Ｉ ａｍ 𝓑𝓬𝓪𝓶

After the third time you woke up fighting invisible threats that weren’t there, Bruce had finally made the decision to keep you lightly sedated while the chemicals were flushed from your system.

It was easier on your body that way. Easier on your mind. At least while you healed enough to separate reality from whatever horrors HYDRA had buried inside your head.

For you, the last two days had probably felt mercifully empty. Mostly sleep. Mostly darkness. The first real safety and warmth you’d been allowed in weeks.

But for Bucky, the past forty-eight hours had been agony. Because now that he had finally gotten you back, fear had simply changed shape.

Instead of wondering where you were or whether HYDRA was hurting you, he found himself sitting beside your hospital bed wondering what condition they had truly left you in. Wondering if the fear in your eyes back in that cell would still be there when you finally woke properly. Wondering if you would look at him like a stranger again.

Or worse.

Like something dangerous.

It shouldn’t have affected him as much as it did. Rationally, Bucky understood exactly why you had reacted the way you did underground. HYDRA had spent two weeks breaking down your trust in reality itself. Hallucinations, manipulation, psychological torture — none of it had been your fault.

But it still haunted him.

Because you had always been the one person who never looked afraid of him. And seeing fear directed at him in your eyes — even briefly — had carved into something deep inside his chest that still hadn’t healed.

So Bucky stayed.

He barely left your bedside except when someone physically forced him to shower or eat something. Most of the time he simply sat beside you in silence, elbows resting against his knees while he watched the steady rise and fall of your breathing like he needed the visual confirmation that you were still here.

Sometimes, during the worst of the nightmares, your body would tense violently against the sheets despite the sedatives, soft distressed sounds escaping you as your breathing quickened.

And every single time, Bucky was immediately there.

“It’s okay,” he would murmur quietly, his voice low and steady as he carefully brushed hair back from your forehead. “You’re safe. Nobody’s gonna hurt you here.”

You never fully woke during those moments, but eventually your body would relax again beneath his touch, tension slowly easing from your face as the panic faded.

Bucky wasn’t sure if you could even hear him.

He hoped you could.

The rest of the team checked in constantly over those first two days. Steve stopped by early in the mornings, quiet concern written all over his face every time he looked at either of you. Natasha lingered longer than most, though she never pushed too hard, seeming to understand instinctively how fragile everything still was. Even Tony dropped his usual sarcasm whenever he entered the room, his worry obvious beneath the exhaustion.

But no matter who came or went, Bucky never moved far.

At some point during the second night, Steve had leaned quietly against the doorway watching him.

“You should get some sleep,” he said softly.

Bucky didn’t look away from you. “I’m fine.”

“You’ve said that for two weeks straight.”

“I’m not leaving her.”

Steve’s expression softened slightly at the immediate response. Because it hadn’t even been hesitation. Bucky looked exhausted beyond words, dark circles beneath his eyes and tension still permanently locked into his shoulders, but the thought of walking out of that room clearly wasn’t even an option in his mind.

After everything that had happened, after finally getting you back in his arms only to almost lose you to fear and trauma the second you woke up, Bucky couldn’t bring himself to put distance between you again.

Not yet.

Maybe not for a long while.

Late that evening, while the room sat mostly dark except for the soft glow of medical monitors nearby, Bucky felt slight movement against his hand.

His attention snapped up instantly.

Your fingers had shifted weakly against the blanket before slowly curling around his hand where it rested beside yours.

Even half-sedated, barely conscious, you were still reaching for him.

Something in Bucky’s chest ached painfully at the feeling. Carefully, like he was afraid too much pressure might break the moment apart, he tightened his fingers gently around yours in return.

“I’m here, doll,” he whispered quietly. And for the first time in two days, some of the tension in his body finally eased. His thumb brushed absentmindedly across your knuckles.

And somehow, that small feeling dragged another memory quietly to the surface.

Another night.

Another time he had held your hand.

Only back then, neither of you had been brave enough to acknowledge what it really meant.

He remembered finding you on the helicopter landing pad late one evening after returning from a mission. The tower had already gone mostly quiet for the night, the usual chaos of voices and footsteps replaced by distant humming machinery and the low buzz of city life far below.

The rooftop doors had barely slid open before cold wind swept toward him, carrying the faint scent of rain and the distant sound of traffic from streets almost impossible to make out from that height.

You were sitting right near the edge of the landing platform with your legs dangling carelessly over the side, your hands braced behind you against the concrete while the skyline stretched endlessly around you in glowing gold and white lights. Cars moved like tiny streams of light far below, headlights threading through the dark streets while illuminated office buildings towered against the night sky. Somewhere in the distance, sirens echoed faintly through the city before disappearing again beneath the constant pulse of urban life.

The sight should have looked peaceful.

Instead, Bucky’s stomach nearly dropped.

“The hell are you doing?” he asked immediately, the sharp concern in his voice making you glance over your shoulder.

For a second, surprise flickered across your face before soft amusement replaced it. “Relax,” you said lightly. “I’m not planning on throwing myself off the tower tonight.”

Bucky exhaled slowly as he approached, though tension still lingered in his shoulders. “Tonight?” he repeated flatly.

A grin tugged at your mouth as the wind pushed loose strands of hair across your face. “Can’t make promises about tomorrow.”

“You’re hilarious.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Bucky shook his head under his breath, though there was already the faintest trace of a smile threatening at the corner of his mouth as he lowered himself beside you.

Not quite as close to the edge as you.

Your eyes flicked downward briefly before you looked back at him with barely concealed amusement. “Aw,” you teased softly. “Are you scared?”

“No.”

“You sat at least two feet further back than me.”

“Because unlike you, I have survival instincts.”

You laughed quietly at that, the sound immediately blending into the noise of the wind around you.

God, Bucky loved hearing you laugh.

Even back then, before he had really allowed himself to acknowledge what you were becoming to him, he had noticed how easily your laughter settled something restless inside him.

For a little while, neither of you spoke again.

The city below looked almost unreal from this height, glittering endlessly beneath the dark sky while the tower lights reflected faintly against the clouds overhead. A helicopter blinked distantly somewhere across the skyline while cool wind curled around both of you hard enough that Bucky could see you pull your sleeves further over your hands for warmth.

“I like it up here,” you admitted eventually, your voice quieter now as you looked out across the city. “Everything feels smaller.”

Bucky followed your gaze downward.

From this high up, the world really did seem strangely distant. Problems that normally consumed entire days suddenly looked insignificant compared to the sheer size of everything surrounding them.

“Most people hate heights,” Bucky said quietly after a while, his voice low beneath the sound of the wind moving around the rooftop.

You hummed softly beside him, gaze still fixed on the city stretched endlessly below. From this high up, New York looked almost peaceful. The streets glowed gold beneath the night sky, headlights threading through the roads like rivers of light while distant sirens faded into soft background noise. Everything felt smaller up here. Further away.

“Most people haven’t seen this view,” you replied eventually.

Bucky glanced toward you then, watching the way the skyline reflected softly in your eyes. Your legs swung gently over the edge of the tower without fear, completely relaxed despite the drop beneath you. Somehow, you looked more at peace sitting hundreds of feet in the air than most people did standing safely on the ground.

A quiet huff of amusement left him and your head tilted slightly at the sound before your eyes drifted toward him properly. “You okay?”

Bucky looked away again automatically, gaze returning to the city below. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You get quiet sometimes,” you said softly. “Like your brain’s somewhere else.”

The observation settled heavily in his chest because it was true. You always noticed. Not in the cautious way people usually watched him, waiting for him to become unstable or dangerous. You noticed him gently, naturally, like paying attention to him wasn’t something you even had to think about. And somehow, you never made him feel exposed for it.

Bucky rested his forearms loosely against his knees, staring out across the skyline for a long moment before finally speaking.

“Just thinking.”

You nodded softly at that, accepting the answer without trying to pull more from him than he was willing to give. That was something else he liked about you. You never forced conversation into places he wasn’t ready to go.

The quiet that settled afterward felt warm instead of awkward. The kind of silence Bucky had started associating with you without even realising when it happened.

Most of his life, silence had always felt heavy somehow. Like something waiting to break. But sitting beside you now, with cold air curling around both of you and the city glowing endlessly beneath your feet, silence just felt comfortable.

You leaned back slightly against your hands, eyes drifting upward toward the cloudy night sky for a moment before speaking again.

“I like it up here,” you admitted quietly. “Everything feels quieter.”

Bucky looked at you again. Your expression had softened completely now, the usual teasing energy he’d grown used to replaced with something quieter. More honest.

Eventually, Bucky glanced back toward the rooftop access door behind you both. “I can leave if you wanted to be alone.”

Your response came immediately. “No.” The answer was soft but certain enough to make him look back at you properly.

You shrugged faintly afterward, your fingers tracing absent patterns against the concrete beside you. “I mean… you can if you want to.” Your eyes lifted toward him again, gentler now. “But I’d rather you stayed.”

Something about the honesty in your voice made warmth spread slowly through his chest.

Bucky wasn’t used to being wanted around quietly like this. Not needed for missions or violence or because somebody expected something from him. Just wanted there. Beside you.

“You make things feel less loud,” you admitted softly after a moment.

Bucky frowned slightly. “Less loud?”

You nodded. “My head’s usually busy all the time. But when I’m around you…” A small smile tugged at your mouth. “Things feel calmer.”

For a second, Bucky genuinely didn’t know what to say to that. Because he couldn’t remember the last time somebody had looked at him and felt comfort instead of fear.

“You make things feel normal,” you admitted quietly. Your expression softened instantly at the confession.

The kind that always made him feel like maybe there were still parts of him worth saving after all.

“I like quiet moments like this,” you continued after a second, voice nearly getting lost beneath the wind. Then your eyes met his briefly. “Especially with you.”

The words hit him harder than he expected.

Your gaze drifted away afterward toward the city again, almost like you hadn’t realised the effect the sentence had on him. But Bucky felt something deep in his chest tighten painfully all the same.

Because you said things like that so easily. And every single time, they stayed with him longer than they probably should have.

The conversation drifted naturally after that into smaller things. Sam stealing your leftovers from the communal fridge again. Bruce accidentally breaking another coffee mug in the lab. Steve getting irrationally competitive during game nights.

Bucky listened to your voice more than the actual stories. Listened to the way you laughed softly beneath the wind.

At one point, you laughed hard enough that you leaned sideways slightly, instinctively grabbing onto his arm to steady yourself.

Bucky’s hand caught your waist immediately without thinking.

The movement stilled both of you.

His metal hand rested carefully against your side while your fingers curled lightly around his forearm, your faces suddenly much closer than before.

Neither of you moved away.

The city lights reflected softly across your features while the cold wind tugged strands of hair across your face, and Bucky found himself staring before he could stop himself.

Your gaze flicked downward briefly toward his mouth before returning to his eyes again.

Slowly, carefully, your hand slid lower until your fingers brushed lightly against his hand resting beside you.

You hesitated only briefly before hooking your pinky gently around his.

Such a small thing.

But Bucky felt it everywhere.

Because there was no fear in your touch.

No hesitation.

Just warmth.

His hand turned instinctively beneath yours, allowing your fingers to slide naturally between his own.

You smiled softly when his grip tightened slightly around your hand.

Neither of you said anything about it.

You didn’t need to.

The feeling already existed quietly in every lingering glance, every soft smile, every moment the two of you kept finding yourselves drawn back together again and again.

And sitting there beside you high above the sleeping city, Bucky realised he couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this peaceful.

Five Days After Your Rescue

By the fifth day, the medical team had started quietly debating whether keeping you heavily sedated was actually helping anymore.

At first it had been necessary. Your body had been dangerously exhausted when Bucky brought you back to the tower, weakened by dehydration, chemicals, repeated experimentation, and injuries that had not been treated properly in weeks. Every time you woke during those first couple of days, panic consumed you so violently that the doctors had little choice except to sedate you again before you hurt yourself trying to escape people who were only trying to help.

But now the physical damage was beginning to heal.

The bruises darkening your skin had slowly started fading. The cuts and burns were finally beginning to close over properly. The chemicals HYDRA had pumped through your system were gradually leaving your bloodstream.

The problem now was your mind.

Bruce had been the first to say it carefully, late one evening while reviewing your charts beside the medbay monitors. Keeping you asleep any longer might only make things worse. You needed to start separating reality from whatever HYDRA had done to you psychologically, and sedation wouldn’t help with that forever. At some point, you needed to wake up and begin learning what was real again.

Unfortunately, waking up turned out to be just as painful.

The first time you properly regained consciousness, fear had overtaken you almost immediately.

You didn’t recognise the medical bay. You didn’t recognise the voices around you. Every face felt unfamiliar one second and dangerously familiar the next, like your own memories were fighting against themselves inside your head. HYDRA had spent two weeks manipulating your reality so thoroughly that your mind no longer trusted anything it saw.

Including the people trying to save you.

You had ripped the IV from your arm the moment you woke fully, scrambling backwards across the bed in blind panic while demanding everyone stay away from you. The sound of your own heartbeat had been deafening in your ears, every instinct screaming that this was another trick. Another fake rescue. Another carefully constructed illusion meant to break you down further.

They had made you believe people came to save you, only for the room to dissolve back into cold metal walls and restraints moments later. They had used familiar voices against you until even comfort itself started feeling dangerous.

So when doctors approached too quickly, you lashed out.

When Steve tried speaking calmly to you, you demanded he prove who he was.

When Natasha moved closer to adjust one of the monitors, you nearly had a panic attack.

And when Bucky stepped into your line of sight, something inside you seemed to fracture completely between relief and terror.

You wanted to trust him.

God, part of you did.

But another part still remembered the cell. The hallucinations. The fake rescue scenarios. The way HYDRA had used hope itself like a weapon.

Nothing in your head felt stable anymore.

Through all of it, Bucky stayed.

He stayed when you shouted at him to leave. Stayed when you flinched away every time he tried to touch you. Stayed through every moment of confusion, every burst of panic, every terrified accusation you didn’t fully mean.

Sometimes he would sit beside your bed for hours without saying anything at all, simply existing there quietly so you could get used to his presence again. Other times he tried speaking softly to you, reminding you of little things only the two of you would know. 

Sometimes you listened. Sometimes you curled further into yourself like hearing the memories physically hurt. Bucky never pushed. Never became frustrated. If anything, he seemed to understand your fear too well. And honestly, that was the part that hurt him most. Because he knew exactly what HYDRA was capable of doing to someone’s mind.

The worst moments always came at night. The nightmares were violent enough that the entire medical floor heard them.

Your screams would tear through the silence so suddenly that nurses came running before the monitors even had time to react. Your entire body thrashed violently against the bed like you were trying to escape something no one else could see, breaths breaking into panicked sobs while your hands clawed desperately at anything within reach.

Sometimes you screamed for them to stop touching you.

Sometimes you begged someone not to leave you there.

Other times you sounded completely lost, your voice raw with terror as though you were drowning somewhere unreachable and desperately trying to make somebody hear you.

Every single time, Bucky was there first.

He would move to your bedside immediately, trying to ground you before the panic consumed you completely. His metal hand would carefully cradle yours while his other brushed gently through your hair, his voice staying low and steady no matter how violently you struggled.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright. You’re safe.”

“It’s just a nightmare.”

“I’ve got you.”

But most nights the fear overwhelmed you too badly to hear him.

Medical staff often had to intervene when your panic became too physical, worried you would reopen healing injuries or accidentally hurt yourself while trying to fight off things that no longer existed.

Every time they sedated you, Bucky looked quietly devastated. Because he knew what it felt like to fear your own mind. And because watching you suffer through it felt unbearable after everything you had already survived.

Still, he never left.

Not once.

Because years ago, when the nightmares had belonged to him instead, you hadn’t left either.

Bucky remembered one night in particular with painful clarity.

It had happened not long after he first moved into the tower, back when sleep still felt more dangerous than exhaustion. Most nights he barely rested at all, too afraid of what waited for him once he closed his eyes. But eventually the body always won, and when it did, the nightmares came with it.

That night had been especially bad.

The memories had dragged him somewhere brutal — cold restraints, blood on metal floors, hands forcing the Winter Soldier back into existence piece by piece while he screamed himself hoarse trying to fight it.

Except this time, somewhere through the nightmare, another voice had started breaking through the noise.

“Bucky?”

You had been walking past his room when you heard him. At first you had tried not to interfere. You knew how private Bucky could be, how carefully he guarded the few spaces that actually felt safe to him. But the sounds coming from inside his room hadn’t sounded like sleep anymore.

They sounded like pain.

So after several long moments of hesitation outside his door, you finally pushed it open quietly.

The room was dark except for faint city light spilling through the windows, but even in the dimness you immediately saw him thrashing violently beneath the sheets, breaths ragged and uneven. Sweat dampened his hair while broken fragments of terrified words slipped from him between strained gasps.

Your expression softened instantly. “Bucky,” you called again gently, moving toward the bed.

He didn’t wake. If anything, his panic only worsened.

Without really thinking about it, you climbed carefully onto the edge of the mattress beside him and reached for him instinctively, trying to steady his movements before he hurt himself.

“Hey,” you whispered. “You’re alright. You’re safe.”

His body jerked violently again beneath your hands.

So you did the only thing you could think of. You pulled him carefully against you. His back pressed against your chest while your arms wrapped around him firmly enough to ground him without trapping him there, your hand moving slowly through his hair as you kept speaking softly near his ear.

“They can’t hurt you here.”

“You’re safe now.”

“I’ve got you.”

Gradually, painfully slowly, the panic began easing from him. Bucky woke abruptly a few moments later, breaths heaving hard while confusion and fear lingered heavily in his eyes before he fully realised where he was. Before he realised it was you holding him.

You didn’t let go.

Your fingers continued running gently through his hair while your other hand rested against his arm, grounding him through the lingering panic still trembling through his body.

“You’re alright,” you murmured softly. “I’m here.”

Bucky had spent so long believing comfort wasn’t meant for people like him that the simple warmth of being held almost felt foreign. But with you, somehow, it didn’t. 

Eventually the tension slowly left his body entirely, exhaustion finally overtaking the adrenaline as he relaxed carefully against you. You stayed exactly where you were. Even after his breathing steadied. Even after the nightmare faded. You simply continued tracing soft circles against his back while the city lights flickered quietly beyond the windows.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you,” you whispered eventually, voice thick with sleep and sincerity both. “Not if I can help it.”

Bucky never forgot those words.

And now, sitting beside your hospital bed while you fought your way back to reality piece by piece, he realised with painful certainty that he would spend the rest of his life trying to give that same safety back to you.

One Week After Your Rescue

By the end of the first week back at the tower, the fear had finally started loosening its grip on you enough that you could stay awake without spiralling into full panic every few minutes.

It wasn’t perfect. Not even close.

You still startled whenever someone entered the room too quickly. Sudden noises made your entire body tense instinctively, and there were moments where reality still felt slippery beneath your feet, like your own mind couldn’t fully decide what belonged to you anymore and what HYDRA had forced into your head.

That was the worst part of all of it.

Not the physical pain. Not the nightmares. Not even the memories themselves.

It was the fact you could no longer trust your own thoughts.

HYDRA had fabricated so many false memories during those two weeks that your brain now treated everything with suspicion. Some memories felt vivid and warm and real, only for doubt to creep in moments later and poison them completely.

Did that actually happen? Or did HYDRA make you believe it did?

Sometimes you remembered conversations that apparently never happened. Other times you forgot things everyone else insisted were real. Your own mind had become unfamiliar territory.

Bruce had explained carefully that this kind of psychological manipulation wasn’t uncommon with prolonged conditioning and trauma. Your brain was trying to protect itself, but right now it no longer knew what was safe information and what wasn’t.

So the medical team suggested something different. Instead of keeping you isolated in the medbay any longer, they moved you back into your own room.

Surrounding yourself with familiar things might help reconnect memories properly. Smells, objects, photographs — small personal details that belonged to your life before HYDRA.

That was how all six of them ended up standing awkwardly around your bedroom while you slowly tried piecing yourself back together.

The room felt strange when you first stepped inside.

Familiar. But distant somehow.

Like walking through somebody else’s memories.

You stood quietly near the doorway at first, eyes slowly scanning over everything while the others gave you space to process it all. Steve leaned casually against the wall with his arms folded while Sam sat half-sprawled across your desk chair. Natasha remained nearby with careful watchfulness, while Tony and Bruce hovered closer to the shelves filled with books, gadgets, and random clutter accumulated over years at the tower.

And Bucky stayed closest to you. Close enough that your body seemed to relax slightly every time you noticed him beside you.

The first thing that caught your attention was the bracelet sitting on your nightstand. You picked it up slowly between your fingers, brows furrowing immediately. It definitely wasn’t expensive. In fact, it looked almost comically cheap, the silver already discoloured in places while tiny fake gemstones sat crookedly along the chain.

“I gave that to you,” Natasha explained from behind you.

You glanced toward her.

“It was after an undercover mission,” she continued, lips twitching slightly with amusement. “I was tailing someone through a street market and they started getting suspicious, so I panicked and pretended to fall in love with the nearest thing at a jewellery stall.”

You looked back down at the bracelet again. “It’s kinda ugly.”

Natasha actually laughed at that. “Yeah,” she admitted easily. “But you cried when I gave it to you.”

Your eyes widened slightly. “I cried over this?”

“You said it was the first friendship bracelet anyone had ever given you.”

Heat immediately crept into your face while the others chuckled softly around the room. You carefully placed the bracelet back down before your attention shifted toward the crooked lamp sitting beside your bed. “…Why is that bent?”

Sam answered immediately. “Because you tried to kill a spider with it.”

Your head snapped toward him. “Did I at least get the spider?”

“No,” he said proudly. “You missed completely, screamed, and then Barnes had to save you from the world’s tiniest spider.”

You looked toward Bucky instinctively. “It was huge,” he defended seriously. For the first time all week, an actual smile pulled properly at your mouth. The sight alone visibly softened the entire room.

As you continued looking around, your attention landed on a strange collection of scorched metal pieces sitting near Bruce’s old textbooks. “What… happened there?”

Tony pointed immediately. “Oh, that’s from the time you almost blew up my lab.”

Your eyes widened. “I did what?”

Bruce looked deeply amused already. “You said you wanted to help more with the engineering projects.”

“You mixed two chemicals together,” Tony added dramatically, “and suddenly my lab looked like a low-budget action movie.” Your tried to remember the memory. “My hair caught fire,” he continued accusingly.

“A little bit,” Bruce corrected.

Tony looked offended. “Banner, my eyebrows disappeared.”

You couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped you then, quiet but real. The sound seemed to affect everyone instantly. Like hearing it again after everything made the room breathe easier somehow. Your attention drifted again after a while, eventually landing on the long dark gown hanging from your wardrobe door. You frowned slightly. “I wore that?”

Natasha smirked immediately. “Oh yeah. Undercover gala mission.”

“You complained about that dress for three straight hours,” Sam added helpfully.

“And another three when you found out you had to dance,” Natasha continued.

Your brows lifted slightly. “Dance?”

Natasha’s eyes slid immediately toward Bucky. “You stopped complaining once Barnes taught you.”

Your head turned toward him slowly. “You taught me how to dance?”

Bucky looked almost shy for a second, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. “Well… somebody had to stop you from stepping on important diplomats.” You stared at him a moment longer than intended, another strange warmth blooming quietly in your chest before your attention shifted elsewhere.

A takeout menu covered in colourful highlighter and scribbled notes sat abandoned on your desk. You picked it up slowly, immediately recognising the chaotic handwriting covering the edges.

Something flickered faintly in your mind.

Voices overlapping. Everyone arguing loudly. Tony demanding absurd customisations. Sam stealing fries off people’s plates. Bruce ordering things he immediately regretted.

And Bucky quietly getting the same thing every single time.

Your fingers tightened slightly around the menu. “I wrote everybody’s orders down…”

The room went quiet for a second. Not because they were shocked. Because you remembered.

Steve smiled first. “Yeah. You got tired of us arguing every time we ordered food.”

“You threatened violence if somebody changed restaurants last second again,” Sam added.

Your eyes landed next on several tins of tea stacked neatly near the window.

The second you opened one, the scent hit you immediately.

Warmth. Late nights. Soft conversations.

Bruce noticed your expression instantly. “We used to drink tea together when neither of us could sleep,” he explained gently. “We started trying different flavours every week.”

You picked up the red tin slowly. “That one was always your favourite.”

The memory came fractured but real this time.

