the road. “You?”

“I’m good.” Smiling and chuckling, knees wobbly, you turn to Noman, who is still laying on the pile of canned goods and bags you got from the house. “You okay, Norm?”

The man’s lips stretches into an easy smile, “yes, thank you.”

You rub Hobie’s bicep, giving him a quick loving peck. “Let’s go home, Hobie.”