Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s four o’clock, and you’re struggling to stay awake. You have to make this trip worth it. From Maple Valley, Washington to Houston-fucking-Texas— God, you feel like you’re not supposed to be here. You never expected to make it this far so early on, and you certainly never expected that the reason would be, put simply, that the world is ending.

Your name is John Egbert, and you’ve come to visit your best friend for the very first and last time.

While people are out looting, partying and drinking themselves to death before the incoming meteor can do them in, you’re inside with Dave and his Bro (who you strongly dislike). It’s dark; your tired fingers flick the joystick and click the buttons on a PS4 remote slower than usual as you try and beat this part of Uncharted II for Dave. Your eyelids feel so heavy, and you can’t help but look at the clock. 4:07 am. You have about twenty minutes.

You can rest easy knowing your dad is okay. You spent the entire last week with him, and when he... when he made the decision to go out on his own accord, you left for Dave’s house. There’s something you’ve always wanted to do that you can’t bring yourself to just yet, like there’s some invisible barrier between you and him that not even the end of the world can break. You glance at him, teary-eyed and tired.

“We can’t just play video games for the next twenty minutes.” You sniffle and bend your knees close to your chest. “I don’t know what to do. There’s so much we were supposed to...” you trail off and sniffle again, shaking your head. “...man.”

You can hear Bro watching a video in the kitchen behind you. You try to ignore it. This is the rapture y’all, it’s just as God promised... You can tell he thinks it’s bullshit because you hear him slam his phone down on the countertop.

Your name is Dave Strider, and to be honest, you’re at a complete fucking loss.

Your best friend of 7 years is at your side, and you would be ecstatic but for the circumstances. There’s a nagging feeling in your chest about why it took the fucking end of the world to come visit you, but you have to catch yourself in thinking that because you hadn’t gone to visit him either. Despite having to scavenge for food like a fucking raccoon, it’s not like money’s really an issue for you, given Bro’s mini smuppet empire.

What you should be focussing on right now is John, who seems to be cracking in the shadow of the oncoming meteor.

You cross your arms and shrug, feeling strangely empty. You think Bro’s apathy for the entire situation has rubbed off on you, but you’re also uncomfortable with the hollowness you feel. “What else is there to do? Go out and get pissed? Hook up with half of Houston and go for the Guinness World Record for highest amount of STDs contracted in 20 minutes?”

You immediately regret fucking speaking at all, and try to soften it. “Hey, at least it’s not heading straight for us. We’ll be in the clear for a couple of days at least.”

“I’d strangle you if I weren’t trying to spend every last minute with you.” You’re so irritated by Dave’s stinky attitude. Normally when something bad happens, you don’t really care. Hell, you didn’t cry when you found your Dad, you simply mourned and moved on, and that was that. But now, being faced with your own demise is ruining whatever carefreeness you have left. When you’re dead, there’s no trucking on. You’re dead. That’s it.

Dave is right. You guys may have a few days after the initial impact. However, you aren’t sure what you’re supposed to do to enjoy your last days suffocating in Texas while people drop like flies on the streets... back in Washington, people are already dying. You remember seeing a house down the street set ablaze in the middle of the night. You remember seeing drunkards on their lawns. It’s horrible.

“Did they say how big the impact will be?” You’re still holding onto a chance that if you and Dave go to the right place, you can survive the whole ordeal. You know deep down that’s not how it works though.

You shrug again, trying to ignore his admission. Trying to ignore the fact that out of all of his friends, John chose to spend the last days with you. He’d probably be better off with Rose and her crazy smart mother. “I dunno. Pretty big. Dinosaur asteroid big.”

You pause. “Just about wipe out Houston, probably, if it landed here.”

You nod your head and try to take that as a positive thing. At least if it’s big, anyone who suffers won’t suffer for long. Other than you. You’ll suffer for days. Okay, never mind it being positive.

There’s a flash of light outside that pours in through the windows, temporarily bathing the apartment in fake sunlight. Thats the meteor flashing as it breaks through the layers of the atmosphere. The first time you saw it, you thought it was pretty cool. Now it just feels like a white flare of death.

You wipe your eyes before any tears start streaming down your face. “I bet Jade has some bunker on her cool island. And maybe Rose does too, ‘cause she’s rich.” Honestly, that thought makes you jealous, but you still hope your friends will be okay.

“If you wanna get pissed n’ try to enjoy yourself before everyone dies, now’s the time to start.” A new voice with a southern drawl surfaces from behind you and Dave, making you tense up for a second. When you look up and behind you, it’s obviously Bro, who scares you immensely. You don’t get why he feels so intense when he presents himself as some really cool guy.

A strange, acid sort of anger stirs in your chest at the remark. Maybe it’s John at your side, but you don’t want him starting shit right now. And you like the idea of getting drunk and not remembering the last moments with your best bro before the meteor hits even less.

“Fuck off, Bro,” you say, without looking back over your shoulder. “If you like the idea that much, why don’t you go get pissed yourself and leave us alone.”

“Maybe I will,” Bro sneers down at Dave. That shocks you. “Say your prayers, D.” Is Dave’s guardian seriously leaving you two home alone right now? What if he dies out there? What if there’s an earth tremor? Doesn’t he want to keep you two safe?

Thinking back on how Dave describes his Bro, you conclude that the man really doesn’t care. That, or he’s just trying to prove something. Bro eventually leaves with a bottle of whiskey, slamming the door hard behind him. You look at Dave.

“He’s fucking crazy.”

"Yeah. Took you a while to figure that one out."

You don’t move. The game display is frozen in front of you on the TV. Your eyes dart to the time. There’s about ten minutes left, give or take.

“At least he’s out of our hair for now. We don’t have to deal with him being a prick.”

Because it is only “for now”. He always comes back, one way or another. Or maybe he won’t this time. Maybe he’ll drink himself stupid and lie in the streets until the dust cloud reaches Houston. You find yourself caring little; he’s become less of a guardian to you and more of a nuisance.

“We should seal up the vents and stuff.” You quickly get over Bro’s disappearance. There are ten minutes left and you need to be at least somewhat ready. What would your Dad say if you don’t even try? I’m proud of you? No.

You get up— your legs are weak from being half-asleep on the couch for so long— and start looking around for duct tape or towels that you can use to seal the vents and windows. If Bro isn’t going to take care of Dave, then you’ll just have to do it yourself.

You open kitchen drawers and dig around in Bro’s musty bedroom. It smells like sweat and Polo Blue. Eventually you do find some duct tape, a lot actually, which is weird to you. Then again, the Striders have so many weird stories and habits, you find it best not to worry right now and simply be thankful for the supplies.

You turn your head to look at John when he jumps up. Everything feels muted, but you’re kind of surprised—you figured there was nothing you really could do, or nothing that really mattered. Sealing up the apartment won’t offset the quakes and the sun-blocking clouds expected to roll in. You suppose it makes sense for him, though; always trying to make the best out of a bad situation, always itching to do something like a shark that will suffocate once it stops moving.

You pause for a moment. You’re ambiguously drawn to both sitting and just taking it and getting up to help John. Does it even matter at this point, preparing for impact—what with ten minutes left, being stuck in a high-rise apartment, cupboards full of shitty fucking swords like that could ever help?

It takes you all of twenty seconds to decide to get up, if only for John’s sake. You cross to your room and start gathering up your dirty clothes where you dropped them—not like you’ll have time to wash them with automated water before impact, or that you’ll need them otherwise. Only thing they’re good for right now is blocking dust and fumes.

You know where all the vents and openings are—years of Bro-set booby traps led you to memorise all of them. You start in the bathroom, standing on the sink and stuffing a shirt as best you can into the dusty, broken ventilation fan above the shower.

You reckon it won’t take long to seal up the apartment. You stuff a towel in the crack beneath the front door and duct tape that in place, then the vertical opening in the door, then all around the windows, and a vent in the kitchen. It feels like you’re making good progress.

You head to Dave’s room next, intent on sealing his window shut. You climb over his desk (it’s really just a slab of wood mounted on some cinderblocks) to shut and lock his window, and as you tape it shut, you see the meteor flicker and streak down across the sky, disappearing over the horizon. You don’t make a sound. Your mouth is agape but you honest-to-God can’t make a single noise.

You can hear John what sounds like duct-taping things in the other rooms, so you hop down from the sink and walk out of the bathroom in search for him. You find him in your room, what looks like halfway through taping your window, but he’s now staring out through the glass, still as a resin-encased bug. You watch for a moment, but he still doesn’t move.

“John?” you say, trying to get his attention. Is something wrong?

You can’t bring yourself to turn away from the window. There’s an unbearably long moment of silence while you beckon Dave over with a wave of your hand, and Houston is bathed in white light from a horrific sunrise. Only it’s not the sun, and the light gives way to a silent mushroom cloud, blasting debris up into the atmosphere. It looks like shooting stars.

You don’t hear the impact until eleven seconds later.

And you don’t feel it for another two seconds, but oh, it’s great. The entire city shakes as the Earth is split and forced to crumble into itself, knocking you off Dave’s desk. The building seems to sway. You can hear it, a long, deep, loud groan that shakes you to your core. The light dies down, and all that’s in the distance is fire.

Chapter Text

You’re not sure for how long the massive quake lasts—and the groaning sound of it is almost drowned out by cacophony that wracks through the apartment. First you hear your shutters jingling furiously, then the deep thuds of things falling—you can imagine your desk, you can imagine shelves being knocked off the walls, cabinets toppling over. Having lost your balance and fallen to your knees, something hits you hard in the back, knocking the breath from your lungs and shoving you face-first into the floor. You feel a pain in your cheek and you think you hear a cheap cracking. You can barely make out crashing in one of the other rooms, but it mostly all blends into one giant roar, and you find yourself clamping your hands over your ears while you try to suck in air.

The rumbling stops. You wait for a few more moments, frozen still, half expecting the chaos to start up again—but it’s quiet in the apartment. The only thing you can hear is distant screams from the streets below.

It’s dark. You squint up from your position on the floor, but your vision is blocked by some large thing—you think it’s your desk, having slid off the cinder blocks and fallen on top of you. That’s probably what hit you in the back. The desk is angled, leaving you some room—probably leaning against the wall or propped up by something else—so you manage to snake your arms out from your sides and reach out to plant your palms against it, and with one strong shove, you push it away, and it clatters off onto the floor. The air is hazy, full of particles, and you have to pull your shirt up over your nose to breathe in and cough.

You brace for impact, but you still don’t expect to feel such a force against your body. Once you fall off Dave’s desk, you’re sent tumbling back, and a cinder block crushes your hand. You cry out through clenched teeth and hold your glasses on your face, trying to ignore the chaotic rumble and roar of the entire world around you. It sounds like a revving engine. If an engine was powered by the screaming souls of the damned.

Once that part is over, you scramble to your feet without hesitation. You can barely breathe, so you put your arm over your nose and try to breathe that way, through barely-filtered air contaminated by dust and whatnot. You look around for Dave, and relief crashes over you like a warm tidal wave.

“Are you okay?” Of course he’s not okay. You get to your knees and pull Dave into recovery position, sitting him up and leaning his back against the left side of your chest. “Christ, oh jeez, oh fuck.” He’s bleeding. Dave’s face is bruised and his cheek is swelling up and oh fuck that’s making the cut get bigger. It’s not so bad. It’s not so bad, right? He doesn’t need stitches. Right?

The next thing you know, it feels like you’re being yanked upright, and your head is spinning. You groan in pain and clutch at your head, like that will anchor the rest of the world.

You hear John’s voice and it's like a flip has switched. You’re fully awake, fully alert, and you can see clearly—well, as clearly as you can through the dust in the air. John's holding you up and fussing over you, like he didn’t just get knocked off the fucking desk.

“M’fine, I’m fine,” you say, smacking his hand away to try and sit up and face him—and then noticed said hand, purple and grazed, painful-looking ladders etched into skin. You grab it.

“Fuck, are you okay?” You look around quickly for the culprit, but the ceiling hasn’t fallen in, there’s nothing so rough in your room but for what used to be holding your desk. Fuck, that would have hurt. “It was the fucking cinder blocks, wasn’t it? Fuck, I’m sorry—”

At any other time you would have assumed it looks worse than it is, but a fucking asteroid just hit. You taste iron and spit it out off to the side. You think you busted your lip when you fell over.

“I’ve got a kit under my bed. Let me grab it.”

You swallow hard once you see your hand. It’s turning purple, so you know it’s definitely broken, on account of how you can’t move your fingers and they’re bent weird ways. Jesus. Why can’t you feel your hand?

“Dude, you’re— your face.” You allow Dave to move on his own, but you reach out for him. You don’t want him to go. What if he has a spinal injury or something? “You’re all swollen...”

"I’m fine, I’m fine,” you say, almost distractedly. Your face aches, but it’s nothing worse than you’ve had before. You go to brush his hand away again but there’s something in his face that makes you stop.

Why is he looking at you like that?

“John—” At any other time you’d find yourself irritated, but his expression knocks the anger out of you. “I’m fine, I promise. We need to have a look at your hand. My kit’s just under my bed—I know exactly where it is, I’ll be fast.”

You clamp your mouth shut and sit back, holding your limp, throbbing hand. That’s all you can feel: throbbing. Your heartbeat. You feel it in your neck, in your carotid artery. You feel it in the tips of your fingers and in your temples and in your chest. Any pain you should feel now simply doesn’t exist, and that’s how you know it’s going to be really bad later.

You wonder how your dad would react to this.

Oh son, your hand... he’d pull you close and cradle you in his arms, holding your broken hand gently. He’d bandage it up and wipe the dust from your face. He’d hug you in your last moments while you both freeze and suffocate. It’s okay, Dad would say. Just hold onto me. I love you.

You decide that if he’s not here to help, then you’ll have to take on that role. Right after Dave works his magic on your hand.

John doesn’t argue, so you scramble across the floor to your bed, now beginning to be coated in the dust that chokes the air. There’s a couple of the cinder blocks resting there and records scattered across the floor, but other than that it'’ remarkably easy to reach underneath and poke around until you find and pull out the box you're looking for. Shuffling on your knees, you bring it back over to John, pop open the lid, and reach for the rubbing alcohol—

You freeze. This kit is so small; there’s barely anything in it. You don’t have a stash—you'd only ever bought supplies in piecemeal, only as much as you needed. The disinfectant bottle is already over two thirds empty, maybe more, and you can tell by looking at the roll of bandage you keep that there’s only enough for maybe a couple of days at most to tend to any seeping wounds.

You hadn’t thought much about the impact. You’d thought you’d either be dead on impact or shortly thereafter. You hadn’t planned for anything after that. You don’t have enough in this apartment to keep you and John going. You feel a deep pang of regret for your apathy, for your selfishness.

You stare at the box for a moment, and you manage to swallow it all down. You can think about this later. For now, you pick out the last of the splints—only two of them—and set them in your lap, and ready the alcohol and cotton swab before reaching for John’s tender hand, and carefully dabbing it on over the worst of the ruffled skin.

You just want to get your mind off this crazy bullshit. Where are you supposed to go? How long do you have? You close your eyes and breathe out through your mouth, which causes you to cough.

“This isn’t enough.”

The med kit is sorrily empty, milked dry by Dave during his time being tortured by his Bro. At least, that’s what you assume happened. He seems so miserable around him.

“Should we—” you wince. The alcohol stings. “Should we go get more? If that’s possible?”

“Later. We’re fixin’ up your hand first.”

You were hoping John wouldn’t notice. He’s already stressed out enough as it is, with a broken hand to boot.

You examine his fingers and find three that are definitely broken. You exhale. “Alright, so... they’re pretty bad. We’ve gotta ice them, and then I’m going to have to yank them back into place for them to heal properly. Is that okay?”

You nod along, expecting Dave to say you just need to wear a bandage and you’ll be “good as new” in “no time.”

Unfortunately, the feeling is slowly returning to your hand, and he says something about snapping your fingers back in place. Your heart forgets to beat for a moment, then it speeds up.

“God, okay.” With widened eyes, you blink repeatedly and look around, as if searching for someone who will back you up and say no, don’t do that, that’s crazy. You swallow down your fear in the form of a wad of saliva. “When you do it, don’t even warn me. Just get it over with.” You feel so brave for that. Dad would totally tell you how courageous and good you’re being.

You nod. God, poor guy. He’s probably never had to deal with something like this before. He didn’t grow up like you did; he could afford doctor’s visits—or, more accurately, he had a guardian who was willing to take him to the doctor. And a lifestyle that probably barely warranted going to the doctor in the first place.

“It’s worse than it sounds,” you lie, hoping to bring him some small amount of comfort. “Ever cracked your knuckles? It’s a lot like that.”

Your own fingers skitter over his, estimating the best way to realign them. Two fingers are right next to each other, so you’re sure you can do them both at once, if only to save him some anxiety. The last will have to be at a different angle though.

“I’m going to go get ice from the freezer. Are you good to stay here?”

“Yeah, I’m— I’m good.” You rub your eyes and sigh. Man. Your glasses are dirty, your fingers are broken, Dave’s cheek is all swollen— what’s next? (God, you don’t want to even think about what’s next. You did pretty good research.)

The dinosaurs didn’t come out okay, and you doubt you will either, but you’ll try for as long as you can. And it starts with getting your stupid broken fingers fixed. You stand and look out the window, out at the fire over the horizon. The clouds are orange and black from ash and the light of the blaze. So this is what the end of the world looks like, you think to yourself.

Dave’s room is a horrible mess. You kick stuff aside in a halfhearted attempt at cleaning it, but you quickly give up. You’re not going to stay here, so you can’t worry about some messy bedroom. Part of you wishes you could though, maybe you’ll stay here and try to maintain some sense of normalcy until you and Dave are fried, frozen or suffocated. What a horrible thought.

You stand and leave the room quickly—not because you want to, but because if you’re quick you’ll get back to him quicker. You can sense his resolve crumbling, and you don’t want to leave him alone for too long.

As predicted, the apartment’s become a veritable minefield. You and your Bro together already have way too much shit, and now that shit is all over the floor. You also find the source of the crashing from earlier—all the kitchen cupboards swung open in the quake, dumping shitty swords all over the benches and floors.

You beeline to the fridge, stepping over and kicking aside swords, and yank open the freezer door. You ignore the swords in the drawers and investigate the ice compartments—of course there’s no real ice, your Bro could never buy anything that would be remotely useful, but you have a bunch of those freezable water-filled shapes jammed into the ice compartments.

The only thing nearby that could serve as a container is the blender, which you unplug from the wall and fill with freezable shapes before making your way back to the bedroom. You scoop up a dusty shirt from the floor, second-guess, discard it and pull a clean one from a box in the closet, which you hand to John, standing by the window.

“Wrap your hand in this. Then put it in the ice.”

“You guys don’t have real ice?” You reckon it doesn’t matter now, but you thought everyone had ice in their freezer, or a cold water dispenser or one of those ice packs that you shake to make it cold. Why wouldn’t they? What if someone got hurt? You chalk it up to Dave’s Bro being a weird inconsiderate asshole.

You wrap your hand in the shirt— tightly, but not tight enough to cut off your circulation— and stick it in the blender filled with frozen shapes. You suck in a sharp breath through clenched teeth.

“Jeez... oh my god...” your voice breaks. You’re seriously about to lose it. “This isn’t gonna do anything, the fucking world is ending, we’re gonna—” you shudder. “A meteor just hit us and we’re gonna die.”

John’s voice cracks, you can see the tears in his eyes amplified through his glasses, and you feel like you’ve been dunked in a bucket of ice water. This is completely uncharted territory—you were hoping to just gloss over it all, pretend everything is fine like you always have. It’s simply safer—when you feel, you feel strongly, so in most cases it’s better not to feel anything at all. It’s almost always easier to simply bury it and never look back.

Looking at John, you feel uncomfortable feelings rising. You feel like a little kid again, like you no longer have a grip on your emotions. It feels like the rug has been pulled out from beneath you and you’re scrabbling to find purchase on something before you go tumbling down.

Your first reflex is to chastise him, like your Bro had always done to you—but then it hits you, like your Bro had always done to you. You don’t want to be that person. Especially to John. He deserves better.

So you reach out, hand suddenly shaking, to touch his arm. You don’t even rest your hand fully down; you stay hovering with your fingertips, ready to wrench your hand back at the first sign of rejection.

“We’re— We’re not going to die. We—” You swallow. “Once we deal with your hand we can— go scavenging. And get out of here. Okay?” You don’t really have a plan, so finding yourself on thin ice, you circle back to your first statement. “You’re not going to die. I won’t let you.”

The last part comes out unbidden, and you don’t have a chance to reel it back before it escapes your mouth. Those final words hang in the air like bombs ready to drop, and you clamp your mouth shut, hoping you haven’t just gone too far and fucked everything up.

You blink and wipe your tears quickly. Once you start crying you really can’t stop, which is why you honestly never cry. But this is too much. It’s just you and Dave, you’re all alone...

You make a big, disgustingly loud sniffle and nod your head rapidly. “Okay.” You’re not sure if you really believe Dave, because how does he know he can keep you two alive? He’s just some guy. You do believe in his conviction though, because this is Dave you’re talking to, and he’s not inherently weak.

“I’m gonna try as hard as I can for you.” You sniffle again, hoping that sounds believable despite your wavering voice. “I’m scared, but I’m still gonna try. I’m not gonna let you die either.” With that, you grab Dave’s hand and squeeze it, thankful for his attempt at reassurance. This is you trying to pay it back. “Hey, at least there’s no zombies, heheh...”

You let out a shaky breath you hope he can’t hear. It’s fine. Everything’s good. You didn’t fuck up and he didn’t react negatively.

You shrug back, trying to mask your relief. “I dunno, man. Zombies sounds kinda fuckin’ sick. A little excitement up in this bitch. We could head to Alaska and hole up in the mountains. Our own little zombie fort. All of them would freeze before they could get to us.”

“I guess it would be pretty cool. Taking your anger out on ugly zombies, making a cool fort, being self sustainable.” At least if this were the zombie apocalypse, there would be hope of continuing via farm or whatnot. But the environment is going to change forever, and you need to move before it’s too late.

“We should go hole up somewhere. It’s gonna get hot.” You wipe your face again, closing your eyes and thinking. Where are you meant to even go? You’re not going to make it somewhere cool enough to keep you safe in less than a day, you’re in Houston-fucking-Texas. “And then it’s gonna get cold, and we might… we might suffocate. No sunlight, no oxygen.”

The mountains sound like your best bet. You wonder what life would be like living above the clouds with limited oxygen. There’s a reason barely anyone lives like that, but you’re smart, and you can’t imagine what it’s like to die. Maybe you’ll be okay.

You consider it. You know you’re going to have to leave, but you hadn’t considered where you would be leaving to. Mountains... actually sounds like a great idea, now that you think about it. Above the settling smog and dust, closest point to the shadowed sun, high enough to avoid the worst of the heatwave, high enough to escape potentially rising water levels... and the fresh water. Fuck, water. You’ve barely got any here. Where are you going to find water?

“Mountain living sounds sick,” you reply. You’re not going to think about water—or food—right now. You’ll find some. You’ve got to. You’ve always been able to find what you need, why would now be any different? Besides the obvious. You decide to ignore that too, for now. “We could become fuckin’—goat farmers or some shit. Or build an ice empire with all that fuckin’ snow. Or both. Goat ice cream, bro. We could live off goat ice cream like a pair of crystal-bearing hermits.”

That sounds fucking gross, but you’re rambling because you’re nervous. You’re getting off track, so you clear you throat. “How’s the hand? Looking... less swollen yet?”

“Yeah...” you manage to smile. You feel like you’re both going just a bit insane trying to stay calm, but you assure yourself that most everyone in this situation is, and it’s a normal human reaction.

“It looks less eggplant and more magenta, so that seems like a good thing.” You unwrap your hand gently and check it out. It’s still throbbing, more than it was before in fact, but you reckon that’s just the adrenaline going away and allowing you to feel again. It’s not getting any worse. “Do you guys have like, swimming goggles? Or better yet, snow goggles? Masks? Anything protective like that?”

You eye John’s hand, and it is looking better already, which is a relief. You think for a moment. “I can go have a look. I doubt there’s anything good, but I’m sure we can figure out something. I know Bro’s got bandanas lying around for his smuppets. We could use those.”

You eye John’s fingers—three broken, two splints. “I gotta go get something from the kitchen. We can look for bandanas while we’re in there.”

You nod and go quiet, thinking some more about supplies and what you might need. Food, water, clothes, protective gear... hm. Something to protect your eyes and nose. Also layers, a coat maybe, for when the temperature eventually drops. You’re not very enthusiastic about that part.

“Canned food...” you mutter to yourself, standing shakily without the blender in your free hand. “Man, we’re so underprepared.” You kick some CDs and the broken remains of Dave’s computer away, stepping carefully over other crap that fell on the floor. He’s got a cool katana and wakizashi set that fell off its display, and you’re tempted to pick up the smaller blade and bring it with you... but you can’t, on account of your occupied hands.

You don’t reply. You don’t want to think about it yet. After you deal with John’s hand, then maybe you’ll think about it. One step at a time.

Having slipped the splints into your pocket already, you slog your way out into the kitchen—and you really do slog, on account of all the fallen and broken shit blocking your way.

You beeline for what should be the cutlery drawer and pull it open, predictably digging through smuppet props (it would be swords, if the drawer weren’t too small) until you find the random chopsticks stashed at the bottom. Because of course, the only cutlery Bro would invest in would be shitty plastic spoons and the finest bamboo chopsticks.

You pocket the chosen sticks and make you way back to the centre of the room, coughing as you stir up dust. “Alright, I swore I saw one with a bandana out here somewhere...”

You can’t really do anything when you’re meant to hold this stupid blender and stick your broken hand in it. The shirt is getting a little damp, the frozen shapes are getting warmer, and you really need to move. You stand in the middle of the room after kicking some pots out of your way, put down the blender and unwrap your hand.

You sigh, lolling your head back. You really don’t want to do this, all you want is your Dad.

“Hey, should we take care of my hand?” You examine it. The skin is tender and purple, scraped up with thin bits and pale dead skin, like paper. Maybe you can just tear it off, but something in the back of your mind is screaming not to.

The more you look at it, the more you feel it. The pale, purple, papery skin. The nerves in your fingers twisted the wrong way. Your bones, immobile and pressing against your skin in places that aren’t meant to feel like... like this. You wonder how much worse other people might be right now.

You glance over, and it doesn’t look any better than when you last saw it, but you suppose the quicker you get it over with, the better.

“Yeah, okay. Sit down and keep your fingers in the ice just while I make another splint.”

You crouch and take one of the chopsticks out of your pocket, snapping it in half. It’s not the best, but it will have to do. At least it’s straight.

Then you reach out for his hand. “Okay, I need to have a look at it just to make sure I’m pulling in the right direction. It might take me a while to figure it out.”

“Do what you have to do, I’m not looking.” You do as Dave says, then turn your head and close your eyes. You can feel your heartbeat like a machine gun, rattling against your ribcage and making your head throb. RATATATATAT. It feels like there’s a marble in your skull.

You swallow anxiously. “God, can’t you go any faster?” That feels mean, but you’re not going to apologize. You’re terrified. What if your hand is fucking broken forever? What if you have to cut off your fingers? Also, why does Dave seem to know his shit so well? It’s like he’s spent his entire life making splints and tourniquets and whatnot. You wonder just how badly Bro treats him; what else does he do, apart from waking Dave up at 3am to spar? You already know which direction to take. God, this is gonna hurt like a bitch.

John quips, an impatient edge to his voice, and it reminds you of your Bro. It reminds you of the first and perhaps only time he treated your broken fingers, and you remember him snapping at you even as tried to hold back tears. Even then, you were too old to cry fully in front of him.

You feel a sudden surge of anger and you clamp your hand around two of John’s fingers, giving a swift yank while squeezing them hard.

You don’t expect that crack when Dave yanks your fingers back into place. Your eyes shoot open, and you writhe.

God the pain is unbearable, so abnormal and wrong that you feel you might throw up. The pounding in your head only worsens, and you open your mouth, but you can’t say anything. It takes a good fifty seconds for you to pull yourself back together with a big, sharp inhale through clenched teeth.

“Jesus—!” You manage to croak out, rocking back and forth on your knees. “Okay! Okay, god, okay.” The words aren’t enough to properly help you settle down, but you can manage. You nod at Dave; his expression is blank.

You immediately feel bad, but maybe quick and unthinking is the best. It takes a long time for John to gather himself; you’re surprised he’s not crying with the pain. Finally he gives you the go ahead, he can second guess, you take his last finger and yank it back into place, then you pick up a handful of freezable shapes and hold them in your hand against his to counteract the inevitable swelling.

You cover your mouth and groan into your palm, grinding your teeth. It’s okay, you tell yourself. This is what healing feels like. This is what it takes to fix a couple of broken fingers. You’re fine. It’s fine.

“Is— is that it?” Your voice wavers. Of course that’s it. Despite the lingering pain, you let out a shuddering sigh of relief and grip Dave’s shoulder. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, it’s over now. You’re done.” You sigh. You hate seeing him in this much pain. A person like him doesn’t deserve it.

“Are you good to keep that ice over while I grab some tape? Med tape for the last splint and duct to keep your fingers together.” You could start on the splints right now, but you think any remaining time should be spent soothing with the ice.

“Yeah, I got it.” You nod and hold the ice on your fingers, occasionally squeezing your eyes shut and tapping your foot to try and forget the pain.

You reckon you won’t be able to worry about a couple of broken fingers once you go outside. You should be more worried about food, oxygen and the incoming heatwave that’s going to kick your ass. And looters, and cannibals if anyone gets real hecking desperate. Okay, maybe you won’t need to worry about cannibals. It’s still a possibility though, and you’ve watched enough The Walking Dead to take it seriously.