Bruce reading quietly. Steam curling from mugs. Rain against tower windows.

Safe.

You swallowed hard against the sudden emotion tightening your chest.

Nearby, Sam had already picked up the stack of DVDs sitting beneath the television. “Movie nights,” he announced dramatically.

Your eyes narrowed slightly while more memories surfaced.

Steve asking too many questions about modern movies. Tony spoiling endings on purpose. Nat pretending she wasn’t paying attention while secretly watching the entire thing.

And yourself curled beneath a blanket beside…

“…I burnt the popcorn.”

Sam pointed immediately. “See? Progress.”

“You almost set the kitchen on fire,” Tony corrected.

You looked between them uncertainly. “That really happened?”

“It absolutely happened,” Steve laughed softly.

You smiled faintly again before your attention caught on a dark jacket draped over your desk chair. The second you picked it up, recognition settled somewhere deep in your chest. Not memory exactly. Something softer. Warmer. You lifted it slightly. “This isn’t mine.”

Bucky shook his head. “No.”

You looked down at it again before bringing it absentmindedly closer, the familiar scent instantly calming something restless inside your chest.

“You used to steal my jackets constantly,” Bucky said immediately.

“Because they smelled like him,” Natasha added mercilessly.

Heat rushed into your face instantly while Bucky looked equally caught off guard.

Eventually your eyes drifted toward the mirror above your dresser, photographs tucked carefully around the edges.

Christmas photos. Mission selfies. Group pictures filled with terrible timing and half-blinking faces.

Sam yawning. Bruce never looking at the camera properly.

And somehow Tony looked flawless in every single one.

You smiled softly while tracing your fingers carefully across the photos. Then your hand stopped. There were so many pictures of you and Bucky. Not posed ones. Candid moments where neither of you seemed aware of the camera at all. The way he looked at you in them made your chest ache strangely.

Soft. Safe. Fond in a way that felt almost painfully obvious now.

One photo showed the two of you standing at some kind of fair while you clung to a giant stuffed bear nearly your own size. “You named him Sergeant Pickles,” Bucky said quietly from behind you. You looked toward the stuffed bear sitting proudly in the corner of your bed before glancing back at him. “I won it for you,” he added. “Nearly got banned from the game booth.”

You laughed softly under your breath before your attention caught on the red star keychain attached to your room keys. The sight of it made something tug sharply in your chest. Your fingers brushed over it carefully. “I know this symbol…”

Bucky’s voice softened immediately. “You bought that.”

Your eyes lifted toward him.

“You said it reminded you of me.”

The warmth flooding your face this time was impossible to hide. And apparently everyone else noticed too. Because suddenly Steve was clearing his throat while Natasha smirked knowingly beside him. “We should probably leave you two alone,” Sam announced immediately.

Tony looked delighted by the tension. “Oh absolutely.”

Before you could protest, the others gradually filtered out of the room one by one, leaving behind only quiet laughter and half-hearted excuses as the door clicked softly shut behind them.

Then it was just you and Bucky.

The room settled into silence again, though this one felt softer somehow. Comfortable. Bucky remained seated quietly near the bed while you absentmindedly turned one of the polaroids over between your fingers.

You and him sitting on the training room floor together, laughing about something outside the frame.

Your eyes drifted slowly around the room again.

The jacket. The stuffed bear. The coffee stains by the window. The warmth that settled through you every time he stood nearby.

Then quietly, “Were we…” Your voice faltered slightly. Bucky looked up immediately. You glanced back down at the photograph in your hands. “Were we something?”

For a moment, Bucky just stared at you silently, like he’d imagined this conversation a hundred different ways but still didn’t know how to answer now that it was real.

“I just…” You swallowed slightly. “There’s so much of you here.” Your fingers tightened gently around the photo. “The jacket… the pictures…” Your eyes lifted back toward him carefully. “Everybody keeps looking at us like…”

“Like they know something we don’t?” Bucky finished quietly. A small laugh escaped you despite yourself. Bucky rubbed slowly at his metal fingers before answering properly. “We never really said anything.”

Your chest tightened slightly. “But,” he admitted softly, “I think there is something...” 

The honesty in his voice settled warmly through you. Because somewhere beneath all the confusion and fractured memories, you thought maybe you knew too.

You looked down at your hands quietly before speaking again. “I can’t trust my memories right now,” you admitted. “Every time I think I remember something, part of me keeps wondering if HYDRA put it there.”

Bucky’s expression softened immediately.

“But…” You hesitated slightly. “I think my body remembers things before my brain does.”

His brows furrowed faintly.

“You make me feel calm,” you whispered. “Even when I don’t understand why.” Your eyes slowly lifted toward him again. “When people come into the room, I look for you first.”

Bucky went completely still.

“And every time I find you,” you continued softly, “everything feels quieter.” The emotion that crossed his face then nearly broke your heart. “I don’t fully remember us yet,” you admitted carefully. “But I remember feeling safe with you.” Your voice dropped even quieter. “And I think some part of me still does.”

Two Weeks After Your Rescue

The two weeks following your rescue blurred together strangely in your mind, days slipping into one another beneath the soft glow of medical monitors, sleepless nights, and the exhausting process of trying to separate reality from everything HYDRA had forced into your head. Recovery wasn’t linear the way people liked to pretend it was. Some mornings you woke feeling almost normal, memories returning in warm little fragments that made your chest ache with familiarity. Other days were harder, your mind turning against you without warning, feeding you images and instincts that felt real enough to make your pulse spike before you could stop it.

A few days earlier, Natasha had walked toward you in the common room holding a pen she’d borrowed, and for one horrifying second your brain had twisted the image into a knife instead. Your body reacted before your mind could catch up, every muscle locking as panic surged through you so violently you nearly struck first.

Nat had stopped immediately.

No fear. No judgement. Just quiet understanding as she slowly held the pen out for you to actually see. “It’s a pen,” she’d said softly.

The shame afterwards had nearly crushed you. But nobody blamed you for it.

Still, healing was exhausting. Every memory that returned brought relief and grief tangled together so tightly you couldn’t separate them anymore. You remembered good things now — movie nights, arguments over takeout, teasing Sam until he threatened to ban you from touching the music speaker ever again — but the false memories still slipped between the real ones sometimes like cracks through glass.

It made sleeping difficult.

Which was exactly why, sometime after two in the morning, you found yourself wandering quietly through the tower kitchen hoping tea might calm your mind enough to let you sleep for more than an hour at a time.

You hadn’t expected anyone else to be awake.

But of course Bucky was there.

He sat at the kitchen island beneath the dim overhead lighting with a book open in front of him, one hand loosely curled around a mug of coffee that had long since gone cold, metal fingers absently resting against the edge of the pages while he read.

His eyes lifted the second you entered the room. Immediately softer when they landed on you. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asked quietly.

You shook your head faintly as you moved toward the kettle. “Nightmare.”

Something painful flickered briefly across his face at the word, subtle enough most people probably wouldn’t notice it. But you did. Bucky closed the book gently before standing, automatically reaching for another mug before you could. “You want the tea Bruce got you?”

You blinked at him. “You remembered which one?”

A small smile tugged faintly at the corner of his mouth as he reached into the cabinet without hesitation. “You always make the same one when your mind gets too loud.”

Your chest tightened unexpectedly at the softness of that answer. Because that was the thing about Bucky. Even before everything happened, he noticed things. Quiet things. The kinds of details nobody else really paid attention to.

You leaned against the counter while he prepared the tea beside you, comfortable silence settling naturally between you in a way that no longer felt unfamiliar. The kitchen windows overlooked the city below, rain still streaking softly against the glass while distant headlights painted blurred gold across the streets beneath the tower.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then quietly, before you could lose your nerve, you said, “I think I’ve loved you for a while.”

Bucky froze.

Not dramatically or obviously. Just enough that you noticed the slight pause in his movements before he slowly looked at you again.

Your stomach twisted nervously immediately.

“I know that probably sounds insane considering my brain is basically scrambled egg right now,” you admitted softly, fingers tightening slightly around the sleeve covering your hands, “but… I don’t think this part is fake.”

Bucky stared at you carefully, almost cautiously, like he was afraid of saying the wrong thing.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you added quickly. “I just… needed you to know.”

The kettle clicked quietly behind him, but neither of you moved to grab it yet.

Your voice softened further. “I keep getting memories back now and then, and somehow they’re always you.” A small laugh escaped you, shaky around the edges. “It’s ridiculous, honestly. My brain’s like one giant Bucky Barnes montage.”

That finally earned the faintest huff of amusement from him.

You looked down at your hands. “And even before I remembered things properly… my body already knew you.” Your brows pulled together slightly as you searched for the right words. “Every time you walked into a room, I could breathe easier. When things got confusing, I looked for you first without even realizing I was doing it.”

Bucky’s expression softened painfully.

You swallowed hard before continuing quieter this time. “When I was there…” Your voice faltered slightly. “When they were messing with my head…” The room felt colder suddenly, but you  forced yourself to continue anyway. “I used to think about you.”

Bucky’s breath caught almost silently. You looked up at him then, eyes glassy but steady.

“I’d try to remember your voice. Or stupid things you said. Or the way you laughed when I did something stupid.” A small smile pulled briefly at your mouth. “I kept thinking if I could hold onto you in my head, then maybe they couldn’t take all of me.”

For a second, Bucky genuinely looked devastated hearing that. Not because he didn’t want your love. But because the thought of you suffering through that alone nearly destroyed him.

He looked down briefly, jaw tightening hard before he finally spoke. “You have no idea what those two weeks did to me.”

His voice sounded rougher now. Unsteady in a way you rarely heard from him.

“I was losing my damn mind without you.” He exhaled shakily through his nose before looking back up at you. “Every second you were gone, all I could think about was what they might be doing to you.” His throat bobbed slightly. “And the worst part was not knowing if you were scared or hurt or…” He stopped himself before the sentence could finish.

Your chest ached hearing the strain in his voice.

Bucky gave a weak shake of his head. “I was a mess, doll.”

Silence settled softly between you again before another memory surfaced suddenly in your mind, warm and clear enough that your breath caught slightly.

“The dance.”

Bucky blinked at your words.

You smiled faintly despite yourself. “I remember the dance.”

Something almost disbelieving crossed his face. “You do?”

You nodded slowly. “You spun me around the room and I kept stepping on your shoes.”

A quiet laugh escaped him immediately. “You stepped on me six times.”

“Seven,” you corrected softly. “I remember because you counted.”

The smile that spread across Bucky’s face then looked almost unbearably fond.

“And…” Your voice softened slightly. “We almost kissed.”

The room went still again. You looked down shyly at your mug. “I remember being disappointed when we got interrupted.”

Bucky let out the quietest breath of laughter at that, rubbing a hand briefly across his jaw like he was trying to hide how emotional he suddenly looked.

“That mission was hell,” you admitted quietly. Your eyes lifted back toward him. “Not because it was hard or dangerous,” you clarified softly. “Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you the entire time.”

Bucky’s heart genuinely stuttered and he stepped closer, slowly enough to give you room to pull away if you wanted to.

You didn’t.

“I think I fell in love with you when you made me that coffee on one of my first nights here,” he admitted quietly. “You became my safe place so slowly I didn’t even notice it happening.” 

Emotion tightened painfully in your chest as you faced each other, tea long forgotten by now. “I spent so long thinking I was something people had to survive, and then you looked at me like I was someone worth loving. You saw Bucky before I even remembered how to be him.” 

The words settled heavily between you, soft and painfully honest all at once, and for a moment neither of you moved. The rain continued tapping quietly against the tower windows while the kitchen lights cast a warm glow across the room, but everything else seemed to fade into the background entirely.

All you could focus on was him.

The exhaustion in his eyes. The vulnerability he so rarely let anyone see. The way he looked at you now like you were something precious he still couldn’t quite believe had chosen him back.

Your chest ached with it.

Bucky’s hand lifted slowly then, hesitant enough that it made your heart tighten, like even now some part of him still expected you to pull away. His metal fingers brushed lightly against yours first, giving you every opportunity to stop him.

You didn’t.

Instead, your hand turned instinctively beneath his until your fingers threaded carefully through his. Warmth spread through you immediately. Bucky let out the softest breath at the contact, almost like he hadn’t realised he’d been holding it.

“I think,” you admitted quietly, eyes dropping briefly to your joined hands, “some part of me knew before I did.”

His thumb brushed slowly across your knuckles.

“When my memories got bad…” Your voice softened slightly. “When I couldn’t tell what was real anymore… you were always the thing that felt realest.”

Your fingers tightened around his slightly.

“You know what the first thing I remember feeling was after you found me?”

Bucky shook his head carefully.

“Safe.”

The word hit him hard enough that you physically saw it in his expression.

His eyes closed briefly before he stepped closer again, until barely any space remained between the two of you.

“I was so scared I’d lost you,” he admitted quietly, voice rough around the edges now. “Even after we got you back… part of me kept thinking you’d wake up and not remember me anymore.”

You shook your head immediately.

“I remembered you,” you whispered. “Maybe not perfectly. Maybe not all at once.” Your hand squeezed his gently. “But I remembered how I felt.”

Bucky looked completely wrecked hearing that. Just overwhelmed by the sheer tenderness of it.

His forehead rested carefully against yours, slow and hesitant like he was still giving you the choice to stop this if you wanted to.

You only moved closer. “I think I’m in love with you Bucky,” you admitted softly.

The words barely rose above a whisper, but the effect they had on him was immediate. You felt the shaky breath leave his chest, felt the way his hand tightened around yours like he was grounding himself in the reality of hearing it.

Bucky’s eyes opened slowly to meet yours again.

“I love you too,” he said quietly. 

For a moment, neither of you moved.

The words lingered softly between you, warm and fragile and impossibly important after everything the two of you had survived to finally reach this point. The kitchen suddenly felt very small compared to the enormity of it all, the quiet hum of the fridge and the rain against the tower windows fading into the background entirely as Bucky looked at you like he still couldn’t quite believe this was real.

Not another dream.

Not another cruel trick his mind had made up during sleepless nights spent searching for you.

Real.

Your eyes searched his carefully, almost nervously now that the words were finally out in the open. “You do?”

Bucky let out a breath that sounded almost shaky as a small smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, softer than you’d ever seen it before.

“So much it scares me sometimes,” he admitted honestly.

Emotion tightened painfully in your chest at the confession. After everything HYDRA had done to both of you, after all the fear and confusion and grief of the past month, hearing something so gentle from him felt almost overwhelming.

Bucky’s metal hand lifted carefully toward your face then, slow enough to give you every opportunity to pull away if you wanted to. When you leaned into the touch instead, something in his expression broke entirely.

His thumb brushed softly against your cheek.

“You disappeared,” he said quietly, voice rough around the edges now. “And it felt like somebody ripped the ground out from under me.” He swallowed hard before continuing. “Those two weeks without you were the worst I’ve felt in a long time. Every room in this tower felt wrong.”

Your eyes stung immediately.

“I kept thinking about all the things I never said,” he admitted with a faint, self-deprecating laugh. “All the times I almost told you. You know what the worst part was?” he asked quietly.

You shook your head slightly.

“I couldn’t protect you.”

Your heart ached instantly at the guilt woven through his voice. “Buck—”

“No, I know,” he interrupted gently. “I know none of this was my fault logically.” His eyes dropped briefly toward the floor before lifting back to yours again. “But I still kept thinking if I’d gotten there faster… if I’d noticed something sooner…”

“You saved me,” you whispered firmly.

Bucky looked unconvinced immediately.

“You did,” you repeated softly, reaching for his hand properly this time and intertwining your fingers with his metal ones without hesitation. “When I was in there, they kept trying to break everything in my head. They kept trying to make me scared of you.”

Pain flashed visibly across his face at that.

“But every time,” you continued quietly, squeezing his hand gently, “I kept thinking about your voice. About you making coffee in the kitchen. About you teaching me how to dance. About movie nights and tea and stupid pickle jars.” A watery laugh escaped you. “You were the thing I held onto.”

Bucky looked completely devastated by the tenderness of it. His forehead rested against yours again as his free hand slid carefully around your waist, pulling you closer until there was barely any space left between you at all.

“You’ve got me now,” he whispered.

And for the first time in weeks, maybe even longer than that, you believed it completely.

Safe.

You were finally safe.

The kiss happened slowly.

Not rushed or desperate, not like either of you were trying to make up for lost time. It was soft and careful and emotional enough that it made your chest ache, Bucky kissing you like he was terrified you’d disappear if he moved too quickly.

Your fingers curled slightly into the fabric of his shirt as he held you closer, his metal hand resting carefully against your side while the other cupped your jaw with impossible gentleness.

When he finally pulled back, both of you were smiling faintly despite the tears still gathered in your eyes.

Neither of you spoke for a while after that. There didn’t really seem to be anything left to say.

Not when Bucky was holding you like he’d been waiting two weeks to finally breathe again, and not when your heartbeat had finally settled for the first time since HYDRA took you.

His fingers traced slowly up and down your back while he held you against his chest, almost absentmindedly, like reassuring himself you were really here.

“I’m gonna spend the rest of my life making sure you know how loved you are,” he whispered quietly.

Your eyes stung immediately. “Good,” you whispered back. “Because I plan on doing the same thing to you.”

[ LOG 05: FACILITY INFILTRATION ] 

DATE: 2004-XX-XX 

PERSONNEL: Kennedy, L.S. (USSTRATCOM - Special Agent); Lockhart, E. (USSTRATCOM - Special Operative)

LOCATION: St. Sebastian’s Home for the Children // Main Entrance 

STATUS: PERIMETER BREACHED // ATMOSPHERIC ANOMALY DETECTED 

OBJECTIVE: Investigation of Facility Interior — [ STATUS: ACTIVE ]

Damp concrete. Old toys. A dreadful silence.

Those were the memories Leon had of the Raccoon City orphanage back in 1998. 

Places like that were supposed to be safe—until they weren’t. Leon had witnessed the extent of Umbrella’s atrocities far too many times. Thought he’d seen the worse of it, too.

He hadn’t.

St. Sebastian’s felt different. 

Too quiet. Too controlled. Curated to seem like art when all that lay beneath was rot. 

It made his stomach churn.

There was no civilization for miles, no way out, and the comms were a dead noise of faint static. To any average person—civilian or not—the sheer weight of the isolation would have invited resignation to death. But the glaringly obvious logistics of the area were not what made St. Sebastian’s a nightmare. 

It was the fact that the entire place appeared to be frozen in marbled time.

Calcified growths encroached up the stone pillars like a gargantuan wasp nest, white dust blanketing the landscape like a fall of volcanic ash. During its prime, the building might have resembled a cathedral—grand and imposing—but without the bell towers or the atmospheric reach of spires. Instead, it looked like a high-budget museum that should have stayed buried since the 1998 sweep.

The sight alone would’ve been enough to send someone running away.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. 

It was the statues.

They weren’t carved from granite or cast in bronze like most outdoor statuary. They were uncharacteristically, pristinely bone-white, their surfaces porous and matte, scattered across the entrance plaza with a sense of intentionality. 

A girl sat on a stone bench, her chin resting on her hand, staring at a fountain that had long since run dry. 

A boy stood near the heavy doors, his hand mid-wave, face permanently plastered into a grin.

“Lockhart,” Leon’s whisper cut through the vacuum of the courtyard. “Tell me your HUD isn’t picking up a thermal signature on these things.”

“None. For now,” she responded, her eyes still sweeping the perimeter. “Can’t say I’m fond of the decor.”

“It’s almost as bad as the gates,” Leon muttered, eyes locked on the boy at the door. He adjusted the grip on his gun. “Should’ve called in sick while I had the chance.”

“And miss out on the thrilling local culture, Kennedy? I thought you were a man of the world.”

“Traumatic local culture,” Leon corrected, stepping to the hardwood doors. "Also, I’d rather be home. With a drink."

“Huh. Noted.”

Leon’s lips quirked into a genuine, if fleeting, smirk. He leaned his shoulder against the wood, listening for any movement on the other side.

Silence.

“Ready to see what’s behind Door Number One? I’m betting it’s not a brand-new car.”

Estelle paused, her finger hovering near the door’s latch. She tilted her head slightly, the obsidian visor catching the pale, sickly light of the surroundings. “I’ll take my chances.”

“On three?”

“One.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

The doors glided open on hinges that had been recently oiled, revealing the reception area of St. Sebastian’s. 

That was the first wrong thing.

The second was its seeming normalcy despite its exterior state—like what they’ve seen in the outdoors never existed.

The lobby was immaculate. The checkered marble floor shone with a dull, waxed luster, catching the beam of Leon’s tactical light in sharp, geometric reflections. High above, a heavy crystal chandelier hung from a coffered ceiling, its prisms choked with the same white, mineralized dust that coated the exterior. The lights—albeit dimmed by the layer of dust on the bulb—were on, like this place was still fully operational.

Leon stepped inside first, combat boots sounding like gunshots on the hard stone. He swept the room, checking corners instinctively. 

"Okay... definitely not what I expected. No blood. No signs of a struggle,” he assessed.

‘... Like someone just hit the pause button on a random afternoon.’

The reception desk was neat and tidy. A small vase of dried, white lilies sat next to a brass call bell that gleamed as if it had been polished that very morning. Leon walked toward it with growing suspicion, eyes flitting at the guest ledger lying open on the counter. 

"This place is… Maintained," Estelle points out while Leon traced a gloved finger on the wooden surface of the reception desk. 

Dustless.

“Hell of a dedication. Even the desk is polished.”

Leon leaned over the reception desk, the beam of his tactical light cutting across the open ledger. The last entry was dated in 1989, ink on the brink of fading. Next to the guest list sat a stack of neatly filed documents, their corners crisp but yellowed. And at the very top of the stack lies a bold, red and white umbrella logo embossed in the corner of a formal letterhead.

Bingo.

“Anything there? Recent activities?”

"Surprise, surprise," Leon drawled, his voice tightening with a familiar, bitter edge. Estelle stepped closer, her sound-dampened boots ghosting over the marble. She watched as Leon traced a line of text on a shipping manifest from 1989.

UMBRELLA PHARMACEUTICALS (NORTH AMERICA) DISTRIBUTION MANIFEST: ST-SEBASTIAN-ARKLAY-09 DATE: MAY 12, 1989 CONSIGNEE: ST. SEBASTIAN’S HOME FOR THE CHILDREN // ATTN: DR. D. STERLING SHIPMENT ID: BATCH-H-ALPHA // CASE REF: 0025-0080 CONTENTS: - UNITS (60): VIAL-H104 PROPRIETARY IMMUNIZATION COMPOUND - UNITS (60): AUTO-INJECTOR APPARATUS (DISPOSABLE) INSTRUCTIONS: > Mandatory administration for all resident wards (Ages 4-16). Sub-cutaneous injection at the nape of the neck. Monitor for thermal oscillation and ocular dilation. Report all "High-Compatibility" subjects to the laboratory transition team immediately. [ AUTHORIZED BY: HQ-UK-MED ]

"Mandatory immunization shots," Leon echoed with a dark, cynical huff, sliding the document across the desk toward Estelle. She scanned the invoice, the logo mockingly reflecting in the obsidian curve of her visor. 

Antiseptic. Latex. A needle at the nape.

She bit the inside of her cheek. 

“Charity work,” she concluded, voice smooth but thinner than usual. “They always did have a soft spot for the vulnerable.”

“At what cost, I wonder,” Leon muttered bitterly, pocketing the piece of paper. “Same script, different victims.”

“... Unfortunately.”

Leon glanced back at the ledger, its faded ink barely clinging to the page. Then to the hallway.

“Alright,” he said. “So where’s the door to the basement?”

“Clues could be anywhere. Let’s start here.”

Leon turned his attention back to the desk, sliding a drawer open. It glided with the same eerie fluidity as the front doors. He rummaged through every box, finding nothing.

Until he reached the bottommost drawer.

Tucked behind a stack of stationery sat a small, velvet-lined box.

He hadn’t put in much thought, clicking it open. But the moment he saw its contents, he nearly dropped the box altogether, recoiling by a fraction of an inch. 

“Fucking hell—” he hissed, his tactical light shaking slightly as it centered on the box. 

A bone-white, petrified anatomical model of a human tongue.

Porous. Matte. Too similar to the statues outside to be coincidence. It was pulsing with a rhythm resembling a heartbeat, thin golden webbing glowing across its surface. 

It felt… alive. 

Like something preserved mid-scream.

Leon wanted to throw up. 

“Do not speculate, agent,” Estelle warned. “The mission.”

He forced his revulsion down with controlled breaths. Then dug into the box carefully, jostling the lining. 

Paper.

It was immediately fished out.

A torn scrap. Jagged edges at the top. Typewritten.

“… Offer up the tongue to silence, let the named depart, Surrender every spoken word to still the human heart.”

“‘Offer up the tongue to silence,’” Leon repeated. “First the gates, now this. They’re really leaning into the bit, aren't they.”

Estelle stared at the scrap. “Curated,” she murmured. The clinical detachment was there, but it felt thin, like ice over deep water. “High-effort desecration.”

Leon huffed once, a sharp, dry sound. “Subtle wasn’t an option, I guess.”

He rose, giving the box one last, lingering look before snapping it shut. The click was final, echoing too long in the hollow lobby.

“A scavenger hunt through a morgue,” he said with a weighted sigh, pocketing the box with a grimace. “God, I love my job.”

“I’ve always found games fun. Keeps the mind sharp,” Estelle replied dryly, already scanning the shadows at the back of the foyer.

“I prefer the ones that doesn’t have body parts involved,” Leon muttered. “But I guess we’re playing. Whether we like it or not.”

He scanned the space—left, the Girls’ Wing; right, the Boys’.

“So—split up?”

“After what we’ve seen? Absolutely not.” Estelle’s brows furrowed as she studied the corridors. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

Leon nodded, angling his light down the left corridor.

“Girls’ Wing, then. Maybe we’ll find something there. Or someone.”

Estelle arched a brow as she fell in behind him. “Elodie, you mean?”

“Yeah,” Leon said. “The name’s written in body parts. Kind of hard to ignore.”

Her lips thinned into an unimpressed but small frown. “For someone on a mission, you’re awfully invested in chasing a ghost.”

“I’m a cop, Lockhart. Or I was.” He shrugged faintly. “Habits just... stick.”

He slowed, his light catching on a row of small, dust-caked cardigans. She remained behind him a few steps back.

“... Whoever wrote that was desperate enough.” His jaw tightened slightly. “I want to know why.”

Estelle studied him for a moment longer than necessary, a quiet pondering passing behind the darkened glass. Then, she exhaled.

“Fair enough. Lead the way, Officer.”

As they moved deeper, the underlying domestic obsession began to fray at the edges. A much more unkempt side of St. Sebastian’s was revealed. Here, the maintenance hadn’t reached; several bulbs overhead flickered with a dying, orange pulse. The wallpaper—formerly white and sporting a faded pattern of silver Damask—was peeling away, revealing the cold, grey concrete of the building’s shell. 

They finally stopped by a door that was slightly ajar, hinges barely holding onto the panel of wood that was showing signs of rot.

GIRL’S DORMITORY

Leon eased the door open. 

The air within was saturated with the scent of rotting wood. Inside, the statues were engaged in yet another haunting pantomime. A girl sat on a rug caked in a fine, white silt, her hands clutching a stone book devoid of text. Nearby, another child stood at a chalkboard, her hand frozen mid-stroke as she solved a math problem.

Leon’s beam swept over a kneeling figure by a bed, catching the familiar but faint spiderwebbing across its nape. The fissures were hollow now, dimmed to a cold, ashen grey.

He stepped over a discarded teddy bear, the floorboards groaning under his weight, when faintly sturdy footfalls began to echo from the far end of the hallway. 

Thump. Thump. Thump.

It was drawing closer.

Leon didn't hesitate. 

He grabbed Estelle’s shoulder and hauled her downward while she nearly let out a yelp. They scrambled into the narrow, dust-choked gap beneath a rusted bunk bed just as a shadow eclipsed the doorway. Pressed together in a mess of tactical gear and bated breath, they waited. Leon’s pulse thundered in his ears as elongated marble-white feet entered the room.

Thmp-thmp... thmp-thmp...

‘Voiceless.’ Estelle identifies in her mind, recognizing its distant but booming heartbeat. 

For what seemed like an eternity, they remained still within their hiding spot. Leon’s attention was fixated solely on the monstrosity within the room, his eyes daring to peek through the gap every now and then. 

Estelle, however, was preoccupied with an entirely different curiosity.

As she shifted slightly, her fingers had found a loose, splintered floorboard directly beneath her nose. Through a gap in the wood, she spots the corner of something leather. 

It felt… familiar. A fascinating anomaly.

Slowly, with agonizing precision, she hooked two fingers into the rot and pried the board up just enough to fish out a thick, tattered, leather-bound book. 

Diary. That’s what was the only word embossed on the cover. 

Estelle quirked an eyebrow, sliding the item into a side pouch for later. She tried to slide the board back into place, but her tactical glove caught on a rusted nail. 

A subconscious jerk of her hand was all it took.

CRACK.

They both froze. 

Leon slowly turned his head, his face inches from hers, eyes darting to the now reslotted board. He shot her a look of such seething, unadulterated “you have got to be fucking kidding me” that it felt like a physical punch. 

Thmp-thmp. Thmp-thmp. 

Estelle offered a microscopic twitch at the corner of her lips, her face mostly as expressionless as she could muster while holding his gaze.

“... Shi—”

The mattress detonated. 

Ossified fingers punched through the bed frame. It hissed past Leon’s ear, close enough for him to feel the unnatural, dry heat radiating from the bone-white calcium.

"FUCK—!" Leon cursed, finally losing his cool as he kicked his way out from under the bed frame. He scrambled to his feet, rolling across the floor just as the Voiceless ripped the entire bedframe upward with a screech of tortured metal.

THMP—THMP. THMP—THMP.

Seven feet of hunched, calcified muscle stood where the bed had been. A featureless bulb for a head. A jagged mouth stitched shut with thick, rusted gold wires that pulsed with a rhythmic glow. Two recessed pits of bloodied molten amber.

A nightmare in marbled form.

It locked onto the nearest hostile—Leon.

"Lockhart, go! Hallway!"

His handgun barked, the burst of 9mm rounds echoing like whip-cracks in the confined space. He poured bullets into the creature's chest, but it did little more than kick up puffs of white mineral dust.

"Damn it—bullets aren't doing shit!"

The Voiceless lunged. Its arm scythed through the air in a wide, whistling arc, obliterating a nearby wooden dresser into a heap of kindling. Leon dived beneath the swing, the displaced air rushing over him with the parched heat of a furnace.

Estelle vaulted over a kneeling girl-statue, her boots skidding on a rug caked in pulverized stone. Reaching the threshold, she spun, her SMG raised to her shoulder.

"Joints!" she shouted, attempting to stitch rounds into its knees.

"Kind of busy!" Leon yelled back. He pivoted on his heel, dodging a downward smash that cratered the floorboards where his head had been a second before.

Estelle cursed under her breath. 

Inefficient. Insufficient penetration.

They need to crack its armor—fast. 

Her line of vision scans the environment rapidly, until it snagged on the ceiling: on the heavy, rusted chains of a swaying iron chandelier. 

A guillotine suspended by a single corroded bolt.

Her hand blurred to her thigh. A Harpy blade sang as it left its sheath, the high-tensile chains unspooling with a sharp, metallic hiss.

"Leon, down!"

Leon hit the deck without a second thought, sliding across the grit-covered floor as Estelle launched the blade. The weighted end whistled past the creature’s bulbous cranium, wrapping with violent centrifugal force around the chandelier’s support chain. With a sharp, practiced jerk of her shoulders, Estelle anchored her feet and put her entire weight into the pull.

The ceiling shrieked. The rusted bolt groaned one final time before the wood gave way.

CRASH.

The Voiceless was driven to its knees, the iron mass plummeting squarely on its hunched back. A spiderweb of deep, jagged fissures erupted across its back, the white mineral shell fracturing to reveal the raw, pulsing heat of the bio-organic flesh beneath.

Leon grunted, scrambling to his feet.

But the Voiceless wasn't done. 

It let out a distorted, enraged hum that shattered the remaining lightbulbs in the hall, plunging them into a strobe-like flickering. With a heave of its torso, it tossed the iron chandelier aside like a toy. It didn't turn back to Leon, locking onto the one who had dared to break its skin.

It darted, its speed an inhuman blur.

Estelle’s eyes widened, her fingers already retracting her chains, but the creature was a breath away. She spun in a desperate, reflexive dodge, rolling out of its reach. Its fist missed her by an inch, instead slamming with the force of a freight train into the back of a statue.

The girl standing eternally at the chalkboard.

As the statue snapped and crumbled, the inevitable, stomach-turning truth of St. Sebastian’s was laid bare.

From the shattered marble shell flowed a thick, lukewarm slurry of marrow and dark, un-oxygenated blood, steaming as it hit the cold floorboards. Estelle’s breathing turned ragged. Her muscles seized, knees locking in place as the familiar, metallic scent of iron and old copper filled her senses.

A beat. One scenario glitching into another. Then a giggle… from a child?

Her gaze was fixed on the viscous fluid pooling near her boots, the cold mask of a dangerous operative finally cracking.

Completely open for the kill.

Leon launched himself across the gap, his shoulder catching Estelle in the midsection as he tackled her out of the path of the fatal strike. They toppled together, sliding across the gore-slicked floorboards until they hit the far wall. Leon was on his feet in a heartbeat, his body a living shield as he shoved Estelle behind him.

"Lockhart, snap out of it!" he yelled.

He fired three rapid shots into the Voiceless’ left knee, the 9mm rounds finally lodging themselves in the cracks. The creature's leg buckled, and more shots were poured into its stress points.

Click. Click. Click.

Empty.

"Shit—" Leon hissed.

He reached for a fresh magazine, but the Voiceless had already sprung back to action, its fists raised like a war hammer. In those crucial seconds, he felt a sharp, authoritative tug at his shoulder. Estelle reached over Leon’s left shoulder, her fingers hooking into the grip of the shotgun sheathed on his back.

"Hey—!"

The weight of the weapon leaving the scabbard jerked Leon’s torso backward, nearly sending him off-balance. She rolled out from behind him, racking the slide with a violent, mechanical CHACK-CHACK—cutting through vibrations like a thunderclap.

BOOM.

The first shell caught the Voiceless squarely in its chest. A spray of white shrapnel erupted from the impact site, the creature being thrown backward by the sheer kinetic force.

CHACK-CHACK.

BOOM.

The second shot was an act of pure, concentrated spite. It caught the Voiceless in its sewn-shut mouth, obliterating the golden wires and the calcified jaw. The creature's head snapped back, the vibration finally dying into a wet, gurgling groan as it collapsed into a heap of broken stone and tar.

The silence that followed was deafening. The only sound was the rhythmic ticks of the cooling shotgun barrel and the ragged, uneven breathing of two people who nearly died.

Estelle stood over the remains. She stared at the thickened puddle with a sense of simmering rage and deep-seated grief.

Leon stood up slowly, his lungs burning from the exerted effort of the fight. He looked at the wreckage of the room—the shattered bed, the broken girl, the dead monstrosity, and finally her.

“Lockhart—”

“—Don’t.”

Her jaw was clenched impossibly tight. Her breathing stayed ragged as she kept hold of his shotgun in a lethal grip.

“... Alright.”

Leon stood still, letting her simmer down from the rush. 

A minute passed, followed by another.

Then, Estelle finally swallowed, her voice thinning to a rough whisper. “They’re not statues. All of them... the garden decor, the children in the hall... they... they’re not statues.”

“... I know.”

He didn’t ask for the gun back. Didn’t lecture her on stealing his weapon in the middle of a fight either. He just stepped closer and rested a steadying hand on her shoulder, his touch doing what words couldn’t.

“I’ve got you,” he said quietly. “We’re getting out. Now.”

She handed the shotgun back like it burned, then gave a reluctant nod. He guided her toward the exit with a hand at the small of her back.

Leon took the lead once more, raising his flashlight as they navigated through the shrouded path of the main hallway. To him, it was the same sight as before.

But for Estelle, it was an entirely different scenario.

The shadows didn’t vanish all at once. They peeled back in uneven fragments—like a memory surfacing where it shouldn’t. Sunlight began to bleed through windows that she knew were broken. The scent of copper and wet stone was gone, softened into something gentle—floor wax, lavender detergent. The faint, artificial comfort of a place that once pretended it was safe.

Children moved where there should have been statues.

Laughter echoed where there should have been silence.

Lively. Familiar. Present.

No. This is wrong. A cruel lie. 

Her vision was split, stacking in layers that refused to align.

Rotting walls. Sunlit hall.

Statues. Children.

Silence. Laughter.

For a moment—too long a moment—she wasn’t an operative under USSTRATCOM.

She was late for tea.

"Come on! Before the Headmaster sees!" a girl’s voice whispered in her ear, clear and vibrant.

Estelle’s breath hitched.

“Lockhart?” Leon’s voice broke through, like it had to cross something thick to reach her. A hand closed around her arm. Firm. Real.

“Stay with me.”

She allowed herself to be led gently. Not by choice—but because a treacherous part of her wanted to stay a little longer. Her boots padded against the floor, each step landing in a place that couldn’t decide what it was. 

Marble or wood. Ruin or home.

No. No, no— 

The mission. The mission comes fi—

The lullaby came without warning.

Soft. Fractured. Unwanted.

“Hush, little birdie, don’t you cry, Papa’s gonna buy you a piece of the sky. And if that piece of sky should fall— The stone will rise— —to catch us— all.”

[ LOG 06: SECTOR CLEARANCE ] 

DATE: 2004-XX-XX 

PERSONNEL: Kennedy, L.S. (USSTRATCOM - Special Agent); Lockhart, E. (USSTRATCOM - Special Operative) 

LOCATION: St. Sebastian’s Home for the Children // West Wing (Girls’ Dormitory) 

STATUS: WEST WING SECURED // SUBJECT [LOCKHART] STABILIZING

PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: Anatomical Key Retrieval — [ STATUS: 33% COMPLETE ] 

SECONDARY OBJECTIVE: Identify 'Elodie' — [ STATUS: ONGOING ] 

TERTIARY OBJECTIVE: Personnel Stabilization — [ STATUS: CRITICAL ]

OBSERVATION: Operative Lockhart exhibiting destabilization with the facility environment. Agent Kennedy assuming primary tactical command during Operative’s cognitive drift.

[ END OF FILE ]

⠀⠀For Nanami, everything changed once his overtime hours ended, when the brilliant rays of sunlight were replaced by the faint glow of the moon. That was when he finally shut off his computer screen, slipped on his blazer, and picked up his briefcase from the floor. On his way out, he bid the security guard farewell with a faint smile, and after crossing the large doors, he made his way toward the station. Hardly anyone walked around him, taxis drifted empty through the streets, and the noise from the bars echoed loudly enough to spill out into the night. It was his return to peace, even more so when he stopped before that little establishment and gently pushed the door open, making the small crystal bell chime softly.

⠀⠀Inside the bakery, the only sound was the music playing quietly through the speakers. The chairs rested upside down atop the tables, napkin holders were stacked in one corner of the counter, and the display lights had already been turned off. The sound announcing his arrival alerted a young woman in the kitchen, finishing preparations for the following morning. Tired little eyes and an apron dusted in flour were what greeted him that night, but the moment she saw the blond-haired man with the noticeable dark circles beneath his eyes, a bright smile spread across the young woman’s face.

⠀⠀“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come tonight” she admitted while hurrying toward the back of the bakery and pulling out a paper bag with a loaf of bread inside. “It got a little cold in the end, I’m sorry.”

⠀⠀Nanami smiled, dismissing the matter as unimportant while handing her the money. It had become part of his small nightly ritual, he always stopped by at the same hour, at the same bakery, ordering the same thing after trying everything they had to offer. What kept bringing him back again and again was not truly the bread; he realized that one day when they had nothing left to offer except coffee, a sign taped to the door announcing it, yet even disappointed by the lack of bread, Nanami entered that evening simply to exchange a few pleasantries with the woman attending the shop that night. He didn’t know whether he could say he was in love. Maybe yes, maybe no, he truly didn’t know. He couldn’t discern the thin line separating friendship from love. Years had passed since his first visit to that bakery. Since he met the beautiful clerk and decided to take the first step toward speaking to her. There was something comforting in her mere presence, something that made him return over and over again, something that once urged him to ask her out one afternoon, though that very same day another handsome man had gotten there first.

⠀⠀He had been incapable of recognizing the jealousy that consumed him that afternoon, but afterward he was forced to place limits upon the wandering thoughts that drifted through his mind every time he saw her. And so the years passed, unable to stop his heart from racing at the mere presence of the girl beside him who spoke carelessly about her day, Nanami felt as though he were witnessing a side of her no one else could see, a peculiar sort of honesty. She spoke as though afraid it might be the last time someone listened to her, and she always seemed surprised whenever Kento returned to the shop the following night. It almost seemed as though the two of them had extended their schedules just to see one another during those late hours, hidden away from the passersby who rarely even glanced inside once they noticed the CLOSED sign hanging outside, despite the suited man seated quietly in the corner while the sweet clerk spoke to him from behind the counter.

⠀⠀That habit began one evening when a group of boys barged noisily into the small bakery, taking advantage of the solitude in which the girl worked, until Nanami’s presence interrupted them. That night, he promised to walk her to the station so she would never have to close alone again. That was how he learned she owned a dog, that writing was her favorite pastime, that she adored mystery novels and collected vinyl records. She loved the color green, and her dream had always been to travel around the world. She also told him she lived with her boyfriend, and that a year later they married. The ring adorning her finger was a small reminder of it, though his name rarely ever left her lips, as though she did not wish to remember who was waiting for her at home.

⠀⠀He began noticing it a few months earlier, when she started avoiding the questions of other customers, of elderly women who wished her luck in her marriage while she answered only with an uncomfortable smile. Others might have thought her smile looked normal, but in Nanami’s eyes there was something unmistakably different about it. The happiness with which she once recalled the day of her wedding had slowly faded with the passing days, then months, until finally years. She no longer smiled the way she once had when her husband came to pick her up after a long shift, nor when he stopped by for coffee. Since then, everything had become more formal, more routine, and their conversations had grown longer, heavier even, and of course melancholic.

⠀⠀He listened to the young woman speak of her marriage with nostalgia, as though it had happened a decade ago. She no longer sounded cheerful when speaking about it; instead, it felt like something she forced herself to mention so she would not forget, to continue reminding herself that the stranger waiting for her in the same bed had once been her husband. And it shattered Nanami from the inside. He hated admitting it because he had no right to feel anything about it, but the way her wide smile and full lips had slowly lost their brightness over time filled him with sorrow. The way her glossy wavy hair had become flat and lifeless, her uniform wrinkled and stained most days; fingers covered in cuts and bandages, and her once lively personality dimmed beneath sadness.

⠀⠀Then his sadness turned into anger. He hated that such a beautiful woman could feel this way because of someone who had failed to appreciate her, someone who deliberately toyed with her feelings. He hated that she was not cherished the way she deserved, that no one valued her intelligence or understood her peculiar sense of humor. He detested hearing her short, restrained sentences, as though she held back her thoughts for fear something terrible might happen. Kento believed all of that remained trapped inside his mind, but the truth was that from the moment her delicate figure sat beside him, Nanami had not stopped speaking about everything that frustrated him. About how unfairly she was treated and how she undoubtedly deserved something better. Better like what? he wondered bitterly. He couldn’t even answer that question with his own name, because it would have been a lie. He had been thinking about her in indecent ways, ways he would have been ashamed to admit knowing she was married.

⠀⠀The surprise in the young woman’s eyes was the sign he needed to realize he had confessed every ounce of his turmoil. Her tears and trembling voice were what embedded themselves deepest into his subconscious. He wasn’t merely listening and speaking anymore, he had made her open her eyes, at least a little.

⠀⠀He made her realize that from the moment she woke until the moment she went to bed, she did everything alone. No one greeted her with a smile, much less with dinner already waiting for her. The domestic life they had once shared had turned into simple coexistence, as though their only concern now was avoiding getting in each other’s way whenever they crossed paths in the hallway. Her husband’s tender words had gradually become hostile, almost like commands and obligations; soft conversations replaced by shouting, and gentle music replaced by slamming doors.

⠀⠀She had spent so long trapped in that torturous monotony that she barely remembered what it felt like to be loved, to be desired. She longed to be touched as though the world were ending, to be loved beneath a soft blanket on a cold Sunday while watching a movie together. She wanted her life back, and all the love she had lost, wasted even, trying to repair something that had broken long ago.

⠀⠀"Why are you telling me all of this?" she finally asked, lifting her gaze slightly from the table to look him in the eyes. Without realizing it, Nanami had already begun to become part of her life, part of her routine, but not her monotony. Before she even noticed it, she had started longing for midnight to arrive just so he would walk through the door, sit at the same table, and talk to her. Sometimes she even caught herself delaying tasks just to close later and spend more time with him. "Why now? After all these years?".

⠀⠀"A bad decision, I suppose. Maybe a mistake" Nanami tried to excuse himself.

⠀⠀"You never make mistakes, Kento."

⠀⠀"Yes, I do" he answered plainly. His first mistake had been desiring her in ways he would never confess, wanting her while alone in his apartment and unable to rid himself of thoughts of her. His second was courting her, subtly perhaps, but always with the same intention. His third was never stopping, even though he knew she was married. And the fourth was loving her so intensely that his heart beat so violently he feared she might hear it whenever they were together. But above all else, what he valued most was her friendship and companionship. Yet the man speaking that night was his selfishness itself. He could not help feeling selfish for confessing his feelings while she was so vulnerable. But the more he buried them, the more he felt he was losing himself. "I’ve made many mistakes. I make them every single day. But the one thing I would never allow is for you to doubt my love for you, not even for a single second of your life."

⠀⠀His words fell over her like a bucket of icy water, so cold that every coherent thought she had froze alongside her very being. She didn’t answer. She didn’t know how to. And without another word, she finished cleaning the shop so she could finally make her way home.

⠀⠀She had expected Nanami to be gone by then, though she would have regretted her silence had that been the case. Yet when she stepped out of the small storage room after changing clothes, Kento was still there, seated quietly, reading a thin book he had brought in his briefcase. They did not speak then either, only closed the shop before beginning to walk through the deserted streets. Nanami did not say a word even when they took a different path from the one leading to the station. He had already missed the last train and had no choice now but to call a taxi, yet he had not expected to suddenly find himself standing before the entrance of an apartment building, staring at his own reflection in the glass door. His broad frame completely overshadowed the young woman standing before him, facing the door with her back to him. He assumed she was unlocking it, yet she remained motionless, eyes fixed upon the lock.

⠀⠀"I’ll call a ta—"

⠀⠀"Do you want to come in?" she interrupted, turning toward him and tilting her head up to look at him.

⠀⠀He nearly dropped the briefcase at her proposition. He was unmistakably surprised by her boldness. It felt as though he would be taking advantage of her vulnerability if he accepted, yet her gaze overflowed with certainty and confidence. It was a genuine offer; she truly wanted him to come inside. She had wanted it for so long that she almost felt ashamed, as though she were betraying someone who had betrayed her long ago already, someone who had not lived in that home for days now.

⠀⠀"It’s late. The trains stopped running hours ago, and it’s Friday…"

⠀⠀"I’ll come in. Thank you" he accepted, leaving the doubt behind in that doorway.

⠀⠀They crossed the threshold and the lobby until they reached the elevator. One floor passed, then another, and another. Little by little, the uncomfortable silence had faded, and now it was only that, silence, almost comfortable, one might dare say. There was more than enough space inside the elevator, and yet they chose to stand together, shoulder to shoulder, brushing lightly against one another, allowing not only the floors to rise, but also the warmth emanating from their bodies.

⠀⠀The young baker began to doubt herself as she walked down the hallway, as she drew closer and closer to her door. She could hear his footsteps behind her, and her nerves only worsened. What did she expect from all this? What did she expect from him? What did she want from him? If she lied to herself, she would answer that she only wanted company, that she did not wish to be alone after her heart had shattered into pieces before the reality she was forced to face. If she were honest, she would say that she wanted him, that she needed him. She longed for his company beyond the physical boundaries imposed by the label of "friends", she would adore feeling his hands around her body, having him hold her and keep her close as though the world were going to end tomorrow. She wanted Kento Nanami and everything that came with him.

⠀⠀"So these are your famous records" Nanami spoke at last once inside, standing before a shelf overflowing with vinyls and a record player.