People on shows like The Walking Dead and Dexter aren’t worried about their stupid broken fingers, they’re worried about killing and surviving. You tell yourself to man up. Ghostrider or Cameron Poe would punch a cop with three broken fingers. Yeah... you’re like Cameron Poe. Hell fucking yeah, you are.

Once he takes the ice you stand and make a quick trip back into your room to grab the kit you’d left on the floor. It takes a little longer to find the duct tape among the shit scattered on the floor, but once you do you dig in your drawer for a sock and return to John in the living room.

“How are they feeling,” you state more than ask, nodding at where he’s holding the ice. “They feel hot still?”

“It’s— it’s throbbing, but it’s not like, super crazy hot and painful.” You turn your hand over. Eugh, okay, you still don’t want to look at it, it’s all disgusting and papery. All this torn skin is going to irk you for a long time, you can tell.

“What about you? You’ve got this big bruise like someone punched you in the face. And the whole desk landed on you, man.”

“Yeah, okay. That’s normal. And m’fine. I’ve had worse.” You can feel the stinging and aching on your face, but you’re telling the truth. You certainly have it better than John does right now.

“You can drop the ice for now,” you tell him, and when you’re free to go ahead, you apply the splints to the two outer fingers, and then line the broken pieces of chopstick up with the middle finger, fixing it in place with the med tape.

You stand to grab a displayed katana off the wall—it doesn’t need to be too sharp, just enough to poke a hole in the sock. It does, and you tear a strip off to wrap around John's middle finger before you duct tape them all together. “Sock’s just so the tape doesn’t rip at your skin more. And we should save the bandages.”

“Makes sense.” You examine your hand again. Just the prospect of someone who is willing to take care of it makes you feel better, so you appreciate the work Dave is putting in to help you out. You smile genuinely at him and decide that now you need to pitch in.

“Okay,” you begin, taking a breath and clasping your hands together (gently of course). “What next? You’re kind of like, the expert here. We can split up the jobs, I’ll get food or whatever while you do, uh. Whatever you’re supposed to do in this scenario.”

You think for a moment. “We should probably pack up the stuff we want and then search the apartment for anything useful. If you want, you can do that while I run down to see if Bro’s car is still there. And working. Should be there—liquor store’s just ‘round the corner.”

You give Dave a little salute using your good hand. “Yes, sir.” And with that, you part ways. Just for a little bit.

Chapter Text

You’re busy scrounging around the apartment for whatever you think you might need later on— bottles of water, steak knives, canned corn, cereal bars and protein bars (a whole lot of those), raincoats, one of Bro’s hats (seemingly less smelly than all the others)... you even find a toolkit in Bro’s bedroom. You’re not surprised that he could be a mechanic in his spare time or something. You take two screwdrivers.

All that crap is laid out on the kitchen counter, which you first had to clear of all the other crap. You roll up the raincoats as tight as you can, which is hard with only seven fingers. Once you’ve got everything organized and packed into two drawstring bags, as well as Dave’s school bag (you notice he doesn’t use folders; he just stuffs all his crap in there and lets the papers crumple), you step back and sigh. Now all you need to find is some facial protection, like bandanas or something. Maybe even workshop goggles.

You know where Bro keeps the keys, so it’s easy enough to find them (still surprisingly sitting on top of the microwave) and head down to the communal garage. It takes you a while, considering the elevators are obviously broken and you have to take the stairs, but you wouldn’t say you’re unfit, so it’s not a problem for you.

The basement level is virtually untouched. There’s a few cars missing, but people have been fleeing the state over the past week. You wish you’d done the same.

You’re relieved the find Bro’s old shitbox in the corner where he usually leaves it. You unlock it and slide in, sticking the key in the ignition and testing it. It roars to life. You sigh.

You step out and lock it behind you—you’re not sure who’s left in this building or who’s out prowling for cars. You head back up to apartment and swing in the door.

“Car’s good. Find anything?” you ask, making your way over to John at the counter.

At first you’re startled by the sound of Dave entering the apartment again, but a wave of relief quickly washes over you. You grin at him.

“I think I did a good job packing. Cereal bars, canned food, raincoats. Um. I don’t remember what else but it’s important.” You’ve still got the steak knives laid out on the counter. You don’t want to pack them in case they slash one of the bags open.

You tap your foot for a moment, thinking. “You don’t think someone’s gonna try and take our stuff, do you?”

You nod along as he lists his findings, and when he asks his question, you sigh. You’d like to make John feel better, but you also don’t want to lie to him.

“Yeah, probably. Houston’s a pretty big city, and I bet there’s a lot of people in our situation right now. That’s why I thought a car might be good. Some security, a bit of shelter while we’re in-between places." You pause. “We’ll need to steal all the gas we can, though, to keep it going.”

You eye the knives on the counter. Can John even handle weapons? You’ll probably have to stick together once you leave. In case anything happens.

“Oh.” Damn. You’ve never had to steal a thing in your life. Maybe you stole candy once when you were a kid, but you didn’t need it, and it wouldn’t get you killed the way stealing gas in the middle of this fucking disaster would.

You stare quietly at Dave, mulling over your options. Unsurprisingly, you literally have no options whatsoever, other than to keel over and die. “Okay, that makes sense.” You’re a bit apprehensive at the prospect of even looking outside, but you guess you’ll have to, and soon. “We just need bandanas or facial protection or whatever, but then we’re ready to go, right?”

“Yeah, think so.” You suddenly remember the expected dropping temperatures. “Didn’t find anything warm, did you.”

It’s not even a question. You’ve barely the need for winter clothes in Houston, and whenever it did get too cold, Bro would pull out the shitty old heater and that warm up the space pretty quickly.

You suppose you’ll just have to add another thing to your shopping shoplifting list.

“I’ll grab the pillows and duvet from my bed. And a handful of clothes, and take them down to the car.” You eye John’s splints. “Are you able to carry the bags down while I look or do you wanna look for face protection?”

You look down at your hand and shrug. “I can carry them down. I’m gonna need to get used to working with my hand all fucked up anyway.” You flash Dave a hopeful smile and sling his backpack over both shoulders, then you wriggle one drawstring bag on your left, carrying the other in your right hand. “I’ll see you in a minute.”

You nod and tuck the keys into his good hand. It’s nice to see him smile, especially right now.

You duck into your room, and it’s quick to tug the duvet off your bed. You gather the corners in one hand like a duffel, stuff the two pillows on your bed into it, and yank open a drawer and stuff a few handfuls of clothes in, not paying too much attention to what you end up grabbing. You never sorted your clothes, so there’s a good chance you’ll be getting a little bit of everything.

You don’t have any spare pairs of shoes and John didn’t bring any extras down, so you make a mental note of that and continue searching. You take the pointed shades you’d stashed in your drawer years ago, and before you leave, you eye the Atari sampler in the corner of your room. You stare at it for a long time. You ultimately decide it’s not worth being selfish over, and instead take the battery-powered tape recorder sitting next to it. You’d memorised all the songs you had downloaded on the sampler anyway.

Crossing back into Bro’s room, you snatch his sheathed prize katana down from its display on the wall—the only genuine sword in this place—and stuff it in the makeshift duffel. Scrounging around, you manage to find a grand total of five bandanas, all of which you take and whose plush owners you punt into the wall.

Stepping into the kitchen, you eye the lineup of knives John left on the bench. You select two and finally kiss the place goodbye, heading down the multitude of stairs to the garage below, where you’re sure John is waiting for you.

You find it funny that this is your first time going on any sort of road trip with Dave. When you were younger, you thought that you two would’ve been to California and back already. But no, you’re never going to see California; you’re headed as far north as you can manage. Honestly this is the kind of adventure you always dreamt about (minus the spaceships and ray guns).

The parking garage looks pretty normal. There’s a crack in the ground next to one of the building foundations, but it could’ve been there for years and you wouldn’t question it. You click the car keys and rush over to the car, eager to get out of sight and pack everything as quickly as you can.

Careful not to apply too much pressure to your hand, you place the bags in the backseat and make room for whatever else Dave might come down with. You hear the sound of another car rumbling and pulling out. The air is hazy and the ambient lights are dim; god, this place makes you shiver.

You’re greeted with the sound of a thrumming engine when you enter the garage, and stand stock still as you watch another car rumble past the staircase. You try to ignore the anxious feeling it sparks in your chest and make your way to Bro’s car.

Your shoulders droop in relief when you see John safeguarding the vehicle. It was unlikely he’d been attacked in the few minutes you'd been apart, but you’re sure that from now on, you can never be too certain.

You pull open one of the back doors and slide the knives under the passenger seat and out of sight—tips pointed towards the back of the car—before you empty the makeshift duffel onto the back seats, and then finally drape the duvet over everything. You’re not sure it’s going to do anything really, but at least it makes the stash look somewhat boring from the outside, less enticing to would-be scavengers.

“Okay. You ready to go?” you ask, holding your hand out for the keys. “Anything we’ve forgotten.”

You toss the keys up for Dave to catch. “No, I don’t think so.” Looking around, then at the stuff in the car, you can’t think of anything else. You feel like one of those people you sometimes see with a bunch of crap in their cars, piling up to the ceiling. People who live in their vehicles in the Walmart parking lot. You feel a little mean for deciding they’re all stinky drug addicts when they’re really just as desperate as you are right now. Man. Were you really that ignorant before?

“The duvet is smart, by the way.” You get in the front passenger seat and shut the door. It’s stuffy in here. Nothing like Maple Valley; usually you have to put the heat on a few minutes before you get in the car. “It’s just warm clothes on the shopping list, right? Maybe I’m forgetting something.” You drum your fingers on the dashboard.

You catch the keys, walk around to the driver’s seat and get in, locking the all the doors from the master lock on your door. The compliment John gives you is pleasant but strange; you’re not used to being commended. “Warm clothes, gas... shit to cook with, fire starting materials... more food if we can find some, more water, med supplies. We probably won’t find everything we want though.” You stiffen. “Oh shit, did you pack the med kit from my room?”

Ohhhhhh. Oooh. You feel your veins go cold as you remember that’s what I forgot, shit, okay.

“Well. Um.” You sit up straight and run a hand through your hair. “I can go up and get it, I’ll only be like two seconds.” It’s no big deal (right?). You were going to get more medical supplies anyway. You smile at Dave, trying to reassure him.

You give out a shaky sigh. That was a fucking close one.

You turn and fix John with a Look. “Are you sure? Do you remember the floor and the apartment number?” What if he runs into someone, with that broken hand? You hadn’t considered the fact that anyone else might be leaving the complex as soon after the impact as you two were, but since you saw that car earlier... “You should probably stay in the car, and I’ll go get it. It’s safer.”

“Yeah, it’s like, the easiest to remember. 14D.” You furrow your brows as if to say duh, and make a move to leave the car, but Dave stops you with more talking. Ughhh.

“I mean, I’m fine, but if you wanna go all the way up the stairs again then be my guest.” It’s not fine, you’re actually terrified that someone would’ve taken advantage of you on account of your obviously fucked up hand, but you think you can handle yourself (haha). You shoo Dave away. “And go fast, it’s hot in here.”

You breathe out a little easier when John acquiesces. “Okay.”

You unlock the doors and climb out of the car, pulling open one of the back doors and peeling back the duvet. It takes you a good 10 or 20 seconds, but you finally find the tip of the sheathed katana poking out from the pile of shit, and you swipe it before replacing the duvet.

“Lock the doors when I close this one,” you tell John, and push it shut. You don’t stick around to check he does, you just beeline for the stairs across the way, slinging the sheath over your back (because, of course, it comes with a fuck-off-fancy silk tie to secure it on the wearer’s body).

You make it up to the apartment pretty quickly and without incident, and locate the kit on the floor in the living room. You snatch it up and step back outside, determined to get down to the car as fast as possible and get out of here. The hairs are raising on the back of your neck, and you feel like after 19 solid years of honing them, you should be listening.

You follow Dave’s instruction without question and watch him leave. The further he gets, the more it feels like the world is shrinking away beneath you. You look forward and try not to think about it, he’ll be back in no time, but you catch a glimpse of a man also headed back upstairs.

The unnamed adversary is following Dave, obviously. He catches one look at the sword on his back and decides he needs it; the perfect intimidation tactic to ward off potential attackers. Dave is small compared to him, a fully grown adult, and with his confidence riding on that fact, he waits for him in the stairwell.

“‘Scuse me,” the man says, literally bumping into Dave on his way up in an attempt to stop him. “God, that’s a nice sword you’ve got there, champ.” He unclips what looks like a taser from his belt.

Someone appears out of nowhere and bumps into you, hard, and you open your mouth to snap—but he beats you to it, and in a second you know what the thing in his hand is.

Oh, fuck you.

You pointedly don’t answer the man, and manage to flashstep around him on account of your smaller size, and then begin bounding down the stairs in chunks as large as you can manage. You know you can’t fight him on the stairs; you need to get to somewhere with a flat fucking floor first.

The guy has a harder time getting down the staircase as quickly as Dave, so he shortens his route by climbing over the rail and dropping down a floor. He groans and stands quickly, holding the taser at the ready as a warning.

“It’s just a sword, kid, you’re not even s’pposed t’have that.” He forces a mean grin and steps closer, beckon Dave forward with a demanding flick of his hand. “Didn’t your parents ever teach you ‘bout weapon safety?” He looks around quickly. The sign on the wall says they’re on the second floor.

When the guy fucking drops down in front of you, you have to throw yourself backwards to counteract the forward force from leaping down the stairs, but you quickly catch yourself and raise a hand to grab onto the hilt of the katana.

“Never had parents,” you grit out. It’s dumb as shit, but you can’t stand this asshole condescending you. You’ve had enough of that living with Bro.

You think of your spars on the roof and draw the katana with a slick sching!. You’re sure you can take this guy—you’re quick on your feet, and you’ve got a real fucking katana in your hands. Bro’s katana, the one he never took down from the wall but for ceremonial fights—birthdays, Christmas, shit like that. This katana has beat your ass countless times. You can practically feel the power from it seeping into you, and you raise it in an offensive position.

The man doesn’t respond. His expression turns to that of surprise when Dave unsheathes the katana like he really knows how to use it, but it doesn’t stop him from rushing forward, thrusting out the taser in an attempt to stun him.

It sparks a feeling of satisfaction in you when you see the expression on the man’s face, but you don’t get to soak in it for too long because it’s in the next moment that he rushes you, outstretched taser sparking. This guy is nowhere near as fast as Bro, so you find it extremely easy to dodge out of the way and deliver a superficial (but, you know from experience, painful) slice to his leg, just above the line of his shoes. You would go for his hand, but you want to avoid conducting the electricity and getting shocked—and you would go for his ankle, trip him up, but his shoes are providing him with some defense in that department. Cutting as close as you can to his feet without outright stabbing them is the best you can manage right now.

Having slipped past him, you spin around again to face him. You’ve been left a huge opening to make for the stairs, but you don’t want to bring him down to the garage and put John in any danger, so you’ll just have to take him out (or scare him off) here.

The man yelps in pain, but it doesn’t stop him from attempting to tackle Dave. He’s almost animalistic in the way he does it, blinded by pain and desperation for that stupid katana. He manages to hit back one of Dave’s swipes with the sword and shoves the taser into his shoulder.

Downstairs, you can’t hear the commotion, you’re too busy mulling over whether or not you should get out of the car. You end up taking the screwdriver you stole from Bro’s toolkit and leaving the car behind— you lock it, of course— to go find Dave upstairs. It’s been longer than you expected. Is he okay?

“Dave?” You call out for him, dragging the screwdriver against the concrete wall. Now you can hear some sort of commotion, and when you go up the first flight of stairs and poke your head around the corner, you see it clearly.

You’re not sure what to do, stunned by fear and indecisiveness. It takes a few seconds for you to realize the man attacking Dave has seen you, so when you regain your autonomy, you stoop down to jab your elbow up into his chest, knocking him away from Dave. He manages to shove a taser in your back though, making you jerk and keel over.

You hiss at the pain in your shoulder, muscles spasming, and you lose feeling in that arm for a moment. You compensate by gripping the katana tighter with the other hand.

Gritting your teeth through the stinging burn in your shoulder, you’re too distracted for a moment to catch the scuffle, but you hear a grunt and then a yelp from the direction of the stairway. When you regain your bearings, you see the man standing over John, who’s come out of fucking nowhere, and John’s on the ground, and the man’s adjusting his grip on the taser the way you do on the hilt after you’ve landed a blow. You see red.

You raise the katana above your head and vault yourself forward with a roar, bringing it down hard. You don’t care where it hits or how hard it does at this point, this asshole has fucking asked for it.

You didn’t expect to get hit with the taser twice, but it happens, and for a moment you’re immobile as you try to regain control of your noodle arms.

The man barely makes a sound when Dave brings the sword down upon him. He yelps, but is cut off when he clamps his mouth shut and braces himself. Tellingly, there’s a little spray of blood that lands on the floor beside you, and you blink rapidly. You hear a thud and whip around to see the man writhing at the bottom of the stairs, holding the side of his neck, where his carotid artery is. Dave seriously just chopped right into him, right above his shoulder.

You turn around again and look at Dave, using the guardrail to help you up. The man is crying out for help, making slightly gargled noises. But you can’t hear him. You choose not to.

“Are you okay?” You brush your hair out of your face and chuckle in disbelief.

John’s using the fucking guardrail to help himself up, and you quickly sheathe the katana, rushing over to him and grabbing him to hold him steady.

“M’fine. Are you okay? I heard the taser go off twice.” You check the back of his shirt—there’s a faint burn mark, and you wince. Of course the fuckhead rammed in right in there. John might be burned underneath the shirt, too. “Where’s the other one?”

“I dunno.” You feel yourself up. It’s not unbearable, you just feel a faint buzzing sort of... tingly... pinching sensation? Like a burn? Sure. When your hand grazes the first spot where you were jabbed, just above your shoulder blades, it seems okay. You find the next burn when you touch the under-backside of your tricep, and that hurts. You try not to grimace.

“It’s fine. He got you in the shoulder though.” You point to the two little marks in Dave’s shoulder. It looks like someone stabbed through his sleeve with a pencil. “Why’d he attack you?” Your grip on the screwdriver tightens; you wish you’d come earlier, and you wish you’d have used it instead of just throwing yourself into that guy. But whatever, it’s over now, and you still definitely can’t hear the sounds of his last breaths.

You catch John’s flinch when he brushes under his arm and immediately grab at his elbow, holding it up so you can examine it. The taser punched holes through that one, touching skin. You try to swallow down your anger.

He points out your taser hit, and you subconsciously roll your shoulder. You can feel the muscles still twitching, only barely, but it’s definitely enough to notice, and to be uncomfortable. “Asshole wanted my fucking katana,” you spit, and push back John’s short sleeve, but your way to the burn is still barred by the longer sleeves he’s wearing underneath. You wonder if you have burn salve in your med kit.

Fuck, your med kit. You look around quickly and exhale in relief when you find it on the ground by the stairs leading to the level above. You must’ve dropped it when the guy cornered you.

You retrieve it and return to John’s side quickly, popping the lid open and rummaging through it. No fucking burn salve. Of course not. Just another thing to  add to your scavenging list.

“Feels like my brain was bouncing. Like, jiggling. Like cream cheese.” Now you know what it’s like to be electrocuted. It makes you feel kind of proud, actually.

You go down the stairs and scoop up the taser. It’s just a little box one could clip on their belt, and it comes with a light on the end, to use as a flashlight. You put it on your belt loop and step over the bleeding man, avoiding eye contact. When you do catch a glimpse of his face, you find it hard to care what his features look like, so you simply move on.

“Can we go over the list again?” You ask, looking back to see if Dave is following you. You’re only just now noticing how your voice reverberates off the concrete walls. You want to yell just to test out the echo, but you resist the urge.

John moves on and down the stairs, so you sigh, click the lid shut, and follow. There’s a large pool of blood under the man, and you feel bile rising in your throat, so you look away. You latch onto John’s words like a lifeline. “Fuck, uh. Burn salve, med supplies, gas, food, water, clothes, fire shit, cooking shit.” Eloquent, but you’re trying to look anywhere but at the man as you follow John down the stairs.

“Okay.” As you rush back to the car, you wonder how badly people are behaving outside if Dave just had to kill a guy in his own building. Maybe that man was just overreacting? Maybe. You don’t know, you’ll just have to deal with things as they come.

“Burn salve, medical supplies, gas...” you repeat the list under your breath. “We can cook with the engine too. Using the muffler shield.” You feel smart for knowing that, but you don’t doubt it’s common knowledge.

“We can,” you say, and it’s supposed to be a question, but there’s an odd fog settling over you and you can’t muster up the energy to put a lilt in your tone. You just follow behind John, eyes flicking back and forth mechanically to watch for any other approaching people. Your fingers fiddle with the plastic locks on the kit, snapping them open and shut.

You get in the car quietly, closing the door softer than usual. Dave doesn’t look okay. Well, he looks the same as he always does, but he’s fidgeting and swallowing and he looks on-edge. You feel like if you touch him, you’ll get poked.

“We can wait if you need a second.” You’re still apprehensive at the idea of going outside anyway. What are you supposed to do here? Usually it’s your dad comforting you, and even then it doesn’t get that deep, not like you killed someone. You don’t know how to give that comfort to someone else. Yes, you understand his fear, but you don’t know how to reassure Dave he’s okay when he’s... he’s not, but... you can’t wrap your head around it.

When John unlocks the car, you slip into the driver’s seat like a robot, and automatically lock the door behind you. You close the lock on the med kit again and toss it into the back. You hear it connect dully with the duvet.

John murmurs something, and it comes through to you in a haze, and it takes you a second to fully comprehend it. We can wait if you need a second. You can’t wait, you need to get out of here, away from the dead man bleeding out in the stairwell. You need to wait, more than a second, for the cottonball feeling in your head to go away. You can’t drive like this.

“Fuck.” You shake your head, and then slam your palms against the steering wheel with a loud thunk!. “FUCK!” You let your fingers curl around the wheel and hold it at arms’ length, holding yourself still, and hiss out a breath through your teeth. There’s a horrible, horrible clawing feeling in your chest. You breathe in to try and dislodge it, but it doesn’t go away. You just fucking killed a man. And judging what you’ve seen about wide-scale crises, you’re going to have to kill more. Bro taught you to fight, not to kill. Maybe he did and you never internalised the lesson. Either way, you’re not ready for this.

You flinch when Dave yells. You’re not going to stop him; you get it, sort of. He simply isn’t built to slit a man’s throat in the stairwell of the building he grew up in. You’re pretty sure you aren’t built for that either.

What would Dad do? You keep asking yourself that. Eventually, you turn awkwardly in your seat and lean over to place your left hand on Dave’s shoulder. You squeeze reassuringly.

You have your eyes squeezed shut behind your shades, but they snap open when you feel a warm hand on your shoulder. The breath leaves you again in a rush, a great expulsion of air you divert your energy into to prevent the tears from trying to bud in your eyes. John’s warmth and reassurance feels nice, but you also feel like you don’t deserve it. You feel like you deserve to be carved open like the man on the stairs. Yeah, he attacked you, and he attacked John, but you could have been more fucking careful.

“What,” you eventually try, staring straight ahead, but your voice is croaky so you swallow and try again. “What do you want to do.”

You have to ask John, because you can’t make a decision right now. You want to stay in here and away from the rest of the world, away from the chance that this is going to happen again, but you also want to get the fuck out of here and as far away from that body as possible. You want to drive to the nearest store and stock up on goods because god knows when the next opportunity will be, but you don’t want to put John in danger again, and you don’t want to have to pull your katana again.

That katana is probably caked in dried blood inside the sheath. You want to wash it but you know you need water for more important shit, like to drink. Whatever John decides, you’ll just follow.

You open your mouth and try to muster something up, but you’re afraid what you say might send Dave into a silent panic. More of a panic than he’s already in.

“We should go, dude.” You sort of caress his shoulder with your thumb. “Let’s just leave this behind and find somewhere to get the stuff, okay? Get your mind off it. We’ll go someplace where there’s like no people at all.” Your hand drops down to his, and you rub his palm comfortingly with your thumb, repeating that same caressing notion. You don’t think you’re very good at this.

Closing your eyes again, you lean into his touch and nod. You have to suppress a shiver when his hand drops to yours; you’re fucking touch-starved, and for a moment you’re not sure whether you want to withdraw for the foreignness of it or if you want more. Your fingers twitch with indecision, and you end up telling yourself that the warmth is nice on your cold fingers, so you leave your hand where it is.

“Okay,” you answer, and pluck the keys from John’s lap to insert them into the ignition. The old car purrs to life, rumbling beneath you, and you check the fuel gauge on the display. It’s almost full, but it won’t be for long.

You don’t bother to put your seatbelt on as you stick the car in reverse (regretfully having to pull your hand out of John’s) and peel out of the parking spot. Once out and angled to match the painted arrows on the concrete floor, you put it in second gear and begin the winding drive to the exit ramp. You let your hand rest on the gearstick, eyes flicking around for any sign of movement, ready to shove the thing into a higher gear and speed away if anything presents itself.

Gosh, okay. That went smoother than you originally thought it would. You sit normally again and adjust your chair so you’re sitting straight up, watching the world roll by around you. Neither you or Dave speak for a long while.

The streets aren’t full of people, but they’re out and about. Some seem pretty normal. Others are crying and praying. There are cracks in the ground and re-opened sinkholes that you hope won’t open up beneath you. Some people are looting, just like you’re about to. You see a group of people break some storefront windows and climb inside. Someone shoots off pyrotechnics in the street. What are all these people doing? Don’t they want to get out of here?

Out in the hazy 5am air, it’s still dark, and everyone looks like zombies. You wish there were zombies instead of some horrible meteor.

Occasionally, you glance at Dave. You want to say something inspirational to him, but you’re not sure what. From this angle, you can see his eyes behind the shades, and they look glossy. “How far do you want to go before we stop to get supplies?” You resist the urge to cringe for breaking your little vow of silence. Your voice is hesitant and small.

The people on the streets are putting you on edge. You watch them cautiously, waiting for any sign of aggression towards the car and you inside of it. You’re thankful for once for your Bro’s insufferable attitude, because he’d had his windows tinted, which means no one can see the mass of supplies you have in the back of the car. No one has any incentive to attack you unless they wanted to take the car itself.

The katana, still slung over your back, digs into it uncomfortably, reminding you of what you'll have to do if that does happen. You vow to try your best not to kill anyone else.

John speaks, and you flounder, suddenly pulled from your thoughts. “Uh—” You look around, eyeing the milling people. “I don’t know. I don’t— I don’t want to have to deal with anymore people.”

You’re being a fucking wimp, and you know if he were here, Bro would chastise you for it—but he’s not, so you’re free to ask for direction. You let out a steadying breath. “But I’m good to stop wherever you want. You just say the word, and I’ll go in.”

“We can keep going,” you nod. “Until we’re out of the city and we find a gas station or something. Let’s go however far you want.” Something is wrong here. You feel like Dave broke and you’re not going to hear from “normal dave” for a long, long time. Maybe that’s a good thing? You hope not; you miss him.

“And you don’t have to take care of me, Dave. We’re like, equals here.” You firmly believe that despite your fucked up hand, you are just as capable of defending yourself and generally surviving as Dave is. He seems really ticked off, like all of this is too much for him. You want to take the weight off his shoulders.

You hope John doesn’t notice the way your shoulders slump in relief when he answers. But then he keeps talking.

“You don’t have to take care of me, Dave. We’re like, equals here.”

You feel a sudden bitterness, like he’s personally rejecting you by rejecting your offers of protection. You feel the corners of your lips twitch downward, but you purse them and stay silent. Equals? He’s so full of shit. He shouldn’t have to be here, he shouldn’t have to be dealing with this—he’s too good to be, but he is. And what’s he supposed to do here, having grown up in a cushy middle-class white-leaning neighbourhood? He was never woken up in the middle of the night to have his ass served to him on the roof. He’s probably never fought in his life. His biggest fucking problem was too much cake, baked by a loving dad who told him at every opportunity he was proud of him.

You jerk the gearstick into a higher mode and press your foot a little harder down on the pedal. You're not going to be driving stupid; you’re not going to get the both of you in a car crash. You just feel like seeing the surroundings go by faster might drain some of the anger and hopelessness you’re feeling.

You feel the car speed up, momentarily pushing you into the headrest behind you. You furrow your brows. “What?” No seriously, what? Was it something you said? You’re only trying to help.

Maybe it’s the figures outside that look like dead people shrouded in darkness. Maybe it’s the incoming heat, or just the fact that Dave wants to get this over with so you two can live the rest of your miserable little lives in snowy peace and solitude.

And of course he notices. Fuck him. Fuck him for being so perceptive and so caring and so fucking clueless.

“Just wanna get outta here,” you grumble, hunching forward over the wheel, like that will make you go any faster. You would press your foot down harder, if you were alone in the car and if the katana weren’t still pushing into your back, reminding you of the guy in the apartment complex. You don’t want anyone else dying tonight because of your carelessness.

You momentarily slow down so you can yank the sheath up and over your head, and toss it in the back, then you keep driving. Your mouth and throat are dry, and you want to drink, but you ignore the urge. You need to be saving as much water as possible before you’re comfortable with supplies.

You glance up at the rearview mirror and you can see the orange glow of fires already burning across the city. Fucking christ, how is the world going to shit so fast?

You keep your mouth shut for as long as you can, trying your best to grant Dave some quiet time. It should start to get light out soon, and you’re confused when you notice orange light and ash illuminating the clouds behind you. For a moment, you think it’s the sun. But the sun doesn’t emit glowing ash particles like burning snowflakes, and the sun wouldn’t show through a thick black swarm of dust.

After what feels like an eternity, you’re getting tired of quiet time. You bend your knees and hug them close to your chest, reach out to turn on the radio, and turn the dial. Ah. You should have expected all the stations to be inactive. So! Your next course of action is to sleep. You twist and turn in your seat until you find a comfortable position simply leaning the chair back and resting your hands atop one another.