⠀⠀She had been so absorbed in her thoughts that she had not even realized she had opened the door and that they were both already inside, Kento in the living room observing the records, while she stood in the kitchen pouring two glasses of whisky. Her apartment was not large; it was a studio, with the kitchen and living room connected, separated only by an island with three stools. Everything was painted in shades of orange and green, accented here and there with touches of blue and yellow. A gentle breeze drifted in through the open balcony door, making the plants decorating the corners sway softly. The paintings, the books, and the decorations reflected everything she had mentioned time and time again that she loved. It was a house that felt warm. A home.

⠀⠀"You have good taste" Kento admitted, taking the liberty of pulling a few vinyls from their places on the shelf to examine them before carefully sliding them back.

⠀⠀She crossed the living room and handed him a glass, the ice clinking softly inside. Nanami accepted it and set it down on the small table so he could remove his suit jacket and place his briefcase on the floor beside it, taking a seat on one of the sofas facing the record player, loosening his tie in the process. The young baker watched him intently, almost shamelessly, feeling her cheeks begin to burn whenever she saw the muscles in his back flex beneath his shirt or his forearms tense beneath the rolled-up sleeves as he loosened the knot of his tie. His blond hair was tousled and gleamed beneath the dim orange lights illuminating the apartment, giving him an even more intimate appearance.

⠀⠀Kento said nothing, yet she could see him distractedly observing the place with interest. He had crossed a boundary he never expected to cross; he was inside her apartment, inside her home, fully immersed in her intimacy. And so he wondered what she was like within those walls, he imagined her tousled hair as she made coffee in the kitchen, the careful way she chose which vinyl to play whenever the mood struck her, what book she would pick on a Saturday afternoon and in which corner of the sofa she would sit to write. He imagined what her intimacy must be like, though the graceful way she slipped the vinyl from its sleeve and lowered the needle onto the record to let it play already revealed more than enough.

⠀⠀Everybody Here Wants You began to play softly in the background as she approached him, swaying her hips in a mesmerizing way, allowing herself to be carried by the rhythm of the music. Nanami shifted on the sofa, sitting at its edge, forced to leave his half-finished whisky on the coffee table so he could devote his full attention to the woman walking toward him. She did not sit beside him. Instead, she remained standing before Kento, looking down at him while taking a sip of her drink before setting it beside his.

⠀⠀The liquor barely affected them, so it was not alcohol guiding their movements, but rather the purest desire and longing pulling them toward one another. Kento’s large hands ventured to grasp her waist and, still seated, he spread his legs to draw her toward him in a single pull until her legs met the edge of the sofa. His fingers toyed with the hem of her shirt, lifting it slightly, revealing only the barest glimpse of skin. And his eyes, oh, his eyes, remained fixed upon her, gazing up at her as though she were the most majestic being he had ever seen.

⠀⠀She did not fall behind him either. Her fingers caressed his hair, tangling within it and disheveling it further, her hand then gliding gently down along his temples, his cheekbones, until her thumb brushed against his lips, still damp from the whisky. She wished she could say her nerves had faded, yet they were more present than ever in every movement. None of this was right, even if that wedding ring had stopped adorning her finger long ago, yet her desire, the connection she felt, was far stronger than guilt.

⠀⠀With her left hand, she gently pushed against his shoulder, making his broad back fall once more against the sofa’s backrest, forcing him to release his grip on her hips, though it did not last long. Carefully, she settled herself upon his lap, straddling him. They held each other’s gaze while the song continued to play softly in the background, though she could barely hear it anymore. She wrapped both arms around his neck as she felt Kento’s hands slide to the small of her back, pulling her even closer against him, their torsos pressed together. Their eyes drifted from one another’s gaze to their lips and from their lips back to their eyes again, until little by little they began to lean in.

⠀⠀At first, her lips brushed against his neck, carried away by the scent of coffee mingled with cologne. Then they trailed upward along his jaw, his chin, and she would have continued toward his temple and finally his ear, but Kento did not allow it. Using his left hand to cradle her face tenderly, he captured her lips with his own in a kiss filled with near desperation and passion.

⠀⠀His lips tasted of coffee and whisky, and the scent of his cologne clouded her senses entirely. She unraveled beneath every kiss, every brush of his body against hers, moving instinctively in search of even more contact, if such a thing were possible. His kisses were rough and needy, yet the tenderness with which he held her was enough to keep her from breaking apart.

⠀⠀She could feel his long hands lifting her skirt, traveling upward from her ankles to her thighs. Meanwhile, she unbuttoned his shirt, letting his tie fall carelessly to one side. Her fingers wandered over his torso then, gliding down across his chest, venturing dangerously along the path toward the waistband of his trousers. She felt him tense beneath her touch, the small shivers that swept across his skin. Nanami finally broke away from the kiss, resting his forehead against hers, their breathing uneven as he slipped his hands from beneath her skirt, smoothing the fabric back into place before lifting his eyes to meet hers once again.

⠀⠀Their clothes were wrinkled, half-removed; cheeks flushed, breaths ragged, hair thoroughly disheveled. Their hearts raced wildly, their eyes glimmering faintly. That moment had always been the centerpiece of every fantasy inhabiting the deepest corners of her mind, yet now that she held it at her fingertips, she did not want him to believe she wanted him only for this.

⠀⠀"I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’ve wanted this for a very long time" he began to speak again over the music. His hands played with the hem of her shirt, brushing torturously against her skin, while one of the young woman’s hands came to rest against his cheek, her thumb stroking softly over his cheekbone. "Wanting to undress you, wanting to see every expression you make, every side of you… But I also want to see you when you’re alone, when you read your books, when you arrange your records" he added, tilting his head slightly into the palm of her hand. "I want to remind you every single day how much I love you, to make you feel cherished and desired. I want you to feel that you matter".

⠀⠀The honesty in his words made her heart tighten painfully, tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. That was the kind of love she had always wanted, one that did not question her habits, that did not judge her silence, much less her words. A sincere love that would make her feel wanted every day of her life.

⠀⠀She cradled the man’s face in both hands and leaned down to kiss him once more, tasting the tears that had already reached her lips.

⠀⠀"I want you to be the one who makes me feel that way too".

⠀⠀Such a brief confirmation, yet more than enough. Nanami had been there when she needed him, had listened to her without judgment through countless nights, had simply listened. One might say she settled for very little, yet that little was precisely what she needed for her days to stop feeling gray, for her mornings to regain their color, for her life to recover its lost meaning. She did not need unconditional love; she needed sincere understanding, a sincere desire to stay.

⠀⠀Kento rose from the sofa, trapping her tightly within his arms. She began to walk backward toward the bedroom without parting from his lips until they collided softly against the door. In that instant, they separated with ragged breaths, searching one another’s eyes for one final confirmation before what they both knew was about to happen. A small smile curved her lips as she stretched out a hand and turned the doorknob, entering the room together with Nanami.

⠀⠀That bedroom, which should have felt as intimate and warm as the rest of the apartment, was in truth the coldest and most impersonal place within it, filled with memories that evoked far more pain than happiness. Memories of what her life had once been, of what had once made her suffer and dread her own existence. But in that moment, with the music drifting softly in the background and herself being gently laid upon the plush mattress that sighed beneath her weight, the room seemed brighter than ever before. She stood out against the cold white sheets as though that had always been her place, beside Kento.

⠀⠀Lying upon the bed, she watched as Nanami finally removed the shirt that had already been hanging from his forearms since the journey from the sofa to the bedroom. She observed attentively the way his muscles flexed, the way his sculpted abdomen and chest stood out beneath the faint glow of the streetlights filtering in from outside. He seemed to her like the reincarnation of the most beautiful statue ever carved, unreal even more so when he positioned himself above her, covering her completely with his body, placing one knee between her legs before leaning down to kiss her again. Nanami’s kisses were needy, almost wild, she would say, yet they carried a trace of tenderness that drove her mad and made them addictive, leaving her desperate to wrap her arms around his neck in search of even greater closeness. His hands were no less eager; while his left hand braced itself against the headboard so as not to place all his weight upon her, his right masterfully rid her of her clothes, first her blouse, then her skirt, and finally her stockings, until she was left only in her undergarments.

⠀⠀That was the moment her alarms flared inside her. Nothing remained to shield her from his gaze anymore, yet the blond man’s eyes held nothing but the deepest desire. He desired her regardless of anything else, without pausing at her body, her scars, or the appearance she herself so often despised. Those beautiful eyes of his seemed incapable of expressing anything but love, anything but the purest admiration and devotion, and while looking into her eyes he slid a hand down her back, unclasping her bra before letting his hand continue lower, between her legs, while his lips devoted their attention to that newly revealed part of her.

⠀⠀With every caress, every kiss, every slow roll of his hips against hers… everything drew sighs and moans of his name from her lips as she wrapped her legs around his bare waist, desperate for greater intensity, greater closeness. She felt as though she were touching heaven with every movement, and she let him know through words he seemed to adore, for a small smile appeared upon his lips each time he heard her speak. If this was what it meant to be truly loved, then she never wished to wake if this truly was a dream. She was in love, and it was precisely that love that made her fear that once their bodies separated and the night came to an end, she would no longer find him in her bed. Yet when she opened her eyes at the first rays of sunlight and saw him in her kitchen preparing the coffee she adored so much, she could not help but smile, parting her lips to whisper:

⠀⠀"I love you."

⠀⠀Only to be answered with the warmest and most beautiful smile she had ever seen.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Mystery Shack loomed ahead. Black fog still clung to the walls like living shadow, coiling across the siding and creeping along the ground. The yard felt colder than it should have and the decorations hung limp in the still air.

Evalin stepped toward the Litha shrine.

The candles still sat exactly where she left them, burning with orange light.

Dipper and Mabel hovered behind her as she knelt beside the altar and lowered the glowing Wisp toward the first candle.

“Alright, little one,” she murmured softly. “Do your thing.”

The Wisp flickered uncertainly in her hand before the air shifted as the fog behind the shrine stirred.

Slowly, a familiar burlap-masked shape formed out of the shadows.

The Spirit of Summerween stood there, watching.

“Uh... guys?” Dipper said nervously, pointing.

Mabel leaned around Evalin.

“Hey! Be careful. It's that creepy not kid again.”

Evalin didn't look back, keeping her eyes on the Wisp, but her voice dropped into a low hiss.

“If you even think about interrupting this, I swear to the stars I will stab you.”

The Spirit tilted its head as its gravelly voice rasped through the fog.

“I would love to see you try.”

Evalin's lip curled.

“Don't fucking test me, beast,” she muttered darkly. “I eat pieces of shit like you for breakfast.”

The Spirit let out a strange, childish chuckle that scraped through the night air, but it didn't move, didn't try to stop her.

The Wisp drifted from Evalin's palm and touched the first wick.

The flame shifted from orange to a cool, ghostly blue.

The fire pulsed once before leaping to the next candle, and the next.

Cold light spread across the shrine in a sudden chain reaction, every wick catching with a soft whoosh until the entire altar burned with eerie blue light.

The ground trembled.

The fog around the Shack writhed violently, twisting like something alive.

Then vanished, like like a breath released.

The heavy darkness lifted, dissolving into the night air until only the warm glow of the Shack's lanterns remained.

“We did it!” Mabel shouted, grabbing Dipper's arm.

Dipper stared at the house as the last wisps of shadow faded away.

“Huh,” he muttered. “That was easier than I expected.”

“Maybe for you,” Evalin grumbled. “You didn't do anything.”

Behind them, the Spirit of Summerween sighed, its stitched smile widening.

“Balance has been restored.”

Its hollow gaze drifted toward Evalin and leaned closer, voice lowering into a whisper meant only for her.

“See you next year, witch.”

Evalin slowly turned her head and glared at it.

“Not if I have anything to do about it.”

The Spirit chuckled again before dissipating into a puff of black smoke.

The moment it vanished—the front door of the Mystery Shack burst open.

Stan stumbled out first, nearly tripping over the threshold.

“Finally!” he barked, brushing soot off his jacket. “What the hell was that fog?! The door wouldn't open!”

Behind him, Ford stepped outside, adjusting his glasses.

“I've been attempting to force it open for nearly an hour,” he muttered, looking around the yard. “We must find the source of what caused the lockdown.”

“That was the Spirit of Summerween, Grunkle Ford,” Dipper explained.

Stan blinked.

“The what now?”

Mabel bounced excitedly.

“It cursed the Shack because our Litha shrine was messing with the spooky vibes. So we had to find a Will-O-Wisp and light the candles with it!”

Stan stared at them, more confused than before the explanation.

“...You what?”

Dipper pointed proudly at the shrine.

“We resolved the curse and freed you guys.”

Ford folded his arms, studying the glowing candles with interest.

“Well done,” he said thoughtfully.

Mabel nodded vigorously.

“And Evi helped too! She grabbed the Wisp with her bare hands!”

Ford's head snapped toward her immediately.

“You did what?”

Evalin froze, having been quietly standing off to the side.

Now the brothers were staring at her.

Ford stepped closer, fascinated.

“A Will-O-Wisp emits volatile arcane energy. Direct contact causes severe burns.”

Evalin stared back at him for a long moment before slowly reaching up and tugging the brim of her hat over her eyes.

“...It wasn't a big deal.”

Ford's expression softened.

“Well,” he said gently, “regardless, thank you for helping them. That was very brave.”

Evalin said nothing.

She just stood there, face half-hidden under her hat and cheeks puffed.

Ford glanced toward the glowing shrine, then toward the empty yard.

“Since the candles are already lit,” he added thoughtfully, “we might as well continue the Litha tradition properly.”

Evalin peeked out from under the brim of her hat.

“...What do you mean by that?”

He smiled warmly at her.

“The bonfire, of course. Since this is a Litha celebration, we need to have one.”

She hesitated as if the idea caught her off guard.

Ford gestured them to follow.

“I believe we still have some firewood behind the Shack,” he said as he started walking toward the backyard.

Mabel elbowed her brother, shouting, “Race you!” before taking off.

Dipper rubbed his arm before running after her.

Stan strolled a bit slower, mumbling about missing out on scaring more kids.

After a moment of hesitation, Evalin sighed heavily and followed as well.

~n~

The bonfire crackled, sending golden sparks spiraling into the night sky. The warmth of the flames bathed the group in flickering light, casting long shadows over the backyard of the Mystery Shack.

Mabel sat on a log, humming happily to herself as she popped a piece of candy in her mouth. Dipper was beside her, flipping through his journal.

“Now that's what I call a successful Summerween,” Stan said, leaning back in his chair with a smug grin. “No kids chickened out too early, nobody threw eggs at the Shack, and I got to make at least three different teenagers cry.”

“Yes,” Ford sighed, rolling his eyes. “Truly a proud moment.”

Mabel suddenly jumped to her feet.

“Oh. My. Gosh!”

Everyone turned to her.

“I didn't get to go trick-or-treating!”

Stan burst out laughing.

Mabel whirled toward him.

“Grunkle Stan!” she wailed, clutching her face in horror. “This is a crisis!”

“Relax, pumpkin. I got you covered.”

He reached behind his chair and tossed her a slightly crumpled plastic bag.

Mabel opened it and gasped.

“Candy?! What did you—?”

Stan smirked, wiping his nose.

“Some kid got spooked, dropped his stash, and ran,” he said with a shrug. “Finders keepers.”

“You terrorized a child for candy?!”

“I acquired candy through... strategic means.”

“You totally stole it, didn't you?” Dipper asked with a dry look.

Stan pointed a finger-gun at him.

“You ain't got no proof, kid.”

Mabel clutched the bag to her chest, eyes shining.

“Grunkle Stan, you magnificent criminal!”

“Stanley...” Ford groaned. “You can't just steal from children.”

“I didn't steal anything,” Stan shot back. “I just accepted a generous, fear-induced donation.”

Mabel, already shoveling candy into her mouth, gave a thumbs-up.

“No complaints here,” she chirped before promptly coughing up a wrapper.

“You're not supposed to eat the wrapper, Mabel,” Dipper scolded.

Mabel shrugged and kept eating the candy, wrapper and all.

Evalin watched the entire exchange in silence. Then she sighed before rising to her feet.

“Alright,” she said, revealing a handful of bay leaves. “One more tradition.”

Mabel perked up.

“Ooo! Witchy stuff?”

“Witchy stuff,” Evalin repeated with a small smirk and held up a leaf. “It's simple. Write a wish on the leaf, anything you want to bring into your life. Then toss it into the fire. The flames carry it out into the world.”

“Magic wishes?!” Mabel gasped, choking on another wrapper.

Dipper patted her on the back.

“I mean... technically fire rituals have been used in cultures for centuries to symbolize transformation and renewal. So it's less about 'magic' and more about—“

Mabel, recovering quickly, shoved a bay leaf into his hands.

“Less talking! More wishing, nerd!”

Evalin smirked as she passed out the leaves.

Ford's curiosity piqued and he joined.

Stan eyed the leaf suspiciously.

“And what do I wish for exactly?”

“Whatever you want,” Evalin answered. “Don't worry. It won't Monkey Paw you.”

“C'mon, Stanley,” Ford said as he nudged his brother with his elbow. “It never hurts to make a wish.”

“Fine,” Stan huffed as he took the leaf. “But if I'm gonna put in effort, it better happen.”

He scribbled something quickly and tucked the leaf between his fingers.

Mabel wiggled in her seat, tongue poking out as she thought.

“This is hard! Do I wish for infinite candy or eternal youth?”

“One of those is significantly more achievable than the other,” Dipper deadpanned.

“You're right!” she gasped and scribbled something quickly. “I'll just wish for both.”

One by one, they all finished.

Evalin held her leaf between her fingers, staring at it for a moment.

Her wish—what she wanted more than anything in the multiverse—

Her leaf was filled with doodles of stars.

She held it to her chest before silently tossing it into the fire.

The others followed and watched as the bay leaves curled with the flame. Their edges glowed orange before turning to soft gray ash, disappearing into the night.

For a moment, no one spoke as the fire crackled, warm and steady.

Then Ford broke the silence.

“That was nice.”

“Super nice,” Mabel added with a bright smile.

“Hope the universe is listenin',” Stan grumbled. “I want my money.”

Evalin watched as the last embers floated into the sky.

Something felt heavy in her chest.

She sat on the ground and brought her knees to her chest, watching as the stars twinkled above her.

Ford noticed and leaned closer.

“Are you alright, Evalin?” he whispered.

She hummed in response, not meeting his gaze.

“Yeah, I'm fine.” Then she added, “Just... thinking.”

“About?” he asked gently.

She hesitated, her eyes softening with longing.

“Nothing,” she whispered so quietly it was almost lost to the sound of fire crackling.

“Nothing at all.”

~~~~~

Ford's Journal Entry (June 22nd) -> Here

~~~~~

Tumblr Links: << Chapter 1 // < Chapter 27 // Chapter 28 // Chapter 29 >

Ao3 Links: << Chapter 1 // < Chapter 27 // Chapter 28 // Chapter 29 >

"My king! My family and I are utterly grateful for your hospitality. Your home is as great as the tales tell!" Before this arrangement her father refused to visit King's Landing himself. The threat of either assassination or imprisonment still lingered for a long time after the Blackfyre rebellion. Elira's grandsire made sure of it. "Our journey was as pleasant as it could be in King's Landing, Gods be good." Her father politely replied bowing his head before looking up.

"Gods be good! I am glad to meet you here as your king. May our houses join together in friendship and loyalty. And may you enjoy our royal generosity and may your stay be as pleasant and illuminating as your journey, my liege lord." The king looked down at the family.

Lord Quartis bowed as his wife and daughters curtsied before their house joined the people crowding the left side of the room and turned to face the king as the ceremony continued.

Elira had the opportunity to inspect the Great Hall. The walls of the windows let in light through the narrow windows. The ceiling was so tall she thought that there was a dark hollow there. But what impressed her even further were the dragon skulls decorating the walls. Even just their remains made her think of them as magnificent beasts. Elira felt the same sorrow that overcame her when she woke up one night from a dream about a dragon. A gigantic beautiful creature stood before her enveloped in bright red smoke. It was so close to her, she could only see the side of its face. Her hand reached out to place itself on its scaly skin below the eyes that were...

The dream disappeared like a red smoke when she heard women close behind her whispering.

"... isn't prince Valarr wonderful?" Elira listened in mostly because she couldn't ignore the whispers coming from the two strange ladies, resembling the sounds Elira used to make when she was trying to learn how to whistle from Mathias. When she succeeded, her mother scolded her for not acting like a proper lady.

"And dreamy... Anna said that the prince had promised the first win of the upcoming tourney to his wife... Isn't that just galant?" Elira looked over at the line of people standing at the foot of the throne steps. Her eyes skimmed past the man with long silver-blonde hair with sharp eyes and a red mark on his cheek, whom she recognised as Brynden Rivers, the older man beside him with dornish features she assumed was prince Baelor. Her eyes had stopped at the Young Prince with his father's features – dark hair and a straight nose.

Prince Valarr looked like a statue, that is, he stood unmoved by any words or actions. His face held that pleasant smile carved from politeness. It made her think that the look was forever engraved in his features. Eternally frozen.

"Oh, galant indeed... If only his wife wasn't a Tyroshi..."

"But the prince... The prince is just perfect."

The last remark evoked a slight feeling of annoyance in Elira. But she chose to wave it away letting her eyes wander further down the line of the regal family. To prince Matarys Targaryen, her sister's future husband. His hair was bright auburn differing completely from his brother. He was slightly shorter than his brother, too. His face seemed friendly enough. But that was about all that she could tell from just looking at him. Then she moved on to prince Maekar Targaryen with short silver-blonde hair who, unlike prince Valarr, looked stern and severe, almost preferable. Then to his oldest son Daeron Targaryen who looked nothing like his father with his sandy hair and rather like someone who was sea-sick. She'll get to him later. Finally, her eyes shifted to the prince who everyone deemed mad. The prince's features looked as if sculpted. The prince inherited his father's look with his Targaryen hair and sharp violet eyes that seemed to stare right at her.

Elira quickly looked away in embarrassment that she had been caught staring. For the rest of the ceremony her eyes remained strictly on the king, never even suspecting having two pairs of dragon eyes on her.

And when the ceremony was adjourned as the king made his leave, she sneaked away from the crowd.

The Red Keep was a vast labyrinth just as she expected. Elira walked around the corridors inspecting the murals on the walls and the paintings. She found one of the Baelor the Blessed, his head held a wreath of flowers. Septa Eglantine used to praise this man to a degree that was close to worship.

"Maybe she thinks he's one of the Seven?" Mathias joked once.

"Maybe... Maybe the Maiden." They both laughed.

Religion was always a contradictory practice on their island. The septons and septas worshipped their gods and the people of the Island followed their suite. The women and the men of the new arts sought out knowledge and novelty. Their means might have involved sorcery and the world behind the vale, but never the Gods. And those same people who followed the Faith of the Seven, turned to the people of the new arts for their ailments. And over the years both sides had grown accustomed to the duality of their homeland.

Beside Baelor's painting was the painting of his brother. Daeron I Targaryen looked like a true warrior. While Baelor wore a white tunic Daeron wore armour with a golden three-headed dragon in the front. His hair was much shorter than his brother's almost as short as Aerion Targaryen's.

The look on his face when he had glared at her appeared before her. His violet eyes had held a look of bewilderment at the sight of her. As if he didn't expect to see her.

Had she met him before? No... She'd remember if she met a prince.

Elira shook her head and walked down the stair case that soon led her to the kitchens which smelled of spices and cooked pork.

The kitchen staff paused their work at the sight of her. Elira looked at each and every face with interest until one of them stepped up.

A young woman of five twenty with features familiar. She was a younger copy of Indre Rivers. Indre had talked about his sister Ina a lot even though he only knew her through her letters. She was a cook and a mother of twins. Elira introduced herself and asked to take her away for a moment. The woman recognised her:

"You're that highborn girl that tinkers with herbs?" Even though it was obvious that the woman knew of her, she still seemed suspicious of her and only allowed her ten minutes of her time. Granted she also needed to get back to work. In the ten minutes that Elira was granted she inquired Ina about her life here in King's Landing.

She talked about her daily life and shared the pains that she endures to keep her family afloat, about the twins and their habit of getting into mischief.

"Are people kind to you here?" Elira asked.

"Most of them are. As well as the lords. You know the Young Prince?" Ina asked her. Elira only nodded in response. "He once told his own men off for taking a piss out of me. 'Leave the poor woman be', aye that's what the Young Prince said." The young woman told Elira almost conspiratorially.

"The Young Prince?" One of the staff people overheard their conversation. "Aye, every persons love him like a son. Aye, he's the perfect man of the realm."

Elira frowned. Either he truly must be as flawless and benevolent as everyone says. Or he is just that good at pretending. She didn't know what annoyed her more – the possibility of pretence or the total perfection of one person.

So when she was walking down the stairs and found Daeron sitting on the steps with his head in his hand, Elira found it refreshing to see a more human prince. Elira already heard of the prince and his indulgence in Gold Arbor before. But she didn't feel superior to him for his indulgence. The one thing Elira has always been certain of was that there must always be an explanation for everything. And the explanation for the prince's love to numb his mind with wine peaked her curiosity.

"Here." Elira held out a leaf from a cat plant. He turned around to look up at her. His blue eyes were blood-shot. They looked down at the leaf in her palm questioningly. "It's a Sleeper-Calmer. Chewing on it helps to soothe headaches. And yours seems rather awful."

"Who...?" He was about to ask.

"You must not remember me... We met each other this morning. I'm Mira's sister Elira." Elira sat down next to him, taking his palm carefully and placing the leaf there.

"You're one of the Island sisters... And you're offering me a leaf..." Daeron said, perplexed.

"It's a medicinal herb." Elira said with slight irritation.

"It has a rather weird name..."

"It's called that for a reason."

"The reason being?" Daeron raised an eyebrow at her, making her roll her eyes.

"If you ingest the right amount it will calm you so much you will fall into a dreamless sleep." Elira explained to him. Daeron gave her a look of surprise before looking down at the plant in consideration.

"Dreamless sleep, you say?" He looked at her and she nodded. Dreams? Was that what he was trying to escape? His own dreams?

Finally, he conceded.

"Might as well." He placed the plant inside his mouth and chewed on it. His concession confirmed her suspicion.

"Daeron." He turned to her.

"Elira."

"You've told me your name already."

"Sorry, I didn't think you heard me through the headache." The girl smirked at him making him smile back at her with a small snort.

"Didn't think the Island people had any humour."

"Oh, we have it there... Plenty of it in fact." Elira said as she stood up and started walking down the steps.

"Where are you going?" Daeron asked her.

"To the stables." She looked back at the prince. "I hope you feel better soon, prince Daeron."

Elira left him sitting there not knowing that the plant had assuaged the prince's headache already. She continued exploring the castle and soon she reached the stables.

But as she was about to enter she heard sounds right behind the stables. A high-pitched voice of a boy shouting. Elira walked around the corner of the stables and spotted a thin and short boy with silver-blonde hair on top of a great black stallion. The contrast made her let out a quiet giggle. How the boy managed to get on the horse was a mystery.

"Hi-ya! Hi-ya! Move!" The boy tried to beckon the horse forward towards the log fence where the horses are usually tied. The horse stayed still.

"You know, when I was a little girl, it was hard for me to make the horses listen to me, too." Elira approached the boy as his head snapped to her.

"I know how to beckon a horse." The boy sassed her making the corners of her lips turn into a small smile.

"Of course, you do, my prince. May I approach?" She asked as the boy's big eyes studied her with a slight furrow of the brow. Such a young child and already so sceptical towards the world around him. The boy nodded. "While the horse might listen to you when you beckon it. You can have a better impact by squeezing your legs just the little harder and by placing your hand right here." As the boy watched her she put her hand on a particular spot of the horse's neck.

The horse spurted into a run making Elira step back hastily. The little boy shouted in surprise, his hands gripping into the horse tightly. The horse rushed forward and jumped over the log fence as the prince let out an excited howl.

Landing on the other side of the log fence the boy turned the horse around by its reins, making it trot back towards the girl.

"That was amazing! How did you know how to do that?"

"Where I am from knights know this trick from the first days of horse-riding." Elira explained to him in a shrug. The prince realized she was a foreigner. He looked her over and recognised the silhouette of her dress from a picture in a book about the people of the Island.

"You're from the Median Mountains!" The prince said in realization and delight. He stretched out his hand. "I'm Egg."

"It is nice to meet you, Egg. I'm Elira." She shook his tiny hand with a smile.

"Elira. That's an unusual name."

"It is a family name. It is a traditional name for girls of high born." Elira shrugged.

"I like it. I actually like reading about your homeland, it's such an interesting place. But I also have questions about certain customs. I've read about one of your tales of a lady giving a trinket to a lord. It said that the trinket was..." The boy looked down at the ground remembering the words before reciting them. "'...in the shape of the lover's soul.' What was the trinket, exactly? How did it look? What was the shape of the soul?" Sceptical the boy may be, but there was a certain naive heart in there somewhere evoked by her people's inclination towards poetic language. Elira shook her head.

"I would love to tell you all about it, my dear Egg, but you must be wanting to ride your horse around."

"Oh, no, no, I'm eager to join you!" The boy slid off the horse, almost tripping from it from the rush.

"Alright then."

The two walked into the stables to guide the dark stallion back to its stall. Elira had the opportunity to look around at the stalls and the horses there. Unfortunately, she didn't have her own mare with her. Sundancer, she called her. The mare might have been dark brown, almost as dark as the night with no stars, but she had the spirit of the sun on a bright spring day. She'll have to ask ser Duarte to find a horse for her while she stays in the Keep.

Aegon and Elira walked across the courtyard as Elira explained her people's custom when a person would leave on a journey, their loved one would give them trinkets. The trinket would be typically carved from black oakwood in the shape of any animal or plant that one thought mirrored the loved one's soul.

Aegon listened intently, asking questions from time to time.

Soon the two had reached the training grounds.

Clashes of hard steel resounded throughout the yard. The head of a familiar Prince caught her attention. He was holding a valyrian sword in his hand as he charged while the knight in front of him defended himself.

Only now in the gleaming daylight of the sun, that was past the midpoint, had she noticed the white streak of silver-blonde just above his ear.

"That's my cousin." Aegon pointed at the Young Prince. "He's one of the greatest swordsmen I know. I hope to be as agile and skilled at swordsmanship as he is."

Elira didn't answer at first, watching as the knight now charged at Valarr. But with less intent than Valarr and less precision. The knight seemed to purposefully slow his attacks. Attacks meant for the prince, the heir to the heir to the Iron Throne. The last person anyone should challenge if they didn't want any repercussions. With this realisation, she started to see the prince's whole person as a façade.

And when the Young Prince had managed to get close to the knight and knock the sword out of his hand, she saw his victory as hollow.

Seemingly feeling the two pairs of eyes on him, Valarr turned to look right at her, eyes gleamed with curiosity, travelling from her face to her pale green dress to the mud clinging to the hem of it and then back up to her face. They stared at each other briefly, before Elira turned and began to walk away. Egg looked back at the Young Prince quickly before running after her.

The nearest building turned out to be an old bar. The place had clearly been abandoned for years, with dust coating every surface thickly enough to leave footprints wherever you stepped and broken glass scattered across sections of the floor, but it was secure enough for the night, and after checking every room and barricading the doors as best you could, there was little left to do except wait for the herd to pass.

The sun had already begun to set outside by the time the two of you finally settled down.

You sat on top of the bar counter while Daryl occupied a stool nearby, occasionally glancing through the boarded windows to keep track of the walkers still wandering past outside.

“Think they’ll move on by mornin’,” he muttered eventually.

“I hope so.”

The idea of spending the entire night trapped inside a dusty bar with limited supplies wasn’t exactly appealing.

Although…

You glanced around the room. It could have been worse. At least you weren’t trapped somewhere boring. A few moments later, Daryl opened one of the cabinets behind the counter before pausing.

“Huh.”

You looked up.

“What?”

Instead of answering immediately, he reached inside and pulled something out, your eyes widened.

“No way.”

Daryl held up a bottle of whiskey.

A full bottle.

Somehow.

“Well,” you said slowly, “that’s impressive.”

Daryl examined the label before shrugging.

“Looks alright.”

“It survived over a decade and a half of the apocalypse.”

“Still sealed.”

You laughed.

“Fair point.”

For a moment he seemed uncertain. Then he shrugged again.

“Reckon one drink won’t kill us.”

Half an hour later, you had discovered that one drink had very quickly become several.

Or at least several for you, Daryl barely seemed affected. You, on the other hand, were becoming increasingly aware that standing up sounded like an impossible task.

“You know somethin’?” you asked suddenly.

Daryl glanced over.

“What?”

You pointed vaguely in his direction.

“You’ve got unfair genes.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“My what?”

“Genes.”

“The hell are you talkin’ about?”

You waved the bottle dramatically.

“I’ve had like…” You paused. “A lot.”

“A lot ain’t a number.”

“It is tonight.”

Daryl snorted.Meanwhile you continued pointing accusingly.

“You’ve had almost the same amount and you’re completely fine.”

“Ain’t completely fine.”

“You are.”

“A little buzzed.”

“You are not.”

His mouth twitched. The traitor was trying not to laugh.

“You got no idea what you’re sayin’.”

“I know exactly what I’m saying.”

“No ya don’t.”

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously, then immediately forgot what you were suspicious about. Daryl shook his head.

“Jesus.”

“You know what your problem is?”

That finally earned a laugh.

“My problem?”

“Yeah.”

He leaned back slightly.

“Go on then.”

“You don’t know things.”

Daryl blinked.

“What things?”

You pointed dramatically again.

“Things about yourself.”

“The hell does that mean?”

“See? Exactly.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I am.”

At least you could admit that much, the confession seemed to amuse him.

Unfortunately, being drunk also meant your brain had apparently stopped filtering your thoughts. Which became very obvious when your eyes drifted towards him again, and stayed there. Daryl noticed immediately.

“Why’re ya lookin’ at me like that?”

You smiled.

Because honestly?

Looking at Daryl had always been one of your favourite activities.

Even before Alexandria.

Even before you knew him properly.

Even before he knew your name.

“You had shorter hair when I first met you.”

Daryl looked caught off guard by the sudden change in subject.

“What?”

“Your hair.”

“My hair.”

“Much shorter.” You nodded enthusiastically.

His hand automatically lifted to touch the back of his neck.

“Yeah.”

You sighed. A deep, dramatic sigh. Daryl immediately looked concerned.

“What?”

“Nothin’.”

“That wasn’t a nothin’ sigh.”

“It was.”

“It wasn’t.”

You pointed at him again.

“D’you know how unfair that was?”

“What was?”

“The hair.”

Daryl stared.

You stared back, then you groaned and dropped your head into your hands.

“God.”

“The hair?” he asked slowly.

“The hair.”

His expression had become deeply confused.

“You liked my hair?”

“Liked?”

“Liked?”

“Yeah?”

“Daryl.”

“What?”

“I nearly died.” For the first time all evening, Daryl genuinely looked speechless. You continued before he could recover. “I mean, there I was trying to survive the apocalypse and then suddenly there you were looking all…”

You waved your hands uselessly.

“Looking all what?”

“Like that.”

“Like what?”

“Seriously?”

“Doin’ my best here.”

You laughed, then laughed harder because somehow that answer was incredibly funny. Daryl rubbed a hand over his face.

“Oh, Lord.”

“No, but seriously.”

“That’s usually when people stop bein’ serious.”

“You’re beautiful.”

The words slipped out so casually that neither of you reacted immediately.

Then silence.

Daryl froze.

You didn’t, because unfortunately your mouth was still working.

“Always have been.”

“Pretty sure men don’t usually like bein’ called beautiful.”

“Well that’s stupid.”

Daryl looked like he had completely forgotten how conversations worked.

You continued.

“Because you are.”

His ears had started turning red.

Very red.

The sight delighted you.

“Aww.”

“Stop.”

“No.”

“Seriously.”

You grinned.

“No.”

Daryl looked away. You were fairly certain nobody had ever seen Daryl Dixon blush before, the discovery felt monumental.

“You know,” you continued, resting your chin in your hand, “I’ve wanted you for years.”

Daryl nearly choked.

“What?”

“Oh, years.”

Daryl stared. You kept talking, because apparently your drunk brain had no interest whatsoever in self-preservation.

“Since before Alexandria.”

His face somehow became even redder.

“Before Alexandria?”

“Way before.”

“Damn.”

“Yep.”

The next hour passed with you happily rambling through years worth of secret feelings while Daryl sat across from you listening with a mixture of shock, embarrassment, and growing affection that became harder and harder to hide.

You told him everything.

Every stupid crush.

Every moment.

Every embarrassing thought.

By the time exhaustion finally dragged you to sleep on one of the old booths, Daryl was fairly certain he’d just experienced the most surreal night of his life. And despite everything he’d heard. Despite how badly he wanted those words to be true.

He never once took advantage of them, instead he draped his jacket over you and waited for morning.

The next day was horrible.

Not because of the herd.

The herd had moved on.

Not because of the journey home.

That part went smoothly.

No.

The horrible part happened roughly halfway through the walk back to Alexandria when every single memory from the previous night returned.

All at once.

You nearly walked directly into a tree.

“Oh God.”

Daryl glanced over.

“What?”

You stopped moving.

“No.”

“What?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“You remembered.”

You considered throwing yourself into the nearest river.

“Everythin’?”

“Please stop talking.” You groaned.

Daryl looked suspiciously amused.

The rest of the walk home was unbearable, then somehow things became worse.

Because later that evening, after both of you had unpacked supplies and gone your separate ways, Daryl found you near the gardens.

And asked the question.

The one question. The question you had desperately hoped he would never ask.

“Did ya mean it?”

You froze. Your soul left your body.

“All that stuff ya said.”

You immediately turned around.

“Nope.”

Then walked away.

Quickly.

Very quickly.

The next five days became a disaster.

Every time you saw Daryl approaching, you found somewhere else to be.

If he entered a room, you left.

If he joined a conversation, you discovered an urgent task elsewhere.

At one point you literally hid behind a shed.

Unfortunately Daryl noticed.

Which only made things worse.

Because while you spent the week dying of embarrassment, Daryl spent it reaching a very different conclusion.

He thought you regretted everything.

Thought maybe hearing those feelings spoken aloud had frightened you.

Thought perhaps you’d realised afterwards that you didn’t actually want him.

By the sixth day he had almost convinced himself to give up entirely.

Which was precisely when Carol intervened. Because of course she did. You should have known.

The woman had the patience of a saint until romance became involved, then she transformed into a menace. You had been helping organise supplies when Carol appeared.

“Come with me.”

You immediately became suspicious.

“No.”

“Wasn’t a request.”

Five minutes later she marched you into one of Alexandria’s empty houses.

And Daryl was already inside. Your heart nearly stopped.

“Carol.”

“No.”

“Carol.”

“No.”

“This feels illegal.”

She pointed at both of you.

“Talk.”

Then she left. Actually left.

The door shut.

You considered climbing out a window. Daryl looked equally uncomfortable. For several long moments neither of you spoke.

“Thought ya hated me.” Daryl broke the silence finally. 

“What?”

Daryl shrugged awkwardly.

“You’ve been avoidin’ me all week.”

The genuine pain in his voice immediately crushed your embarrassment under a wave of guilt.

“Daryl.”

“S’alright.”

“No, it isn’t. I don’t hate you.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I’ve been hidin’ behind buildings.”

“Yeah.”

“I know.”

Daryl’s mouth twitched slightly.

Heat flooded your face.

“Oh my God.”

Suddenly you understood how ridiculous you’d been. All week you’d been running away because you were embarrassed. Meanwhile Daryl had been sitting there thinking you hated him.

“Daryl.”

“What?”

You took a deep breath, then finally forced yourself to say it.

“I wasn’t avoiding you because I regretted confessing to you.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

You covered your face.

“Because I wanted to die.”

That finally earned a laugh. A real laugh. You pointed at him.

“Don’t.”

“Sorry.”

“You are not sorry.”

„No, I’m really not.”

You groaned dramatically, then finally lowered your hands.

“Daryl.”

“Yeah?”

You swallowed.

And this time, there was no alcohol to blame.

No whiskey.

No drunken confidence.

No excuses.

Just honesty.

“Everything I said that night was true.”

The smile disappeared from his face. Not because he was upset. Because suddenly the moment became real.

“You mean that?”

“Every word.”

For a second Daryl simply looked at you, then he stepped closer. Close enough that your heart immediately started racing.

“You liked the short hair that much, huh?”

“That is what you took from this?”

His grin appeared.

Small.

Warm.

Beautiful.

“Maybe.”

You shook your head. Completely unbelievable. And somehow still your favourite person in the world.

“I love you, idiot.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them and this time you didn’t run.

Daryl’s eyes widened slightly.

Then softened and before you could become embarrassed all over again, his hand rested against your cheek.

“Love you too.”

The kiss that followed felt long overdue, worth every second of embarrassment that had come before it.

And somewhere across Alexandria, Carol was undoubtedly feeling very pleased with herself.

Which, unfortunately, was entirely fair.

~Masterlist~

You wipe your mouth on the back of your hand, cringing at the taste of acid clinging to your tongue.

“Ew,” You complain under your breath, slowing the pace you’re walking at once you realize that Daryl isn’t going to follow you.

Whatever, it’s not like you wanted him to. You’d rather wander Hilltop alone a hundred times over than be chained to Daryl for the rest of your life… Or more accurately, the other way around.

You sniffle, wiping your eyes on your sleeve.

That’s all you’ve ever been to him since the day he met you, a burden.

He took you in to correct the mistake he made in capturing you in one of his nets, and the rest, well… you suppose maybe he learned to like you eventually, but all of it seemed to have meant a lot more to you than it did him. He saddled himself with teaching you how to survive out of a sense of duty to his fellow man and you couldn't even repay that kindness with honesty.

Now that he knows what a disgusting creature you’ve become, if you were anything else before, he knows you aren’t worthy of being a part of this group anymore.

Some part of you knows that’s not true, but you bury it deep.

There’s too much trying to claw its way out of you already, the long gone phantoms of hands on your body carving into your skin, sharp heat splitting you open as your back scrapes against the concrete of a cell, eyes unable to adjust to the darkness swarming you. Sometimes you wondered if there was something over your eyes, or if it was your own inability to adjust to the pitch black.

Your fists clench at your sides, shaking, your brow furrowed in frustration at how dizzy you’re starting to feel from even abstract thoughts about the room. –Not even the one where you were supposed to be getting tortured.

Why are you so weak all of a sudden?

It was one thing for other people to infantilize you and treat you like you were helpless despite all the ways you proved yourself, but now you’re doing it to yourself.

You’re afraid of your own mind when there could very well be a real threat inside you still.

“Bambi!”

You try not to turn your head at the sound of Carl’s voice breaking through the thick atmosphere you’ve blanketed around yourself, but your body moves on its own to watch his familiar figure jog down the path towards you with a smile on his face.

He looks so genuinely happy to see you –you, of all people– that it makes your chest ache.

You barely think about it before turning away and running off.

You hear his steps stop behind you for a split second before they resume at a faster pace, his boots crunching on the gravel.

“Bambi?” He calls again, catching up with you with ease. You used to be faster than this. Faster than him. He bends his upper body so that he’s ahead of you with his face in front of yours, smile quickly fading when he sees the serious look on your face. “What’s the matter?”

You try not to look at him, instead turning your back and darting away faster this time until your lungs feel like they’re about to burst with every stride.

Carl follows.

As Hilltop flies by in your peripheral, the pain in your chest gets bad enough that you’re letting out pathetic whimpers every few breaths, teeth clenched.

“Did I do somethin’ wrong?” He shouts from behind you with an anxious edge. The more you run from him, the more stricken he looks, the more you want to get as far away from him as possible before you taint him. “–If I did somethin’, please tell me!”

He doesn’t even sound like he’s out of breath, it’s not fair. It’s not fair.

Your legs get less coordinated, physically unable to keep the speed you’d been going at. You let out a frustrated scream, ignoring the weary looks you get from other people as you slow down and slip between a few buildings to avoid a majority of the residents wandering around.

Carl turns to the side and slips in after you.

“Was it what I said yesterday? I didn’t mean for it to…” He bites his tongue, eye searching the ground as he walks a few feet behind you trying to figure out what went wrong. “I’m sorry, Bambi. I just– I didn’t mean to–” He chokes back a soft sound and you stop in your tracks. “I’m sorry.”

You turn to face him, seeing the way he grips and twists his own skin trying to hold himself back, the pain giving him something other than the worry to focus on.

He might not be crying, but he looks genuinely destroyed by what you’d been doing, like this was the inevitable conclusion to what had been going on between the two of you and he knows it’s time to let go now.

You understand that.

It always feels like the good things in this world are moments away from oblivion.

You step forward and take his face into your hands to caress the apples of his cheeks, the tip of your left thumb teasing the edge of his scar where it's poking out from beneath the bandages. His upper lip twitches uncertainly and he leans into the touch, staring back as your gaze darts between his hidden socket and his untouched eye.

Carl puts his hand over yours where it rests on him.

“It wasn't me?” He sniffs dryly.

You shake your head, feeling your resolve to escape him waver.

“Then why are you running from me?”

Because when he finds out everything that happened when you were away –and he will find out– things between you will end, and you’ll both be devastated. You don’t want to lose him. You don’t want him to hate you or treat you any differently than he already is.

“I’m… gross…” You admit in a whine, eyes shining with unshed tears. “I don’t deserve someone like you in my life.”

His brow raises slightly but he tries to cover the reaction.

“You’re always so nice to me and I don’t know why… I know I don’t deserve it. I’m a terrible person, I lied to everyone and now I–” You cut yourself off with a frustrated eye roll, lowering your head to stare down at your boots as your tears fall onto them, washing away some of the grime.

“Oh, Bambi,” Carl lets go of your hand and pulls you into his arms, resting his head atop your messy curls.

You sniffle, pawing at your eyes to try and stop the tears from coming.

“You're not gross and you're not a terrible person,” He says after a moment, giving you a particularly tight squeeze to help soothe you. “What happened?”

You shake your head, hugging back and letting the tears drip onto his flannel with a suppressed wail.

For a split second Carl thinks he catches something familiar in the way your body trembles against him, hands clawing for purchase on the only thing you’ve deemed safe in what feels like thousands of miles of empty sea trying to pull you under. He lets you collapse against him, leaning against the side of one of the trailers for support as he holds you.

He doesn’t want to ask. He really doesn’t.

“Did somebody… make you upset?” He asks after a moment, swallowing hard.

You nod against his shoulder.

“Are you–” He blinks hard enough to see stars, grip on you tightening. “Did they hurt you?”

You shake your head, taking a deep breath to try and settle yourself.

At least there’s that, right? You aren’t being hurt anymore. You should be grateful, not disappointed that things are changing.

Carl lets out a shaking exhale, pushing your shoulders back so that he can look into your eyes as he wipes the tears away. –You’re not usually this sensitive, so he was more than a little shocked when you broke down the way you did.

“What can I do to make you feel better?” He asks, relieved to see that the question makes you smile, even if it is downwards from embarrassment.

Kisses?, you sign, adding an audible, “Hm?” to indicate that it's a question.

He leans in and presses his lips to your cheek a few times, hat slipping upward. You grab it and pull it back onto his head, the tips of your noses touching when he pulls back from your cheek to see what you’re doing.

You avert your eyes, not moving to stop the contact even though you know it’s a bad idea.

“You’re allowed to have good things y’know,” He says softly, almost sounding remorseful. “I don’t know why you think so much of me… I’m not all that special. You’re goin’ to wind up disappointed.”

“Never,” You say with complete certainty.

He hums, prying the fingers of one of your hands from his shirt to take it in his, slowly kissing his way up from your knuckles to the part of your arm covered in the flowering burns from the iron. He pauses at the bend of your elbow to push the half sleeves you’re wearing up to gain access to the worst of it, but you pull it back.

“I want to see your face,” You breathe. “It’s not fair that I can’t see you.”

Carl just stares at you.

“...Your voice sounds better,” He deflects weakly.

“Please?” You beg.

Slowly he reaches up and sticks his thumb underneath the bandage over his eye, taking a deep breath and holding it as he takes his hat off and pulls the gauze over his head to expose the empty socket. He sets his hat on the stack of crates behind him, taking longer than he needs to set it down with his hair in front of his face.

“There,” He cautions defensively, losing the usual confidence the bandage gives him. “It’s off now, so… there.”

You smile with eye contact, meaning every second of it.

“I don’t understand why you want to look at… it,” He gulps. “I don’t even like to.”

“‘Cause it’s your face, and I love you,” You confess without thinking too much about the gravity of the words you’re using. They seem right. Even without this new development in the way you treat each other, you would still describe the way you feel about him with the word love.

You’ve grown as a part of the same family of survivors, gotten closer than most people will ever be.