“Wake me up when you need me to tase someone.” Maybe that’s not appropriate right now. You find it hard to care.

It’s hard to tell, but you think John falls asleep pretty quickly. By this time you’ve reached the outskirts of the city, and it’s becoming longer and longer between buildings. You haven’t seen another person on the roadside for a while.

With it finally being safe, with no one watching, the burning in your eyes returns full force and you let it drip out in tears. You scrub the trails off your face with a sleeve when they leave the safety of your shades.

Now that it’s getting lighter, you notice a thin crack across the line of your vision—a crack in the lens. You wonder when that happened.

Chapter Text

You’re not sure how much time passes after that—the scenery is starting to blend together in its rural monotony. But eventually, peeking out from the foliage, you come across what looks like a gas station a few paces back from the road.

Checking the mirror, you can’t see anyone coming up behind you on the quiet roads, so you pull off and park in between a cluster of trees a few dozen paces from the station. It’s not the best cover, but it’s better than nothing.

You’re tired, but you know you won’t be able to sleep. So you sit quietly and wait for John, watching the sky color lighter outside.

You jolt awake, which isn’t normal for you at all. Those few precious seconds of blissful unawareness are fucking amazing. Two seconds in which you forget about the end of the world, the Earth tremor that broke your fingers, the man spurting blood from the side of his neck. You take a big, deep breath and sigh.

“What,” you yawn. “What did... where...?” You rub your eyes and blink rapidly, then stare in silence at Dave. “Your shades.”

John waking up so suddenly actually startles you, because you’d been watching him. Not in a creepy way, you justify to yourself—he’d looked so peaceful for those few precious minutes, so soft in the morning light.

You know he can’t tell where your eyes were looking on account of the shades, but you hope he doesn’t notice the way your face is already angled towards him.

“Yeah,” you reply, eloquently. “Don’t know when it happened. By the way, found a gas station. We’re pretty far out of town.”

Sitting up and rubbing your nose, you look around. When you quit moving and simply listen, all you hear is the sound of the engine thrumming. You could just stay here forever… sit with Dave in the quiet outside Houston, listening to radio static and cooking fucking eggs or whatever on the muffler until you run out of oil and gas... but that sounds so miserable the more you think about it, and you’re ready to move on. Finally, after the silence, you respond. “Good.”

You lean over and feel around the floor for the screwdriver you had earlier. Once you find it, you climb out of the car and shut the door, letting your arms swing and fall limp at your sides. You’re still groggy. There’s a stretch of concrete and grass separating the car from the gas station, making the trip look slightly daunting, but it doesn’t deter you.

You turn back to Dave and motion for him to get a move on with a big flail of your arms. “Let’s goooo.”

You step out of the car as well, but leave your door open, steadying yourself with a hand on the top rim. “Wait wait wait. One of us should stay and guard the car. Someone could see it and break in and steal shit.”

“There’s like, no one here.” You twirl and gesture around yourself. “But I’ll go in if you think the stuff is safer that way.”

Admittedly, you are afraid to go into the gas station alone. That stretch of land between it and you looks a little less enticing now, but you cross the lot to get there regardless, telling yourself that if you need help, you will simply ask. “It’s burn salve, medical supplies, gas, food, uhh...” you murmur to yourself, repeating the list so you won’t forget.

Before you even get to reply, the asshole turns tail and scampers across to the gas station. “John! Fuck—”

He either doesn’t hear you or just outright ignores you, because he disappears into the building without looking back. You don’t like the idea of him going in there alone. But you also don’t want to leave the car open to robbery. For fuck’s sake, why can’t he just listen to you?

Fingers itching at your sides, you slip back into the car and shut the door. Your hands pat an anxious rhythm on your thighs, and you glance into the rearview mirror at the pile of shit in the back, the pile of shit that will provide for John and you in the coming weeks, and at the sheathed katana lying on top. You groan, twist around the seat to snatch it up, and then yank the keys from the ignition and step back outside, locking the car behind you.

You hasten across the stretch of grass and concrete, shoving the keys into your pocket and slinging the katana back over your torso. The foliage, put together with the fact that the car is locked and without keys, the windows are tinted, and there’s also a duvet hiding the pile inside, should provide the loot inside with some defenses—but you’re not sure how far all of that will go in an apocalypse.

You push open the door and rush into the gas station after John.

Tellingly, the lights are on and buzzing. You snoop around the aisles for a bit, grabbing whatever snacks you want, until you walk far enough to see the register and freeze. No one seems to be here. Perhaps the clerk abandoned shop before the meteor hit.

Behind you, there’s the jingle of the door, and you assume it’s Dave. You clench the screwdriver until your knuckles turn white, and when you round the corner to check for Dave, you see his familiar head of blonde hair and black aviator shades, making you release a breath you had no idea you were holding.

“I’m not seeing any medical supplies.” What an astute observation. Then again, you’ve only gone down like two aisles, and your arms are full of Chex Mix, Tim Tams and Cheetos.

John’s stocked up already, and you shake your head. You choose not to chastise him for leaving so abruptly. “Seen any baskets,” you say, gesturing to the pile in his arms. You’re itching to go prowl the other aisles, but like hell you’re going to leave John alone with his arms full and incapacitated like that. You already don’t trust the fact that the lights are all on, and the door unlocked.

“Oh, I’ll look.” Yeah, a basket would suffice. You find one near the entrance in no time and swipe all the crap you want into the red plastic vessel, including loads and loads of beef jerky and oats. You want things that’ll last you a bit.

“Crazy how we’re the first ones here.” You try to make conversation. It’s so awkward being quiet, and Dave seems so on edge. Maybe you can make him laugh or something, anything, whatever will make you two feel normal again. This tension is ripping you apart.

You follow behind John, keeping a lookout. He takes a lot of long-life food, which you’re grateful for, but then he tries to make conversation, which you’re not grateful for. You don’t feel safe enough to shoot the shit with him right now.

You hear something from the back of the shop—like a rustle or a sliding step—and you step forward and throw an arm in from of John.

“I don’t think we are,” you say lowly, looking dead ahead at the service counter.

After a few seconds of silence, a head slowly rises from behind the counter, brown eyes wide.

“Uhh,, I think I’m gonna have to ask you guys to leave,,” the guy says haltingly, and you snort, defenses dropped.

You blink and pause when a guy— not much older than you, it seems like— emerges from behind the counter. You immediately reach for the taser on your belt loop. Then again, he doesn’t seem like he can harm you, so you leave your hand hovering there, ready to grab it and electrocute whoever the fuck if the need arises.

You pocket the screwdriver slowly in an attempt to look peaceful. “We’re just gonna take what we need and go,” you say calmly, glancing at Dave. “Right, Dave?”

“Yep. Just some med supplies n’ gas canisters,” you say, staring down the guy. Who’s he kidding—it looks like he’d holed up in here as soon as possible and had forgotten to even lock the fucking door. This guy can’t do anything to you.

The guy behind the counter seems to stiffen a little. “Uh—”

“We’ll just grab what we need and then we’ll be outta your hair,” you reiterate, but you make sure to turn down the side of your lip to communicate to this guy that you’re not gonna act amicably if he keeps up his shit.

The guy seems to shrink back, and nods hesitantly. “Uh, yeah, okay— that should be fine, but—”

“Great,” you say, cutting him off, and nod at John. “I’ll grab a basket and get med shit. If you find canisters just leave them by the door. We’ll fill them up outside.”

“Fill them up...?” the guy asks, sounding a little displeased, but mostly afraid.

You shrug. “If you’re staying here, you won’t need them anyway.” With that, you go off to snoop around some more, searching the aisles for gas cans or some sort of vessel you can store the gas in. You reckon that if you don’t find one here, you can find one at an auto shop. The only problem is finding said auto shop.

“Hey, don’t you guys have gas canisters here?” You return to the counter to lean over the surface, basically getting all up in the poor guy’s space. You aren’t seeing any.

The guy shrinks back, actually beginning to look a little irritated. “Uh, I don’t know?,, it’s a gas station, there are tanks outside, I don’t know why they’d need gas canisters—”

“I’ll go take a quick look outside and ‘round the back,” you say, easily overhearing the conversation in the small shop. You set your basket down again, but before you leave, the tiny electronics corner of the shop catches your eye. There’s a set of walkie-talkies hanging there. You’re not sure how shitty they are, but you’re sure they could be useful, so you swipe them—and then, on second thoughts, you gather maybe a quarter of the veritable stash of small batteries and dump them into the basket. “Found some shit,” you call to John, point to your basket, and go outside.

You glance back at Dave and nod when he leaves. Then you turn back to the guy behind the counter with a faint smile. It’s not that you’re having fun, you’re just new to the look of fear on this poor dude’s face. No one has ever been afraid of you before, and if they have, they never expressed it.

“Sorry for just barging in here. But the door is unlocked, so it looks inviting.” You leave the counter to poke around some more, picking up drowsy medication, Icy-Hot, lotion and Aquaphor. You know you’ll regret not having normal chapstick, so you snag that too. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Eventually you steal Dave’s task of gathering medical supplies when you find mini med packs in plastic boxes and thick red “pencil cases.” They were manufactured for the road, to fit in the glove compartment. Nice. You throw those in your basket too, and now it’s getting really damn heavy. You haul it over to the door. Outside, the sky is just a tad darker than you’d expect it to be.

You make a round of the store and even check beside the gas tanks, but you don’t find anything that could serve well as a container for said gas. You return to the front door of the store and reach out to push it open, and then startle when you see a figure in the doorway, hand flying up to the hilt of your stolen katana—but then you realise it’s John and you breathe out, stepping inside. “Fucking hell.”

You flinch when Dave reaches for his katana. You don’t expect him to react so quickly to you, it’s alarming, but you relax just as quickly when he settles down. “What, you thought I was some rando here to attack you?” You chuckle awkwardly. “It’s just me, dude.” Poor Dave. You reckon you would react the same if you were on the other side of the door and weren’t expecting to see someone get so close so fast.

“See that now,” you retort. “Fuckin’ Carl Fredricksen glasses clued me in.” You make an attempt at the usual banter to lighten things, but you feel it falls flat. “Didn’t find anythin’ outside. What about you.”

You scoff at the Carl Fredrickson comment and wave a dismissive hand. “I found medical stuff, but I can’t find anything to carry the gas in.” You gesture around yourself to emphasize your point. “We have water and everything else too. I think that’s it then, right? Maybe we can siphon gas from other cars. We need a hose or some sort of nozzle for that.”

“Are you guys leaving yet?” comes the squeak from the back of the store, and you roll your eyes, choosing to ignore him.

“We can cut one of the hoses off the tanks outside,” you say, and then, looking into John’s basket: “Do we really have enough? Water runs out fast. Maybe we should get like, something to filter it through. Did you find anything to light fires with?”

Hmm. You don’t have one of those cool gravity powered hose filters you see in YouTube videos, so you reckon coffee filters are the next best thing. Your response is that short: “Coffee filters,” you say, and then you head off to find a lighter and more water. You feel bad for whoever gets here next and doesn’t find enough, but whatever, it sucks to be them. First come first serve.

While John heads off again, you kneel down beside the baskets and look through what he’s found so far, ticking off the checklist in your head. Well, without gas canisters, you think this is the best you’re gonna get. You’re going to refill here before you leave, but you hope you don’t run out of petrol too soon. Or the car fucking breaks down before you make it anywhere.

You wonder if there are any empty bottles being sold here you could use as gas stores, and you jump up to take a cursory look through the store; you find a grand total of two thermoses, but it’s better than nothing. You also find some travel-sized bottles of handsoap, which you take to clean said thermoses later if you decide to use them to store water.

“I’m, really gonna have to ask you to leave,,” the guy behind the counter says, voice strained. “There’s, uh, like a service weapon back here or something,, and I don’t want to have to use it—”

You highly doubt the guy would ever act on what he’s saying, but you don’t want to test your luck. “John,” you call across the store.

“What?” You retrace your steps by walking backwards through the aisle and dropping off your stuff. When you emerge on the other side, you walk toward the checkout counter with a long lighter stick in your free hand. You flip the lighter in the air and catch it.

“Is there an issue?” You ask, raising your brows slightly in an attempt to look casual. Standing next to Dave like this makes you feel as though you can fight anyone. Then again, your biggest concern within this shop is some nervous little wreck behind the counter who forgot to lock the doors. Maybe you can fight him, but anyone else? Ehh. “We’re not here to hurt anyone, dude. We just want to get stuff and get out of here.”

“L-Look, I-I don’t wanna ask again,” the guy says, looking like a chihuahua shivering in the cold. “I— I need stuff to survive too,, and you guys are just taking all of it, so—”

He fumbles with something behind the counter, and you instinctively step in front of John. “We’re not fuckin’ takin’ all of it. We’re mostly takin’ shit you won’t even need in here.”

Your voice takes on an edge, and the guy’s rummaging starts becoming even more frantic. You raise your hand to grip the hilt of the katana again.

“Hey. Hey, put down whatever you’re grabbing.” You’re suddenly very on-edge, and a shiver crashes over your entire body like an electric shock. You unclip the taser from your belt loop and click the button; it makes a threatening BZZZZT sort of sound.

Before the poor guy has the chance to pull out whatever weapon he’s got under there, you shove past Dave, leap onto the counter and tase him in the chest, gritting your teeth. This feels mean, you think to yourself, but you reckon that you just saved Dave’s life.

The guy gives a shriek and falls backwards, hitting the ground full bodily with an oof! you’re sure indicates the last of the air driving itself from his lungs. He’s not out, but he’s staring at the ceiling with wide eyes and twitching in pain, breaths shaky. He did just get tased in the fucking chest.

You’re honestly astounded. You hadn’t expected John to take control of the situation; you hadn’t expected him to protect you, because you’re the one who’s supposed to be protecting him. You feel your gut sinking; this is what you’re supposed to do. And if a dork from a cushy middle-class neighbourhood who’s never seriously held a weapon before just bested you, then that means—

You don’t want to think about it. You slip over the counter as fast as you can manage, beating John to the guy on the floor, and grab his wrists, dragging him back to the rear wall. You need to take control of the situation again, or John will see straight through you like Bro could.

“Got anything to tie him with,” you grit. “While we take the shit back to the car.”

You blink. “Um,” looking around, you search for something to tie that poor asshole up with. You never spotted any string or ropes, so perhaps plastic bags will have to do. You take two and kneel beside him, tying the bags on his wrists behind his back as quickly as you can manage.

“Sorry, dude.” You step back and hop over the counter. No use in feeling bad or watching the crocodile tears begin. You’re more concerned about how angry Dave seems now. You can’t blame him, you were terribly frightened just a moment ago, and you reckon he was, too.

The guy squirms uncomfortably, whines when his hands are tied, but you find you can’t bring yourself to care. You feel antsy. You feel like you don’t have control of the situation.

You go back to the counter and search beneath it for whatever the guy was fumbling with before, and you find what looks like one of those old lockable cash boxes. There’s an opened padlock sitting next to it, and you flip the lid open to find to your surprise that there is, in fact, a small handgun inside. You take it, making sure the safety’s on, and shove in nozzle-down into your pocket.

You can hear the guy stuttering behind you, trying to spit out words, and you turn around to glare at him. “We’re not taking it. I’ll give it back when we’re done so you don’t do anything fucking stupid. Speaking of, you should stay right fucking there until I come back to untie you unless you wanna get tased again.”

You vault back over the counter, and you hear the guy sob behind you. You ignore him and make your way to the front of the store, snatching a few items on your way before dropping them into the baskets and hefting one up by the handles.

You don’t hesitate to follow suit, grabbing your basket and hauling it outside. Ignoring the pathetic crying behind the checkout, you catch up with Dave and drop your lighter in the basket.

“You seem angry. That was like, a victory for us.” You smile up at him in an attempt to get him to cheer up. “Aren’t you proud? Of yourself, I mean.” Actually, you’re hoping to hear an I’m proud of you, because it feels disheartening not to hear it every day. You doubt anyone has told Dave that. Ever. “I’m proud of you,” you add. Then you pop open the trunk and shove your heavy red basket inside, because you’re too lazy to take everything out.

You push your basket into the back with John’s. His initial words set you on edge, an icy feeling curling through your stomach. He might not be exactly right—you’re not angry—but he can still see that something’s off, and you mentally berate yourself for even letting that show. Maybe you aren’t actually as good at hiding things as you thought—maybe Bro just never cared enough to point it out.

But as he keeps talking, everything else softens, the icy feeling retreating. That was a victory for us. Aren’t you proud of yourself? I’m proud of you. And for a moment, you catch yourself spiralling, thinking that he shouldn’t need to be proud of you, that you’re just doing your job—but it feels too nice not to bathe in it, at least for a little while.

But you think telling him so would also show weakness. You’re supposed to know everything, and even if you don’t, you’re not supposed to have anything faze you.

“Just don’t worry me like that again,” you reply, but you keep your voice soft, and you shoot him a small smirk and ruffle his hair. That’s safe; it’s contact, but it’s teasing and boyish. “Don’t want you gettin’ shot on my watch. We gotta let those fingers heal up first.”

You open your mouth to speak, and for a moment, nothing comes out. You just smile and huff. “I won’t.” A shallow statement. Then you wrap your left arm around Dave’s neck and pull him down, trapping him in a killer noogie. You dig your knuckles into his scalp and then shove him away.

“Alright, go untie that poor dude before he dies of dehydration. He’ll cry forever probably.” You flash him a fake stern expression, as though you’re telling him to clean his room.

You scoff and shove him back. “Alright, dad.” You look back across at the gas station and catch sight of the tanks. “—I’ll just check the fuel gauge first.”

You round to the front of the car and open the door, slipping the key into the ignition and watching as the display lights up. The needle is sitting between two and three points from full tank.

You look around—there’s no one else here, yet. You look across at the station—while gathering supplies, you had had shelter inside the shop, the concrete expanse outside is bare, open territory. You consider your katana, then John’s taser, but they’re both close-range weapons. You think if anyone is going to be pulling up to a gas station, especially one this far out of town, they’d probably have a car. Long-range defense would probably be better.

Your fingers twitch at your sides as you consider. Finally, you sigh and take the gun from your pocket, walking back to John and flicking the safety off. “While I fill up, you keep a lookout. Safety’s off, be careful.” You grab his hands as you pass the gun to him, steadying them. You know he’s not stupid, but he’s probably never handled a gun before. You haven’t either, but you’ve watched a ton of YouTube.

“How—” you pause and furrow your brows at Dave. This feels a little exaggerated, but then again, the world is ending and he just killed a man. Soon enough you will, too.

You can feel it, like a clock ticking down to... to whenever. It’s nauseating. It’s thrilling. You want to know what it’s like and you want to curl up and cry at the thought of shooting another human being. It seems so exhilarating...

“How do I know it’s loaded?” You aim the gun forward, ironically toward Dave, and pretend to fire. “Blam blam,” you say. “Blam blam blam.”

You reach out and hurriedly shove the gun away, towards the road. “First off, don’t do that. Always treat it like it’s loaded.”

Maybe you should take the fucking gun, and leave John to fill up the tank. But this is a trust exercise. This is you trying to show him you trust him with some of the bigger shit after that show in the gas station.

“Second, you can check by popping the cartridge open.” It’s not a model you’ve seen a tutorial on before, but you make an educated guess and, flicking the safety back on, manage to open the cartridge so he can see inside.

Gosh, this thing is heavy. You’d complain about how it’s difficult to handle a gun with only seven fingers, but you want Dave to trust you with this, and if the two of you were a badass gun-katana duo fighting your way up to the cold mountains of Colorado or even Montana (to become cool goat farming hermits of course), you’d be real fuckin’ proud of yourself.

>\You peer inside when Dave flicks it open. It’s hard to tell what you’re looking at, and after being told you’re handling the gun wrong, you feel a little stupid. “There’s definitely something in there.” Your best guess is ten rounds, and that’s only because you start out with ten in a video game you used to play back home.

“Okay, good.” You flick it closed, but before unlocking the safety feature, you eye him. “Are you good to support it with your broken fingers?”

You feel fucking stupid asking that. You wish you could take back giving him the gun in the first place, because selfishly you don’t want him to realise you were wrong in your judgement. You’d acted before you thought, and that’s what you get when you shove your anxieties aside.

“Yeah, I got it.” You awkwardly rest the gun atop your right palm and hold it tightly in your left hand. Your finger isn’t on the trigger; you’re far too afraid to get close to doing that. Wouldn’t it be funny if you shot off another finger? Hahaha. Haha.

You drop your arms to your sides, pointing the nozzle down at the ground. “Okay, you fill up the gas and I’ll keep a lookout.” You smile at Dave reassuringly. “Are we really giving this back to him?”

You nod back when he smiles at you, catching the meaning. “Yeah, think we should. Guy needs something to defend himself with. And we did raid his shop.” Making sure John’s watching, you reach down and flick the safety back on, and then get back into the car, turning it on and carefully driving it over, parking it next to one of the tanks. You turn the engine off and hop out, walking around to pop the cover to the car’s gas tank and unscrewing the lid before taking up one of the hanging nozzles.

“Mm, you’re right.” Yeah, and you totally attacked that guy too. To be frank, it felt pretty badass, so you’re trying to revel in that and not feel bad. Maybe you’ll find a gun of your own sometime later.

While Dave fills the car with gas, you sort of wander the stretch of land before the gas station aimlessly, looking around for an adversary you don’t expect to arrive. You let out a long “ughhhhhh,” swinging your arms lazily and paying less attention with every passing second. You remember waiting for your dad to fill up the gas in the cold back in Washington, banging your foot against the dash and begging him to get a stinkin’ move on. You were pretty bratty as a kid, huh?

It doesn’t take very long until the nozzle starts clunking, so you remove it, screw the cap back on and close the cover. Next you step to the back of the car, unlock the trunk, and pick up the first of the thermoses you found. You fill them both and close the trunk, returning the nozzle to its tank.

“I’m gonna go untie him,” you call to John. “I’ll come get the gun after.”

You nod up at Dave as confirmation that you heard him. For a good six seconds, everything seems fine. It’s when you hear the soft thrum of an incoming car grow louder that you begin to panic.

A bulky black SUV pulls into the lot with a screech, and the passengers get out quickly. You’re standing out here all alone with a gun, and of course they see it, and of course they’re on edge now. It’s three people. Three grown adults, all dressed in raincoats. You back away.

“Hey, he’s got a gun!”

“Put the gun down, kid, an’ we ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

“He’s not gonna listen to us, Skylla. Just get the damn kid outta the way.”

Holy fucking shit. You point the gun at the three of them and flick off the safety. “Hey, I’m not afraid to blow your fucking brains out, stay away from me! I’m just- I’m just trying to get food and stuff!”

To them, unfortunately, this isn’t a conversation. You fire a warning shot at the closest adversary— Skylla, you think her name is— and you miss her. The loud BLAM reverberates off the ground and the knock back is fucking crazy; your arms buckle. She flinches. And she’s got a sledgehammer.

Chapter Text

You’re halfway through untying the gas station guy (who’s stopped whimpering, fucking finally) when you hear a gunshot outside. Shit.

Without ceremony you rocket to your feet and leap over the counter.

“H-Hey, what about me—!” you hear the guy cry, voice strained with panic.

“Figure it out,” you snap back, and motor towards the door. You’ve taken out half the knots—surely he can just fucking rip the rest. It’s a plastic bag, for christ’s sake.

You burst through the front door, still running towards where you left the car, and take the situation in. There’s another car, three people facing towards John, and at least one of them with a visible weapon.

You really don’t want to get into another fight. And you doubt you and John would win against three.

“Get in the fuckin’ car,” you yell to John, fishing the keys out of your pocket and getting in yourself. You jam the keys in and start the engine, and edge the vehicle forward, decreasing the amount of ground between John and the car.

A wave of relief crashes over you when you hear Dave’s gruff voice. Get in the fuckin’ car. Get in the car. Get in the fucking car! You sprint to the front passenger seat and don’t even bother to strap yourself in; there’s too much going on. Something heavy hits the hood with a loud CLUNK and you curl up, covering your head and trembling— literally trembling, you drop the gun in your lap— in fear.

“Reverse! Go! Reverse!” You scream, patting Dave’s arm frantically. A split second later you pull the stick shift on your own, having decided that Dave is too slow, and that sledgehammer is going to go straight through the windshield if you don’t get your motherfucking move and groove on. You bang your feet against the dash impatiently, just like you did when you were younger.

John shoves the shift stick into reverse—and he’s fucking lucky you already had your foot jammed against the clutch, or it could have jammed the car. You mash your other foot against the gas and the car flies backwards—you almost hit your head on the windshield with the force of it, but you catch yourself in time to shove the stick forwards again and get the fuck outta there. You narrowly avoid the woman with the sledgehammer and screech out of the parking lot, remembering to yank the steering wheel to the left at the last minute to avoid going back the way you had come.

You highly doubt they’d pursue you, but you keep the speed steady as you fly down the road. Heart finally beginning to calm, you glance over at John, curled up against the seat.

“We’re good, they’re not coming after us,” you say, trying to ease his fear. “You okay?”

You sit up and decide you don’t want this gun anymore. For now, at least. You turn on the safety lock, open the glovebox and place it inside. That poor guy back at the gas station... he’ll be okay. All he has to do is hide, and you reckon you gave him more than enough time to do so.

“Yeah, I didn’t get hurt.” You feel your waistband to make sure the taser is still here. When you feel its tough texture through your shirt, you let out a little huff. “Sorry for going fucking bonkers on you. I was just so scared, they were all headed for me, you know?”

“‘S’fine,” you say, sparing him another glance from behind your shades. You see him shove something into the glove box and you try to swallow down the guilt you feel. It wasn’t your fault you got jumped. “So, we got a gun now.”

“I thought I was gonna be way better at using it. That lady was right in front of me and I missed her.” You slump back and cross your arms.

It’s not that you’re excited to kill people, you just wish you would’ve done the valiant thing you tried to do in the first place, which was protecting yourself and Dave with that gun. That gun which you stole from a poor little store clerk. That gun, which is going to waste just sitting in the glovebox missing a round that didn’t even hit. You feel stupid. You don’t like guns anymore, they’re too hard. Too much knock-back. Too scary.

You glance up at Dave and blow out with your mouth shut, making your lips flap. “I’ll get used to it though. Maybe we’ll save it for animals and stuff if we need to hunt or something. I don’t know. Where are we headed anyway?”

You give him a hum in reply. You hadn’t actually considered hunting so early on—you grew up in a suburban jungle, so crows and rats were really the only wild animals you’d seen around. Neither with much meat on them. You suppose in the countryside and mountains, though, a gun would definitely be useful in downing larger animals.

It takes you a moment to run through all these thoughts in your head, and then to actually process his question. Shit. “Fuck, I didn’t even fuckin’ think about that. Was just tryin’ to get out of the city before things went to shit.” You forward over the steering wheel and eye the sun, slowly climbing higher in the sky. “Where did the meteor hit? East? Shit.” If you’ve been driving in the wrong direction this whole time, you swear to god—

You look around, like that’ll help. “I think we’re going the right way. I feel like this is similar to if not the way I came. Which is a good thing. Would be nice to have a gps or a map though.” Perhaps that’s what you’ll look for next. Some touristy rest stop. They always have maps in those places, and you know this because of the countless road trips Dad dragged you on back in like, what, 2008 to 2012? Yeah. He genuinely stopped once you told him you’re getting too old for dumb family road trips, and now all you want is to go back to that.

“You think your Bro is okay?” What an odd question. You know that, but you can’t help yourself, you’re curious. If you had left your father before he kicked the bucket, perhaps you’d hold onto the chance that he’s okay. Maybe he’d turn the basement into a fortified bunker and go out hunting and make a wall of soup cans. He would do that. You should’ve stayed to do it with him.

I’m going to visit Dave, you said, I want to spend the last day with him. Dad didn’t object. He was “proud of you.” He let you go and gave you advice in the form of a note. You reckon he wasn’t as accepting as he came off though, perhaps he was just trying to make you happy. Reassure you that your decision was okay, and you’re an adult who can choose how he wants to spend his last day.

You squint up at the sun, still a few hours away from reaching its apex. Goddammit, was it “early east” or the other way around? You were never good at remembering that stuff.

You’re only a few hours into traveling, you reassure yourself. If you’d been going the wrong direction, it won’t take you long to make up for the distance. You just have to hold out long enough to find a compass or some shit, in another roadside store.

“Don’t know, don’t care,” you reply, but as the words leave your lips, you’re not entirely sure they’re true. He was a total asshole, but he had been the first person you’d ever known, your constant silent companion growing up. He’s probably alive somewhere out there, you reason. You don’t say this.

“Probably drunk himself to death already the way he drinks. Or picked a fight and got himself killed or something.”

“You really don’t care?” That’s hard to believe. You’re trying to understand, you really are, but you just can’t wrap your head around the prospect that Dave really wants his Bro to go away. “I get annoyed with my dad all the time, but I don’t wish he was dead or something. I miss him. We’re supposed to love our parents, you know? Like they’re gonna be super annoying but everyone is different.”

You drum your fingers against the glovebox to the beat of Ghostbusters, because you’re so damn bored. Isn’t there any music you can listen to? You should’ve brought your mini keyboard along. Fuck. Hey, you think you actually have some music downloaded. Suddenly you forget all about the indecency of your previous statement and feel around in your pockets for your phone. But, ah. It’s not there. You lean back and let out a loud, obnoxious scoff.

Initially, John’s question comes across as innocent, but then he goes on a tirade about how he misses his dad and how everyone should love their guardians and you find yourself gripping the steering wheel tighter. He has no fucking idea, and you try to tell yourself this to stop yourself from outright attacking him.

But for some reason, his obnoxious fidgeting and bratty scoff is the last straw.