His eye goes wide at your choice of words, cheeks going pink.

“I want to kiss you,” He warns as he leans in, which you think is odd considering you’ve done it so many times now. You close your eyes and lean up, but he doesn’t make contact yet. “Is that okay?”

You open your eyes, tipping your head to the side as you press your lips to his.

Carl laughs into the kiss at how annoyed you’d looked, but he had to be sure you were okay with him doing something like this given how shaken you’d been.

He pulls back from the kiss and peppers the side of your face and jaw with sweet, markless pecks. “You’re so pretty, Bambi.”

You blush, looking away with embarrassment.

“Aw, don’t be like that,” He teases, moving to your neck and collar. “It’s not fair that I can’t see you,” He repeats, voice teasing.

You groan, glaring at him with suspicion when he pauses over your pulse point.

“I remember after they found you, when you started to heal up, my dad and the rest of us would talk about different ways to make you smile ‘cause it was so cute when you did,” Carl laughs, gently nosing your neck. “You kept people’s morale up. You still do.”

You bite your lip nervously, feeling like you're doing something very wrong despite not doing anything at all.

“Nobody hates you, Bambi. People don’t care that you lied, and if they do they can suck it,” He pauses after kissing the round of your shoulder, making eye contact. “You proved yourself to this group enough that it shouldn’t matter. They know who you are, and you don’t owe them anythin’ more than that.”

He sounds so angry on your behalf. –Like it genuinely doesn’t bother him that you weren’t honest.

Huh.

You smile awkwardly, blinking at the warm feeling spreading through your stomach like butterflies covered in sticky sweet syrup, wings fluttering.

“You act fragile now, but I remember windin’ up on my ass in the dirt ‘nough times when we sparred to know that's not true,” He banters, poking you in the side until you laugh. “There you are, with that pretty voice.”

“Carl,” You whine, bracing yourself on his shoulders.

He leans back in and presses his lips to yours, hands soothingly stroking your sides.

Even if it means that he’s teasing you, he seems to have gotten over the shame that initially comes with exposing his whole face.

Carl licks into your mouth, drinking up every soft sigh you make in response. Your grip on his shoulders moves until you’re clutching the material of his outer shirt, tugging him closer to you with the benefit of knowing that at any moment you can tug at it and he’ll break the kiss.

He moves his hands from your sides to around your waist, forcing you onto your tiptoes closer to him. –You can feel his heart beating fast in his chest beneath your hand as you slide them from their place near the sides of his collar to his chest.

The only thing that pulls you from the rhythm of the kiss is the abrupt start of some off-key music nearby, sparking the realization that you’re long out of breath.

It’s a nice song, soft, but kind of creepy as it echoes in the shadowed space you’re in between trailers.

Turning back towards one another, you both start laughing softly.

You grip the fabric of his shirt, leaning against his chest again and snuggling into the warmth, his head resting on yours as he sways the both of you to the music.

+

+

+

The man’s adams apple bobs as he gulps down the tinted liquid, the alcohol gurgling as it sloshes around in the bottle and floods his throat.

“Brother, take it easy,” Rick warns.

Daryl’s fingers slip because of the condensation on the bottle, but it doesn’t deter him. He flips Rick off, wincing as he shuts his eyes to gulp down the rest without taking a breath.

When his lips finally come off of the bottle, he gasps for air, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “How am I suppos’ t’ take it easy when that kid’s out there thinkin’ I’m tryna separate ‘er from ‘er bes’ friend?”

“You’re not,” Rick points out.

“But tha‘s what she thinks,” He slurs bitterly. “I bet they’re together right now. Sneakin’ around doin’ god knows what.”

“Well–” The other man wrenches what he hopes is a spare bolt out of the car, squinting uncertainly at it before tossing it onto the ground. “It's sorta like Romeo and Juliet, the more you try to keep ‘em apart, the more desperate they get. Doin’ what we were was only gonna make ‘em restless… They’d start takin’ risks.”

“But we can’t jus’ let them…” Daryl scowls at the idea, shaking his head to clear it of the horrifying scenarios he’s been picturing for you at every wrong turn. “You didn't see ‘em together, man. The way she looks at him. It's…” He winces.

The other man furrows his brow.

“Mm. I might not have seen it, but I know what you mean,” Rick sighs, shaking his head slowly. “When I tried talkin’ to Carl about some changes I decided needed to happen, he started puffin’ out his chest–”

“Little shit,” Daryl interrupts, snorting.

“–Puffin' out his chest, tellin’ me he wasn't gonna listen even if it meant bein’ punished. Said that tellin’ him to be gentle with her was condescendin’,” Rick scoffs. “He didn't care to hear my reasonin’, didn't listen when I tried to tell him there was more goin’ on than he knows about.”

Daryl growls lowly. “That’s exactly why ‘m worried… That boy don’t know what he’s doin’. He’s gonna hurt her.”

It wouldn’t even be on purpose.

“Tellin’ him no only made him want to be closer to her… I think they think we're against them,” The man finishes, brow furrowed in thought. “But I agree. Without any kind of interference from us, this will go badly.”

“What're we gonna do about it then?”

“I don't know yet…” The other man says softly. “Keepin’ them from bein’ alone for too long sounds like a good step to make sure she doesn't get ‘triggered’ or whatever you want to call it. –I don't want her freakin’ out, and I don't want Carl makin’ it worse by doin’ the wrong thing if she does. Poor kid.”

Daryl sniffs dryly, looking down at the bottles sitting on the stack of cinder blocks to the right of the car they’re supposed to be working on together, most empty, but a lucky few still full.

Rick barely took a sip of his still open beer next to him, but Daryl worked his way through three beers, a jar of moonshine, and some hard liquor he found that was too impure to be used for medical purposes.

He feels guilty for drinking this much when he’s supposed to be responsible, he never would have done this before he found that test in your bedding, but now he can’t seem to stop. The pit in his stomach is never ending and always hungry for all the things that could get him killed.

“I actually needed to talk to you about somethin’...” Rick says, setting the tools down and turning around to face the other man properly. He looks uneasy. “I know this ain’t the best time, but all things considered, I think you deserve a heads up.”

“Okay?” Daryl grunts.

“I, uh…” The other man stops with an exhale, clearing his throat. “It's no cause for concern, alright? It's bein’ handled…”

Daryl doesn't like the sound of that, doesn't like that whatever it is he's trying to say has him stalling.

“Spit it out.”

“Some… Saviors were spotted nearby, searchin’ for somethin’,” Rick admits, spitting the other group's name like it's poison.

Daryl feels his stomach plummet a hundred feet underground, the alcohol and the sun beating down on the back of his neck leaving him feeling dizzy on his feet. He tries to say something, he thinks, but he just winds up staring at the other man with wide eyes, his breathing sharp.

He can hear his heart beating in his ears.

“We don’t know what they were lookin’ for, ‘kay?” Rick continues, seeing that the other is stunned to silence. “Could ‘a been anythin’, doesn’t have to be Hilltop, or…” the two of you, he doesn’t say. “Anything important... could be nothin’ at all. –They were a few miles out, nowhere near here, and they weren’t in vehicles. They went back to wherever they came from,” He tries to reassure.

Daryl blinks a few times, trying to swallow the sudden wave of nausea that's hit him.

The smell of the cell he was in invades his nostrils, the ever-present scent of urine and blood in the air clinging to his skin.

He can't go back a third time.

“Rick, if they were out lookin’ for somethin’ and they didn’t fuckin’ find it, they’ll be back!” Daryl shouts angrily, starting to pace in small circles. “Fuck. Fuck! How long have you known about this?!”

“This mornin’, the scouts saw ‘em last night,” Rick says softly, reaching out to try and comfort him, completely expecting it when his hand gets shrugged off.

“The kids’ve been goin’ outside the gates, man!” Daryl shouts in a panic, rubbing his hands over his face.

“Not far. They’ve practically been in the front yard, always with other people around,” The other man says with confidence. “Nothin’ happened to them.”

“It COULD have!” Daryl shouts, stopping to glare. “You don't know how close they've come, how many times they've searched for us! For her!”

He can already picture the look in those big doe eyes of yours when you realize you've been caught again, that you'll never really escape them because Daryl can't protect you. He couldn't even protect himself.

“They might not even be lookin’ for you!” Rick shouts back exasperatedly.

“And what if she had seen them? Huh?! What if she hears about it today? –How is she suppos’ t…” Daryl stops mid rant, swiping at his eyes. “God…”

Rick's shoulders drop when he hears the man sniffle. “...Daryl?”

“...She's not gettin’ better, man,” Daryl mutters under his breath in response, voice weak. “She wet the fuckin’ bed yesterday… like a baby…”

Rick inhales sharply, rubbing at his upper lip with his thumb resting on his cheek to hide the reaction he has to that information.

“If she gets worse… if she….” Daryl shakes his head. “If she winds up feelin’ like…”

Beth.

“You won't let it get to that point, Daryl,” Rick says wearily, looking away at the mention of the Greene sister. “You take good care of Bambi. She's never shown any signs of wantin’ to hurt herself like that.”

“But what if she does wind up feelin’ that way, ‘n I'm not there…?” The man asks with a voice crack. “When she… I… I mocked her for it. –That was one of the last conversations she had, and I was mockin’ her for slittin’ her wrists at the start.”

Rick doesn’t know how to respond to that information. He feels the usual disgust and discomfort he would at the topic, but with years of experience both in the old world and the new, that information doesn't make him nearly uncomfortable as it should. He only feels the ache of the girl's absence, the warmth of her voice at the prison echoing through the halls.

She was a bright girl and the world snuffed her out like it was nothing.

“You loved her,” Rick laments softly. “Just like we all did.”

“I…” Daryl starts to deny it, push the memories of her down like he always does, but instead he swallows hard and nods once. “Yeah. I did.”

And it wasn't enough to keep her alive. It never is.

The two men stare at the ground for a while, the only sound aside from their breathing the rustling of trees blowing in the wind, the sky a dreary color.

+

+

+

“So… this is where we’ve been stayin’,” Carl says nervously, leaning his back up against the door to shut it behind you.

His room is small. Bare, unlike the one he’d had in Alexandria. Even the walls themselves look weak, thinly insulated by a layer of what looks like white painted particle board. Against the center of one of those walls, there’s a bed with a rust colored metal frame and mismatched sheets that hang loosely on it, a comforter curled up near the pillows like he’d been sitting there earlier. The only fixture aside from the bed is a wooden desk in the corner of the room with a few comics –nowhere near his full collection– sitting on it. He must have lost them in the attack.

Maybe that’s why most of his things are anxiously and haphazardly stuffed into a backpack at the foot of the bed.

“It’s nice,” You try to console.

There’s a gentle breeze coming in through the cracked window, sheer white curtains swaying gently in the wind.

The moment you look at it, he walks over to it and opens it wider for you.

“It’s hot, but, uhm…” He pauses, watching as you walk over and sit on the edge of his bed, legs dangling off the end of it until your foot touches something raised and you look down to see one of Judith’s toys half tucked underneath it. You smile at it and pull your legs up to sit criss-cross. “Uhm… With the window, it– Y’know what? Let me just grab that.”

He comes over and bends down in front of you, picking the rainbow caterpillar up and tossing it onto the desk.

When he turns back towards you, you grab his wrist with one hand and lace your fingers with his using the other.

“You seem nervous.”

“I am,” He says with a gulp. “This isn’t like before. This isn’t my room. Maggie doesn’t even know if this is where we’ll stay. –I think she thinks we’re just waitin’ for things to cool off so we can go rebuild in Alexandria and I…” He sits down on the bed next to you, posture slumping as he looks away. “The idea of goin’ back there makes me nervous.”

You frown, remembering how easily the Saviors got inside during the attack, all the smoke and walkers clouding your vision, the fire seemingly never ending.

“Me too.”

“I almost died. You and Daryl got taken. Judith is still havin’ nightmares…” Carl reaches up and pulls his hat off again, setting it on top of his backpack. “None of this feels real.”

He flops down onto his back, staring up at the ceiling with a searching gaze.

You turn towards him and lie on your side, shuffling closer until you’re tucked underneath his arm, staring up with him.

“I like it here,” Carl admits. “They have more people, more food, more everythin’... This is the kind of life I picture for Judith,” He pauses, sighing. “But I don’t think my dad wants to stay. I'm pretty sure he wants to go back and try to reclaim whatever’s left of Alexandria, divide and conquer so that we stand a better chance if one of the settlements gets attacked again.”

It's the smart thing to do, especially given that everyone from Alexandria would have to hide when the Saviors come here for collections. –AND they'll already be on the look out for all of you, hoping to capture one of the people Negan put a bounty on.

“I like it here too,” You curl closer to him, wrapping your arm around his torso with tears in your eyes.

You get to be kids here. You get to make flower crowns and eat cookies without working your hands bloody for it, without worrying that everything will fall apart in the moments you spend idle.

“Whatever happens… I hope we stick together,” Carl laughs somberly. “I’m sick of losin’ people and gettin’ split up. I don't– I don’t want to lose you. I was so scared when you–” His voice cracks.

You squeeze him tighter. You don’t ever want to let go.

He rolls over so that you’re facing one another lying on your sides.

Your fingers dig into his back, clutching the fabric of his outer shirt. He does the same to you, clinging with one of his hands braced on your nape, both of your faces buried in each other’s necks.

You hear two thuds as he kicks off his boots, legs curling and tangling with yours.

Carl never imagined getting to hold you like this, getting to hear your voice again, after you were gone. He knows that you’re a fighter. He knows that you’re strong. Knows that you’d break your own fingers scraping by to get freedom, live out a thousand life sentences, make the impossible happen…

He ghosts a hand over the burns on your arm.

…But he was too scared to think about the hope he had for longer than a second.

He didn’t expect to see that smile, or that face, ever again, didn’t think you’d come home even if you did survive. He pictured the day Daryl would return home after losing you to the woods, or never having seen you at all in the Savior’s compound, unable to track you down and all the more jaded for it with a pitt in his stomach.

You like to run. You’re good at it. And more than once you’ve outrun your would-be hunters. You wouldn’t leave a trail.

But you didn’t run. You came home.

Despite everything that happened and all the reasons you had to run, you came home.

The two of you jump when the door handle rattles like someone’s trying to get inside, Carl’s hand instantly on the holster strapped to his leg until a small knock follows the attempt.

“Carl?” Michonne calls from the other side, sounding hesitant.

The teen pulls back from you slowly, never fully letting go of you as he sits up and helps you do the same.

“Uh–” He clears his throat, trying to shake the raw emotion from his voice. “Yes?”

“Is Bambi in there, by any chance?” She asks slowly.

Carl furrows his brow skeptically, glancing at you in his periphery with a gulp.

“We’re just hangin’ out… talkin’ and stuff…” He says, somewhat sheepishly.

“...”

“...”

“...Carl, I know you two are close, but your dad said not to have the door closed anymore,” She reminds, clearly apprehensive to enforce the rule. “Just… crack it, alright?”

What?

You look at Carl for an explanation and find him frowning back at you with a frustrated, sorry look in his eye. He shakes his head and looks away, leaping from the bed and walking over to throw the door open so the woman can see what’s not going on inside the room.

Her eyes do a once over, refusing to linger on anything for longer than a second aside from the bed you’re sitting on.

You swallow uncomfortably, pulling your knees up to your chest.

“Michonne…” Carl pleads, but the woman doesn’t react.

Instead she thanks him softly for opening the door, turning her attention to you and nodding in awkward greeting.

You hesitantly give her an equally uncomfortable wave.

You’ve been in Carl’s room hundreds of times, slept in his bed, disappeared with him for hours on end outside the walls back when you lived in Alexandria and nobody ever questioned it, but suddenly they don’t trust you enough to be alone with him?

“This is so dumb. I’ve killed people, but I can’t have my door closed anymore when Bambi is here, just because she’s a girl?” Carl huffs, crossing his arms over his chest at her. “I already told him I’m not followin’ any of those stupid rules.”

“I kn–” Michonne’s brow twitches at the end of his second sentence.

Not meaningfully, not on purpose, but it is a tell. She stops because she doesn’t understand what he’s saying. Because she knows, and he doesn’t.

Her eyes flick to yours and by whatever haunted look you’ve had on your face since you caught the small movement, now she knows that you know she knows.

For a moment it feels as if you’re sharing one brain, both on the same sinking ship, eyes locked but unable to do anything to help the other.

But then she blinks and turns back to Carl with confusion, the understanding gone.

“I get why my dad is tryin’ to keep us apart, but you too?” He sighs, turning around and walking back over to the bed to sit back down next to you. “It isn't right to punish us when we didn't do anythin’ wrong.”

She parts her lips, head cocked.

You slowly shake your head. Don’t.

Please, not yet.

She closes it again, scanning the empty wall to reorganize her thoughts, then tries again.

Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. Please, don’t do it. Don’t say anything, you plead silently, eyes getting wider every second she hesitates on what to say next.

Michonne finally catches your gaze again and manages to find her voice.

“It’s… supposed to rain later,” She says softly, eyes downcast at the floor with guilt. She wanted to tell him for the sake of loyalty, but she also doesn't want to be the one to break his heart like that. “Make sure you shut the window.”

She pulls the door up, leaving it as minimally cracked as possible.

Carl flops back onto the bed, rubbing his hands down his face with a frustrated laugh. –But your heart is still pounding too fast in your chest from the fear of him almost finding out through someone else to be relieved.

You choke in a gasp, finally starting to breathe again.

Your vision is bleary with tears, body shivering like you’ve been dunked in freezing cold water.

Carl looks over at you, seeing the stiff way you’re sitting, hands tightly gripping the flesh just above your knees. “Bambi…?”

“I should–” You’re cut off by a wheeze. “Go. –I should go.”

You don’t move a muscle.

Carl sits back up again, confusion written all over his face as he sets a hand on your back like he’s about to try and pull you into one of those compression hugs.

“Don’t,” You snap at him with wide eyes, finally regaining enough control of yourself to lean away from the touch.

This is why Daryl doesn’t want you near him. You’re going to mess him up.

He pulls his hand back, nodding slowly. “Okay.”

You sit hunched over on the corner of his bed like that for a while, curled up small and angry, every shift he makes having you glance at him with weary eyes.

He's not going to hurt you. Nobody here is, you know that, it's just difficult to hold onto that thought right now.

Pretty much all of your energy right now is being put into focusing on not reacting the way you would have when you first arrived. When Carl’s hand reached into your space you'd wanted to bite him, hard, and you hadn't even really thought about it. –You actually started to, but you'd ground your teeth instead, trying not to flee or hide like your body ached for.

Now enough time has passed for you to realize how embarrassing the whole thing was, flinching away from him and almost snapping at him like a dog, curled into this ridiculous defensive position as if you’re not in his room.

Carl’s not looking at you, thank goodness. –Hasn’t been for a while.

He probably thinks you’re crazy.

“Sorry,” You whisper.

“It's okay,” He whispers back, slowly turning towards you again. Once he's fully facing you, he looks between your eyes, searching. “Today seemed… hard, for you…”

You shrug, sniffling dryly.

It was hard.

“Is everythin’ okay?” He asks, voice practically begging for answers despite him trying to tamp it down.

You start to shrug but he holds up a hand to interrupt the movement.

“Be honest. Don't just say what you think other people want to hear,” He frowns. “You’ve been… off, and I…” He stops, shifting closer and looking up at you with his full attention, gaze soft and understanding. “We haven’t really talked about when you were gone.”

You push your hair back, dragging your fingers through it and pulling when you feel your eyes start to water again. You bury your face in your knees, shutting them as tightly as you can to stop yourself from crying.

You can't.

You won't do it to him.

Carl lowers his eye, turning away.

+

+

+

“If you had to leave you should have come and got me!” Daryl whisper shouts at the woman, throwing an arm out towards the door.

“Maggie needed help. She's pregnant, Daryl, what was I supposed to do?” Carol scoffs, offended by the suggestion that she was somehow in the wrong for leaving you alone when she was picking up his slack after panicked and ran out on you. “Nobody even knew where you were. I would have wound up leavin’ her anyway, tryin’ to look for you!”

Daryl hears you shift in your sleep up in the loft, letting out a small whine.

“Shh!” He hisses. “Talk quieter!”

“You know, I don't think you even really blame me for this. You feel guilty, so you're tryin’ to shift some of the blame onto someone else,” She says, poking him in the chest. “And if that ain't some petty, childish, bullshit I don't know what is. –You need to get over whatever the hell is goin’ on with you lately. Fast. There are more pressin’ issues.”

“This ain't petty! I'm tryin’ to protect her!”

“And abandon her at every turn, might I add,” The woman points out. “You were takin’ care of her just fine before, but now you're all fucked up over it.”

Daryl scowls, looking away. “It's different now! I don't know how to handle this, what to say to a kid that was–”

“So help me god, if you say that word again, Daryl,” The woman seethes. “We all know what happened, there's no need to keep sayin’ that word over and over just for shock value. –I know the severity of what happened to that girl, I know how twisted up she is inside right now, but she's not a victim. She's a survivor. Bambi has to move on with her life without lettin’ what happened cage her and stop her from doin’ what she has to, to survive. She has to learn to live with it.”

Daryl’s lower lip quivers and he turns it up into a snarl, aggressive posture deflating.

“I don't know what to do,” The man says like a broken record, swaying on his feet. “I know it ain't rational, but now everythin’ seems like a threat to her. I feel like I failed… like I wasn't lookin’ out for her enough.”

Carol cocks her head empathetically, making a noise of understanding.

“You might have run away when she was captured,” The man laments. “But I let us get separated that day.”

Carol's eyes glaze with nostalgia, remembering the feeling of Sophia's fingers slipping from hers, the last time she would ever touch her daughter.

“You can’t blame yourself for that.”

Daryl shakes his head, forcing his eyes shut. “Yes, I can. –I do.”

“It was an accident, Daryl. You'd given her your bow.”

“She was still learnin’ how to use it,” Daryl says regretfully, remembering the image of you crouched in the bushes with the weapon in your hands, struggling to keep it steady. “I don’t know why I…”

He can remember seeing you from across the steady stream of walkers, your face twisted with panic as you tried to cross after he ran off ahead of you. You were panting, hesitating. Clearly struggling with the additional weight. The gap he’d found closed, but he didn’t stop to wait for you. Why didn’t he stop?

“I should never have left her side. –Probably shouldn’t have even run into the fight in the first place,” The man scoffs bitterly, trying to imagine how that day would have played out had he stayed away from it. “A lot of good that did.”

“There was a bounty on your head, Daryl. You thought she'd be okay if you'd gotten caught,” Carol argues. “You thought she was safe.”

“Safe?” He laughs. “I ran off ahead of her like it didn't even matter. I didn't tell her where I was goin’, where to meet me when things brushed over–!”

“You put together an entire safehouse to make sure she had somewhere to wait for you!”

“That’s just basic survival crap!” The man denies, voice raising the more he thinks of you. “You’re not listenin’ to me, you don’t understand!”

“You’re the one that’s not takin’ the time to think things through right now, gettin’ all emotional and lettin’ it blind you!” Carol shouts back, pointing an accusing finger at him like a naughty dog. “You know her! You know how to take care of her! You’re just bein’ intentionally dense because you don’t want to feel like a failure for not noticing!”

The man gets chest to chest with her, breathing heavily through his nose. “I am a failure.”

Carol’s eyes widen at the venom in his voice and she takes a step back, shaking her head.

“You don’t have to be,” She says blankly, eyes fierce. “At least your child is still here to fail.”

Daryl’s snarky reply dies in his throat, air hissing out of his lungs as he mimics her and takes a step back to diffuse the situation.

They both go silent.

“I…” He starts to apologize, then stops, knowing that their situations are entirely different, willing them to be. He swallows hard, feeling like he’s eaten something jagged. “She’s not my child.”

Carol stares into his eyes tiredly, regretting having come here in the first place. She should have left the group and lived out the rest of her days alone like she had planned, where there was no one to lose and nothing to fight for but another day.

She opens her mouth.

“MAMA!”

The cry is so loud it genuinely startles the two of them, both snapping their heads in the direction of the loft. Carol is still trying to reconcile the loud voice with yours in the crying that follows the shout, but Daryl shoots off like a bullet. He drops the canteen in his hand and clambors up the ladder as quickly as possible. “Bambi?” He shouts up towards the loft, scrambling and nearly tripping when he makes it to the top of the ladder. “Bambi! Kid?”

He steps onto the platform and disappears from Carol’s sight quietly, so she follows him up, finding the man frozen about three yards from the haybed. His hands are up, reaching and pulling back hesitantly in the air, unsure of what to do because you’re sobbing more frantically than he's ever seen. –You’re grasping at your blankets like they’re the only thing keeping you tethered right now, rocking slowly.

Carol expects him to reassure you.

She’s seen him do it before, handling the regular mood swings and anxiety you’ve had in the past with ease. It only took a conversation, maybe a hug or a playfight, and he’d have you regulated again.

So why is he just standing there?

She stops at his side, looking between the two of you incredulously. “...Daryl? What are you doing?”

“I– I don't know, I…” The man sputters, shaking his head. His hands go palm up towards you in a placating offer. “I don't know what to…”

“She had a nightmare,” The woman concludes easily, motioning to you.

“I can see that,” Daryl huffs sarcastically, rolling his eyes at how simple she makes the situation sound. “Thanks for the help.”

Just as you start moving across the bed to get to one of his open hands, he drops them without looking at you or realizing that you reached out at all. Your posture falls. You curl away from him, shrinking with your hands locked over your head.

Carol tips her head to the side slowly, narrowing her eyes at him.

“Hold her.”

“What?” His eyes widen, “No, I– I can't do that,” He quickly refuses, taking a weary half step back.

“Why not?” She presses. “You used to do it all the time, and it kept her calm, didn’t it?”

Daryl looks contemplative, making a fruitless attempt at sorting through everything everyone has been saying about you. It seemed much simpler when it was just the two of you involved, but he already failed you once on top of not realizing what you were hiding. He proved he wasn’t good enough to take care of you.

If he were to forget everything that’s happened, –as wildly irresponsible as that sounds– Carol would be right.

“No,” He says softly, already opening up to the idea despite himself.

The refusal burns you deeply.

“Go away!” You shout through the tears, pulling the blankets over your head to hide.

“She just wants to be held,” The woman says like it's obvious, putting her hand on his shoulder and urging him forward.

The man stumbles a few steps at the push, continuing to walk by himself until he’s come around to the side of the bed you’re closer to.

“I ain't her dad,” He tries weakly, looking over his shoulder at her to give her a pleading look.

Carol smiles tersely.

“I know. Do it anyway.”

The crying only seems to get louder the longer he stands there not doing anything.

Daryl winces at the wails, his chest aching. “She’s not my biggest fan right now, I don’t think I oughta be–”

“Daryl, she’s a teenager. It’s going to seem like she hates you sometimes, but she doesn’t,” Carol deadpans, not having any more of his excuses. “She’s frustrated with the world and she’s got no place to direct it. –That girl loves you.”

The man takes a deep breath and steps forward, pushing the blanket back so it falls from your head and you can see one another. You look devastated, and so damn tired. He hesitantly opens his arms. “Ey, bud–” He tries, shocked when you immediately kick the blankets aside and dart into his arms, wrapping yourself around his neck and your legs around his torso to cling to him.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” You wail into his shoulder.

His eyes go wide when he finds himself immediately clinging back, arms snaking around you to cradle the back of your head with his hands.

“I gotcha,” He says breathlessly, wind knocked out of him by the whole thing.

“I don't–” You hiccup, using the heel of your hand to swipe at your tears. “I don't want to fight anymore. I don't want you to hate me. I'm sorry.”

The words seem to shake him out of whatever stupor he'd been in, gaze sharpening.

“We're not fightin’, Bumble-Bea,” Daryl says firmly, turning so that your cheeks are pressed together as he starts bouncing you gently. “‘S okay. I'm right here. I don't hate you.”

“You should. I mess everything up for you… You'd be so much happier if I weren't here,” You sob, coughing.

“No. I wouldn't,” He bristles, patting your back. “I love you, kid. So much. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else right now.”

You cling to him harder when he finally says the words you've been craving, burying your face in his neck and inhaling the scent of his sweat mixed with motor oil. “I love you too…”

He kisses your cheek repeatedly, ignoring the knowing look Carol gives him when he starts pacing with you in his arms.

Nothing softens a man faster than holding his own child.

“Please– Please don’t leave,” You plead. “I don’t know why I’m like this now, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be. –I can still help, I can be strong, I swear.”

Daryl feels his eyes starting to water.

“I know, buddy. You’re gonna be okay,” He sniffs. “None of this was meant to happen. There ain’t nothin’ wrong with you.”

You lift your head, fear in your eyes. “But…?”

There are enough ‘what if’s to spend the whole night talking about them.

Daryl pushes your head back down, anger bubbling in his chest. “We’ll handle it.”

He’ll take care of you.

+

+

+

When your eyes have finally shut and Daryl is sure you've fallen back asleep for the night, he lays you down in his bed, brushing your hair out of your face.

“Night, Bea,” He mutters, kissing your forehead.

Daryl stays to watch when you smile in your sleep, humming contentedly and pulling the blankets closer to your chest, curling up. He smiles, closing his eyes on the moment to memorize every second of it.

His smile fades and he turns, motioning for Carol to follow him into the darkness outside the barn.

The night is quiet, and for once, the constantly moving and lively commune of Hilltop is still. There are lights on in the distance, but they're few and far between. The only thing that truly catches Daryl’s eyes are the pitch black shadows playing tricks on him, dancing and reaching towards him but never pouncing.

“Let's do it,” He finally agrees, swallowing the bitter taste the words leave in his mouth.

He's put a lot of thought into it, and this is the only way he can be sure you're safe right now.

The woman arches a brow. “Let's do… what?”

“Go out there. Hunt ‘em,” He specifies, looking determined. “I'm assumin’ you already heard about those assholes gettin’ spotted nearby? Lurking.”

Carol nods grimly, crossing her arms over her chest.

“So we kill them like you wanted, keep ‘em away from here so she never has to see their sorry asses again,” He growls, clenched fists shaking at his sides. “The ones that got close tested their luck, they're fair game now. Rick can't talk me out of this. Not after tonight.”

She wants to feel relieved by his choice, but the woman knows it’s the sign of a much larger rot. The group is losing trust in itself. And really, it's not sustainable. One way or another, you'll wind up running into the Saviors again and you'll need to be prepared for it. Sheltering you is only going to make it that much worse when it happens.

“Tomorrow, before dawn. We'll get out there and ambush anyone we find while it's still dark. –They won’t notice a few soldiers missin’ as long as we don’t leave witnesses,” Carol explains, fingers idly tapping on her arm as she speaks.

“Good,” Daryl breathes, feeling satisfied. “...I’m gonna start takin’ day shifts in the garage since it’s closer to the gate. –Get a better view of what’s happenin’ while it’s still goin’ on.”

“That's a good idea. It could make things cleaner for us,” She hums. “Especially if you learn the scouts’ schedule so we don't cross paths with them.”

“Clean.” Daryl repeats tonelessly, savoring the syllables of the word to try and understand it.

“Yes, Daryl, clean,” Carol warns. “This is about efficiency, not revenge.”

“I know,” He seethes, looking bloodthirsty. “That doesn't make it any easier or mean that I don't still want to draw it out, make ‘em hurt for what they've done. –To all of us.”

He looks down at his hands, imagining them around someone's neck, squeezing and watching their eyes bulge until their neck snaps with a satisfying crunch.

He closes his fists, taking a deep breath and slowly letting it out.

“I'll see ya’ tomorrow.”

---

Fic Chapterlist

There was always something to do. Water to carry. Clothes to wash. Food to sort through. People were already stretched thin enough, and you hated the thought of being one more thing for everybody to worry about.

So you tied your hair back, pulled on your boots, and pretended your hands weren’t shaking.

You made it almost an hour before Daryl noticed.

He was sitting near his bike, cleaning dirt from one of his bolts, when his eyes caught on you. You were stood by the water buckets, one hand pressed lightly against the side of your head like you could hold yourself together if you just applied enough pressure.

His gaze narrowed.

“You alright?”

You straightened too fast. The world tilted for half a second.

“Yeah,” you said, voice coming out rougher than you wanted. “I’m fine.”

Daryl didn’t move at first. He just looked at you in that quiet way he had, like he was reading all the things you were trying not to say.

“You don’t sound fine.”

You forced a small laugh and reached for one of the buckets. “That’s because you’re dramatic.”

“Mhm.”

You managed about three steps before your grip slipped. The bucket hit the ground with a heavy splash, water spilling into the dirt around your boots.

Daryl was up before you even had time to swear.

“Hey.” His voice sharpened as he crossed the space between you. “The hell are you doin’?”

“I dropped it,” you muttered, bending down.

He caught your arm before you could grab the handle.

You looked up at him, ready to argue, but his expression shifted the second his hand touched your skin.

His brows pulled together.

“You’re burnin’ up.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m just warm.”

“It’s freezing.”

You glanced away, annoyed because he was right and even more annoyed because he knew he was right.

Daryl let go of your arm, but he didn’t step back. “Go lie down.”

“I’m fine, Daryl.”

He scoffed under his breath. “Stop bein’ stubborn.”

“I’m not being stubborn. I’m helping.”

“You’re about to fall on your ass in the middle of camp.”

You rolled your eyes, but the movement made your head throb. You tried to hide the wince. Of course, he saw it.

His jaw tightened.

“That’s it,” he muttered.

Before you could ask what he meant, he grabbed the bucket with one hand and nudged you gently but firmly in the direction of the house.

“Daryl-”

“Walk.”

“I don’t need to be babysat.”

“Then quit actin’ like a damn child.”

You shot him a look over your shoulder. “You’re very comforting, you know that?”

“Good. Maybe you’ll listen.”

You wanted to argue again, mostly out of pride, but your body had started giving up on you. Every step felt heavier than the last, and by the time you reached the spare room, your legs were shaking badly enough that Daryl had to put a hand at your back.

Not pushing. Not rushing.

Just there.

You sat down on the edge of the bed with a sigh, trying to make it seem casual.

Daryl stood in front of you, arms crossed, looking deeply unimpressed.

“Boots off.”

You blinked at him. “Excuse me?”

“Boots. Off.”

“You’re bossy when you’re worried.”

“I ain’t worried.”

“Right.”

He looked away too quickly.

You smiled a little, though it faded when another shiver rolled through you.

Daryl noticed that too.

He crouched down without saying anything and tugged at the laces of your boots. You watched him quietly, your fever making everything feel soft around the edges. The room, the light through the window, his hair falling into his face as he worked.

He pulled one boot off, then the other, setting them neatly beside the bed like it mattered.

“You eat today?” he asked.

You hesitated.

His eyes lifted.

“That means no.”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“Course you weren’t.”

He stood and grabbed the blanket from the chair, throwing it over you with less care than he clearly meant to. It landed half across your shoulder and half across your face.

You pulled it down with a weak laugh. “Trying to smother me?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

But his voice was softer now.

He disappeared for a few minutes, and you told yourself you were only going to rest your eyes until he came back.

Then you woke up to cool water touching your forehead.

You flinched slightly.

“Easy,” Daryl murmured.

The room was darker now. You didn’t know how long you’d been out, only that your clothes were sticking to your skin and your head felt like it was full of smoke.

Daryl sat beside the bed, one elbow on his knee, a damp cloth in his hand. There was a small bowl of water on the floor beside him, along with a cup and what looked like the sad remains of some soup Carol had probably forced into his hands.

“You’re still here?” you whispered.

He glanced at you. “Where else would I be?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere useful.”

His face tightened at that. “Ain’t useless.”

You looked at him for a moment.

He wouldn’t meet your eyes.

Daryl dipped the cloth back into the water, wrung it out, and placed it across your forehead again. His fingers brushed your temple, rough but careful.

You closed your eyes.

“That feels nice,” you admitted quietly.

“Fever’s high.”

“You been checking?”

“Had to. You were mumblin’.”

Your eyes opened. “What was I saying?”

“Bunch of nonsense.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He shrugged, but there was the smallest hint of amusement in his face. “Said somethin’ about Rick’s hat lookin’ stupid.”

You let out a breathy laugh, which turned into a cough.

Daryl leaned forward instantly, one hand hovering near your shoulder like he wanted to help but wasn’t sure how to do it without making a whole thing of it.

You waved him off once it passed. “I stand by that.”

“Yeah, well, don’t say it in front of Carl.”

You smiled faintly, but the tiredness was already pulling at you again.

Daryl noticed. He always noticed.

“Drink.”

You made a face.

“Don’t start.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face did.”

He helped you sit up enough to take the cup. You tried to hold it yourself, but your hands were unsteady, so he kept his fingers around it too, pretending he wasn’t basically helping you drink water like you were made of glass.

It should’ve embarrassed you.

It didn’t.

Not really.

Not with him.

When you were done, you sank back down into the pillow, exhausted from doing almost nothing.

Daryl adjusted the blanket around you. Again, not gently at first glance. But he tucked it close around your sides so the cold air couldn’t get in.

“You don’t have to stay,” you murmured.

He sat back in the chair, stretching one leg out. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

“You’ll get sick.”

“Had worse.”

“That’s not comforting either.”

“Go to sleep.”

You turned your head slightly, watching him through half-open eyes. He looked tired. More tired than he’d ever admit. His shoulders were tense, his fingers tapping against his knee, his gaze flicking from your face to the cloth to the window and back again.

Pretending he wasn’t worried sick.

You knew better.

“Daryl?”

“What?”

“You’re being nice.”

He scoffed. “Fever’s makin’ you delusional.”

“No,” you whispered, smiling faintly. “You’re always nice. You just make it weird.”

He looked at you then, properly. For a second, all the gruffness slipped. His eyes softened in a way that made your chest ache more than the fever did.

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, looking down. “Somebody’s gotta keep you from dyin’ over a damn cold.”

You hummed. “So dramatic.”

“Sleep.”

This time, you listened.

You drifted in and out for the rest of the night. Sometimes you woke to the cloth being changed. Sometimes to Daryl shifting in the chair. Once, you woke to him standing by the window, crossbow in hand, checking the dark outside like your fever was something the whole world might try to take advantage of.

Each time, he came back.

Each time, the cloth was cool again.

At some point near dawn, when the sky had gone pale and the worst of the heat had finally started to break, you opened your eyes and found him sitting on the floor beside the bed, his back against the wall.

His head had tipped forward slightly, eyes closed, arms folded over his chest.

He’d fallen asleep sitting up.

You watched him for a while, too weak to move, too warm in a different way now.

“Daryl,” you whispered.

His eyes opened immediately.

He looked at you like he’d been awake the whole time.

“You okay?”

You nodded a little. “Think so.”

He leaned forward and pressed the back of his hand to your forehead. Then your cheek. His expression loosened by the smallest amount.

“Fever’s goin’ down.”

“Told you I was fine.”

He gave you a look. “Don’t push it.”

You smiled.

He reached for the cloth again, but you caught his wrist lightly before he could move away.

“Thank you.”

Daryl froze for half a second.

Then he shrugged, like he hadn’t spent the whole night beside you. Like he hadn’t checked on you every time your breathing changed. Like he hadn’t looked scared when he thought you weren’t awake enough to see it.

“Ain’t nothin’.”

Your fingers slipped from his wrist, but he didn’t move back right away.

His hand stayed near yours on the blanket.

Close enough that your pinky brushed his.

Neither of you said anything.

Then he cleared his throat and stood, grabbing the bowl of water like he suddenly had a very serious job to do.

“Gonna get you more water. Maybe somethin’ to eat.”

You settled back into the pillow, smiling to yourself.

“Bossy,” you murmured.

He paused at the door and glanced back.

“Stubborn.”

Then he left before you could see him smile.

Once you finally make him understand that you want the same thing, he still feels a little bit insecure. You found a nice place, just around the corner of the cellblock. Safe from walkers, far enough from the others as not to be interrupted.

He's tense anyway. You can feel the strain in his muscles when you put your hands on his shoulders. Threatening to snap any second and move quickly, either to run away or fight and protect you. That won't be necessary though. It took some convincing, but you got him to put his crossbow onto the ground and stop looking out for possible threats.

How? Well, it wasn't all that difficult. Turns out, pushing him against a stone wall and stepping real close has him putty in your hands in no time.

It's a good thing there's fences, because your face is very distracting. If there had been a walker approaching the two of you, he wouldn't have noticed it until it bit him, maybe not even then.

Daryl is still nervous, you can see that. Unsure of where to put his hands, he awkwardly places them on your hips. Is that too straightforward? A million thoughts rush through his head. You give him a soothing smile. He tries to return it, but ends up just grimacing.

Deciding to end his misery, you lean in and give him a gentle kiss on the lips. He's a little bit relieved when you don't do anything more immediately. Those are a safe ground, he's used to having you kiss him like that. And yet... they always leave him wanting more.

You haven't moved away, instead hugged him a bit closer. God... it feels too good to have you this close without the fear of being caught. He was worried he'd overwhelm you, but you seem at ease. If he's being honest with himself... It's he who is in over his head. You're so close and you smell nice... He can feel your heart beat against his chest, smaller body pressed into his.

You left him space, but it doesn't take long for him to act. His warm hands stroke your back, then he places one in the nape of your neck, carefully tugging on your hair. You lift your head that had been resting against his leather jacket, and before you can say anything, his mouth is on yours.

It's a chaste kiss at first, like the one you gave him. Not hesistant, not really, but careful. He isn't sure how far you were willing to go but when he doesn't feel you pull away, he feels confident enough to continue. Parts his lips slowly, experimenting a little bit. He angles his head slightly different then, making it easier for you to reach him. You open yours too, allowing his tongue to slip inside. It feels amazing. Daryl wishes he'd done this sooner, 'cause apparently, you don't mind him being out of practice.

No, even better, you seem to actually enjoy it, arms around his neck, pushing him back into the cold wall. What really does it for him though is the little sounds you make. They're pretty, like everything about you. Quiet, but not shy. You like what he's doing and that motivates him a lot.

He wants to hear it again. Parts from you for a split second to catch his breath, then dives in again, and it's messier this time. His lips slant against yours, a little dry and rough just like him and he licks into your mouth. It's a stark contrast to the earlier restraint but you're not complaining, no. You're far from it as he bites your lower lip, not quite enough to make it bleed, resulting only in a small sting.

A strand of his hair falls into your face, tickling your cheek, but you don't mind, not when he's kissing you like this. It probably looks like he's eating your face off. He's clumsy but eager, nose bumping into yours. His stubble is scratchy but it feels good against your skin, this is fun. Your smile into the kiss.

His hands come up to your face, cupping your jaw carefully, as if to make sure you won't pull back. You couldn't if you tried to, with the iron grip he has you in. Good thing you don't want to. Instead, you match Daryl's enthusiasm, kissing him hard. You press him into the wall, caging his body against it. If someone saw that... No, you probably wouldn't even do anything about it. Wouldn't have it in you to care and stop, it feels way too good.

Meanwhile, Daryl is ecstatic. He hasn't ever felt this good just kissing anyone! Actually, he used to not even like it very much. Maybe that's because he didn't know you back then. He is the one that's overwhelmed now, overcome with passion. His chest rises and falls quickly, he pulls back for a second, allowing you both to catch your breath. He takes in the sight of you, and it's almost enough to have him do something else to you on the spot. You look incredible, lips swollen from the kiss, eyes hazed over with want. He probably isn't any different. And then you give him that smile, the one he dreaded back when you weren't together because it made him forget about that fact. Now, it's his favorite thing in the world (apart from kissing you).

His eyes soften, thumb stroking your cheekbone. He's glad you got him him to try this. Though you're gonna have to deal with him wanting to do it all the time, now. His heart warms at the thought. He leans in to kiss you again, not as gentle as in the beginning but just as loving. Before he can deepen it, you pull back slightly, just enough to flash him a teasing grin.

"You're really getting better at this, you know!"

"Shut up." He swallows your giddy laugh, pulling you into his arms.

The problem was that Y/N hadn’t come down to Diagnostics all week.

Five days.

Five entire days.

House hadn’t realized how often he saw her until he stopped seeing her.

Usually she’d wander through Diagnostics looking for a patient, stealing coffee from their machine while pretending she wasn’t.

Or House would find some excuse to stop by Pediatrics.

Usually a terrible excuse.

Sometimes not even an excuse.

One time he’d walked into Pediatrics and announced he was investigating a sticker-smuggling ring.

The six-year-olds had immediately volunteered information.

Y/N had laughed so hard she’d nearly fallen off her desk chair.

House had stayed for an hour.

This week, however, she’d been busy.

A flu outbreak.

Two residents out sick.

An overflowing pediatric ward.

Which meant House hadn’t seen her.

And everyone was suffering because of it.

Especially him.

The fluorescent lights were annoying.

The clinic patients were annoying.

Wilson was definitely annoying.

Even Chase breathing too loudly was starting to irritate him.

Which was why he was currently staring at a chart belonging to a twelve-year-old boy with abdominal pain.

And suddenly had a very stupid idea.

“Call Pediatrics.”

Three heads lifted simultaneously.

Foreman frowned.

“What?”

“Call Pediatrics.”

“Why?”

House pointed at the chart.

“Child.”

Foreman blinked.

“He’s twelve.”

“And?”

“We can handle a twelve-year-old.”

House looked offended.

“Are you a pediatrician?”

“No.”

“Then call one.”

Cameron exchanged a look with Chase.

Chase immediately smirked.

“Oh.”

House narrowed his eyes.

“Oh what?”

“You miss Y/N.”

The room fell silent.

Foreman groaned.

“Oh my God.”

Cameron smiled immediately.

“That’s exactly what this is.”

House looked horrified.

“No.”

“It absolutely is.”

“No.”

“You’ve been grumpy all week.”

“I’m always grumpy.”

“More than usual.”

“That’s not measurable.”

“It is,” Foreman said.

House pointed his cane at him.

“Nobody asked you.”

Chase was openly laughing now.

“You know you could just go upstairs and see her.”

House looked genuinely insulted.

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re an adult.”

“Questionable.”

“Because she’s your girlfriend.”

House glared.

“Not officially.”

The room went silent.

House froze.

Slowly.

Painfully.

The realization crossed his face.

The smiles spreading across the team’s faces made him want to commit several crimes.

Foreman pointed.

“You said it.”

“I hate all of you.”

“You called her your girlfriend.”

“I didn’t.”

“You literally did.”

“I miss the days when doctors respected authority.”

“You don’t have authority.”

House considered hitting Chase with his cane.

Instead, he stabbed the intercom button.

“Get Pediatrics down here.”

Ten minutes later the elevator doors opened.

And there she was.

House immediately felt his mood improve.

Which irritated him.

Y/N walked into Diagnostics carrying a chart and a coffee.

Her pink scrubs were covered in tiny flowers.

Her hair was twisted into a messy bun.

Several loose strands framed her face.

House hated those strands.

They were distracting.

Which was rude of them.

“You called Pediatrics?” she asked.

House shrugged.

“Maybe.”

“You sounded dramatic.”

“I am dramatic.”

“Fair.”

She glanced around the department.

“No one’s dying.”

“Unfortunately.”

“No emergency.”

“Not yet.”

“No mystery disease.”

House pointed toward the exam room.

“There.”

Y/N looked through the glass.

A twelve-year-old boy sat on the bed playing a video game.

He looked perfectly fine.

Slowly, she turned back toward House.

The suspicion on her face was immediate.

“What exactly do you need me for?”

House gestured vaguely.

“Child.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is if you’re lazy.”

“You called me away from twenty-three patients.”

House nodded.

“I know.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“You did this on purpose.”

Behind her, Chase immediately walked away before he started laughing.

Foreman suddenly became very interested in his paperwork.

Nobody was fooling anyone.

Y/N folded her arms.

“Gregory.”

House immediately looked away.

The use of his full name should not have affected him as much as it did.

Unfortunately, it did.

“What?”

“Why am I here?”

House opened the chart.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

“We needed a pediatric opinion.”

“No you didn’t.”

“We did.”

“No.”

“Did.”

“No.”

Y/N looked toward the ceiling as if asking God for patience.

The examination took ten minutes.

The diagnosis took two.

Constipation.

Exactly what House had already suspected.

Exactly what Y/N knew he’d already suspected.

When they stepped back into Diagnostics, she handed him the chart.

“Constipation.”

House nodded.

“Constipation.”

She stared at him.

He stared back.

Silence.

More silence.

Then—

“You already knew that.”

“Maybe.”

“You absolutely knew that.”

“Possibly.”

“Greg.”

House sighed dramatically.

“Fine.”

She waited.

“I was bored.”

The amusement that immediately appeared on her face was unbearable.