“The fuck is your problem?” you snap, voice sharp. You don’t care. “We’re not in a fucking Disneyland car ride with your dad. We’re driving away from a meteor impact. One that Bro couldn’t give a shit about, anyway. Grow the fuck up.”

You freeze and blink when Dave snaps at you. What the hell, you think. What’s his problem? You narrow your eyes and look at him with your lips pressed together. “I don’t like your attitude.” Then you cross your arms, shrinking into yourself, and look out the window. “Just ‘cause you don’t like your Bro doesn’t mean you have to take it out on me. I’m sorry he was so horrible to you, but I’m just saying you don’t need to be so hateful. Is that really how you wanna go out? Being angry all the time?”

Disneyland car ride. You’ll show him a Disneyland fucking car ride. It’ll be annoying and long and full of stupid pep talks and shitty Disney movie soundtracks and “if you don’t behave, I’ll turn this car around”s.

You don’t wanna hear this privileged asshole talk for another second.

“You know what? Fuck you, John,” you spit. “Wanna talk about my fuckin’ attitude? Sure. Let’s talk about it. You wanna know how I knew how to treat your broken fingers? Because I can’t fuckin’ count the amount of times I’ve had mine broken. And he showed me how to take care of them once. And you know he told me? You know what he told a five-year-old? ‘Quit fuckin’ flinchin’, or I’ll give you somethin’ to fuckin’ flinch about.’ You know what deserves a fuckin’ flinch? Havin’ your fingers fuckin’ snapped back into place. You wanna tell me what you got for your fuckin’ fifth birthday, John? I remember what I got for mine. Do you remember what your loving, caring daddy gave you?”

You feel your muscles tighten as Dave continues to talk. And talk. And talk. You stare at him in revulsion, breathing concentratedly through your nose as if to expel something bad. You want to shrink in on yourself some more. Why can’t he understand? Why can’t he just be… grateful? Ugh, that sounds so mean, but you swear you’re not trying to be! Ugh.

“N- no, I don’t remember. I was five.” You scoff. “Why are- why are you—”

“Well he gave me my first katana and dragged me to the roof and beat me to a fuckin’ pulp. Overestimated a fuckin’ kid and broke most of my fingers. Some of the cuts got infected, and he never took me to a fuckin’ hospital. I had to Google how to treat ‘em, and I got night fevers for weeks. You know, he never even took me to get my shots done. When I was old enough to figure out they were, you know, actually fuckin’ important, I forged his signatures on all the shit and went to the clinics myself. Then after the fingers, the food stopped. One day he was makin’ me sandwiches when I was hungry and the next he scowled at me and said ‘Get it yourself.’ But there was no fuckin’ food. I never knew where he even found the fuckin’ food when he got himself shit. So I had to steal coins I found around the apartment and on the road and go and buy myself shit. And the old ladies at the checkout would always ask, ‘Where’s your mom, sweetie?’ And I’d tell them she sent me to get bread so I’d know how to shop when I got older, and they’d go ‘Awww, that’s so sweet! What a good mom you have!’”

You breathe in through gritted teeth. “And then he started fuckin’ jumpin’ me out of nowhere. When I was gettin’ food, when I was fuckin’ sleepin’, I started shuttin’ my door so it’d wake me up and I could defend myself if he came in. He never gave me a fuckin’ chance. Never let me win once. Threw me into the generator, threw me down the fuckin’ stairs—” You feel the tips of your ears burn red. “And there you were on Pesterchum complainin’ about how your dad was always tellin’ you how proud he was and how it was so goddamn annoying and how he was always bakin’ you cakes you fuckin’ hated. God, what I woulda done to have a guardian that didn’t make me scavenge for food. What I woulda done for a guardian that wouldn’t beat my ass and bandaged my cuts and kissed me better.”

You cover your mouth with your palm in an attempt to hide your ragged breathing. You don’t know where to look, your gaze wanders and never settles, like if you set your eyes on one thing for too long it’ll start to eat away at your vision. You... you feel heavy, you feel bad, like there’s a cold weight in your chest, dragging your down into your seat and never letting you up, like those extreme gravity rides that go round and round at the state fair.

“I- I didn’t...” you trail off. I didn’t know. But you did. You sort of did. You’ve known about Dave’s sleepless nights and his bedroom full of piss bottles and his squabbles with his Bro for years. You’ve known that he’s in pain.

You clamp your mouth shut, unsure of what to say. It seems everything that leaves your fucking pie hole has a chance of hurting him one way or another. You take a deep, shaky breath.

“I didn’t think about what I was saying,” you finally manage to croak out. “I just don’t... I was being inconsiderate. You’re right. I’m- you shouldn’t have to like Bro after all that crap. I just thought things were better in between you two and maybe you were overreacting.”

You feel your eyes sting. As much as you had thought it would, blowing up at John hadn’t made you feel any better. Hearing his ragged breathing, you feel even worse. He didn’t fucking know any better. You should know better.

You sniff hard and take a hand off the steering wheel for a moment to push up your shades with an arm and swipe it across, hopefully wiping away any trace evidence. Your hand returns to the wheel and your shades drop back down.

“S’fine,” you say. “M’fine.” Are you? “I know—” Apologize first. “M’sorry. I know you miss your dad.”

“It’s not fine.” You wipe your nose. “I was being stupid. I’m more privileged than you.” You still have a hard time totally wrapping your head around it, but you understand why Dave is upset. You would be offended if someone told you that you’re not allowed to feel angry over what happened to you. “I’m sorry, Dave.”

You place your hand on his arm and squeeze reassuringly. This is a weak (yet genuine) attempt at consoling him. You feel like it’s not enough, so it’s probably not.

You fall silent. You want to lean into his touch, but doing so would clue him in to how much you need want it.

You also feel uncomfortable at how all the attention is suddenly on you, as if you fucking traumadumping wouldn’t have a similar effect.

You don’t reply to his apology, because you’re not sure it’s even worth it, if someone should be apologizing to you, and you also don’t think he should need to—so you just repeat yourself. “I’m sorry about your dad.”

You nod silently. Of course your hand stays on Dave’s arm, you squeeze it again for good measure, and you leave it there. If you let go you feel as though a buzz saw will fly through the dash and tear you two apart.

The warmth feels nice on your arm, and it reminds you of your history together, of the welcome distraction John brought to your fraught days and nights, and you feel warmth flood your chest, anger long forgotten. Your eyes flick up to the sun in the sky, but you stay on course, and you don’t say anything. You don’t feel the need to fill the silence, you just want to bathe in his company.

The silence is uncomfortable at first, but once you swallow down the lump in your throat and blink away the tears welling up in your eyes, you’re ready to accept it. Maybe you’ll even fall asleep. A green sign signaling the exit up ahead calls your attention, so you shatter that comfortable silence with merely a breath.

“We should find somewhere to stop.” Your hand slides down to Dave’s forearm in an attempt to get his attention. “We’ve been awake since yesterday. And we can switch after we rest a little.”

You blink hard, and try to suppress the shiver at John's hand sliding down your arm. You are tired, and have noticed your eyelids drooping for the better part of the last 30 minutes—you catch the exit sign too late and you're not unable to read what was on it.

“Yeah. Okay.” You yawn, considering sleep. “What did that sign say? Any big cities on it?”

“Cypress.” You rub your face and sigh quietly. “There’s probably a rest stop or a motel or some place we can hide the car. I dunno.”

The prospect of sleep felt so far away before. At 4:00 am just a couple hours ago, you considered death to be a roadblock, not a time to rest. It was the trap you’d been trying to avoid being ensnared in all your life. But now, it does seem like an eternal rest, and you don’t yearn for it,  but eternal sleep does sound great. You fly in your dreams. You’re super fast and all your friends are together. You wish things were like that forever.

You breathe out. You’re pretty sure Cypress is somewhere west of Houston, which means you’re going in the right direction.

“You sure a rest stop would be the best place?” you ask. “I mean, unless they had a garage and we had the keys, we’d kinda be out in the open.” You think for a moment. “Unless one of us stayed up to keep watch.”

“I can stay up,” you offer, and in your mind it’s not even up for debate. Dave has been doing alllll the heavy lifting today, he deserves a break. “You can sleep first, then we’ll switch out for a little while. When we get back on the road I’ll drive.” You smile up at him. Your face is still red and your voice is a little full, but it doesn’t feel totally noticeable, so you’re not embarrassed.

The car goes slightly left on the exit and you immediately see a plaza and other buildings through the trees. They’re all more than one story; it’s like a little city. You even spot what looks like a motel, with a big orange and yellow sign that reads HOTEL HI-HO. What a pathetic excuse for a hotel. No one seems to be outside. Perhaps you’ll have the place to yourself? “Look,” you say, pointing to the motel. “Want to stop there?”

You squint out at the hotel, and you can’t shake the feeling that that’s just too easy, but you do slow down to a crawl.

“Are we just gonna... park outside?” you ask. “There’s no garage, is there?”

“Doesn’t look like it.” You look around. There’s really nothing you can use to hide the car, which unsettles you, but you catch a glimpse of a mechanic shop right down the road, and you snap your fingers repetitively. “Right there! We can park in the garage there. It’s a little obvious, but we won’t spend too long here.”

You relax a little upon seeing the garage, and speed up a little bit, heading towards it. “Hey, there should be gas canisters inside. Probably.” Oh god, and oil. Cars need oil. You can’t believe you forgot that. How often does a car need its oil changing?

You pull in slowly, keeping an eye out for anyone inside. You don’t see anything, and the garage is empty of cars, but for what looks like a hollowed-out shell on one of those stands.

“I’ll go see if I can close the door,” you say, and reach for your katana, finding it’s already on your back. Oh, yeah. You’d sped out of the gas station pretty fast. After a moment’s hesitation, you reach over to John’s side and pop the glove box, taking the gun out. You won’t use it if you can use your katana first, but you never know—your encounter at the gas station is a testament to that.

You get out and look around for a bit, curious as to what you can take with you. As soon as you spot a lone torque wrench on the floor, you grab it. It’s long and heavy, but not impossible to carry. You swing it around and pretend like you’re beating someone up with it. Yeah. Yeah, you like this thing.

“Should we take some food with us?” You answer your own question by popping the trunk open and grabbing the first thing that catches your eye: water and a bag of Chex Mix. You fucking love Chex, it reminds you of being a little kid and eating it during lunch.

While it’s heavy, it’s simple to haul the rolling door right down to the ground. The garage is lined near the ceiling with those tiny basement windows, filtering in a decent amount of light.

You wheel around at John’s question in disbelief. “You’re thinking of just leaving the car here?”

“Well, if we find a way to lock it up. We don’t need to go outside, but if we did...” you shrug and twirl the torque wrench gingerly.

You can’t help it—you snort. “What, you’re gonna beat someone’s ass with a wrench?” You look pointedly at where the taser sits on his hip.

“Dude, this thing is huge.” You drop the bag of snacks back in the trunk and toss the wrench in the air. It’s far too heavy to actually spin the way you want it to, so instead it goes lopsided and hits you in the forehead. “Ow. But seriously, I could give someone a concussion with this. And look how long it is!” You jab Dave with the smaller end and fold your arm behind your back, as though you’re fencing. “En garde or whatever.”

“Yeah yeah, I can tell just by your stance you’d beat my ass in a duel,” you smirk, and suddenly yawn. You try to cover it with your hand. Your eyelids feel suddenly heavy, and you blink rapidly behind your shades.

“I totally would.” You grin and lean against the trunk. Dave yawns, and so you decide it’s time to settle down and let him rest. “You should sleep now.”

You rub your eyes—you’re suddenly dead fucking tired, but you need to make absolute certain. “Are you sure you’re good with it?”

You nod. “Yeah,” you speak with enthusiasm, and you reach behind you for that bag of Chex Mix, which you tear open and begin to eat. “I’ll wake you up when I get tired, okay? Just relax.”

“...Okay.” You still want to fight, you’re not sure why, but you really do need sleep—and John seems happy enough to accommodate you. You pick up a bottle of water from one of the baskets in the trunk and crack it open, taking a few big gulps as you walk around to the passenger’s side of the car and slide in. You drop the bottle at your feet, shove the gun in the glove box, slip the katana over your head and toss it in the back, and then recline the chair as far as you can.

You roll onto your left side, the same side you always sleep on, but you feel a little insecure without the usual wall at your back. You reach behind you and flick the passenger lock, and then squeeze yourself back against it as best you can without it becoming too horrifically uncomfortable, and try your hardest to quiet your mind so you can sleep. In the end, with how exhausted you’re feeling, it doesn’t take too much trouble.

After wandering around the garage and touching everything you see, once you’re sure Dave is asleep, you can’t help but watch him. Your gaze always wanders back to him, sleeping in the passenger seat. You reckon he really, really needs this rest, and you feel proud of yourself for granting it to him.

Your best guess is that Dave slept for about three hours.

Outside, the sun is just past high noon, and you’re getting tired. You open the driver door gently and slip into the seat next to Dave, unsure if you should wake him up or not. You’re not so tired, maybe bored is a better word. It’s satisfying just watching him there, sleeping in tranquility for literally the first time in nineteen years. You slide off his cracked shades sloooowly.

You’ve seen Dave bare-faced before, but that was years ago, when you were thirteen. You almost forgot about the light freckles on his upper cheeks and the perpetual dark circles beneath his eyes. Is this creepy? Mmm, no, you reassure yourself. It’s fine. You’re just looking.

Something swims slowly into your focus, a touch at the sides of your face. It’s so feather-light, it takes a long moment for your sleepy brain to register it. It’s also strange. You’re not used to anyone touching your face... you’re only used to—

You startle awake with a jerk, flinging a hand out—something small between you and whatever it is coming at you in your sleep—and you feel it connect with something.

You catch Dave’s hand with your own, startled. “Did I wake you up?” You ask very quietly, folding his shades and placing them at his side. Your grip on him tightens, folding your fingers around his and curling Dave’s hand up into a fist.

Your brain finally catches up with what’s happening and you almost physically recoil. If John caught your hand, you must’ve almost fucking hit him.

“Shit, shit, I’m sorry,” you motor, avoiding his gaze. In doing so, you notice your shades beside you—meaning your eyes are uncovered—and you angle your face down, trying to hide your eyes. You hate your freak eyes, and you don’t want John seeing them. Then why did you take them off? You don’t remember removing them before you slept.

“It’s okay, you didn’t hit me.” You smile. If Dave had hit you it would’ve been pretty funny, but you’re not in the mood to have a broken nose along with your fingers. That would be miserable.

“Why’re you looking away? I like your eyes,” you speak lowly, trying to calm Dave down and make him feel less embarrassed. You think he’s embarrassed at least; you’ve learned that you aren’t the best at identifying people’s emotions right away.

“Uh—” you don’t really know what to say to that. No one’s ever told you that before. You’d thought they were weird because you’d never seen anyone else with eyes like yours (apart from your Bro), and all you’d ever wanted to be was normal.

“Uh, I—” you snatch a look up at John. He’s looking at you with a soft smile on his face. Why is he looking at you like that?

You can feel your hand in his becoming clammy with sweat. “They’re, um, sensitive. To light.” Which they are, but again, that’s not the main reason you cover them.

Ohhh. No wonder he’s always wearing shades. You mentally bonk yourself on the head for never thinking of such a simple answer. “I think it’s cool. ‘Cause we’re like, opposites. Since my eyes are blue.” You just barely graze Dave’s face with the backs of your fingers, but you immediately catch yourself and pull away.

Okay, you think. This is starting to get mushy. You sit up and wipe your eyes. “Are you ready to go, or do you want to chill here a little longer?”

You’re frozen as you feel John’s hand on your face. Is that what you felt before? The fact that it’s such a hopelessly romantic gesture isn’t lost on you, but the guy watches too many movies for his own good, he’s straight, and you’re you. It’s probably, like... ironic bromance. Yeah, that makes sense.

First course of action: reply and act like everything’s normal, because it is. You snatch up your shades and shove them on, examining the strength of the light pouring through the little windows. It looks like you have plenty of daylight hours left.

“What about you,” you state more than ask. You angle your face so it looks like you’re looking at him from the side, while still facing toward him enough to hide your eyes. You look at his eyes, wide and blue, and think about what he said about opposites. The sentiment’s cinematically sweet coming from him, but wrong; his eyes are beautiful, and yours are just freaky.

“What about me?” You adjust the rear view mirror and being the seat closer to the wheel. “I slept earlier, remember? I’m good to drive for a while.”

You wish you could hear Dave’s thoughts. You can’t tell where he’s looking, and it makes him feel so detached, like you’re in two completely separate worlds. Well, aren’t you? His life is horrible. You wish you were there so you could understand him better; you want him to know— no, you want him to feel that you care. You really, really do.

“You didn’t sleep for long,” you return. “I can drive if you need to sleep.”

You shake your head. “No, it’s okay, I insist.” You pat Dave’s arm and exit the car for a moment to find the button to lift the garage door. You don’t bother bringing it down again once you pull out, and you make sure that torque wrench you picked up is safe behind you, stuck in the crease of the backing of your seat. “How long should we go until we stop again?”

This time, you notice you don’t react internally to John touching you, which you’re thankful for. Maybe you’re still half asleep.

“Mm.” You think for a moment. “I don’t care. As long as you want to.” Your eyes flick to the fuel gauge. “Or until we pass another station.”

You feel fucking annoying, but you know it’s for the best. You’re going to need all the fuel you can find if this car’s going to last you until the mountains. Fuck, and produce seeds. And animals. Where the fuck are you gonna find those? You really didn’t think this through.

As the car pulls out, you notice just how fucking hot it is when a wave of heat washes over you. Further down the road you can see a sort of haze rising up from the ground, making everything past it look wavy and unreal. You blink, furrow your brows and shake your head, then step on the gas.

Chapter Text

Every so often a hand comes off the wheel to rub the spots where that guy tased you. Your arm, your back. You end up having to use your thigh rather than your right hand to help steer, but you don’t mind, and your hand deserves the rest.

“I wish I brought my phone.” You adjust the rear view mirror again, and you catch a glimpse of a dark swarm in the sky behind you. You adjust the mirror for a third time, pretending like you can’t see it. “I had a lot of music downloaded. I think you would like a lot of it too.”

It’s not lost on you how John keeps touching his taser sites. Shit. You immediately feel guilty for forgetting.

“Your music taste is pretty mid,” you reply, scrutinising what you can see of the burn sites from behind your shades. “But I guess I’d sit through it for you in the fuckin’ apocalypse.” And then: “Did you find any burn cream at the station?”

You roll your eyes when Dave pokes fun at your music taste. Whatever, he’s missing out! You know Oingo Boingo is the freakin’ best. I’d sit through it for you in the fuckin’ apocalypse, Dave said. It’s only a little backhanded, and that makes you smile. You get what he’s trying to say.

“They had these travel-sized medical kits with like, Neosporin and soothing cream. I bet it’ll do something.” You glance at the backseat. It’s full of crap, so you make a mental note to organize it once you stop somewhere. “We should find a Home Depot or a Walmart. ‘Cause we can get batteries there. And coats. And maybe one of those portable electric pots? Oh, and seeds. ‘Cause we’re gonna grow stuff up in the mountains.” You glance at Dave and smile. “We’re so unprepared.”

“Not a bad idea,” you say, but actually, it’s fucking fantastic. You can’t believe you forgot Walmarts existed. Maybe you should just live in a Walmart instead of driving all the way out to the mountains. For a couple years, until the food runs out.

Yeah, bad idea. You’re sure other people would have already had the same idea. You know if it weren’t for John, you’d jump at the chance of holing up in a random ass Walmart to weather the apocalypse.

“You wanna stop for a second so I can get the cream from the back?”

“Uhh,” you try to keep your voice steady and nonchalant. You thoughts tick back to the plume of darkness and fiery hell off in the distance, so no, you don’t wanna stop for a second so Dave can get the cream from the back. You can’t find a reason to refuse him though, so you slow down and pull over on the right side of the highway, as if there are still other cars around. Ha. You reckon that everyone with half a brain left before you.

As soon as he stops, you unlock your door and jump out. “Pop the trunk for me,” you tell John, and turn towards the back of the car. There’s a huge gray mass of clouds in the distance you hadn’t noticed before, blocking the sun from anything beneath them. You can see the point at which passing under them becomes a curtain of darkness. You swallow.

You open the trunk with the click of a button and poke your head out the window, watching Dave. There’s literally glowing ash particles in the sky. “Just grab it, we should go.”

You round to the trunk and look inside. What you recognize to be car medkits are near the top of the pile, so you grab two and slam the trunk closed, hurrying back to the passenger seat and locking the door—force of habit.

“Floor it,” you tell him, and stash one of the kits in the glove box. On second thoughts, you go to reach for your seatbelt, but notice John doesn’t have his on either.

Of course you press your foot on the gas with increasing determination— the car lurches at first, and you go “oops”— until you’re going 89 on this narrow little strip of highway and the far whizzes past signs and trees and even a few cars abandoned near exits.

You’re aware of how hot it is behind you, and you really needed that wake-up call in the sky to tell you go, go! Floor it you idiot! That’s a rapidly expanding ring of heat reaching past at least a thousand degrees Celsius, you’re 90% sure. If not, it’s hotter.

“We’re not gonna suffocate or roast today,” you say breathily, swallowing down a fat lump in your throat.

You’re thrown back against your seat for a second, but you recover quickly and reach across to grab John’s seatbelt, pulling it in front of him. “Left arm,” you tell him, waiting for him to move.

You obey silently and adjust yourself accordingly, allowing Dave to strap in your seatbelt. Of course you appreciate the gesture, but you don’t even think to thank him, too encapsulated in adrenaline and the fear of getting caught in that heatwave. You reckon you could stop for thirty minutes and be okay, only to die of a sudden heatstroke. Eugh. You don’t want to think about it.

The further you go, the more cars you find pulled over, meaning you’re nearing an exit once again. Two, three, six... “Should we find somewhere to hole up?” A genuine question. Do you keep going or do you go somewhere presumably safe? Maybe a basement or storm cellar? Turn it into a bunker? An underground parking lot? Your only fear though, apart from ill-willed people, is that when you need to emerge from that bunker, you won’t make it.

With John buckled in, you click on your own seatbelt. You glance in the rearview mirror at the approaching cloud. Fuck, shit, and everything you already knew about dinosaurs, you’d forgotten the immediate fucking heatwave. If John dies because of this, you’re going to hell. Hell with a capital H.

“Yeah, yeah, somewhere underground,” you reply, voice shaky. You clear your throat. “Best to go for an underground parking lot, because of the multiple levels—but then the wave could roll in, uh—somewhere we can lock up—”

Fuck, fuck, you’re both going to die. No way you’re going to get low enough and secure enough to survive this thing. Adrenaline’s pumping through you, but all you can do is sit in the car. You’re sweating.v

“Um, lots of grocery stores have cellars, but they’re not that deep I think.” You tap your foot impatiently and swerve slightly to the left for no particular reason other than You Almost Lost Your Grip On The Wheel. “We’ll look around,” you add. “We’ll just drive around and look—”

You swerve left onto an incoming exit which you almost missed, and you slow down from 89 miles per hour to 50 in seven seconds. The car lurches— “Sorry,” you blurt— and you try to make the continuous loss of speed a lot smoother.

“Look around. Look for a warehouse or a Costco or a Walmart or a big underground parking lot whatever.” You seem to be in a shopping district on account of all the stores, and you spot a man taking apart a bike chained to a pole. He’s probably stealing it. Poor guy is gonna get fried.

It seems like John is almost as frantic as you’re feeling. You feel strangely comforted by that fact, but also guilty, because you should have been able to take control of the situation and avoid John feeling this way.

You scour the streets and see a big, ugly multi-level building, and point it out. “That one, can we check?”

“Yeah.” You drive past the main entrance and go down a ramp on the outside, which takes you pretty far down. At least three stories. The lot on the last floor isn’t completely empty, but it still feels lifeless, and you don’t see any signs of people. There’s a ramp leading upward on the far left side, so you make a note to avoid that.

“Who knew an ugly brutalist parking lot would actually be helpful?” You flash Dave a smile and roll down the windows, circling the lot for a while and letting the air cool you off. Eventually, you park on the far right side, and slowly take your hands off the wheel.

“We’ll be okay,” you say quietly. “You chose the perfect place. Once this heatwave is manageable we’ll keep heading for like, Colorado or something.”

You still can’t stop fidgeting. The heatwave’s gonna destroy everything. Melt shit kept in stores, evaporate water—fuck. Fuck.

You don’t take the compliment. “Fuck,” you say, glancing upwards, though that does nothing, on account of your view being blocked by the upper floor. “Everything’s gonna get fuckin’ flamed. How long do you think we have? I can go find shit while you stay here, in case it hits. We can empty out the car and I’ll take that. Or—fuck, you need the car. I’ll just take the katana and go. Find seeds n’ coats n’ shit. Shit, all the fuckin’ gas is gonna be blown up! How are you gonna—”

Holy shit, you’re freaking out. Calm down. Man the fuck up.

You listen quietly as Dave freaks out, waiting for your moment to jump in. You take a slow, shaky breath. “Listen,” you command him, placing your good hand on his shoulder and gently touching his arm with the other. “We’re gonna chill here for a second, then we’re gonna go find some more water and whatever else you mentioned, and we’re gonna gun it back here.” You nod encouragingly, hoping Dave will slow down and agree. “My guess is we have like forty minutes but I could be wrong, so let’s drive around really quickly and snag whatever is closest.”

You give him another smile and squeeze his shoulder. “Chill out. Let’s drink some water and think and then we’ll do what we have to do.”

“How do you know,” you say, and it’s less of an outright question and more of a question of his knowledge of world-ending phenomena. “We probably have less than that.” Okay, get ahold of yourself, John’s handling this leagues better than you are. You blow out a long breath. “Alright, let’s get out. We’ll just dump all the shit here, then I’ll take the car and go look, and you stay here.”

“Well-” you clamp your mouth and let him talk. Ugh, you think. Dave is so demanding. You hate that he’s looking out for you, but you also love it. “Well I don’t want you to be alone,” you lower your voice and lean in ever so slightly.

You lean away by just a fraction, lowering your voice to match his. But it doesn’t come out quite the same as his; there’s something different about his voice you can’t quite place. “I— I’ve always been alone,” you say quietly, but the quietness is forced. “Not like this time’s gonna be any different. I don’t—” What’s going to make him stay? “I don’t want you to fucking die out there because my ass is too slow—” I don’t want to fail you, the voice inside you says.

You huff through your nose and shrug. “Okay,” you breathe, defeated. “You can go without me then, but-” you pause and scoff at yourself for being so mushy. This isn’t normal, this isn’t what a grown man would do! “But you have to give me a hug first. I’m case your ass is too fucking slow. Which you won’t be, I know.”

You’re—you’re actually surprised that worked. It was a pathetic argument, really, and you feel like John’s letting you go because of something other than your stupid excuse. You choose not to think about it.

“Okay,” you say hesitantly, processing the words. “—Right. Let’s—get the shit out of the car, then.”

You slip out and yank open the back door, flinging the duvet off and heaving shit out onto the ground outside. You hope to make a small pile of shit so the duvet stays relatively clean.

“Aye-aye.” You rush to take everything out, not bothering to be very gentle or organized; you can do that later. Your pile of clothes and other crap is impressive. Then you pop the trunk and take out the baskets which were inside. “You should bring one of those bandanas,” you suggest. “In case the smoke and ash overwhelms you, and it’s hard to breathe.”

You swipe one of the bandanas at John’s suggestion, and make a mental note to look for those filtering construction masks. You tie the fabric around your mouth and nose quickly, knotting it securely against the back of your head, and then yank it down again—you don’t need it yet.

You circle around to the passenger’s side and pop the glove box, taking the remaining medkit out and tossing it to John. “Put on the burn cream,” you tell him, and then walk back around to the driver’s side, reaching behind the seat and fishing out the wrench he’d picked up. You hand that to him as well, and breathe out. “Okay, I’ll try n’ be fast.”

You take the wrench and cross your arms, leaning them on the open window. “When you come back I’ll have everything organized. And—” you unclip the taser from your belt loop and hand it to Dave. “It’s got a flashlight in case you need it. Okay, go go go. Be fast. Stay safe.” You shoo him away with a few flicks of your hands.

When John shoves you the taser, you balk, but you hurriedly clip it onto yourself and slide into the car. You’re not going to argue further; you barely have enough time as it is.

You probably won’t come back.

You take one last look at John’s face in the rearview mirror and floor the gas, speeding across the carpark and up the ramp. You squint harshly when you burst into the remaining sunlight outside, and while aiming for the line of shops, you lean over and snatch the gun left in the glove box. You don’t care what it takes, you’re going to be in and out as fast as possible. You’ve at least got to try.

Watching Dave pull out and speed off breaks your heart, and it even makes you a little angry. It feels like he’s abandoning you; that’s something he would do if he were really, truly hopeless about the situation, but you still that thought into a bloody fucking pulp. He’ll come back. You’ll get to pat his shoulder and poke fun at him and see him again.

While you wait, you try to organize everything into neat piles— a small and Not So Successful attempt at getting your mind off Dave’s absence. It’s starting to get hot. Twelve minutes in, you keep wiping beaded sweat from your neck and arms.

By the time you’re finished almost half an hour later, it’s fucking sweltering, even by your standards, and thankfully you’d only had to tase a couple of people; you were right, others had also had the idea of holing up in department stores, but as the heat grew the more panicked and unreasonable they’d become. You’d even had to loose a warning shot with the handgun, but thankfully you hadn’t had to kill or seriously injure anyone.

You slip back into the front seat and, not even bothering with the seatbelt, spin the vehicle around and speed back through the hole you’d crashed through the once-automated doors (you weren’t going to get in any other way, and it would have eaten up far too much time to keep running back and forth between the store and the car). It’s fucking lucky the multi-level parking lot is as tall as it is, or you probably would’ve forgotten where it was in the panic and heat.

You crank the brakes hard just inside the ground-level entrance, jump out and run to the lot’s control booth. Thank fucking god, whoever left the booth last hadn’t bothered to take the keys with them, and you use them to authorize the automated closing of the entrance before yanking them out of the port and rushing back to the car.

You drive so fast down the spiraling ramp it makes you dizzy, but finally you reach the lowest level and screech to a stop a few paces away from John and his pile. You immediately jump out and yank open the doors again. “Get this shit out,” you tell him, grabbing and throwing things from the back seat onto the pile. “Leave the gas canisters, they could explode.”

Your heart skips a beat when you hear the thrum of the car and a screech when Dave pulls in. You scramble up from your spot on the cool concrete floor (ew) and immediately rush to help him. It’s scary, how frantic he seems. It makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. It feels like something bad is going to happen.

“Did it go okay?” You ask, flashing him a small smile while you gather his findings in your arms and put them on the ground. “No one fucked with you?” Judging by the amount of loot, you reckon it went pretty smoothly, and you had nothing to worry about. Except the possibility of Dave getting roasted like a fuckin’ turkey.

“Had to tase a couple people,” you grunt, ferrying shit between the car and the pile. How long do you have left? Shit, you hope it’s enough protection down here. You wouldn’t care if you fried, but John—

“‘N lost a bullet to a warning shot,” you finish, double-checking the car and the pile. “You didn’t move any of the gas?”

“No, I didn’t touch any of it yet.” That’s only because you’re lazy, to be honest, but you thank yourself for not disturbing the gas. The fumes mixed together with the heat could ignite and literally be the death of you.

You find one of those double-filter construction masks among your half of Dave’s loot, the kind of mask that graffiti artists wear. It’s blue, white and yellow. “Where’d you find this?” You’re sure to put it atop the clothes you rolled tightly into one of the gas station baskets, because you really don’t want this precious thing touching the floor.

Heading towards the driver’s seat again, you pause to look over at what John’s referencing. “Fuckiiinnn’, homewares and manchester section,” you reply, and quickly get in the car and drive it to the far side of the lot, along with the gas canisters inside. Then you hop out, lock it, and hurry back to John with the keys. Once you reach him, you dump yourself on the ground and heave out a sigh. “Just. Parked it over there. In case the heat triggers it or somethin’. I dunno.”

In the other far corner as you are, you lean yourself back against the wall. You know you should be being useful and going through the stuff you stole with John, but now the adrenaline’s fading and you’re back in what should hopefully be a safe place, you’re feeling like you just ran a marathon. You practically did, with the amount of sprinting back and forth you did.

“Just chill. You made it.” After patting Dave’s arm, you wipe your face, which is a little slick and oily. God, you hate the heat. It gets you so irritated. Speaking of which, you should probably get rid of this horrible layer situation you’ve got going on, so you shimmy both your shirts up over your head and slide the short-sleeved one off the longer one. Then you use that to wipe the sweat from your neck.

“Did you, um.” You swallow, and you can feel your saliva is lacking moisture, because it’s foamy and dry. “Did you put anything on your taser burn? No right?” This is your attempt at trying to be in the moment and not worry. You look at Dave and rub the marks on your back and arm again. You applied burn salve and Neosporin earlier, so it should be okay.

You look up at John, trying to ignore the sliver of skin you see exposed when he lifts the outer shirt over his head. You shake your head. “Doesn’t hurt.”

It does, but it’s definitely not the worst pain you’ve ever felt. So it’s pretty easily ignored. Noticing the dryness of your own mouth, you grab a bottle of water and hand one to him before taking one for yourself. You don’t open it. “Could you reach the burn on your back?”

“Cool.” You crack open the bottle of water with some effort. It takes more out of you than you thought it would, which just makes you feel pathetic. “Mm, sort of. I think I got it, but it still really hurts. That guy was so violent, the way he used the taser.” You shake your head and roll your eyes. You remember thinking you’d been stabbed the first time he tased you. Not only had you been electrocuted, but your arm stopped working, and you really felt like something in your body broke.

You pull the short-sleeved shirt over your head and groan into the longer one, then you take a swig of water, because groaning like that makes you realize just how dry your throat is. You turn to face Dave and lean your head against the concrete wall behind you. “We’re probably gonna be here for a while, huh?”

“Mm.” Yeah, you’re not looking. Not looking, nope. “Yeah, probably. Uh. A day. Should be safe.”

You’d wanted to hold his hand, bring you him at least a little comfort in the face of the oncoming deathwave, but that’s definitely not happening now. You can practically feel the sheen of sweat sitting on your palms. And down your back. And on your chest. Fuck, it’s warm. It’s warm, right? That’s why John’s so hot. Temperature-wise. Which is why he took his shirt off. Temperature-wise. Fuck, what the fuck does that even mean?

“We could try and sleep through it.” Your brows furrow and you think for a moment. “Actually that’s scary, let’s not do that.” No way you’re going to let you or Dave fall asleep during a world destroying meteor-induced heatwave, that sounds horrible. What if he falls asleep and doesn’t wake up again? You don’t think you’d ever forgive yourself for that. You don’t think you’d be able to live with it. You stare at him, taking in his face and just his image, in case your worries do ever come true. “You can take off your shades,” you add. “It’s so dim in here.”

You huff through your nose at him, a small compensating kind of chuckle at his contradictory statements. Then he mentions your shades.

“Uh, yeah, I. Y’know, maybe these bad boys will protect my eyes from some of the dry heat, y’know? Like, imagine if cookies had rad li’l shades over the chocolate chips. Stop ‘em from meltin’.” What the fuck was that. “It’s, fuckin’. Dry,” you croak, and crack open the bottle, taking a couple of gulps. “Like the fuckin’ desert in this bitch. Shoulda stayed on the coast, get drenched by the tsunami.”

Shut the fuck up. Shut the fuck up. Shut the fuck up.

“You’re gonna die of a heatstroke now if you keep talking and talking.” You giggle. It’s all in good fun, even if you’re staring death in the face. What are you supposed to do the whole time, wallow? You’ve got at least twenty four hours to spend down here with Dave. Just you two. Alone. Not doing anything. Not going anywhere. Thinking. Trying not to spiral. Fun!

“What’s the real reason you don’t wanna take them off?”

You’re taking another sip of water, and then your head snaps back to face him of its own accord when he asks, and you spill water down your front. And you see his bare-ass chest. And it’s getting hotter. And fuck you. Not literally. But fuck you.

“‘Cause they’re sick as fuck,” you say, and that’s not a total lie. “You go through all the effort of gettin’ me these Ben Stiller mackin’ aviators and expect me not to wear them? That’d be fuckin’ low, for a supposed best bro. Not cool.”

“Not cool”? What are you, a budget ‘90s bullying PSA?

You narrow your eyes and shake your head. Dave is so weird, you think. You’re glad he’s back to his old idiot self though, with those weird quips and tangents he likes to go on, because you miss it. “It wasn’t that hard.” It was very hard. For a lazy little twelve year old boy who spent all his time on the computer, getting a pair of shades that touched Ben Stiller’s sort-of-gaunt face was very, very hard.

“And I don’t think the coolest thing I’ve done for you is get you a pair of dumb shades. But nothing I’ve done will ever amount to what you did for me back in Houston.” You smile at him. “You’ve been caring for me all this time, putting your freakin’ life at risk, but you can’t take off the shades?”

You didn’t even do anything. What, snapped his broken fingers back into place? Caused him pain?

“What,” you say, because you’re confused. You haven’t done anything special. Your voice comes out raw and cracked, and you tell yourself it must be because of the dehydration.

Why does he want you to take off your shades so bad?

“You’re such a square.” You fold your arms against your chest. You hate the skin-to-skin contact, especially in this heat, but you’re too lazy to change positions again. The way what comes out; Dave’s voice sounds raw and full, like there’s something in his throat. Doesn’t he know how valiant he is?

“You fixed my fingers. After you got crushed by a fucking table the first thing you were worried about was me. And then you killed that guy for me. And everything after that, everything you do is like, ‘cause you care. Even though no one ever cared for you.” You pause. Then you take a breath and chuckle. “Except for me, I guess. I just. None of that has anything to do with your shades, I guess I’m just saying that if you can do all that for me, you should be able to take them off for me. I just like looking at, um. You.”

vYou can feel something rising in your throat, blocking it, and you have to swallow. The feeling doesn’t go away. You find yourself looking at him properly; at his face. He looks so earnest, so open and honest. You don’t think you could ever be like that if you tried—you couldn’t be like him.

You consider it for a moment—is it really worth making him upset over? It’s pretty dark in here, anyway—he won’t be able to see them well. There’s something in the back of your mind shouting at you that he wants to see them to make fun of them, to tell you how much of a freak you are, but this is John. So you swallow again. “...Fine.”

And with fingers that definitely aren’t shaking, fingers as still as stone, you reach up and take them off, then let your hand rest in your lap with them.

“Happy,” you ask, and your voice is far too low and far too quiet in the enormous lot.

You can’t help but smile when Dave finally takes his shades off, and you snatch them up from his lap to put them atop your own glasses. Sure, it’s for shits ‘n giggles. However you can also feel your cheeks heating up far faster than the rest of your body, creating not only an obvious blush, but a cold and sudden fear that stops your heart for half a second. No, you think. Nuh uh. No. No way.

Dave’s eyes are so pretty. The harder you think that, the more you want to blow your brains out. “It sounds like you think your eyes are weird. I think they’re really… cool. You know what I’d do for red eyes, dude? I’d sell my soul! Seriously.” You punch his arm. “Besides, no one’s around to judge. It’s just us!” Just us. Just us. The words reverberate off the walls of your skull just as they echo in the parking lot, and you cover your mouth. Too loud.

His antics make you smile, just a little, and though it’s still definitely, noticeably there, you can feel the tension in your shoulders relax just a bit. “You got me. They’re weird. I’m a weird guy.”

His reassurances make you feel less so though. He’s right—it’s just the two of you. No one else is here to mock you.

You open your mouth to tease him when what initially feels like a wall of fire slams into you, curling around and embracing you like a cushion and clawing its way down your throat. You choke as your windpipe struggles to adjust to the blaring difference in temperature.

“Ohhh, god.” You blink and wipe your face. The sudden wave of heat overwhelms you, and you have to take your back off the wall, opting to wipe yourself with the long-sleeved shirt and fanning yourself at the same time. “You felt that, right? Hoo. God… I’m not used to this.” You take off the shades and fold them up, hooking them on Dave’s collar. Then you down the rest of your first water bottle, squeezing your eyes shut and gulping desperately. You can’t help it. “It’s gonna be a long fucking day,” you whine.

It’s getting late. Or dark. Or both; but whatever the situation outside in hell, you know you’re growing tired, and John is too, if his increasing silences are anything to go by.

“Alright,” you say, and finally heave yourself to your feet, joints cracking. You amble across to the car and feel it—it’s cooled down by now, so it’s safe. You slip into the driver’s seat and bring it over.

“You should sleep in the back,” you tell John as you get out. “It’ll be more comfortable than the floor.”

You still haven’t replaced your shades; they’re still hanging from the front of your shirt. You’re feeling less and less inclined to, the longer you’re in here with just him.

You blink and rub your eyes. Your hands are so damn clammy, and you know you definitely stink from all the sweating you’ve been doing. It takes you a moment to recognize the thrum of the car when Dave drives it over, and you get to your feet using the wall as support.

“You should sleep too, so we’re both energized when we have to leave.” Is it cooler now? You think so. Thank god or whoever the heck. You put the short-sleeved shirt back on, pat Dave’s shoulder like always, and pull him along with you, ushering him into the backseat.

You’re too tired to put up much of a fight when John tugs you into the backseat. “We won’t both fit,” you mumble, but you shut the door behind you anyway.

“Yeah, we will.” You toss your other shirt in the front seat and pause. The duvet is still balled up in the back. You recline your own seat all the way back and point at Dave’s seat, ushering him to do the same, then you spread out the duvet like a sheet. “You don’t think we’re gonna overheat in here, right?”

You blink when John reclines his seat. This car could do that? Bro never showed you that, the fuck?

Fumbling around the side of the seat, you find the lever and pull it, sinking the chair back. Goddamn, this is luxury right here.

Almost.

“If we do then we can just take the duvet off or open the doors.”

“Sounds good.” You yawn and lay on your back, folding your hands carefully over your stomach, with your head turned to face Dave. You stare at him blankly, almost unaware you’re even staring at all. You keep looking at his crimson eyes. They’re valuable to you; you need to have Dave’s face engraved in your brain like a tombstone. You never want to forget it. Ever.

With John here with you, you don’t feel like you need to press yourself up against the door or even lock it. You want to roll onto your side to face him, but you feel like that would be too obvious, so you slip your shades into the back pocket of the seat in front of you and lie on your back. You’re aware of John staring at you, and you try not to look back, but you’re also curious as to why he’s staring. So you close your eyes almost completely, roll your head at an angle so you can see him better, and peek at him through your lashes.

You know Dave is looking at you. You’ve done that trick before, peeking through one’s eyes lashes while pretending to be asleep, and you’ve realized that the huge giveaway is how Dave’s face scrunches up a bit in an attempt to keep his eyelids barely open. You won’t call him out on it, though.

Instead, the corners of your lips upturn into a smile, and you reach over to grab his wrist, which you hold dearly. Then you roll onto your side and close your eyes, imagining and feeling things you wouldn’t dare to share or explain with anyone.

Maybe it’s just the heat, but you think something is wrong with you.

He just smiles softly at you, and you’re not sure whether to take that as he’s caught you out or he’s just happy. You hope it’s the latter.

He reaches across and grabs ahold of your wrist, and you have the strangest urge to pull back so you can hold his hand properly. You resist it.

You think he falls asleep pretty quickly, and you’re not long after him. The secure warmth about your wrist is strangely anchoring like you haven’t had before.

Chapter Text

The man who’d attacked you is lying on the floor before you, choking and gurgling, writhing in the growing pool of his own blood. The katana in your hand feels heavy; you can feel it dripping. You drop it and you turn away. You can’t bear to watch.

No sooner had you turned away that something hits you in the back and shoves you forward, and you fall to your hands and knees.

“‘ve told you before not to turn your back, bro.”

You whip around at his voice. He’s towering above you, far, far taller than you remember, with that stupid, terrifying puppet on his shoulder. He grips the hilt of his own katana tighter.

“And ‘ve told you not to drop your weapon, either. ‘Cause I’m not gonna go easy on ya.”

You crawl backwards across the ground, as best as you can. “Not today, please. I abscond.”

“Can’t abscond, bro,” he scoffs, and only draws closer. “Real life won’t let ya abscond.”

“Please,” you say again, pitch rising. You don’t want any more blood today. It’s too much.

“Ya killed a man and can’t even fight me? Fuckin’ weak,” he sneers, and raises the blade.

“I-I didn’t mean to,” you plead, backing up further. “Was just tryin’ to get him off John—”

“Yeah, yeah, what a hero,” he replies. “A real knight in shinin’ fuckin’ armor.” And he kicks your katana at you. “Pick it up.”

“I don’t wanna,” you tell him. “Please.”

“Givin’ you to the count of three,” he says, like he hasn’t even heard you. He steps closer. “One.”

“No, no—”

“Two.” He adjusts his grip on his own sword, bringing it up at an angle. He’s not going to go easy on you. He never has.

You find your limbs frozen; you can’t reach out to pick up your own sword, you can’t defend yourself. “Please, stop—”

“Three.”

He swings it outwards, giving himself room for the buildup, and the blade slashes towards you—

“Bro PLEASE!”

You bolt awake, arms flailing, and the scream bounces back at you from the walls of the car. Your eyes flick around frantically. He’s not here.

Despite your horrific situation, you actually sleep quite well. You dream that you can float (as per usual), and you vaguely remember seeing Dave and Rose. A sudden shriek yanks you from your slumber, it’s scratchy and broken and raw. You jolt back to life— “Ugh,” you say— and immediately reach for your taser, which isn’t there.

“Dave?” You rub the sleep from your eyes and roll onto your stomach, crawling closer to him. He looks really out of it, with a gaze flitting everywhere, widened eyes— you think he screamed. Why did he scream? Is something outside? You sit up and look around, but there’s only the dim, lifeless parking lot.

“Dave,” you say again, gentler this time, touching his arm with your good hand. “What the hell happened, dude?”

You sigh, catching the way your breath shakes. Of course you woke him up, with a scream like that. You’re so fucking embarrassed.

“Nothing,” you reply, looking away. “Just a bad dream. Nothin’ serious.”

Nothing that actually needs addressing, you think. Nothing that’s putting the two of you in immediate danger.

“That’s not nothing,” you chuckle airily. Why, you don’t know. “You should tell me about it. Maybe it’ll help. ‘Cause I’ve never seen a real person wake up screaming, that’s not...” you want to say normal, but that feels mean, so you trail off. “...that’s not okay.”

You crawl a little closer and squeeze Dave’s arm reassuringly, as if to say tell me. I’m not gonna judge you. You even try smiling faintly in an attempt to cheer him up, but you reckon that won’t do anything. He looks harried beyond your understanding.

You fall silent. “Never seen a real person wake up screaming” makes it sound like something out of the movies. Something foreign, something made up. Is it really that abnormal? It doesn’t happen to anyone else? You’d thought waking up kicking and screaming was just something that happened to everyone—like nightmares. Everyone has nightmares, right? Of course they do. Like... those stories you’ve seen of people dreaming they turned up to school naked, and stuff. You never did understand those stories.

“Um...” John looks really worried. Well, he’s smiling, but you can feel the tension in his body when he touches you. You don’t think you’re quite ready to reveal the truth yet, so you settle with the safer option. “...It was the guy. I killed.” Because that would probably give a normal person nightmares, right? A normal person wouldn’t have nightmares about their guardian.

You nod slowly. “Is it that you feel guilty?” You ask, but it’s more of an observation, like an I know, I can tell. Your hand slides gently down to Dave’s, and you caress his palm in soft strokes with your thumb. “I don’t know what that’s like, but all I can tell you is it’s okay. Like, seriously. You were protecting someone you- someone you care about, and he was trying to take your only weapon.”

You catch his stumble. You choose not to think about it. “It’s not fuckin’ okay. I lost my shit and I—” Your throat closes up and you have to take a second. “I coulda just scared the shit outta him and left him alive. Bro would’ve.”

Bro would’ve. Damn it Dave, you think to yourself. Didn’t you explain how valiant Dave is just a few hours ago? You shake your head.

“You say that like Bro is better than you.” Your brows furrow. “Just ‘cause he’d deal with it differently doesn’t make him better. You are a good person, Dave. Sometimes good people have to make really tough choices, and it can be sad, but you’re still good.” Your grip on his hand tightens.

You’re not a fucking good person, no matter how hard John wants to believe it. You could have left him alive, and that’s it. No argument. You could have, and you chose not to. Because you lost your shit instead of keeping a level head.

You want to pull your hand out of his grip, reject the reassurances he’s giving you because you don’t deserve it. But you know that would upset him. Your fingers twitch with indecision. “I still killed someone. That’s it. And nothing’s gonna fix that.” You avert your eyes. You wish you had your shades. You want to reach for them, but John has that hand incapacitated.

You release a breath and shake your head. If only you could articulate what you’re trying to say better. Dave isn’t evil, really he isn’t! You just have no idea how to convey that.

“I don’t know how to explain it.” All you can do is lay there, staring at Dave’s grief-stricken face. Then you wrap your arms around his torso and pull him in for a hug.

You’re frozen up for a moment, your brain screaming that you don’t deserve it, but your heart screaming that you need it. You feel your eyes sting and blink hard, trying to keep the tears back. Your free arm floats unsure over John’s side, and then your hand scrabbles up and down his back, not sure where to land. You hate the shaking you feel so you try and stabilize it by fisting your fingers into the back of his shirt.

You sniff hard, hoping John thinks it’s just you clearing your nose or something, and not that you’re on the verge of tears. Cryin’ now. What are you, a fuckin’ girl? you hear Bro’s voice echo in your head, and you feel ashamed—who cries at being hugged? But you tell yourself vehemently you’re not crying at being hugged, you’re realizing what a piece of shit you are for murdering someone and leaving them to die. And that’s acceptable.

You feel Dave’s chest spasm like shockwaves— tens on the Richter scale— rocking through you both, and you conclude that he’s crying. Or at least trying not to cry. If hugs heal, you’ll hug him all night. Or day. Whatever time it is. You’ll hug him forever, in fact.

You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. You take that as a sign that maybe you shouldn’t say anything, and you bring your good hand up to Dave’s head, entangling your fingers in his knotty blonde hair. Your chest is still pressed close against his. You feel your heartbeats against your ribs; his is faster.

Poor guy, you think. Dave seems chained down compared to you, you who can fly over all that emotional crap without a hitch. You wonder why.

You shudder a little feeling John’s hand in your hair—it feels so nice, and you know you’re already touch starved. As afraid you are that John can feel your heartbeat and conclude you’re an emotional fucking loser, you can feel his too, which means he’s choosing to be just as vulnerable. That makes it better—you’re not the only one being seen through, so he can’t make fun of you later for it.

You take a deep breath and, close as you are, rest your face on his shoulder. A sort of hook to keep him there, for just a little while. It feels too nice for him to leave just yet. You can feel your heartbeat slowing by the tiniest amount, anchored by the rhythm of his.

You’re not sure how long you slept for prior, but you’re still groggy, and you decide to close your eyes. Even if you’re not really asleep, pretending to be— especially when you’re curled around Dave, embracing his everything with your whole body— is so damn nice. It’s hard to decide whether or not you’re more comfortable here or in your own bed after a nice warm shower on a winter night.

You count the seconds in your head, eventually losing track somewhere around  six minutes and seventy two seconds. You stir once more, subconsciously threading your fingers through Dave’s hair, combing it pleasantly. Then you roll over and sit up.

“Maybe I should check outside now,” you suggest, mushing his face with your palm. “See how the weather is. If it’s manageable I’ll let you know. If not, we’ll stay a little longer.”

You think John falls asleep, and you don’t move, not wanting to wake him up. Eventually, he does wake up, combing fingers through your hair and then pulling away and sitting up. You have to bite back a noise of complaint, and then mentally slap yourself for almost whining like a baby in the first place. You pay him back rather swiftly by reaching out and roughly ruffling his hair.

“‘Kay,” you say, feeling a little better this time around. Almost everything on the surface would have been baked, and you’re not sure how many basements this town holds, so he should be fine.

...Probably. “Where’s the taser?”

You feel up your waist for the taser, but its hard shell never grazes your hand. “I dunno,” you shrug. “I thought I gave it to you. But I’ll be good without it anyway, ‘cause look—” you reach down under your seat, in the crease where the car door meets the floor, and pull out the heavy torque wrench.

“I’ll be in and out before you even know it.” You ruffle Dave’s hair in return. “You just chill, okay?”

You sigh. At least he has a weapon if anything goes awry. “Okay.” You dig in your pocket for the keys you took from the control booth and hold them out. “Need these?”

You take the keys. “What are these for?” They’re definitely not meant for the car. You turn them over and examine them, then an “ohh” slips from your mouth when you realize the keys are for the entrance, and you sit up to leave. “I’ll be super fast,” you reassure Dave again. Before heading out, you punch him lightly in the arm.

You smile a little as he leaves. The not-so-rough roughhousing eases your anxieties that you’re being too much of a girl—you’re still palling around, which means that everything’s fine and he doesn’t think you’re too pathetic, at least not yet. You’ll take what you can get.

You slide out of the car and stretch, feeling your vertebrae pop, before eyeing the enormous pile of goods you’d thrown onto the floor yesterday. Was it yesterday? You’re not sure how long the two of you slept. You use the car keys to pop the trunk and begin packing the items you think you won’t be using at least immediately: cooking items and non-consumable goods, as well as a good half of the clothes you’d packed.

You leave and jog off to go find the entrance. It requires you to sprint up three flights of ramp, and lord, do you fucking sprint. You want to be in and out as quick as possible, just as you said.

The higher you go, the hotter it gets, but it’s not as bad as it was yesterday. Or was that just a few hours ago? You’re not sure. Using the keys, you lift the big metal sheet that serves as your door to the outside world, and just as you guessed, it looks horrible.

The sun battles to shine through a thick plume of inky black. It’s dark, really dark, and the street is cracked and coated in a weird whiteness that snows down from the heavens. Ash. It’s ash. Car doors and bumpers are melted. Wheels are popped. Buildings and plants are on fire, bathing their respective radii in orange and red. You can barely breathe, you realize, and you close the door to the fiery wasteland.

Okay, so, it’s definitely doable. You just have to be careful. You jog back down to the lowest level and find Dave organizing the trunk, to which you greet him by waving and snatching a sealed bag of barbecue beef jerky.

“It’s sad,” you tell him, gesturing back at the ramp with a sideways nod of your head. “But we can survive out there. No one’s around to mess with us, and the worst of the heatwave is over.”

“Does it look like shit,” you ask, turning to face him and waiting for him to open the packet. You’re fucking starving, you realize, and you eye the jerky hungrily.

“Absolutely.” You catch Dave’s hungry glare, but you don’t offer him any of your food, expecting him to simply grab it from you on his own. You stuff one piece in your mouth.

As soon as John’s taken the first piece, you shove your hand into the packet and grab a small handful, which you shovel into your mouth. Holy shit, that’s good. You’re suddenly aware of how much your blood sugar has tanked and selfishly grab another handful from John. You’ve got enough food to last you for a while, it’s fine.

“‘Kay,” you mumble, mouth still half-full. You point at the trunk. “Puttin’ the less important shit in here. Gas goes in the trunk. Stuff we need immediately can go in the back so we don’t have to stop t’get it. We can fit shit under the seats n’ on the floor n’ stuff.”

You eye the rest of the pile on the floor, waiting to be packed up. “Did I ever tell you what I found at the Walmart?”

You nod all up until Dave asks that last question, and you half-shrug and shake your head. “No.” You bite another piece of beef jerky. It’s so weird, eating something that actually fills you. That taut feeling in your stomach this whole time has been hunger.

“Give me a Walmart haul unboxing video.” You smile and lean against the car, nodding at the pile of stuff with your chin.

“I’m not showin’ you everythin’ individually,” you say, leaning back against the car. “Too lazy for that. But I found uh... more food, lots of canned and dried shit—oats, seeds, more water, I found a shitty filter—and it’s cracked, but we can make it work—gas, obviously... bunch more batteries, oh, I got ammo. And another gun to go with it. But... I only got the shit that was labeled. I don’t know if any of it would work in the gun we already got, so that’s why I got another one.”

You think. “Fishing line—I dunno, just thought it might be useful—found coats, found boots, but one pair is mismatched, and I think they’re all too big—the filter masks, just grabbed a shitton—more medical supplies, rubbing alcohol n’ shit, bandages, and... oil for the car, which I don’t know how to use, and jumper cables. Don’t know how to use them either. But, just in case.”

Wasn’t there one more thing? “And one shitty hiking backpack. You’re welcome.”

“Man. You could pack one of those zombie apocalypse survivalist kits so well.” You immediately snatch up one of the masks and hook it around you, then you reach over to flick the bandana still tied behind Dave’s neck. “We’re gonna need these really bad when we go outside. It’s like, a whole other planet out there.”

As if on cue, the ground beneath you rumbles, and you bend your knees and hang onto the car. It’s obviously not the worst tremor you’ve experienced, but you didn’t expect it this time. Luckily the shaking only lasts a few seconds. You look up at Dave and chuckle.

“Proves my point,” you say once it’s over, and you push up your glasses to the bridge of your nose. “I’ll help pack. What goes in the hiking bag?”

When John pushes his glasses up, you’re reminded of your shades in the seat pocket, and you shrug. “Doesn’t really matter. Got it just in case. Uh...” You think. “We could use it as a trash bag.”

You snatch yourself a mask from the pile and hang it around your neck, with the bandana. “But for now, I think we should pack the shit we’re gonna be usin’ a lot in the back, and as much as we can fit of the other stuff in the back, plus the gas.”

“Alright.” You look at what Dave has packed so far, then the pile of other crap on the floor, and begin packing whatever you think is most necessary into one of the gas station baskets you stole. You wonder how that timid guy behind the counter is doing (fried, that’s how he’s doing). You slide the basket under one of the backseats and snatch one of the shirts Dave brought along.

“Can I steal this?” You’re already shimmying off your own shirt, which definitely stinks, and it’s even a little damp. You can’t clean your glasses with a damp, sweaty shirt.

“Uh—yeah.” You don’t think too hard about John wearing one of your shirts. You definitely don’t.

You shove the last of what will fit into the trunk, and then pack the gas canisters in at the front. You close the trunk and step around to the door to the backseat, lean in, and snatch your shades from the seat pocket, slipping them on.

Looks like everything else is going in the back. You open the front passenger door and pop the glove box for the med stuff, pull the duvet into the front, and begin throwing shit in the back.

Dave did say you could use that hiking backpack as a trash bin, so that’s exactly what you do, by rolling up your old shirts super compact and placing them in one of the outer pockets. It’s more like a hamper than a bin right now. You stuff that under the backseat too, then you get in the driver’s seat with the torque wrench and two bottles of water, one for you and one for Dave. He’s got his shades on again. You’re disappointed.

“Alright,” you clasp your hands together and wince at the sharp stab of pain in your fingers. Whoops. “It’s fucking horrible outside. We’re just gonna go and try not to stop, ‘cause I don’t want to get caught when the temperature drops.” You glance over at Dave, who looks oddly nonchalant with those shades on. You’re starting to dislike being unable to tell where he’s looking or how he may be feeling. At least he looks cool. “Sound good?”