“You called a consult because you were bored?”

“Yes.”

“You are impossible.”

“I know.”

“That’s not a compliment.”

“I choose to believe it is.”

She laughed.

House decided right then that the consult had been completely justified.

“Seriously though,” she said quietly.

“What?”

“You could’ve just come upstairs.”

House scoffed.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“That would’ve revealed intent.”

Y/N smiled.

“And this didn’t?”

She gestured around the department.

Every member of the diagnostics team immediately looked away.

Very badly.

Y/N laughed.

“They know.”

“They know nothing.”

“They literally told me before I got here.”

House glared at Chase.

Chase waved cheerfully.

For a moment she simply looked at him.

The busy department faded into the background.

Phones ringing.

Doctors talking.

Patients walking through the halls.

House suddenly found the floor fascinating.

Because Y/N had always been annoyingly good at seeing right through him.

“You missed me.”

House rolled his eyes.

“No.”

“You did.”

“No.”

“You absolutely did.”

House sighed.

The kind of sigh that sounded physically painful.

“Maybe.”

Her smile widened immediately.

“Maybe?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

The smile she gave him afterward was devastating.

Warm.

Soft.

Entirely too pleased with herself.

Before leaving, Y/N reached into her pocket.

House frowned.

“What are you doing?”

She placed a strawberry candy on his desk.

One of the candies she always carried for nervous pediatric patients.

House stared at it.

Then at her.

Then back at the candy.

“You just gave me a pediatric reward.”

“You’ve been cranky.”

“I have not.”

Foreman snorted loudly from across the room.

Y/N pointed at him.

“See?”

“Traitor.”

Foreman raised his coffee.

“Accurate.”

Y/N smiled.

“Try not to terrorize anyone for the rest of the day.”

“No promises.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“You shouldn’t.”

She laughed one last time before heading toward the elevators.

House watched her go.

Watched until the doors slid shut.

Watched a second longer.

The room became suspiciously quiet.

A dangerous kind of quiet.

The kind that meant somebody was about to say something.

Chase spoke first.

“That was painful to watch.”

House looked up.

“What was?”

“The world’s longest crush.”

House threw a tennis ball at his head.

Chase ducked.

Foreman laughed.

Cameron smiled into her chart.

House unwrapped the strawberry candy and popped it into his mouth.

Then realized everyone had seen him do it.

The room erupted.

House groaned.

But for the first time all week, he wasn’t in a terrible mood anymore.

Which was exactly why he’d called Pediatrics in the first place.

-end

Tag list: @urfinalg1rl

Daryl strutted across the community looking for you, ignoring the smirks and smug looks from other members of the community who recognized you and Daryl's relationship.

"Lookin' for your girl?" Rick's voice echoed across the lawn as he leaned over his porch railing. Rick could hardly believe how positively whipped Daryl was. Searching for you like a lost puppy.

Daryl nodded, adjusting the strap of his crossbow as he glanced up at him. "Ya' seen her? Supposed to be back by now."

You had told Daryl you were going to ask Maggie about something. He wasn't really paying attention to your words as much as he was staring at your features in a way that was more perverted than he'd like to admit.

"She's at the gate. Last I saw her, she was talkin' to Eugene". Rick eyed Daryl's reaction while suppressing a laugh.

Daryl's jaw clenched tightly as he ran a hand through his hair. The mention of that man's name made his blood boil.

Everybody knew that you and Daryl were dating.

Everybody except for Eugene.

"Talkin' about what?" Daryl asked Rick, desperately trying to save himself from having to walk over there and breathe the same air as him.

"Oh, I couldn't tell ya' Daryl. Gonna have to find out yourself." Rick snickered to himself, knowing full well what the conversation was about.

Daryl huffed and turned away, fists clenched as he strutted down the road to the gates.

"Like I said, that sorghum would really do us good. I know sorghum, and you're resourceful. Maybe we could do this together." Eugene was talking to you about the potential of a crop that he had found in the area.

But that wasn't what Daryl saw.

Eugene was too close.

His shoulder was nearly touching yours as he showed you some kind of paper with information on it, eyes raking over you with oblivious confidence.

Saying nothing as he approached, Daryl's boots alerted you of his presence, the heavy stomp making you smile. "Hey." Your eyes met his, and you could sense the anger radiating from him.

Daryl just gave you a nod and ran his hand over yours, a small but warm gesture that reminded you of how he showed affection in the early days of Alexandria.

Daryl moved in between you and Eugene, his eyes remaining glued to Eugene's boyish smile as he was chatting with you.

"What'cha got there?" Daryl pointed to the paper. "Something you wanna share?"

"Oh yes, I was just making plans with Y/n to go check out those sorghum plots I found a few miles from here." Eugene shoved the paper into his pocket as if it were a secret between you two.

As if Daryl wasn't allowed to see it.

Asshole.

You picked up on the one-sided tension right away, Daryl's breathing heavier now as if deep breaths were not going to be enough to wash away his rage. "What Eugene means to say is that I'm going on a run with him to go see it."

Oh, that was it.

Daryl felt his blood run hot with anger he didn't want to place. Jealousy, rage, whatever the hell it was.

"I'll come too, ya' need extra hands." Daryl insisted he come along, the idea of going alone with this guy making his head spin.

Satisfaction rushed through his chest when Eugene visibly deflated at Daryl's participation. "Just thought it could be Y/n and me on this endeavor." He mumbled like a pouting child.

"An' what if walkers rush ya'? Ain't gonna be able to fight em' all." Daryl crossed his arms, not missing the way your eyes flickered to watch his biceps.

"Oh, you underestimate Y/n, she's more than capable." Eugene flashed you a confident smile.

It would have been heartwarming if you weren't his.

"You're so sweet, thanks, Eugene!" You gently shoved Eugene's shoulder, relishing in the way that you could practically see the smoke coming out of Daryl's ears.

Eugene grabbed a duffel bag and glanced between you and Daryl. "I assume y'all need to grab necessities. We'll leave in about an hour?"

Daryl was about to interrupt and shut down this entire plan. But you spoke first.

"Sounds good!" Hand clasping onto Daryl's broad shoulder, you gently dragged him away from the conversation with Eugene.

Daryl's whole body was tense, brimming with utter frustration from watching a man who had no idea how to treat you right.

"Alright." You let out a quick sigh. "What's your problem?" You bit back a smile at his obviously jealous behavior. Daryl was fuming. His eyes were staring daggers into Eugene's soul.

"Don't got one." He shrugged, clenching his teeth when Eugene snuck glances your way.

"You're so jealous. Ya' gonna shoot him while we're out there?" You were joking, but then you backtracked your words when Daryl grunted.

"Might. Depends on what that dumbass tries." Daryl huffed.

Shortly after collecting the necessities in your shared apartment for the trip outside the gates, Daryl felt the pent-up jealousy fill up.

Ready to boil over.

The anger wasn't directed at you. Because it wasn't your fault. But Daryl knew that you were thoroughly enjoying teasing him because of the constant knowing smile plastered upon your face while he was getting ready.

"Take a picture. It'll last longer." Daryl was the one pouting and sulking now. You rolled your eyes as you walked over to him.

You placed your hands on his jawline and watched as he visibly relaxed. His eyes tracked yours, flickering over your features as if he were memorizing them. "You gotta be nice today." You hummed.

Daryl just grumbled in response, his arms wrapping around your waist tightly. He buried his face into your neck, letting out a heavy sigh.

What a grump.

After driving out a few miles, you made it to the sorghum processing plant, eager to see what Eugene was ranting about. Daryl had forced Eugene to drive so that he could keep an eye on him.

Exploring the abandoned plant, there were several viable resources that you could bring back to the community. Farming machinery was scattered around, waiting to be collected.

"Y/n, would you mind reaching in here to take a look at this engine? Seems perfectly suited for our food conundrum." Eugene called you over to what looked like a tractor of some kind.

You stepped up onto the wheel of the machine and bent over to glance into the large engine. Truth be told, you had little knowledge of cars and machinery. But, you were a little concerned about letting Daryl get too close to Eugene.

Daryl watched the situation, his eyes falling to your ass as you stretched over the side of the machine to glance at the engine.

And then he froze.

Eugene was looking too. Unashamedly and with hunger.

He could have shot him where he stood. God, he wanted to. Instead, his boots slammed against the concrete as he made his way over to Eugene.

"You'd best keep your eyes off." Daryl pointed a finger in his face, the warning crystal clear to Eugene.

After all, he had no idea that you were in a relationship with Daryl.

Hearing the rising tensions, you quickly popped up and shut the hood. "Looks good! We'll get somebody to help us move it in the next few days."

Jumping down from the machinery, you placed a hand on Daryl's chest. "Daryl and I will check these shelves over here if you want to go see what kind of provisions they have here." You spoke to Eugene, your finger absentmindedly drawing circles on Daryl's vest.

"Yes, ma'am. Y'know, a woman of your caliber really should have more authority around the community. Been doin' a fine job leading so far." Eugene offered you a smile before walking over in the direction you gave him.

Daryl clenched his jaw, staring off into the distance with furrowed brows. You looked up at him and snickered, hand leaving his chest as you walked over to the shelves.

You rifled through items that could be of use, searching for supplies that would benefit Alexandria. A shuffling sound from behind you made you smirk. "Can't stay away, huh?"

Daryl took a quick glance around to make sure nobody was looking. Then, his hands snaked around your hips, firmly pulling them back to press against him. "Ya' think this is funny, don't ya'?" His voice was a whisper as he pressed kisses to the back of your neck.

"Think it's funny to rile me up?" One hand ran up your shirt to feel your bare skin, the other kept you pressed against him.

"Daryl-" you whined. "He could see us!"

"Good-" Daryl sucked on your neck, leaving a prominent mark where his lips were. "Let him see."

You couldn't even focus on looking for anything; the heat of his body against yours, pushing you into the shelving, drove you insane.

"But we haven't told him about us-" Your words became a quiet moan as his hand traveled down to your clothed cunt, pressing his rough hands into the spot where you wanted him most.

"What's the big deal, sugar? S'the best way to tell him." Daryl's mind was spinning, rage and lust mixing up inside of him to the point where all he could do was manhandle you with the hopes that he could get his message across.

With one hand, Daryl unbuttoned your jeans. "Daryl, no, he'll catch us." Daryl paused at your words.

"You want me to stop?" He kissed your neck, his hand gently waiting for your response.

Taking a beat to look around, you realized that Eugene was nowhere to be seen. That was enough for you.

"No." You put your hand on his, leaning your head back to fall on his shoulder.

With your permission, his hand slid down your jeans, breath hitching at the feeling of lace underneath. "Ya' gonna show these to me later, huh?" He ran his fingertips over the fabric, sending a rush of heat down to your core.

A whimper escaped your mouth at his actions, and all you could offer him was a pathetically desperate nod.

"Good girl." Daryl's voice could've made you hit your climax right then and there, the raspy voice whispered quietly in your ear.

With two fingers, he slid your panties to the side gently. Daryl didn't even care what was happening outside the corner of this factory; his thoughts consumed by your trembling frame in front of him as his fingers teased you.

His fingers finally reached where you wanted them, slowly stroking your clit. "Fuck, this is crazy-" you moaned against his shoulder silently.

"Been teasing me all fuckin' day." He grunted against you. "Gonna show ya' who can treat you like ya' deserve." His stubble pressed against your neck as he pressed soft kisses, contrasting the way his left hand was holding your hips tightly.

He slipped one finger in, watching the way you bit back a muffled moan, your hips grinding down onto his hand as he thrusted at a consistent pace.

"Daryl please-" You shut your eyes tightly as he caught onto your need, your desperation, by adding another finger.

"Shh, I got ya'." His left hand was splayed across your torso, pressing into you as his right hand was reached around you, fingering you with his middle and ring fingers.

It was all too much. The stakes, the possibility that Eugene might just turn the corner and see Daryl's hand down your pants, making you fall apart on his fingers.

His breath tickled your neck as his breathing became heavier. "So pretty-" he let out a low hum when you pressed your hips backward into his crotch.

Your legs felt like jelly as he thrusted impossibly faster into your cunt, his thumb occasionally rubbing your clit. "Daryl-" you gasped as he adjusted his hand to get a deeper angle, hitting your spot with ease.

"S'That where you want me, sugar?" He smirked at your reaction.

"Yes!" You grabbed onto the shelf in front of you to ground you. "Fuck right there, please." You were so goddamn close, the adrenaline from the whole scenario only further leading you to your climax.

Your orgasm hit you hard, sending waves of pleasure through you as Daryl kept going, working you through it.

"Fuck-" Daryl was breathing hard now at the sight of you, fighting his hardest to keep his own arousal at bay.

Still shuddering from your powerful orgasm, clanking could be heard not far from the two of you. Daryl slowly removed his hand, his touch lingering on you before he finally pulled away.

It was Eugene coming back with bags of seed and other items. "Found some provisions that would benefit our community to the highest extent."

You were leaning against the shelving, your face flushed and your clothing an absolute mess. "Feelin' alright, Ms. Y/n?" Eugene had no idea.

"Yeah-I." Your eyes met Daryl, who threw you a wink as he walked away from the conversation. "Just feelin' a little weak. Might be time to head back home." Thank god for Eugene's gullible nature in that moment.

Standing behind Eugene's back, Daryl stared you down with hunger in his eyes as he licked his fingers.

Fuck.

The following morning was like a breath of fresh air, not in the literal sense of the phrase but in the sense that some of your restrictions had worn off.

No more standing still waiting for your healing to suffice. No more watching people risk themselves while you stood sweetly doing laundry or watching from the tower above.

Freedom. 

If you could even class it as that.

“You gonna go on a run today?” Maggie fell into step beside you as you headed outside. “Daddy said he cleared you.”

You giggled, turning your head towards her as your steps fell in sync.

“Yeah,” you nodded, eyes scanning the lot. “Might go solo.”

Maggie looked at you as though you’d just said the worst thing you could’ve.

“Solo?”

“Mhm.”

“I don’t think Rick’ll be happy about that,” She scanned over your face; she was worried about you, you could tell. “With your leg an’ all.”

You were getting ticked off by the number of people questioning you.

Hershel cleared you. That was all there was to it.

Way to ruin the mood.

“Rick can’t stop me,” you finalised. “It’s not like he’s going to say no if I bring things back either.”

Maggie sighed.

“I can go with you…”

“No, Maggie,” you said, shaking your head and stilling your steps. “People only go on runs with others when they know they’ll run into something bad.”

Maggie’s eyes tracked over your face.

“I’m going on a short run as reinforced by your dad,” you said. “No need for backup when I’ve got my gun and two working legs.”

She went to speak, but she stopped herself at your stubbornness.

You knew what she would’ve said anyway.

“Plus,” you started. “I’m sure Glenn would want to tag along with you if you did come anyway and…I’m not about to be a third wheel on my first run back.”

She chuckled at that.

“Fine.”

You squinted your face at her jokingly.

“Gonna head to fence duty for a while.”

“Alright,” she nodded. “It’s really nice having you back out here.”

You shot her a smile before saying your goodbyes, turning on your heel and stalking your way up to the fence.

You got a few smiles on your way up there; it seemed like people really did miss having you out in the yard after your accident.

You took your usual spot on the fence away from prying eyes and lingering questions.

“What an ugly bastard—” you muttered, taking out the walker in question, wiping the remnants of its brain clean of your knife and onto your pants.

You took four more walkers out.

Four.

And then you spotted Rick talking with Daryl and Tyreese by the pigpen.

You may as well tell him you’d be going on a run now.

You made your way over, boots heavy against the floor, arms crossed over your chest.

“I’m going on a run today.” You interrupted their conversation—not on purpose; you just wanted to make your point clear as soon as you could.

Rick looked at you.

Then Tyreese.

Then Daryl.

You didn’t even look Daryl straight in the eye; you’d actually had time to have a deep think about his actions.

The avoidance, and then suddenly jumping to help you?

That pissed you off.

“You’re goin’ with these two, if you’re goin’ anywhere.” Rick stated.

“No, I’m not.” Your words came out fast. “I’m going on my own.”

“Ain’t safe out there.” Daryl uttered, eyes practically glued on yours.

“Yeah, well,” your eyes flickered to Daryl’s for a brief moment. “Did everything out there alone before I got here. I know how to handle myself.”

“Ain’t like that now.” Daryl spoke again, his voice rougher this time.

Tyreese didn’t speak a word.

Rick was already sighing, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

“What are you, hm?” You raised your brows at him, eyes fully on his now. “You my chaperone now or something? That’s funny, Daryl, because it’s not like you cared at all before.”

Daryl went to speak, but Rick cut him off instantly.

“Quit it.”

“No!” You raised your voice. “I’m sick of everyone treating me as though I’m some kind of fucking child!”

Rick looked at you properly then, brows furrowed and eyes narrowed.

“Nobody’s doing that.” Rick stressed.

You shook your head.

“You’re doing it right now.”

A beat.

“She’ll be fine Rick,” Tyreese finally cut in. “She’s a tracker. She knows the route and she’s got a gun.”

You nodded at Tyreese, thankful for his backup.

Rick sighed once more, already knowing nothing would be stopping you getting offsite.

“You better be back before night if you’re goin’.”

“I will.”

And then that was it; you didn’t even wait for another word; you just went.

You grabbed your gun from your cell, your satchel, extra ammo from storage, and a new silencer for your weapon.

“You going on a run?” Carl questioned as you made your way outside.

“Yeah,” you smiled at him, not slowing down.

You wanted out as soon as you could; you needed a break from everyone.

“Don’t die out there!” He shouted out from behind you, his voice carrying through the wind.

You chuckled to yourself.

“I won't, Carl! I won’t!”

The gates opened, and you were soon stalking your way toward the forest.

Glenn covered you from the tower as you walked, taking out the walkers that moved your way.

The leaves crunched beneath your boots, and the wind brushed through your hair.

You weren’t exactly tracking anything in particular; you just knew exactly where your feet were taking you.

Your old camp.

You knew there would still be supplies out there, and you were certain the walkers would’ve drifted elsewhere after they’d eaten their way through your old friends.

It was bittersweet, really.

You missed them.

A walker stumbled out of the brush, grumbling loudly; you took it out without even looking at it.

Then it felt like the whole world went silent.

That’s what you wanted. You wanted the peace, the solitude.

But the silence only meant bad.

You kept moving.

Your camp was a long way out, and if you wanted to get there and back by dusk, you had to be fast.

You just need to make a quick pit stop first.

A cabin sat just ahead of you; you’d seen it many times before, but you were much too weak to even attempt to search it.

Guess now was the time.

Your hand snaked around the handle, turning it slightly.

It opened with a creak.

You entered.

The smell was stale and pungent, attacking your senses all in one.

You pushed through anyway.

You flicked through the cabinets; most of it had already been picked over, but there were still a few tins stacked underneath the faucet.

You pushed them into your satchel and continued searching.

The rest of the place was empty; you’d gotten lucky finding those tins.

You moved towards the door you came in through, pushing it open whilst fiddling with the strap on your bag.

You didn’t even notice the walker stumbling towards you.

Too distracted.

It made a moaning noise, and that’s when your eyes finally picked up. You frantically drew your weapon to shoot, but before you could—

Somebody had taken it out clean through the eyeball for you.

You froze as the walker dropped in front of you, an arrow straight through its skull.

An arrow.

You knew whose arrow almost immediately.

You exhaled through your nose, eyes scanning the area.

“You following me now?” You shouted out.

No answer.

A beat.

“Just leave me alone, Daryl.” You rolled your eyes, stepping over the dropped body and continuing on your commute.

“Rick sent me.” He emerged from behind a tree, crossbow still raised.

You glanced at him for a minute before you turned again, keeping your distance from him.

“So you’ve been following me my whole time out here?”

“Ain’t followin’ you.” He grunted, trailing you slowly.

“So what are you doing then?” You faced him, eyes widening.

“M’followin’ Rick’s orders.”

“Bullshit.” You spat, hands gripping the sides of your pants so hard your knuckles turned white.

“It ain't.” He spoke back, jaw tightening.

You scoffed, turning away from him.

He still followed. Leaves crunching beneath his feet with every step he made.

“You know what's funny?” you called over your shoulder. “Nobody cared what I did before my injury.”

Daryl's expression darkened.

“That ain't true.”

“Really?”

You spun around again.

His eyes flickered away for half a second at that, but you caught it.

Another beat.

“And now you want to stand on some fucking moral high ground?” You raised your voice, words coming out sharp.

“The hell's that suppose’ to mean?” His own tone rose now, voice gruff. 

“You know exactly what it means.”

“I ain’t on no damn moral high ground!” He seethed. “You don’t know what the hell yer talkin’ about!”

“Really?” you hissed.

His temper flared.

“Ain’t my fault ya got some suicide wish comin’ out here alone!”

You looked at him, brows furrowing; somewhere deep down, that statement hurt.

Hurt enough to knock the fight out of you.

“Just go back, Daryl.” You sighed, turning and making your way back through the leaves.

He waited a beat and then—

He was back on you like a damn fly.

You didn’t want to speak anymore. Neither did he.

You walked in utter silence for the rest of your journey, and then, you spotted it: your old camp.

The tents had dipped to the floor a long while ago, you could tell. The wood centered in the middle had gone completely black, the smell of ash flickering through the air.

You could feel your chest begin to ache seeing it all again.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself forward; everything felt ten times harder being out here after you’d built the courage to finally come back.

It didn’t feel fair, you being here and them not.

Maybe it should’ve been you.

Your boots carried you further to what used to be your tent. Most of it had collapsed inward, the canvas rotted from the months of rain it had endured before finally giving up.

You crouched beside it anyway, fingers lifting the material up slightly to peer under.

Your hands brushed against everything, unsure of what they were looking for exactly.

Then they skimmed over a canvas.

A photograph of you and your dog from back home, back home when everything was okay.

You had carried it everywhere with you; you only lost it when your camp went downhill.

You stared at it, chest aching so violently that you could have thrown up.

Daryl noticed.

“'Ey.”

You didn't answer.

“'Ey.” He repeated, nudging your foot gently with the toe of his boot.

Your eyes never left the photograph.

The edges were worn soft from years of being folded and unfolded, carried from place to place. 

“I found him when I was fifteen,” you murmured. “Someone left him half-starved on the damn side of the road.”

Daryl stayed quiet.

You weren't even sure why you were talking. You didn’t elaborate further.

The silence stretched.

The camp suddenly felt too small.

Empty.

Dead.

“They're all dead.” Your voice was hoarse as you tried to stop yourself from crying.

Daryl's gaze shifted from you to the collapsed tents.

“Ain’t on you.” His tone was calmer now, less aggravated than before.

You looked back down at the photograph, a lone tear splashing against the image.

Daryl pretended not to notice; you couldn’t tell if that was better or worse.

Probably better.

“C'mon.” He tapped you gently on your shoulder.

His touch was almost…grounding.

“What?” You sniffled, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand.

“We ain't gettin' back 'fore dark if ya sit here all day.”

You looked at him.

He looked back.

“Take the picture.”

You didn’t hesitate, folding the photograph carefully and slipping it into your pocket.

Then you stood, collecting yourself.

“Check the tents,” you started, wiping at your eyes again. “I’m sure there will be stuff still in them.”

His eyes tracked over yours for a moment before he nodded.

You ended up managing to find about a dozen unopened tins, some bandages that had survived the mold, and some unopened bottles of water.

Then—

You left.

Dusk had already started to fall, settling slowly over the trees.

You and Daryl walked in silence.

The argument from earlier had burnt itself out now, and the silence was simply because neither of you knew what to say.

It seemed you never knew what to say to him, and he, vice versa.

The photograph sat folded inside your pocket, fingers touching it through the material of your pants every so often to make sure it was still there.

Your foot stubbed against a fallen branch that you’d failed to see in the dark.

Your leg protested immediately.

Not enough to stop you but enough to remind you that you were still, in fact, injured.

Daryl's eyes flickered downward. You noticed.

“I'm fine.” You muttered.

“Ain't say nothin’.” He grunted.

“You were thinking it.”

“Nah.” He spoke, eyes glancing over towards you.

A lie; you could tell.

You rolled your eyes, focus returning towards the route ahead.

A few minutes passed before you spoke again.

“I forgot what this felt like.” You said quietly, the hoarseness still evident in your voice but less so than before.

“What?” He questioned, eyes moving to the side of your face.

“Being out here.”

Your eyes tracked over the woods around you.

“The quiet.”

A beat.