You nod. “Yep.” And then: “Careful with your fucking fingers, bro. Should I take the wheel?”

Of fucking course you want his fingers to heal up properly, and don’t like how frequently he’s using them, but you also want to prove you’re not totally useless after screaming him awake earlier.

You turn over your hand as if to examine it, when really you’re just thinking. You want to keep driving, you feel bad for being useless in every other way. Hell, you can’t aim a gun even with the target less than a meter away from you. So, you shake your head. “No,” you say. “I got it. I’ll let you know if it’s too much for me.” You flash Dave a smile, turn the keys in the ignition, shift the gear stick into reverse, and pull out of the parking lot and up the spiraling ramp.

Once you make it to the entrance, you open it and toss the control key out the window. You won’t be needing that anymore. The road beneath your tires is uneven, scarred by the aftermath of the world’s worst firestorm. As you drive, a haunting silence envelops the ruined town, broken only by the occasional crackling of a burning structure or tremor in the earth. The air is heavy with the scent of scorched debris. Skeletons of buildings and blackened trees loom eerily, their branches reaching desperately up toward a sunless gray sky.

God. This is what misery looks like. This is what the end of the world looks like. Literally.

You see roadkill cooked into the concrete like a fucking panini. You see a children’s park, now made of twisted metal and melting plastic. Then you take your eyes off it all and focus on the road, on the scorched stains on the pavement that you don’t want to think about. You press your foot down on the gas— you’re out of here.

It really does look like shit out here. It’s so dark already—you can’t see the sun. How the fuck are you supposed to tell what time it is? How the fuck are you supposed to tell what direction to go in? Maybe a compa—

You facepalm. “A fucking compass,” you whisper, dragging your fingers down your face. “That’s what I forgot. A fucking compass.”

You slow down and hit the brakes. The car lurches to a halt, and you turn to look at Dave. Slowly.

“Where would we get a compass?” Your voice is isolated. Every bit of what you say is audible, every slight tremble, every raw or airy sound as a result of your anger. “Everything is gone. The world is on fucking fire.”

You blink and force a smile, shaking your head. “It’s okay.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, then make a swiping motion with your left hand, as if to brush off whatever’s bothering you. Your smile widens. “We’re northwest of Houston, I know that. We just have to keep following the highway signs. Some will tell us if we’re headed north or wherever. See? It’s fine.”

Holy shit. Holy shit. You fucked up so bad. You can hear the anger in his voice. It dies down when he smiles, but it's still fucking there. Holy shit, you fucked up.

What he’s saying doesn’t even make any sense. The highway signs will all be fucking melted, nevermind readable. Fuck. Fuck.

What do you do? What do you fucking do to come back from this? You never learned geography. You were fucking homeschooled. If you could even call it that. Bro never seemed to care about setting you up for anything, but for fighting.

You blink back angry tears. You’re such a fuck-up.

“Let’s keep going then,” you say, faking calm. You consider apologizing, but that’s not gonna fix anything. And it’s just gonna open a gateway for him to rip into you, anyway. Maybe you deserve it.

You purse your lips and stare straight ahead.

You nod and push down on the gas again. Of course you’re angry with Dave, you trusted that he’d get everything necessary, but you’re endlessly more glad that he’s even alive to tell you he forgot to find a compass. And besides, you think you know how to make one. You just need to remember how.

When you make it to the highway, of course the signs are all twisted and melted. You sigh and keep driving. It’s fine, you keep telling yourself, glancing up at the sky. Usually the wind blows from the west to the east in America, right? The ash in the air is blowing from your left, so you’re headed the right way. You feel a little more at-ease knowing that.

“Wind blows from west to east, so we’re headed north.” You reach over and tap Dave’s arm. “I’m not mad at you,” you add, and then: “I’m just frustrated ‘cause it’s hot and we were lost and y’know. We’re fucking miserable.”

You don’t believe him at all. Why would you? You’d heard the anger in his voice, you know what it sounds like. You shrink back into your seat. You don’t want to be here, in this uncomfortable, prickling radius of how could you, I trusted you.

“Smart,” you mumble, the best at a peace offering you can muster. “Where’d you learn that.”

Good, Dave seems to get what you mean. Problem solved! “I don’t remember, probably school. I just know.” You shrug and increase your speed. You just want to get to where you’re going and you want to do it fast. The further you drive, the more glowing ash rushes by the windshield.

“Are your eyes still sensitive even without sunlight?” You change the subject; you’re ready to move on, no problem. And you really want to know why Dave keeps wearing his dumb shades when you gave him that motivational “you’re so cool” pep talk.

“Yeah.” You give him a short, simple answer, meant to deter any more questions. “Fire.”

You look out your window, turning your head away from him. The world under the ash cloud is strangely well-lit; the fires seem to be so abundant that their light is reflecting off the belly of the cloud and bathing the world in orange. The car is slowly but surely heating up—you wonder if it would help or hurt to crank down the window.

“Oh yeah, that makes sense.” Even when avoiding cooked deer and melted cars in the road, you keep your voice steady and nonchalant. Dave looks a little distant. Perhaps he’s still groggy from waking up the way he did? “I have another question, since everyone is dead and no one can judge us.” You nudge him.

“What, barely a day into the apocalypse and we’re already spillin’ our hopes n’ dreams?” you reply, still staring out the window. Every now and then there’s a heap of charred meat on the roadside, too big to be roadkill. You feel sick, so you look ahead instead. “Shoot.”

Surely not everyone is dead, you think, even though most people are by now. You think about Jade and Rose. God, you miss them. You hope they’re not sizzling piles of flesh by now, but would it really make any difference? You’re probably never going to talk to them again. They’re as good as dead to you and John. That makes you feel empty.

“Yeah. Don’t judge me for this, okay? Seriously. And I’m not gonna judge you either.” You take a breath, trying hard to maintain a neutral expression. “Do you, um... have you ever thought about, like, dating a guy? In the sense that you’re just curious what it’s like.” You glance at Dave, then you immediately look out the windshield again, because this is far too outlandish of a question to pair with eye contact. You’re 99% sure that your head would explode.

“I mean that at the surface level,” you add. “Like, I’m just wondering. I dunno. It’s easier to ask weird questions when no one is around.”

You’re quiet. Did John... notice something? Did you slip up somehow? Because that’s the only reason he would be asking you this question.

You have thought about it. A lot. But you’re not going to tell him that. You can’t.

You shrug. “Not really. What is there to think about?” That sounds defensive, so you follow it up. “‘Mean, it’d be just the same as dating a girl. ‘Cept, y’know.” Gay.

Deflect. “What, has the end of the world as we know it triggered some deeply hidden carnal desire in you? Seeing the world on fire and burned bodies make you wanna take it up the butt?”

What is there to think about? Uh, what is there not to think about? You fucked up. Dave clearly isn’t the right person to ask about this. It’d be just the same as dating a girl. No, um... you don’t think so. But you’re not gay, so you wouldn’t know. That’s why you’re asking. But Dave isn’t gay either. What did you even hope to achieve? What’s wrong with you?

“What? No. No! I’m not gay.” Those words— carnal desire— make you want to throw up. Your fingers twitch with the carnal fucking desire to punch Dave in the face. “I was just thinking about it and then I was curious about what your thoughts are, so I asked. And now I have an answer. So.” Your grip on the wheel tightens. You can feel your face heating up and burning red, it’s glaringly obvious. God, you hate being so aware of yourself right now, you hate it. You hate it so, so much.

Whoa. That was not the fucking reaction you expected from him. You expected him to laugh and banter back, like he always does.

You peer at him sidelong through your shades. His face is red, and he’s white-knuckling the steering wheel. You want to ask if he’s okay, but you also selfishly don’t want to put your ass on the line if you’re reading the situation wrong, and everything is, in fact, completely fine.

“Yo, chill. I was just fuckin’ with you, you know.”

“I know, yeah, I know.” You answer almost immediately, it’s weird. “I don’t know why I got so defensive. It’s funny! You were being funny. You’re allowed to be funny.” Your brows furrow and you chuckle anxiously while your thoughts tick back to the parking lot. You were so sweaty and uncomfortable, and then you held Dave like... like that, and you just wanted to hold him forever. You still want to. Something is really wrong here.

“It’s not bad to be gay. I’m just thinking about it since there’s no one left and that gets you to think about, um, reproduction and stuff.” A week ago you would’ve begged to differ. “Like, I could kiss a guy a million times and not feel anything. Since I know I’m into girls. You get what I mean, right?”

You frown. Yeah, he’s acting fucking weird. You need to dial it back a bit on the “haha, fucking gay” stuff. And why the fuck is he talking about reproduction?

“Uh,” you say eloquently. “I guess. Girls are cool.” You haven’t really thought much about girls though before, to be honest. One or two thoughts here and there, Jade’s cute, but that’s about it. “I mean, I dunno. Have you even kissed a girl before?”

You open your mouth. Nothing. “Well,” you take a breath. No, you haven’t kissed a girl, you’ve never even touched a girl. Girls are so sensitive and they don’t like to roughhouse and joke around the way you do; why would you hang out with a girl unless you have a crush on her? Otherwise it’s kind of useless. “No. I haven’t kissed anyone. Have you?” Yeah. Ask the same question. That ought to get you somewhere.

“A coupla times,” you say dismissively. “Wasn’t really into it though.” Which is the truth. “But I mean... what I’m saying is, how do you know you wouldn’t like kissing a guy if you don’t even know what it feels like to kiss a girl? ‘Mean... like, I don’t think I’d be able to judge whether I liked AJ if I hadn’t drunk water first, y’know.”

You’re only asking this to help John try to answer his question. Yep. That’s the only reason. It’s not like his sudden curiosity means anything. Everyone wonders at some point.

“Well you’d know you like AJ if it tastes good. Not if it tastes better in comparison to water.” That gets you thinking. More than you already were. “Are you saying I should try kissing a boy?” There’s no girls around to compare it to, so maybe that’s useless in Dave’s eyes, but not in yours. You expressed your point with the apple juice thing, effectively cornering yourself, because now it sounds like you want to kiss a guy.

You realize just how quiet the car is. No one has spoken for a few seconds, and it twists your gut, making you feel unnaturally sick. You ease the pressure on the gas pedal.

“...Uh...” Well, shit, you hadn’t meant to walk into that one. There’s literally no one else around. It’s just you and him. And the way he says it makes it sound like you’d planned the whole thing. Fuck, how do you abscond from this one?

“Not—Not really, uh, that’s not what I really meant—” Yeah, you’re totally saving this, aren’t you. “I just meant, it might be hard, to figure it out, when you don’t already have a comparison. You know.” You don’t even know.

Dave’s awkward stammering is somewhat of a comfort to you. You’re not the only one flipping the fuck out inside your head. “It can’t be that hard. Hence the AJ thing.” You scoff, and then all is quiet again. You swallow nervously. Dave is all you have left and you’re about to make it so, so painfully awkward.

“Do you wanna try? Since you’ve already kissed tons of people and I haven’t kissed anyone we can like, prove our respective points. To ourselves. It’s not really gay, I mean.” More silence. “It’s- it’s just- I’m curious, but I’m not saying anything about us being- y’know.”

Ohhh shit. Oh shit oh shit. You saw this coming from a fucking mile away, and you can’t worm your way out now. He knows you too well. If you stutter and flounder any more, he’s going to know something’s up. So you’ve gotta play it cool.

You shrug. “Sure. I can totally school you in the way of eatin’ face so if we actually come across some cute chick in the apocalypse you can have the first shot. I can be your wingman. Not that you’ll need it, because the patented Strider moves are gonna knock her off her feet, but that’s what bros are for, ain’t it?” Holy shit, you sound like a fucking jock from one of those ‘80s coming-of-age movies.

You narrow your eyes and pinch the bridge of your nose. “Shut up, dude.” The car slows to a stop, and you shift the gear stick to park. For a few seconds, you just sit there quietly, tapping your foot against the brake in quick succession. Then you glance at Dave and unbuckle your seatbelt.

“So how does it work, do you just... lean in and...?” You drag your hand down your face and sigh. “I’m so sorry. I’m making this awkward.” You laugh again, smiling faintly up at Dave in an attempt to get him to laugh, too. He looks tense. You’re tense. God, everything is tense, ugh.

You’re watching John, hyperaware, so when he unbuckles his seatbelt you instinctively do, too.

How does it work? You almost snort. “You just fuckin’ kiss me, dude.” Wait. “You kiss her, I mean. You just kiss ‘er. There’s nothin’ fuckin’ special about it unless you want to do more stuff with it but up t’then, it’s just, mashin’ lips.” Mm, yeah. Sounds so appetizing when you put it that way. You’re just fucking talking for the sake of talking. You feel like you’re going to vibrate with all of the nervous energy building, but it’s cool. You’re cool. You’re gonna play this like a motherfuckin’ champ and that’ll be it, and it’ll still be normal, but John will have his questions answered.

Yep, okay. You get it. Can’t Dave ever shut up? In an attempt to quicken the process, you lean in, feeling a mix of anticipation and nervousness. Your lips mash against his in a moment that should feel natural, but instead, it’s terribly awkward. There’s a subtle clash of noses, an unsure tilt of heads. It’s not the seamless connection you envisioned.

You pull back and release a breath you had no idea you were holding. “That was horrible,” you huff. One hand is still on the wheel, and you grip it so tight that your knuckles have gone pale.

You’re so baffled, but at the same time not at all, because that’s such a fucking John move to pull. Of course he wouldn’t know how to do something as simple as kiss. Nevermind kiss another dude.

“That’s ‘cause you kissed like a fuckin’ robot,” you reply, and the awkwardness is gone suddenly for you, because you genuinely feel like you’re just teaching a friend how to do something basic like tie his shoes. Because that was genuinely so abysmal. You need to help him. “Y’not—s’not gonna be fuckin’ mindblowing if you go in for a peck like you’re visitin’ your grandma.” You wince. It’s not like that example’s applicable to either of you.

“But—good kissin’ only comes with, like, wanting to do it. We can try again if you want, but. It’s not gonna be anythin’ amazing because it’s not like you wanna eat my face anyway. I can just teach you a li’l.” You actually find yourself smiling, ever so slightly. You’re explaining kissing to him like he’s a fucking kid. You feel like a dad whose son has just come home bawling from his first date. You actually pity the poor guy right now.

I do want to, you long to say. I want to. Show me how to make it perfect. You feel pathetic, but you pulled over for this, so you might as well make it good. You’re in too deep.

“Okay,” you breathe. “Again then.” You lean in, smiling just a little more when you catch Dave’s lips upturned in a tiny grin of his own. As your lips meet, there’s a soft warmth, and you forget that you even have a body. For a moment, you feel only the intimate dance of your breaths. It’s a tender exchange.

It’s one thing to see John smile, and it’s another to feel it. It’s really nice. It’s indescribably intimate, leagues more intimate than the act you’re currently engaging in with him.

You tilt your head, avoiding the bumping of noses from the first attempt, and raise a hand to gently hold the back of his neck. Not a cage or a lock, but vague support, something he can lean away from if he wants to. You do all this to show him because you know how it’s done, you know what the majority of people like.

And you breathe in and what you breathe in is his breath, and holy shit if you’ve ever felt better in your life, and your finally brain catches up to you. And your stomach drops into something icy.

You pull away, almost a jerk at first, but you catch yourself before he has the time to open his eyes and you lean back the rest of the way slowly.

Your breath catches in your throat for a moment. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

You close it again and swallow. “So. Was that better.”

The warmth lingers. You can still feel Dave’s lips superimposed on your own, and you look down, pretending to be deep in thought. “It was better.” You shrug. “Maybe kissing just isn’t my thing. I don’t feel any different.” Oh, but you do, and you’re never going to tell anyone. It feels like your insides are softening, boiling in hot water.

“You’re a good kisser though,” you add.

With that, you put the car in drive and press down on the gas pedal, speeding away as if to leave behind whatever that whole thing was. You try not to think about it— how disgraceful that was. How disgusting you feel. It’s hard.

You’re actually shunted back with the force of the car speeding up, and you frown. You can still see John white-knuckling it on the steering wheel. You can only conclude it’s because of you.

You look away, ashamed. You knew it was a bad idea to begin with, that’s why you had been avoiding it. You should have listened to that part of yourself.

What feels like acid burns in your gut. If you didn’t know before, you do now—ever bringing this shameful, weak thing up to John is never going to happen. Because it disgusts him.

You feel like throwing up. You look out the window and you catch sight of another burnt, melted body on the side of the road. The emotions brought about by the horrific sight are actually more manageable than the ones you’re trying to run from.

Chapter Text

Of course you only realize you’re running low on gas ten minutes into the drive. It’s a welcome reason to step out for a moment, during which you put on a filtered mask and take a bottle of gasoline with you.

You can hear fires crackling in the distance. Actually, you can see them through the dead trees; walls of orange and red, bathing the dark clouds a weird brown and orange color. As you fill the tank, the ground begins to rumble.

“Oh, great.” You hold the mask against your face. Your eyes sting for some reason. Then there’s an earth-shattering (quite literally) boom, some sort of endless snapping sound. The road forms large cracks and crevices. Snap. Crack.

The car door is still open. As the ground seems to slant, you try and hobble toward the car. You need to get in, you need to be safe. Next thing you know there’s no ground beneath you and holy fuck, the car is sliding away from you. With Dave inside.

With the boom comes a shuddering and cracking. The car starts to roll forward, and you whip around to try and see John through the windows. You can’t see him anywhere.

“Fuck,” you swear, and yank the manual brake back before trying to open your door. It’s jammed.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you growl, and clamber over the brake and gearstick into the driver’s seat, and then stumble outside. You blink harshly; the air is dry and burning.

Oh, no no no. What the hell is Dave doing? “Get back in the fucking car!” You yell at him, motioning wildly with your arms. You slip and stumble downward with an “oof,” rolling toward a particularly concerning crevice in the pavement. The ground is hot. It burns your palms and your arms, and you suck in a sharp, pained breath. At least you’re able to stop yourself from falling any further— you’ve got one leg outstretched, pushing against the pavement on the other side of the crevice. All this trembling is making it hard to stay stable.

You ignore him.

Still blinking erratically, you hold your arms out and try to make your way down the slope as fast as possible, while also staying upright through the shaking. John’s fucking jockeying the crevice-sinkhole-thing.

The earth does a strange jolt and your knees buckle, and you fall down onto them, skidding a foot or so down the slope. You can feel your knees grazing beneath your jeans, and on top of that, it fucking burns. You’re not surprised. Asphalt always was a bitch in the Houston summers.

Leaning backwards, against the slope, you reposition yourself so you can shift yourself down towards John while having at least three points of purchase on the road.

With determined grit, you wedge your fingers into the pavement’s uneven edges, feeling the coarse texture of the hot rock against your skin. Adrenaline zips through your veins like lightning as you strain to keep the foothold, muscles straining against gravity. You bend your knees and try to scoot upward, but to no avail.

“Dave?” Your voice shakes. A particularly violent shudder almost launches you forward, but you catch yourself, and you hit the back of your head on the ground. It’s so hard to stand up. If only you could get to your feet.

You reach a hand behind you, searching for Dave, searching for help. Steam leaves some of the new holes in the pavement, dead trees fall over on the sides of the highway, and you hear the sound of sizzling. Dear god, you pray, please don’t let that be Dave. Let it just be steam or roadkill.

You’re reaching out for John, ready to lurch forward at any moment if need be, while still edging your way down the asphalt, left hand and both feet steadying yourself against the slope. The wind blows burning fucking ash onto you, and you hiss, lifting your left hand to brush it off while keeping your right outstretched for John. His question sounds so small and vulnerable, and you grit your teeth, planting your left hand down again to make that last slide closer to him—

There’s a searing, white hot burning that stabs through your palm, and then nothing. You lean forward, catch John’s hand, and pull back, keeping your body weight centered on your palm and feet as you use them to try and push back up the slope.

The effort is intense, and sweat beads on your forehead, but the promise of not dying propels you upward. You push against the crevice as hard as you can and scoot up the slant, scrambling to meet Dave where he is. Finally, with one last push, you pull him along with you toward the car.

“Hold on,” you croak through clenched teeth, holding his hand tightly. You can feel how sweaty his palm is, it’s soaked— or is that yours? After a while of holding onto the car for dear life, the earthquake dies down, but steam continues to shoot out from the ground.

“Oh god, thank you.” Your breath hitches and the shake in your voice is obvious. You wrap your arms around Dave, hugging him so fucking tight, your knees buckling.

He buckles against you and you wrap your own arms around him, so he doesn’t sink down onto the burning ground. “Hey, hey, it’s all good.”

Your left hand touches the back of his shirt and you hiss when a sharp pain lances through you.

“Let’s—just get back in the car, drive for a bit, then we’ll stop to fill up again, yeah?”

Your voice is a lot softer than you’re used to—but John also seems a lot more out of his element than you’re used to. You haven’t seen him this shaken before.

“Yeah—” you swallow down the lump in your throat and smile. “Yeah. God, that was crazy. Let’s get out of here.” You fix your mask and step back, catching a glimpse of Dave’s left hand. It’s blistered and white and red.

“Did the pavement cook your fucking hand?” You quickly take your bottle of water from the front seat and return to Dave’s side, holding his wrist tightly. You unscrew the cap with your teeth and pour the water on his palm, gently.

You wince, and grit your teeth, hard. But you don’t make a sound. The fingers of your good hand drum harshly against your leg.

“Think— there was a fuckin’ coal or somethin’. Put—Put my hand down on it.”

From your experience, treatment of burns is always the most painful part. “We can do this—later. Let’s get in—‘kay?” The last bit comes out like you’re soothing a skittish animal.

“Okay, just put on some of that burn salve. Please.” You turn over Dave’s hand, examining it. When you decide it’s okay to leave him be, you pat his arm and get back in the car.

An earthquake was not the distraction you envisioned, but it did its job pretty fucking well.

The rest of the drive is inconvenient. You find yourself temporarily going off-road to avoid sinkholes and large crevices. Sometimes you have to slow to a crawl, lest the car bounce when you drive quickly over a dip in the pavement. And during all that, you still see dead things baked into the ground, and melted car bodies and dead trees flung onto the road. What a fucking mess.

You may be stubborn, but you’re not stupid. You do as John suggested and use some of the salve from the kit in the glove box, and then twist around to the pile of supplies you stowed in the backseat. You grabbed a couple of stray gauze patches, but they’re not big enough to cover the burn on your hand without ripping more skin off with the taped edges, so you settle for thinly bandaging it instead.

“Did we take any of the duct tape from Houston?” you ask. You do have med tape, but you’d really rather save it, just in case. You eye John. “Did you get burnt?”

“No,” you reply meekly. “I lost the tape during the first tremor.” God, you’re such a screw-up. It’s okay. You’ve got to have something than can help. A shirt maybe, or medical tape or whatever.

Then Dave asks about you, and you observe your arms, where you definitely felt some pain when you were on the ground. They’re reddened and sore, some of the skin is peeling, but there’s no blisters or bubbly bits. “A little, but it’s like a toaster burn. Just a little touch.” You flash him a smile, trying to reassure him.

Of course your brain ticks back to the parking lot and the sorry excuse for a first kiss and the way you felt when you saw Dave almost fall above you, and his burnt hand and how your first thought was damnit, now we can’t touch each other the same anymore. What does that even mean? What the hell is wrong with you? You’re crazy. You can’t stop thinking about it, it’s so... embarrassing? Disgusting? You don’t know. You’re going to stop thinking about it in three, two, one...

You’re gay. You’re gay for Dave and you’re stuck with him forever because this is the end of the fucking world as you know it.

You eye John’s arms where he observes them. Definitely red and raw-looking, so you squeeze some salve onto your fingers and reach over slowly to dab some onto him.

“Still a burn,” you say. “Can you hold your arm out for a sec?”

Keeping one hand on the wheel, you hold out your arms individually for Dave to rub in the ointment. “Thanks.” It itches, but not so badly that you’re restless over it. You can’t even begin to imagine just how horrible Dave feels. You’re starting to realize now that humans aren’t as resilient as they are in the movies. Dave isn’t Wolverine; he can’t survive a fire. And neither can you.

“How’s your palm?” You glance at it— it’s honestly disgusting. All blistered and bubbly, with sheets of dead skin peeling like an orange. You grimace.

“Shitty,” you confess, looking at it yourself. You rub salve into John’s other arm and then take the med tape out of the kit and wrap your hand. You have to use your teeth to cut the fabric off, then you secure it in place with the tape.

Once again, you eye John’s arms, considering bandaging them too, but ultimately you decide against it. Most things heal best when exposed to open air, so you’ll just settle for reapplying his salve every few hours.

You swipe an arm across your sweaty forehead. “S’hot.”

“Yeah.” It’s hot, sure, but you thought Dave would be more used to the heat. You eye him for a little longer before settling your gaze on the road, avoiding fallen trees and dangerously big dips and cracks in the asphalt. At least the threat outside is helping to distract you from the Airheads Xtreme-colored mess inside your brain. “You wanna lower the window for a bit?”

You start cranking down the window, and then a sudden wave of nausea hits you.

“Slow down, slow down, m’gonna throw up—”

You ease your pressure on the gas pedal. “Dude, are you okay? Are you like, in shock?” You ask, eyes widening a fraction of an inch. Okay, obviously Dave isn’t experiencing shock, but you’re still concerned. He looks like he’s seriously going to vomit. “Dave.” You touch his shoulder with your right hand. “Breathe, dude. Big deep breaths.”

You appreciate the gesture, but that’s definitely not gonna help.

Bile rising, you open the door and throw up on the asphalt outside, mostly bile, but you also find yourself hacking up chunks of jerky you hadn’t chewed properly.

“Guh,” you say eloquently, trying to regain your bearings, and then a wave of heat washes over you—not from outside, but your skin and everything below it is burning. You close the door and slump back against your seat. “Got a fuckin’ fever.”

No way. No way Dave is actually sick, not now. Listening to him vomit makes you want to do it too; but your stomach doesn’t churn enough to make it happen. You shake your head in disbelief. “Seriously? How?” Yeah, how? What could he have come in contact with to give him a fever?

“We’re just gonna go.” You drum your left fingers on the wheel and speed up a bit once he’s done. “We’re just- we’re gonna drive, and if we really need to stop then we will, just climb in the back and drink some water. Alright? And put a bandana on. You’ll be okay, I promise.”

The heat in your body is sapping your strength. You’re also starting to ache all over. “Don’t—wanna move,” you reply. “Jus’ gonna stay here. N’ sleep it off.”

Of course, now’s the best fucking time to get sick. It couldn’t have been anything you ate, right? You and John have been eating the same stuff.

“Mmm...” you hum in uncertainty, but you accept Dave’s decision to try and sleep his ailments away. “Alright. Just sleep then, I won’t wake you.”

This time, watching him close his eyes and doze off isn’t so cute or comforting. You’re afraid Dave won’t wake up again. Just the thought of being alone, the thought of him suffering a fate like that, makes you want to throw yourself out of the car.

You drive for a while, a really long while, only stopping to fill the gas maybe once or twice. It’s like, twelve hours to get to Colorado from Houston, so you must be around halfway there. You think you’ve been on the road for about five hours now, occasionally glancing at Dave, and your eyelids feel heavy. It’s not so hot out anymore. Maybe you should pull over.

You wake up, you don’t know how much later, and you’re freezing. And everything’s hazy and blurry and you’re moving even though you’re sitting still and everything feels like it’s upside down. You groan and curl in on yourself, shivering. So uncomfortable.

Of course you notice Dave stirring. You’ve been waiting for that sound forever, even occasionally feeling his chest and forehead to make sure he’s okay. He’s not.

“Hey,” you greet him with a hushed tone. “Do you feel better?” As you speak, the car slows to a stop on the right side of the freeway, and you unbuckle your seatbelt to lean over. You feel Dave’s cheeks and forehead. Despite how he’s shivering, he’s really hot.

“Mm, nuh.” Your lips feel like slack rubber. Is that John? “Joooohhhhnnn,” you whine, and reach for whatever’s touching your face. You wanna hold something, you need something stable that makes you feel like the world isn’t spinning. Plus, whatever it is feels really good against your hot face.

“Okay,” you breathe. “You’re going in the back.” With that, you get out of the car and open Dave’s door, unbuckling his seatbelt and— very, very strenuously— lifting him up and out of his seat. You close his door with your foot, bring him to the back passenger seats, and deposit him unceremoniously on the chairs, so Dave lays on his left side. Then you crawl in with him and sit on the center console armrest.

You stare at Dave for a while, a concerned gaze fixed on his flushed face. The car feels warm, yet he shivers, and you can’t help but think that if need be, you’ll care for Dave forever. With a tender touch, you place a cool hand on his forehead, hoping to ease the fever’s grip even a little. The rhythmic rise and fall of his breaths become a steady backdrop to your attentiveness. You offer sips of water, each one a small respite from the heat within.

Suddenly you’re lying down on your side—when did that happen?—and there’s water at your mouth, that you’re somehow swallowing without issue.

The water leaves and you reach out for the hand holding it. “S’Bro here...?” You need to check, because he always is, even if he wouldn’t be the one taking care of you. Even though you hoped he might be, for once.

You swallow your anxiety in the form of a wad of saliva. “No, Bro’s not here.” He’s dead almost slips past your lips, but you press your mouth closed before you have the chance to say such a horrible thing. Dave’s forehead feels warm beneath your touch, and you tenderly brush damp strands of hair away from his face. “It’s just me and you.”

“Mm...Good.” Which means he’s not watching. You clutch at the hand before it has a chance to leave, and pull it to your chest. “Don’ leave?” You shiver a little, but you feel the warmth coming back now. “...Sick.”

Shit. Fuck, shit, fuck. Where the hell is this affection coming from? You let Dave guide your hand to his chest, and sure, the warmth is nice, but you feel so anxious. Your hands tremble slightly as you hold up a bottle of water to his mouth again.

“I won’t leave.” God, what are you saying? Of course you won’t leave Dave, you’ll never, ever do that. Not when he’s like this. You just never expected to be sharing such a... a weird scenario.

“Why don’t you want Bro around?” The answer to that is obvious, but you’re simply indulging him. You don’t have any medicine, and you don’t want to leave Dave’s side to keep driving, so you’re stuck.

Wow, the water is so nice. It’s so cool, it makes your dry mouth feel better. You squeeze his hand when he affirms he’s not going anywhere.

“Hurts,” you answer, and feel a fog drifting down over your brain. You’d like to sleep again. But you’re not sure if he heard you, so you push the fog back and speak a bit louder. “Hurts me. You don’t.”

Hurts. Hurts me.

Your heart shatters. “It’s okay now, I won’t hurt you. I’m gonna take care of you, okay? Just try and sleep.” You keep stroking Dave’s hair. It’s damp and icky and his sweat gets on your fingers, but you can’t care any less. You just want him to feel comfortable.

The stroking in your hair feels so nice. Emotions rise and fall like the heat, and just like how your face is burning, your eyes are too. “M’sorry,” you tell him, voice high. You hold his captured hand to your cheek, to your forehead. It feels cooler than your own burning skin.

“Why are you sorry?” As you reach out with your bad hand, your fingers find the contours of his skin, a tactile dance that speaks volumes in silence. You press the back of your hand against Dave’s neck, attempting to cool him off there. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” you add. “You’re just asking for help is all.” You know who else needs help? You. You need help. Desperately. You’re not used to this kind of interaction, it’s scaring you.

“Should be lookin’ after you,” you explain, and your eyes burn more. You remember something, something that’s been bugging you, but you couldn’t find it in the sea of everything mixing together.

“Sorry ‘bout the kiss.” You feel a single point of water on your cheek, and it’s soothing. “M’fucked up.”

“No, it’s okay,” you reassure him, whispering the phrase over and over beneath your breath. It’s okay. It’s okay. “I’m the one who suggested it. And you know what? You didn’t fuck up, it was nice.” You put on a soothing smile in an attempt to comfort him, despite the spiral of horrors drilling through your mind. You’re disgusting. You’re wrong. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. You ignore them.

Dave’s tears, glistening and delicate, cling to his cheeks. With a gentle gesture, you lift your left thumb, wiping away the traces of sorrow. The touch is soft, and tears well up in your eyes, a silent acknowledgment of shared pain. That’s as far as it goes; you won’t dare to cry again.

You feel John’s hands on your face, and you lean into them. It’s nice, they get rid of the weird tickling on your cheeks.

Having come over the hill, feeling rather empty and exhausted, you sigh out a breath. “Y’deserve better th’nice.”

You’re cold again. You want to go to sleep. You’re so tired. “Blanket...?” you ask hopefully. Where is it, you can’t think.

“Blanket. Uh, yeah. Yeah, we have one. Hang tight.” You dig around under the seats, then in the trunk, for the duvet. When you return, you struggle to spread it out beneath Dave’s body, but you get it done. Then you fold it over him and tuck the duvet beneath him, like a long blonde burrito.

“That feel better?”

You’re grateful. You nuzzle into the blankets, pull them tight around you. That song’s stuck in your head. The one from one of John’s movies. You have it saved on your sampler.

You close your eyes and hum it softly. You’ve never been sung to sleep before, but it works, and soon you’re welcomed by the comfortable nothingness again.

Alright, good, Dave is comfortable. The humming freaks you out a bit, but he dozes off, and you let out a loooong sigh.

You clamber into the front seat and keep driving. That song Dave was humming is in your head now, and you feel so cheesy for it. And tell me now, how do I liiiive without you? God, you’re such a dork.

The ground is thrumming beneath you again, and you feel like you’re moving. You keep waking and then drifting off again, tossing and turning, throwing the blanket off, pulling it back on as your temperature goes up and down.

Eventually, you blink your eyes open to a view of the back of the front seats, John still driving. You’ve got a killer headache.

“Th’fuck?” you mumble, shifting around in the duvet, wrapped around you like a goddamn tortilla. “What—how long ago did I throw up?”

Oh god, Dave is awake. Thank the fucking lord. You grip the wheel hard and bounce a little bit, then adjust the rear view mirror so you can sort of see Dave’s face. “Uh, it’s been like... I dunno... seven hours.” It’s cooler now, still hot, but cooler. The gray sky is much darker too. “It’s just been a while. I hope you feel better.”

“Seven hours? Shit...” You push yourself up into a sitting position and rub at your eyes. Your shades are still on, you notice. “Was I asleep that whole fuckin’ time or do I just not remember?”

You’re fucking parched, so you look around for a bottle of water. You find a half-empty one on the floor and pick it up, gulping it down.

Oh, Dave was up, and he was saying things. You debate telling him the truth, drumming your fingers anxiously on the wheel, your lips pursed together. “Mmm...” shit.

“You woke up a few times. Cried. Then you hummed yourself to sleep,” you say with an airy chuckle. “You’re a weirdo. I’m just glad you got all that rest, I was really... concerned.”

Oh, fucking hell. That’s fucking embarrassing. At least you can claim you were fucking loopy when you cried.

You can feel your cheeks burning, but not from the fever you’re still subtly sporting. “That sounds fuckin’ whack. Sorry you had to deal with that.” Oh yeah, he said something else. “And m’fine. I’ve had worse.” You’re not actually sure you have. You’ve only had a fever a handful of times in your life, and you’ve only gotten them because of infections. Speaking of which, you roll up your sleeve to confirm your suspicions.

Yeah. The taser burn is swollen, broken, and oozing. It looks fucking disgusting.

“Taser burn’s infected,” you tell John. You feel kind of fucking stupid. You had chosen not to take care of it in favor of looking after John, but man, had that fucking backfired.

Ah, of course. No wonder Dave caught such a bad fever; he’s got an infection from his improperly treated injuries. “That explains the fever.” You reach over to the glovebox and take out the burn ointment and anti bacterial cream, both which you toss at Dave. You look back to make sure you haven’t hit him in the face.

“Use those,” you instruct him. “If you catch another fever and babble crazy shit and cry again, I’m gonna implode.”

Oops.

“Not like I’m upset about it,” you say quickly. “It was funny. You’re funny, I mean.”

Hm, that’s weird. “babble crazy shit”, “I’m gonna implode” and “not like I’m upset about it”, “it was funny” don’t really fit together.

“Sounds like I was a real tool,” you say, and hesitate for a moment between the two creams. Which one... goes on first? “Fuck did I say?”

You choose the antibacterial first, and wince when you touch the burn. It fucking smarts.

You shrug. “You were just being emotional. You asked if Bro was around and when I said no you seemed so happy.” Now that it’s somewhat over, you smile fondly at the thought of taking care of Dave the way you did, and you too continue to babble on and on.

“Then you asked me not to leave, and I said I’ll never leave. ‘Cause I won’t.” Oh god, shut up. Shut up, John. “You seemed to feel bad that you weren’t able to take care of me, and then you started crying about the kiss and how you felt like you fucked up-” You quiver. Shut the fuck up! Shut up! “-and I said it was nice and you said that I deserve better than nice, and then I put you in the blanket and you slept like, forever.”

Your stomach drops a million fucking meters before you feel marginally normal again. The only difference between normal and this is that you’re sweating and a shiver somehow runs up your spine.

You freeze. Jesus christ. Wow, Strider, way to spill your fucking guts. Sounds like guts have been properly spilled. Like, disgraced-samurai-carving-open-his-stomach kind of spilled. That’s what you feel like.

You’ve crossed the fucking line, and now John totally knows, doesn’t he? You swallow, hard. “I-I.” Fuck. Fuck! “‘Mean, you’re a great guy. Obviously, you deserve, like—a good fuckin’ mackin’ from some chick you really like. Like one of your. Hypermasculine action movie hero men. Is—Is probably what I meant.” And of course you had to throw the probably in there. He’s going to see right through that one.

“Sorry. That sounds like—like a fuckin’ nightmare.” It is a nightmare, and you’re living that nightmare right now. You’re sweating out of your goddamn skin. You kick the duvet off again and pull at the front of your shirt, fanning yourself.

“It wasn’t a nightmare.” That’s the truth. “I was scared, but as long as you kept talking I knew you were alive. And it was cute.” Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. You focus your gaze on the road entirely, refusing to look back at Dave anymore. It’s a distraction, and you think you’re going to piss your pants like a stupid dumb idiot baby if you keep looking at him.

“You could do or say anything and I’d still care about you. I’d still give you water and wrap you up in a blanket and wipe your tears.” SHUT. UP. “‘Cause I love you, man. You’re my best friend.”

The last line seems strangely like a friendzone, which you should have totally been expecting, but for some reason weren’t. His previous words bounce around inside your skull: it was cute, I’d still care about you, wrap you up in a blanket, wipe your tears, I love you. With your gut wringing itself out like a wet towel, it actually manages to surprise a barked laugh out of you.

“Even if I macked on you like a fuckin’ sick homo pervert under the guise of fuckin’ teachin’ you to kiss?”

And the words are out before you can stop them. You fall silent. Your stomach’s sinking; you drop your face into your hands.

You pause.

Even when what?

“Yeah,” you nod. “Even when you lie. I’d do all of that and more.” All is silent for a few seconds. You take a breath, lean your back against your chair, and flex your fingers. This feels unreal. You want to vomit.

“Dave, are you gay?”  The question comes out shaky, like your throat’s been rubbed raw and you’re avoiding how bad it hurts. You dunno, you want to yell at yourself. Let’s check. What a hilarious bit. Everyone is laughing. Dave is gay, big surprise! Your turn next!

“I—” You first response is to deny it, but how fucking long can that go on for? What would hurt less, driving John away now or driving him away in 40 years when he’s all you’ve got left to trust? He can ditch you right now and take the car and everything in it. You don’t care.

“I don’t fucking know,” you mumble. You pull up your knees, push your shades up to rest on the top of your head and rest your forehead down. You just want to block out the world right now. “I don’t know. Probably. Liked Jade for a while, but. Other than her. I’ve fucked around. I.” You feel your voice start to crack and swallow it down. “Bro probably always fuckin’ knew. Smuppets were probably his way of tormenting me. Hey Dave, look, isn’t this fuckin’ hilarious? Puppet dong in your face 24/7. You must like that, huh? Big fuckin’ fag.”

Wow. Dave sounds almost as guilty about it as you are. You feel a weight settling in your chest, an unsettling heaviness that refuses to lift. Maybe you should say something. Haven’t you said enough? No. You should say something.

“Don’t let Bro be the reason you feel bad about it. You shouldn’t feel bad at all.” The pit in your stomach deepens with each word. You should take your own advice. You shouldn’t feel bad, but you do. You’re not supposed to be talking about this. “Maybe Bro was gay and he felt like shit for it, so he projected that fear onto you. Maybe he was trying to deter you. I dunno. No matter the reason, it’s fine! I’m not gonna treat you any differently.” You look in the rear view mirror again and smile at Dave.

“And for the record,” you add, “I liked kissing you. You’re good at it.”

You don’t say anything. You know John’s just trying to be nice, but what he’s saying sounds so fake. Like he’s just straight-up lying to you. Maybe he’s just trying to be nice because it’s going to be easier to stay alive if there are two of you.

...That’s fine. You’ll go along with it. You’ll keep him safe.

Your temperature dives yet again and you sink down onto the seats, wrapping yourself in the duvet and turning to face away from him.

You open your mouth to say more, but nothing comes out. You shake your head. Maybe that’s enough for today.

Dave curls up in the duvet again and you take that as a sign of acceptance. He gets what you’re saying, so you’re satisfied. You keep driving, just a little less filled with guilt.

You shiver through the episode, pulling the duvet tighter around yourself. You crane back for a moment to peek at the thick gray clouds covering the sky. Soon, it’s going to get a lot colder.

You feel your eyes stinging (fucking again) and take your shades off, tossing them carelessly onto the piles on the floor, and bury your face in the duvet. It smells a little like John. You blink against the material, wetting it, and probably washing the smell away. John doesn’t need you right now. And if he does later, he’ll wake you up. You lie there, not talking or moving, until you manage to fall asleep again.

Chapter Text

You’re getting pretty sick and tired of all this driving. It’s only about an hour later when you decide you want to stop and rest, and that you do, when you pull over on the right side as per usual.

The soft pitter-patter of rain against the roof is soothing. It reminds you of those long car rides with your dad which you always hated. If you close your eyes and forget where you are, maybe you can convince yourself for a split second that he’s still here, and you’re parked at a rest stop, and he’s coming back with soda and Tim Tams.

You close your eyes and recline your chair back just a bit. You’ve gotten maybe six minutes of rest when a horn startles you awake, and you immediately jolt back to life. You look around frantically and step out of the car, torque wrench in hand.

“Hey!” An unfamiliar voice says, and a rusted pickup truck rolls up beside you with the window down. “Get back in the car, buddy. The rain is acidic. Full of sulfur and stuff.”

You blink and do what the girl in the truck tells you. She’s got black hair and blue highlights, with thick black glasses like yours (only rounder) and an ugly gray raincoat. You can only muster up two little sounds, still in shock over seeing another living person. “Um, hi.” You wave at her.

“We’ve got a little settlement at these nissen barracks not too far from here. You can get your car outta the rain for a bit. It’ll rust the metal and fuck your shit up.”

You look around, then back at Dave, then at the girl in the truck. Whoever’s driving with her honks the horn and says, “we ain’t got all day.” It seems safe, so you nod and smile. “I’ll follow you,” you reply, earning yourself a friendly grin from that girl in the glasses. Then the truck drives off, and you put the car in drive and follow suit. Surely Dave won’t mind. Maybe they even have medicine for him.

Having being startled awake by the horn, you listen to the conversation in the back seat. You’re feeling a little better again, but you know it’s going to be a rollercoaster for the next day or so. More, if it’s bad.

“You trust easy,” you say, voice still rough from sleep. You’re fine with pretending everything’s okay and normal. But you’re already feeling the sinking pit in your stomach. You’re not sure if you can trust these people, but if you can, then John won’t need you anymore. And he’ll take the chance to ditch his pervert gay friend.

Dave’s voice startles you, but your surprise quickly thaws into relief. “I just want to see if they have medicine,” you explain. “We’ll ditch them as soon as you feel better.” And you turn around to flash Dave a small, reassuring smile.

As you drive, the dead trees become more sparse, and the truck leads you to an open field of coarse, yellow grass. There’s a path on the stretch of land leading to exactly what that girl told you: a good few half-cylindrical tin Nissen huts, including one large one, which you think must be an arsenal or garage.

There’s not many people here. The whole place looks dead, save for that girl and her friend in the truck, who hop out to greet you once you’re all out of the rain in that big garage. It’s super dark in here, so you leave the car running, headlights on.

“Just hang tight, Dave.” You reach back to pat his knee comfortingly, then you get out and meet your lovely escorts, leaving Dave in the backseat like a careless parent and their child.

You don’t call him out on his lie, but you do sit on it as you watch John prance over like an overexcited puppy. He’s probably fucking ecstatic at the idea of hanging out with new people who aren’t you, after the scene earlier.

That still doesn’t annul your duty of care. You reach for your katana, sticking awkwardly up out of the passenger seat pocket, and sling it around you, and grab the taser for a flashlight. Kicking off the duvet, you reach forward and turn off the ignition and pluck the key out, shoving it into your pocket, and you heave yourself out of the car to follow John.

You knees immediately buckle, and you have to lean on the car when another wave of nausea hits you. But after a few seconds you tell yourself you’re fine and push yourself up to follow.

“-yeah, so, that’s our deal. Hey, who’s your friend?” Vriska leans to the side and points behind you. You whirl around and stand at Dave’s side, offering to help him out by slinging his arm around your shoulder. “Uh, this is Dave. He’s got a fever. Dave, this is Vriska and that’s Eridan.”

Eridan stuffs his hands in his pockets and rolls his eyes, while Vriska’s lips upturn in a wide, sharp smile. She holds her hand out for Dave to shake. When he doesn’t oblige, she grabs it herself. “Welcome to New Mexico, Dave. John tells me you’re really good with a sword.” Her grip on his hand tightens, nails digging into his skin. “Maybe you and I should spar sometime.”

Who the fuck are these trolls? You yank your hand back, skin catching on her nails and earning a set of bright red scratches for your effort. “Yeah, no thanks,” you say, shooting her a sharp look. You’re suddenly aware you didn’t pick up your fucking shades before you left the car. You avert your eyes.

You chuckle anxiously. “He’s- like I said, he’s not doing so good. I don’t think he should be fighting anyone right now.”

“Makes sense,” Vriska shrugs. “We’re cooking a deer if you want to eat. Eridan, take Mister Sinister here and get him some medicine.” Waving a dismissive hand, she turns to Dave. “You’ll feel better in no time.”

You don’t hesitate to find your coat in the trunk and head off with Vriska, not even checking if you locked the car properly. Dave’s got it under control. Everything is fine. You release him and assure him you’ll be back, but for now, you’re ready to eat some actual fucking food.

Eridan pats Dave’s shoulder and keeps his hand there. “She’s weird, I know. You’ll get used to ‘er.”

You literally shrug the guy’s hand off your shoulder. “Don’t think so.”

You’re still seething at that weird girl’s comment, even though you still feel a flicker of shame. You want to tough-talk the guy, tell him some shit like “we’re getting what we need then leaving”, but John wants to be here, so you can’t really do anything.

“Let me just grab somethin’ from the car.”

“As long as it’s not a weapon. Speakin’ a’ which, can you put that thing away?” Eridan gestures at the katana in Dave’s good hand. “It’s freakin’ me out. You don’t need it anyway, this place is pretty secure.” His voice raises in pitch, in an attempt to sound more friendly and nonchalant.

You eye him for a moment. You look back over at John, trotting away after Vriska. The least you can do is not cause trouble.

“Yeah, okay,” you say, subtly tugging the hem of your shirt down. The taser is still clipped to your belt loop beneath. “Just grabbin’ glasses.”

You walk back to the car and toss the katana in the back before grabbing your shades and sliding them on. You fake having to lean into the car to get whatever you’re getting, and you take the keys from your pocket and slip them into your shoe. Then you flip the master lock, pull back out of the car, and close the door. You round to the back and thump the trunk lid, making sure it’s closed, then turn to Eridan.

“Okay.”

Eridan has a feeling he won’t enjoy his time with Dave. Then again, when did he ever enjoy obeying Vriska’s orders?

He motions for Dave to follow, venturing out into the rain, which is a light drizzle by now. They arrive at the Nissen hut furthest from every other one, and it looks like a medical center, with over-the-counter medicine and multiple medical kits in stock. There’s only one other person inside, a sickly looking girl wrapped in a blanket, her face pale as paper. Eridan guides Dave to one of the many beds.

“Okay, so you have a fever…” he rummages around a table with all sorts of weird medical supplies— mainly sharp things like syringes and saws, but also medicine— and pulls out a bottle of pills with the label suspiciously missing. “Yeah, this should help. Take like two of these.” He hands the bottle to Dave, as well as a water canister to wash it down.

You take the pills and eye them for a moment, then sigh. These people are weird, but they’re probably just trying to help, really. You knock back the pills with a gulp of water.

They burn on the way down. That’s not normal. There’s a sudden sharp, painful fogginess in your head and your heartrate spikes.

Dumb, numb fingers skitter up to the belt loop and just barely manage to unhook the taser, and you bring it up, but you’re already falling to your knees, and then your arm, far too heavy, is falling too.

The taser skitters across the floor.

Everything goes black.

Eridan scoffs and picks up the taser. “Too fuckin’ easy,” he murmurs, shaking his head and grinning. He leaves the weapon on the table and gets to his knees, doing his best to hoist Dave up into the bed again. Eridan is a weakling. It’s quite difficult.

This whole time, you’ve been laughing with Vriska and a few of her buddies. Of course you want to eat, but just as they bring out the food, you remember that Dave should eat, too. You want to check in on him.

“I promised Dave I’d be back,” you explain, standing up from your seat at a long bench beneath a grey tent. “Mind if I go check on him?”

Vriska pauses, then shrugs. “Sure, but Eridan’s probably busy with him. See if he’ll let you in.” Her smile returns, and she winks as you head off. You wink back and go to the garage to look for Dave.

“Dave?” It’s so dark. He’s not here, not in the car. You go back outside and whirl around, squinting your eyes, when you catch a glimpse of someone carrying some small figure behind one of the tin huts. You sprint across the expanse of dead grass and jostle the door. It’s unlocked. That means you’re welcome in, right?

“Dave?” You call for him again. As soon as you see his head of blonde hair poking out from under a blanket, you smile and crouch at his bedside. “Hey.” You poke Dave’s cheek. “Did they give you medicine yet?”

You wait a second. No reply. Then, “Dave.” You feel his forehead. He’s not burning up as badly as he was before, in fact, he looks kind of pale. Brows furrowed, you press your head against his chest. Ba-bump...... ba-bump...... ba-bump... Why is his heartbeat so slow?

“Dude.” You turn him over and sit him up, leaning his limp body against yours. “Dave, wake up. Dave.” Maybe he choked on his own bile. That’s happened before when you had a fever. Frantic, you pry his mouth open and grimace, shoving two fingers down his throat.

“Come on, dude. Throw up. This is the one time I actually want you to.” You pat his back hard. “Dave, please.”

You’re swimming in darkness. Something tickles in your throat. Muscles contract, but your chest tightens. It’s hard to breathe.

“God-” you hoist Dave to the floor and roll him on his side. He gags, but nothing happens. You stick your fingers in his mouth again and graze his uvula. Damnit Dave, you think. Fucking vomit already!

When that doesn’t work, you sit him up again and punch him in the stomach. Again. And again. And again. Touch his uvula. Punch him. You repeat the process, only going faster when you notice his labored breathing.

Pain. Pain, so much pain, you want to launch it out. Finally, something in your brain lights up and everything comes rushing out.

Your eyes fly open. Muscles easing, you gasp for breath, and inhale some of the fluid—and you’re gagging, choking, and you claw at whatever’s nearest, body on desperate autopilot.

Holy shit, holy fucking shit, it worked. You hold Dave tight, hitting his back hard between his shoulder blades and making sure he doesn’t fall over. He’s choking, dry-heaving. “Cough it out, man! Come on!” You whisper-yell, doing your best to encourage him. “Okay, good, keep going. You got it, Dave. Just let it all out. You’re okay. I got you.”

The clawing hurts, but you don’t mind. It means he’s alive. You drag Dave away from the pool of vomit. It’s mostly bile, clear and icky, with two little specks you don’t recognize at first. Are those pills?

With John thunking you in the back, you manage to cough the last dredges out, and heave for breath. Your chest is burning from the lack of air. And you still feel sick. And especially sore around your stomach.

You’re dizzy, and you clutch at John urgently. He found you. He didn’t leave you. “Eridan—” you gasp. “Where’s Eridan—”

“I, uh,” you look around frantically. “I don’t know, I saw him going out back I think? Why, what did he do?” Your thoughts tick back to the pills. You glance over at them.

Oh.

The epiphany strikes you like lightning. “He gave you the wrong pills.” You grab Dave’s face. “He almost killed you.” Surely this must be some sort of misunderstanding. Vriska was about to feed you cooked deer! She seems nice, if not a little weird, but nice.

You grab at his shirt again. Your voice is weak and quiet. “We gotta get outta here.” You wince, vision swimming. You doubt you can even walk right now—you need to hold onto John to just sit up. “You gotta get outta here.”

“You think he did it on purpose?” You gotta get out of here. What in the fresh fucking hell does that mean? You hoist Dave to his feet and sling his arm around your shoulder, and that’s when you spot the taser on the table.

This doesn’t feel like much of an accident anymore.

You snag the weapon and clip it to your belt loop, then you begin the slow and strenuous process of helping Dave hobble his way to the door.

You’re grateful, you really are—there’s a warmth in your chest at the thought of John coming to find you, of John waking you up, and wanting to try to get you out of here. But everything’s sideways and downways and you know he’s not that strong, even though he’s supporting virtually all of your body weight right now. You’re going to slow the two of you down.

“N—drop me n’ run,” you tell him, trying to push weakly at him. You miss him completely because your hand flies off into space without something to catch the force. “Keys’re in my shoes, c’mon.”

“No fucking way,” you say, your voice grating. “Never. I told you I’d never leave you and doing it anyway was my mistake. I’m not fucking up like that again.”

You’re almost to the door when it swings open, and Eridan, hands covered in blood, yelps at the sight of you. This is the one time you willingly drop Dave to fight back, and you jab the taser into Eridan’s chest, but he catches your wrist and twists. You drop the weapon and yelp.

Suddenly your stomach feels like it just fucking imploded, and you keel over, holding the spot where he kicked you. You groan.

“Both a’ you. Complete idiots.” He stomps Dave in the ribs and uses the taser on you, so you’re stunned, tensing up and watching helplessly. “No,” you croak, gritting your teeth. “Stop..”

The air is driven from your lungs once again, and it leaves you gasping for air. It doesn’t help that your head’s still spinning from the sudden fall.

“John,” you breathe more than say, not enough air in your lungs to muster up the energy. “Run.”

It’s hard enough to force those two words alone. Your lungs are burning, your ribs are aching sharply and you can’t tell which way is up.

You don’t even respond. For a moment you do debate running; scooting away to give yourself space, but you freeze. Eridan punches Dave in the jaw. “Shut up,” he rasps.

“This is your chance, John. We don’t really need you. You’re too small to be sufficient.” Thunk. He kicks Dave in the stomach. “Scram, or you’re gonna be dinner.”

That’s it. That’s why they invited you in so warmly. These people are fucking cannibals.

Your breath quickens, and you carefully wedge off Dave’s shoe to get the keys, with Eridan watching you closely.

You run.

Right to the garage, across that expanse of dead grass, in the darkness illuminated only by the fire reflecting off the clouds. You don’t care how suspicious it looks, you just unlock the door and swing it open and grab the torque wrench and shove the gun from the glove box in your pocket and most importantly Dave’s katana, and you sprint back to the furthest nissen hut, out of breath, heaving, soaked.

You’re not even thinking when you drop the sword and tackle Eridan, you just want him to move. The two of you wrestle for a bit; he spits insults at you like acid, and you ignore every single one. A fist flies toward your face, your head turns, you don’t feel it. You roll over, straddling the pale boy, and bring the wrench down hard on his face. Blood spurts from his nose. He claws at you. Your glasses go flying.

“GO TO HELL!”

You bring the wrench down again. And again. And again. And again. AND AGAIN. You’re beating the shit out of this guy, yelping with each blow, til his face is an unrecognizable pulp of purple and red. Swelling. Blood. The whole shebang. His glasses are shattered. You’re breathless.

Your breath leaves you, this time in relief, when you feel your shoe being wedged off. John’s leaving. He’s going to be safe.

You hear Eridan snarling something above you, but you can’t make it out. Another blow to your side. You yelp, but you take it. As long as he’s distracted with you, John can get away.

And then, suddenly, he’s gone. There’s a scrabbling nearby, shouts, ugly sounds. Wet thuds and thunks. You try and lift yourself up, but a sharp pain shoots through your chest and you collapse back onto the ground. You give up, you close your eyes. You don’t want to watch whatever’s happening.

You fix Dave’s shoe and hand him the sword. “Hold this,” you instruct him, and you drag him out of the stupid tin hut, leaving Eridan’s limp body behind. When you see dark figures headed toward you, you set Dave down to fire a warning shot in the air. Only some freeze. You keep dragging him.

“Help me out here buddy,” you beg. “Just move your legs a little. We gotta get out of here.” You tap Dave’s cheek repetitively. “Wake up, Dave. Come on man, stay with me.”

John came back. Fucking hell. Fucking hell, he came back, now he’s in danger.

Something is shoved into your hand and you reflexively grip onto it. Then there’s hands on you and the ground’s moving beneath you.

Everything happens in flashes, like a stuttering film. One moment you hear John’s voice, the next you’re still and you hear the back end of a gunshot, the next you’re being dragged again. Are you fucking blacking out? What the fuck was in those pills?

Remembering the item in your hand, you flex your fingers. It’s still there. Wake up. Stay with me. The voice seems to echo, distant and close all at once. Your eyelids feel like lead, but you force them open anyway. You can barely make out what has to be John above you, fuzzy and wobbly like you’re looking through a heat haze.

“...J’hn?” You’re not questioning whether it’s him. You think he said something, and you didn’t catch it.

“Dave.” God, you’re so relieved to hear his voice, no matter how faint. You drag him behind another tin structure and prop him up against it.

“Hey, can you look at me?” You grab his face and squish his cheeks a bit, trying to wake him up. Someone taunts you in the background. You ignore it. “Dave, I love you. I love you so much.” You sniffle, and your bottom lip trembles, but you don’t cry. You smile at him and curl damp hairs away from his eyes. “Can you hear me?” You peek out from behind the hut, and a bullet whizzes by. Your heart beats like a fucking machine gun now.

You try as hard as you can to keep your eyes open and focus on him. Your vision’s fucked up, but you can tell he looks sad.

It hurts like hell, but you manage to lift a hand to hold his face. It’s worth it; he seems so distraught.

Can you hear me? Is that what he said? “C’n hear you,” you mumble. You feel like you can’t control your lips. What was the other thing he said? You heard it, you’re sure. Your head’s just spinning. You frown, trying to focus.

You suck in a sharp breath through your teeth and whine. God, please, just give me a few extra seconds. Heal him. “I love you,” you annunciate, shaking Dave just a bit. “Why can’t you fucking hear me? I love you.”

You kiss his cheek and poke your head out again, aiming your gun at whoever’s closest. By some miracle, you actually land the bullet, and the dark figure falls. There are only three more. You shoot another. Two.

You hear it this time. Loud and clear. He says it twice. He kisses your cheek—your dirty, smarting, bruising cheek. There’s no room in your head right now for arguments and for doubts. Those can come later.

Everything is still unbearably heavy, everything still hurts like hell, but you feel your head clear a bit. You feel the motivation to get John out of here, safe as a newfound energy.

You grip his hand hard—well, as hard as you can. “Whr’s th’car,” you ask. “Too far?”

“It’s- it’s pretty far.” You swallow down the lump in your throat. Dave is holding your right hand, and it hurts only a little, so either it’s healing or you’re high on adrenaline. “I can’t carry you,” your voice breaks. “I just have to- there’s only two of them left I think.”

“It’s only been ten minutes and you’re attacking my friends?” Vriska’s voice yells out from around the corner. “WOW John, I thought we were gonna become a damn good team. I mean, you got rid of Eridan for me. You’re like a little lackey already.”

You make a weak grab at the gun. “I c’n do it. Wanna— Grab th’car?”

There’s no exclusion in the request this time. You’re not telling him to run off and leave you—you’re asking to work together.

Vriska’s voice is still echoing, and you swat at the gun again. “’ll shoot th’ bitch while you run get it.”

You nod and hand the gun to Dave, swallowing down your worries. You trust him. As hard as it is, you trust him. “Don’t miss,” you tell him, and you stand, preparing to run. And you do.

Of course gunshots begin to go off, and you sprint like you never have before, while Vriska and her lackey take aim. You scramble into the garage and start the car, put it in reverse, and slam your foot down on the gas pedal.

“Listen Dave, you’re obviously getting left behind, and you’re just terribly sick. Maybe we can come to some agreement?” Vriska gets closer, with a machete in one hand and a pistol in the other.

You shoot. Your hands are trembling—you miss. “Go fuck yourself,” you spit, and cock the gun again, aiming for her pistol-bearing hand. “I’ll fucking shoot.”

Another wave of nausea sweeps over you, making you dizzy, and the gun wobbles in your hands. Your arms are already getting tired.

“You won’t.” Vriska points her own gun at Dave, but she doesn’t do anything just yet. She’s tense.

Then you drive right into the grass, headlights on, honking the car horn. The girls dive out of the way.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Vriska shrieks, and you put the car in reverse again, backing it toward her. It revs and makes a loud thundering noise, like metal grating against metal, and she scrambles away.

“Dave!” You punch the wheel, honking the horn over and over. Once he’s in you speed away, and more gunshots go off. You duck your head.

You scramble around to the best of your ability and crank the window down halfway, sticking the gun out and watching. You don’t want to have to shoot, but if they keep shooting at the car, you’re going to have to do something.

Your hand trembles. Your muscles ache. The burst of energy afforded to you is starting to drain away.

You have the strength left to squeeze off just one shot, but you can’t tell if it hits or not.

You swerve along the narrow road, trying to avoid whatever bullets come near. You hear two of three ricochet off the car, but it doesn’t impair your driving, so you keep speeding away.

The further you get, the more calm you become. Taking a look at Dave in the mirror, he looks fucking wasted. Absolutely beat. There’s a sharp pang in your chest— guilt, no doubt— that makes you feel heavy all over again. You drive for another twenty minutes before pulling over by a melted highway sign, and clamber into the backseat with a med kit in hand.

“Hey, talk to me.” You pat Dave’s face and squeeze his shoulder. “We’re okay now. I’m gonna clean you up.”

You must have passed out again, because next thing you know John is rousing you. You blink to clear your vision a little—he has one of the kits in hand. You almost argue—almost. But then you remember your fevers and you resign yourself to his ministrations.

You just stare at him for a moment, before you realise you should say something. “...M’sorry the new people didn’t work out.”

You take off his shades. “Don’t apologize. I should be apologizing.” You scoff at yourself for being so stupid, opening up the med kit. You approach the task methodically, your focus unwavering. As you clean the blood from Dave’s face, there’s an uncharacteristically tender precision in your touch, ensuring each movement is gentle yet purposeful. The antiseptic scent wafts past your nose. You grimace.

“I was being stupid,” you add, and you painstakingly change the gauze wrapped around Dave’s hand. “I just wanted a distraction. I was bored. I’m sorry for putting you in that situation.”

“S’okay.” You just watch him. He’s being so careful, so painstakingly gentle. You want to touch him, but you don’t want to interrupt what he’s doing. You lift your good hand and it hovers, unsure of where to go.

You take his hand and press it against your cheek, melting into Dave’s touch. It’s warm and clammy, but you don’t mind. It’s soothing. You close your eyes. “Sorry,” you say again.

Back to business. You pinch the bridge of Dave’s nose gently, waiting until the blood coagulates, before moving down to his chest. You gather the fabric of his shirt in your fists and peel it back. His chest is so bruised. “I think you fractured a rib.” You won’t dare touch it. “Pretty sure we’re supposed to leave it alone.”

Next is the taser burn on Dave’s shoulder. You instruct him to sit up, and you help him do so, supporting his back. “You’re doing a good job.” Your voice is low and hushed.

You lift up his sleeve and apply the antiseptic, then the burn salve. This is your first time seeing the worst of his scars, littering his torso and back like crude tattoos. (After what you did to Eridan, you’re sure you wouldn’t have a problem attacking Bro for what he’s done to your best friend.) The infection feels rough and dry despite the wetness of puss coated on it.

You melt at the way he takes your hand, and you find a tiny smile curling your lips.

It feels weirdly vulnerable to have him peeling up your shirt like this, but you let it be. He’s being so careful, you can’t imagine he’d have anything in mind other than taking care of you.

“Thank you,” you mumble, and you do mean for what he’s doing right now, but also: “Thank you f’ comin’ to get me.”

“Don’t expect any less. We’re gonna make it together.” You blow gently on the burn, under the impression that the ointment will dry faster if you do this. “And if not, we’re gonna die together.”

You let Dave’s shirt fall and smooth it out, then you wipe your hand on your pants and cup his cheek. It’s bruised pretty badly, so you make sure you’re soft about it; your hand is hovering more than it is resting on him. “Your eyes are so pretty.” You smile faintly. “S’why I keep telling you to take off the shades. I just like the way it looks.” Your fingers twitch. “I like the way you look.”

Your cheeks burn, and you bite your lip. At any other time you would doubt the sincerity of his words, but here he is, taking care of you. He just saved you.

You choose to swallow down any rebuttals and pay it forward. “I— I like the way you look, too.” It’s weak, but you’re sure he’ll understand.

“Can I-” you huff and look away for a second, then you take a deep breath and put yourself back on track. “Can I kiss you?”

The question feels unreal. What’s even more unreal is that it came out of your mouth, from your brain, directed at Dave. Dave, also known as a boy. Whatever guilt you feel is repressed though; you’re just surprised is all.

Your eyes widen for a moment in surprise. But you think about him shaking you awake behind the hut and you think about him telling you kissing you was nice and you want it.

“Yeah,” you say softly, raising a hand to hold the back of his neck—like you did before, but this time, it seems like it’s going to mean something.

You lean in, a subtle anticipation in the air. The closeness is palpable, and as your lips meet his, there’s a delicate dance of warmth and connection. Time seems to pause briefly. Sure, it’s soft and hesitant, but the sensation still lingers. You just kissed Dave.

You shimmy off your jacket and wrap your arms around him. You need to feel Dave against you, in your arms. His heartbeat. His warmth. You tilt your head and kiss him again, burying a hand in his hair the same way you did back in the parking lot.

You barely suppress a shudder the first time—it’s so similar to before, but it’s also so different, because John actually wants it, wants you, and you can feel that in the way he touches you. Your own fingers weave a little into the parts of his hair you can reach.

The second time, you actually fucking moan into the kiss, and oh god, there goes your face on fire. That’s so fucking embarrassing, you’re acting like a fucking touch virgin.

You giggle when you pull back. It hurts a little; you’re starting to realize how sore your body is. Your lungs are still burning from all that running. You’re not used to being so active.

“I love you.” How many times have you said that? Five times? Six? It doesn’t feel like enough, especially after all that mess with Vriska and Eridan and their weird cannibal camp. You could’ve lost Dave. Like, seriously lost him. Forever.

“We’re almost to Colorado,” you remind him, curling his bangs away from his eyes. “We’ve gotta be like, maybe two hours away. And then we’re gonna go to the mountains like you said. Be mountain farmer hermits. With goats.”

You smile up at him, unabashedly this time. “Sounds fuckin’ dope. Can’t wait to get my goat cheese grind on. Maybe the coldpocalypse will freeze it into ice cream for us.”

You know that’s not how it works, but it’s pleasant to think about. It’s pleasant to think about carving out a life in the mountains with him.

You squeeze his arm. “Are we headed in the right direction?”

“Wind’s still blowing from the west, so god I hope so.” You look outside. Ash floats down from the sky like snow, it’s not glowing anymore. That tells you the temperature drop is coming real fast.

“Gonna get so cold.” You sigh. “I’m not excited. But it’s better we get there and set up sooner rather than later.” You kiss Dave’s cheek again; it’s more of a light peck this time, and you climb into the front seat. Time to drive. Yaaaay.

You sigh when he leaves, and try to sit up. You wince. “Sure you don’t want me to drive for a bit? You’ve been drivin’ for fuckin’ hours.” He looks so tired. You even have it in you to feel a little guilty for sleeping the whole time and leaving him to do it all himself.

You shake your head. “I’m afraid you’ll pass out at the wheel.” A very real fear, because you’ve done it once or twice, and you’re never going to tell Dave about it. “It’s only two hours. I can handle it. We’ll switch if you seem better.”

“...Mmkay.”

You still feel bad, but if that’s what John wants, then that’s what John wants. You still want to be close to him though.

You grab the duvet from where it’s crumpled up at your feet and stuff it down over the pile on the floor, and stretch out across it so your head’s on the center console. You bunch some of the material up under your head as a sort of makeshift pillow and reach a hand out, settling it on his leg. Your version of handholding while he still has to use both of his hands.

Although it’s a little goofy, you find comfort in how Dave is trying to get as close to you as possible. You let his hand rest there.

Chapter Text

As you said, you drive for another two hours, before you pass a big melted sign on the right side of the road that reads, GREWTNMGNS, WELCOUMM OU COOROOLO. It only looks like that because it’s been messed up so bad, but you know what it says. Welcome to Colorado. You’ve almost made it.

The mountains in the distance look a lot less snowy than you imagined, and of course that’s because of the heatwave, but there’s still some snow at the very top. Maybe you’ll find a quaint little hut up there, or a warm cabin or a huge expensive lakeside house. You don’t care which, you just want shelter. Maybe you should take a little break.

This time, you pull into a really shitty motel parking lot and drag your hands down your face. You groan quietly, but you’re glad. You’re in the clear, finally, and you trust yourself to doze off just for a little while.

You feel the car stop and you stir, sitting up (carefully) to look out the window. “You wanna sleep?”

You’re still shaken after your earlier encounter, so you don’t really like the idea of resting in the open, at least not without a lookout.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I’m beat. I need to rest.” That’s nothing but the truth. Your eyelids feel like 50 ton weights at this point. “You don’t mind, do you?” Even if Dave does mind, you’re not driving somewhere else to rest. He can do that himself. You crawl into the backseat and recline one of the chairs.

“Make room,” you smile lazily. Each breath deepens and you close your eyes, slowly succumbing to the pull of drowsiness.

You don’t crawl into the front, you take the duvet and drape it over him, but not before making sure that his splinted hand is in a position where it’s not going to be crushed. You cast a look at the pillows sitting atop the pile in the trunk. How many days had it been, and neither of you had used them yet.

His neck probably needs it, though. You take one and gently lift his head up, sliding it underneath. He shifts a little but doesn’t stir. Then you take the other and prop it behind your back, sitting right next to John near the middle of the seats, facing forward through the windscreen. You would rather sit so you were facing John, but you don’t want anyone to be able to creep up on you.

You’re not sure how long you wait, but you periodically go to stroke your fingers through his hair. He wasn’t too badly injured, but he was hurt nonetheless. You want to make sure if anything happens, you notice it. You almost fall asleep a few times, but fight yourself awake in quick succession, re-checking first John, and then the surroundings, each time. It’s thankfully, mercifully, quiet outside and inside the car.

You don’t remember what you dreamt about, but you know it was lovely. You wake up groggy out of your mind, like you’ve been pulled out of a warm blanket and thrust into the snow, so you snuggle up in the duvet. Hey, where did this pillow come from? No wonder you slept so well.

You can’t tell what time it is, but it must be day, because the gray sky is a little brighter than you last recalled. You roll over and feel around for Dave, your arm wandering aimlessly until you graze his leg and squeeze.

“I’m fuckin’ hungry,” you croak out, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “Do we have anything cookable?”

You smile when he stirs. “Mornin’ sleepin’ beauty,” you greet, and then: “Not sure. Very least, we can heat somethin’ up.” You remember something and grin. “By the way, I might’ve forgotten a compass, but I found a big ass stew pot. So we don’t need to just slap shit down on the engine or whatever.”

You’re proud of yourself for that one. You can’t believe you forgot to mention that.

Pshhh. Sleeping Beauty. You’re not sure whether to take that as an insult or a compliment. You reach under the seat and pull out whatever food you can find— chips, chocolate, beef jerky, canned foods like spam, corn and beans... oh yeah, now you’re talking.

“How does, uh... spam and corn sound?” You hold up the two cans and shake them from side to side, grinning at Dave. You’re so glad you grabbed these back at the gas station.

Your stomach growls. “Fine with me,” you say. “I’d eat the fuckin’ roasted roadkill at this point. Fuckin’ starvin’.”

Now, where’d you put that pot? Probably in the trunk. “I’ll hop out and find the pot,” you tell him, and you reach forward to pluck the keys from the ignition, and step out of the car, rounding to the back. It’s right at the back of the trunk stash—therefore it had already been packed when John started helping you load up the car. You empty it of more packaged food and bang it like a pathetic gong. “Here she is.”

“We could use the engine to heat it up.” You gather a bottle of water and the canned foods in your arms, step out, and pop the hood, ushering Dave over with a weird arm gesture. “So we don’t have to waste any fire starting materials.” You reckon the metal is still extremely hot, so you should be able to cook the meat at least. Once you pry the horrible spam can open, you peer inside, and remember that it’s just a pink fucking block of meat.

“Do we have a knife?” You would totally die if you were alone right now. You’ve never put a pot under a car hood, you’ve never cooked fucking spam on the exhaust. You can’t open a stupid can of corn, you don’t even have a knife to cut the spam, just a katana that’s not even yours. It’s laughable. Silly you!

You set the pot down on (what you think is probably) the engine and round back to the trunk, which you left open. “Yeah, hold on.” You remember John gathering knives from the Houston apartment—now where did you pack them?

Predictably, they’re one of the items right near the back. You pluck one out from the pile, close the trunk, and come back to John. “Want me to do it?” You’ve been pretty useless for the last chunk of the journey, so you’re trying to make yourself useful.

“Yeah. It’s just so embarrassing.” You hold out the corn, offering it to Dave. “I’ve never done this myself. I know that sounds pathetic.” And now you realize you have nothing to strain the mushy crap water in the corn with.

Actually,

perhaps for once you’re not a useless suburban baby. You find that hiking bag in the car and take your old shirt out waving it around in the air like that’ll clean it off somehow. You could use the fabric as a strainer. Fuck yeah Egbert, resourcefulness. Dad would be so proud.

“Strainer,” you explain blankly, showing the blue shirt off to Dave. You don’t need it anymore anyway; where are you gonna wash it, the river? Haha. You prefer the Fleetwood Mac shirt you stole from Dave’s wardrobe much better.

“That’s smart,” you tell him, and look at the knife in one hand, and can of corn in the other. “So... am I on corn or spam duty? Oh—” You set the items down and round to the driver’s seat, turning the ignition. “You were out for a while. Better turn this on to heat it up.”

“Corn first, and then while I strain it you can cut up this fuckin’ pink block.” You would take it out of the oddly shaped can yourself, but that feels icky, and it weirdly reminds you of Eridan’s crater of a face when you finished, um. Beating him.

You nod and take the spam, cracking it open and setting the pot on its side. You smack the hunk of meat out onto the pot wall and lean in to slice it up. It’s by no means pretty, but you’re going to cook and eat it, so it doesn’t need to be pretty. When you’re done you set the pot back up on its bottom and the spam slides down like slime. You grimace. You’re so fucking glad you’re cooking this stuff.

You can’t help but snerk (why isn’t this a real word. It should be a real word) when Dave slaps the slab of spam in the pot. Meanwhile you’re busy prying the ring on the stupid can of corn with your teeth. It takes quite a bit out of you. Then you pour that shit in your old shirt and strain all the creamy icky stuff out.

“I’m so smart.” You swing it around in a circle, flinging icky corn juice around. “Once the spam is done we’ll boil this corn and we can actually eat.”

Your mind ticks back to Dave’s rant a day or two ago. Or was it three? You’re not sure, but what matters is that he said he had to do everything himself. Scavenging for food, scrounging together coins he found on the street just to buy bread. Aren’t you supposed to improve his situation? And here you are messing around and making him cut a slab of disgusting fucking spam. Your smile fades just a little. You don’t feel like a very good boyfriend right now. Wait, are you and Dave even together? Ugh, you feel stupid.

Of course you blurt it out too. “Are we dating?” The words fall unabatedly from your mouth like water. Is now the right time to ask something like that? You hate being so aware, it’s unnatural and infuriating. Why can’t you just chill out like always?

Having been chuckling at John swinging the shirt around like a fucking ninja, the question catches you off guard.

Are you? Would that make him happy? Would that scare him off?

“Uh.” Maybe you should just give him the choice. “I dunno. Do you want to be?”

You refrain from swinging the corn-filled shirt-bag around any longer, letting it rest at your side.

“Of course I want to be. Being called your boyfriend sounds so nice. It’d make me so happy, and I wanna do the same for you.” An even wider smile crosses your features, and you step a bit closer to Dave, hooking your right arm around him. A bit closer. Just a biiiiit closer. Before you know it, you’re basically in Dave’s face. This is how you’re supposed to do it, right? With a (broken) hand on the small of his back? This is romantic, right?

You lean in and kiss Dave without warning, and it’s not just a peck on the lips. You tilt your head, and your lips are slightly parted, and you move like gentle waves against the beach. Rolling into him slightly, pulling back just a bit, rolling in again. You like feeling his heartbeat. You’re also really, really sweaty.

You sigh against him, and feeling his hand against your back and his arm around your neck and his chest against yours, you curl your own arms around him, resting a hand against his neck and a hand in his hair, pulling him into you almost desperately.

His lips are open against yours, so you open your own and chance a small swipe of your tongue against the inside of his lip. Most people like that; that’s the right thing to do, isn’t it?

You almost don’t expect Dave to react the way he does, but he does. His touch is both tender and fervent, fingers tracing delicately along your neck. The warmth intensifies, building with each lingering kiss, each time you grow a little more confident in pressing your tongue against Dave’s lower lip, then his tongue, and then the inside of his mouth. You breathe him in. Is this really what it feels like to, um, make out? You’re so sick to your stomach, and yet you want more. Butterflies. You feel butterflies.

Each sensation in your body is heightened, you’re stuck in a melding of connection and anxiety and intoxicating thrill and oh god you think you’re going to vomit—

“Mmn-” you shudder in protest. Your stomach feels queasy, the acid inside rocking like a stormy sea, and your gut feels unnaturally tight. “Shit, sorry. I’m not used to that.” You keep smiling. That was nice. Now you feel bad for pulling back, so you lean in again to kiss Dave’s jaw and neck, fumbling with your hands while you do so. What was that feeling in your stomach? Anxiety, no doubt. You’ll try again later. In the meantime, say something you idiot. Your voice comes out meek. “You’re good at that.”

You’re disappointed he pulled away in the first place, but you tilt your head back for him anyway—you shudder feeling how soft his lips are against your skin. God, you’re so easy.

“N’—N’ you’re good at that," you manage, even though he’s only kissing you. It probably feels so good because it’s him.

“Damn, Egbert, show me what them teeth do,” you joke, and immediately internally facepalm.

“Should I?” You can’t believe you just said that. You didn’t even understand what Dave said in the first place, you’re not exactly versed in the language of modern flirtation.

Also, you’re still carrying a soaked shirt full of corn.

You decide to rid yourself of the burden by folding it over on itself and placing it on the radiator under the hood. It should be fine there. Then you wrap your arms around Dave’s neck and pull him close once more, kissing his jaw gently, and trailing down to his neck. You suck gently on the soft, pliant skin as if to ask for permission, and no, you’ve never done this before. You’ve simply watched a lot of movies.

A lot of movies.

You’re basically a professional then, right? (Nuh uh.) Yeah, sure. Dave shudders against you again, and you can’t help but grin into him, biting his neck very gently. It’s satisfying to be giving more than taking. (Wow, you’ve never had thoughts like this before.)

You can’t help thinking again that feeling John’s grin against you is the best part, even as you (softly) yank at his hair impatiently. “Shit—harder. I mean, you can go harder. I’m not a fuckin’ girl. ‘M not gonna fuckin’ break. Actually, hell yeah, let’s go for it. Let’s fuckin’ break this shit down.” God fucking christ, shut up. You sound so fucking needy.

Your heart skips a beat. Harder, he says. You can go harder. And you do.

You’re not sure how hard is too hard, all you know is that sinking your teeth into human flesh— Dave’s flesh— feels unnatural. Still, it’s hot, of course it is. When you’re done leaving three little love-bites on his jaw and neck, you pull back and massage each one with your thumbs.

“I never thought I’d hear you make a noise like that,” you chuckle airily. “Is it ‘cause you don’t have the shades anymore? Lost your stony facade?”

You feel your cheeks burn when he teases you. “Uh. Nuh-uh. Strider Stonewall’s still readily fuckin’ accessible. Just can’t expect a man not to waver in the face of— in the face of the unearthly wonders of Egbert hickeys.” Holy fuck, you sound so fucking stupid. Your fingers skitter up to the marks he’s probably left, not that you can see them, but you swear you can feel three distinct patches that are warmer than the rest of your skin, and you flush pleasantly. You never would have thought you’d be sporting hickeys given by the John Egbert himself. It feels unreal.

“I’ll hold you to that,” you say with a smirk. This feels naughty. You’re never going to forget what you’re feeling or how Dave looks right now, ever.

You reckon it’s time to dial back the faggotry (can you say that now?) and actually make this damn food. You lean back against the car and reach into the menagerie of hot metal parts to check on the thinly sliced slabs of spam, and what do you know, they look pretty well-cooked.

“These look done,” you observe, and you hold up the fucking shirt full of corn. “If you take ‘em out I can start cooking these next. Fuckin’ shirt corn. Egbert Shirt Corn. High sodium content.” You’re starting to sound like Dave, you think.

You snort. A man after your own heart. Literally.

“Do we need to boil ‘em?” you ask, peeking over his shoulder. “We can probably save water if we just throw it in with the spam and fry ‘em.”

“We could. It’ll taste like spam though.” You don’t really mind, so you dump the corn in there and shake the pot around, mixing it up. “Man, I could’ve started culinary school, but nooooo. Stupid meteor had to hit the planet.” Actually, you don’t want to be a chef, you want to be a biologist. Maybe you’ll be a five-star apocalypse chef cooking anything but human meat, just to rub it in Vriska’s stupid face that you’re better than her at finding food.

You keep shaking the pot until it’s too hot to handle, literally, and you place it back down. Speaking of heat, “how’s that fever treating you?” You look up at Dave, examining him. He looks more alive than he did last night, even with some dried blood still left behind. Whoops. “You look a lot better. And you sound better.”

You shrug. “Think you did a pretty good job. Still gettin’ weird flushes but not as bad as before. Mainly just fuckin’ hungry.” You look at the pot pointedly.

“I’m worried about what those pills did to you, too. You were blacking out and stuff. Maybe it flushed out the fever somehow, but it was scary.” Your fingers twitch, reminded of how you had to shove your hand down Dave’s throat and make him vomit. How you stupidly ran and realized you couldn’t leave without him, and while he blacked out when being beaten, you hadn’t even thought of driving the car down to him. Poor Dave was fucking suffering. Like, really suffering.

You did a pretty good job, he said. But you didn’t do your job. You didn’t even look for medicine like you promised.

“And I’m hungry too,” you agree with his last statement. “S’why I kept biting you. I’m starving. Like, vampire level hungry.”

Despite the joke (which you afford a huff, and which makes you flush again), you notice his face has gone distant. You catch the way his fingers twitch at his side. You step a little closer to him, and your own fingers twitch, unsure of exactly what to do.

“...I’m okay now,” you say quietly, watching his face for a reaction. “You got us out of there.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re okay now, that’s all that matters to me.” You take one of Dave’s hands in your own, squeezing it as if to remind yourself that he truly is okay. This is the real Dave in front of you, and he loves you, and he’s alive. You’re happy, yes— but your expression flits somewhere else, your mind somewhere even further. You’re thinking about death now. About Eridan, and those two people you shot, and the guy Dave killed, and that man taking apart a bike on the street, and the guy behind the cash register at the gas station, and Dave’s Bro, and your friends.

And Dad.

“I felt like a super soldier,” you add, in a desperate attempt to get yourself back on track. But you can feel your tingling red nose, and the unnatural warmth in your eyes, which are welling up with tears you won’t dare spill. You press your lips together and swallow hard. “Dragging you out of there. Shooting at people. It was like a video game.” You manage to get out a chuckle. “Isn’t that funny? My scrawny ass saving you?”

There’s something strange you catch in his expression, but he laughs, so everything must be fine. You’re probably overreading into things. You grin back. “I dunno man, I think we can get some meat on those bones, work on these guns.” You poke his upper arm. “I bet by the time we’re settled down and used to it all you’re gonna be fuckin’ ripped. Big warhammer-wieldin’ ams. Poppin’ out of the fuckin’ wifebeater you’ll be wearin’, like Poe. Bet you could bench-press me.”

You scoff when Dave pokes you, and you flex your arms, like anything but flab is visible. “I’m already ripped, can’t you tell? I look just like Cameron Poe.” Yeah, no. You bet you stink like him though. Definitely you do. You decide to go with the bit; it’s a good distraction from the fucking horror you felt thinking about your deceased father’s ashen face twelve seconds ago. “If anyone needs to start working out it’s you. I’m looking at Kevin from Home Alone. Tiny little guy.” You poke Dave in the tummy over and over. “You gonna set up a booby trap?”

Though you wince (your stomach’s still badly bruised; that bastard really did a number on you), you bark a laugh. “You wanna fuckin’ go? I’ve been strifin’ f’r over a decade.” You roll up a sleeve and flex. It’s not like you’re ripped, but you definitely have more tone than John’s noodly fucking arms. “You wanna fuckin’ throw down and arm wrestle right now?”

“Pbbbt.” You scoff, but it’s more like a pathetic vibrating of your lips, and it sounds like you’re blowing a raspberry. “I’m stronger than you think, Strider. I had an A+ in auto class.”

You glance around for a surface to throw down on, and eventually you land on the trunk, so you take Dave’s hand and bring him with you. “I’ll make your nose bleed without even touching it. Seriously, it’s the shock. It gets to you. I’m just that good.” You rest your left elbow on the surface, grinning. You know you’re going to lose, but it’s all in good fun.

You brace your own elbow on the trunk and grin. Oh, you’re so going to beat his ass. You’ll have a little fun with it first though—

Oh. Shit.

You snort, wiggling the fingers of your bandaged left hand. “Forgot about this.” You pause. “Actually, it can work. Just grab my wrist and leave my hand free.” You cock an eyebrow to approximate a wink, and then remember you don’t have your shades on. So you wink anyway. “I don’t need a good grip to beat you, anyway.”

You debate commenting on Dave’s last statement and turning it into something wildly inappropriate, but you decide against it in the end. You’re not twelve, you’re nineteen. You’re a grown ass man!

“Three... two...” you tighten your grasp on Dave’s wrist. “One, go!” You shout, and you try, you really do— it’s a struggle not to lift up your arm while trying to force his down, but Dave is seriously way stronger than you. Your arm shakes. “Shiiiit,” you exclaim. “Ughhhh, come on!”

You grin at him, childishly enjoying the spectacle. While it’s not nothing, it’s definitely not the hardest thing you’ve had to do to hold his arm right in the middle. “Somethin’ wrong, Egbert?” you ask, and it would be innocent not for the smugness in your voice. “I thought your auto shop genius made you a formidable opponent.”

“No, nothing’s- wrong.” You say through gritted teeth, forcing a grin. As soon as your gaze meets his, you take a breath and blow as hard as you can, right in his eyes, making him flinch. That’s when you try to force Dave’s arm down again.

It actually takes you by surprise, and your arm falls back about halfway before you manage to catch it again, blinking furiously. “You little shit!” you exclaim, and push against his arm again, past the halfway point and halfway down onto his side, just to rub it in his face. But you don’t shove it all the way down yet. You want to bask in his imminent defeat for a moment to teach him a lesson.

Oh, oh, you really might win! Oh— wait, no.

You huff, grinding your teeth even harder while you watch your shaking arm get pushed even closer to the surface of the trunk. You give Dave a scowl, half-smirking. “I’m just- I’m just tired.” You giggle. That’s honestly your best excuse, apart from the fact that you’re pretty weak for a guy your age. “Arghhhh, noooo.”

You snort, and push his arm down to the trunk in time with his pathetic wail of defeat. “Damn, disappointing. Really thought you had more fight in you than that. We really do gotta build up that muscle, and stat.”

“I do have more fight in me! I dragged you a long way last night.” You stick out your tongue and let go of Dave’s wrist, intent on checking up on the pot under the car hood, which you pick up using that old dirty shirt of yours. You take off the lid and bring it round to the back, setting it down on the trunk. 

But yes, Dave is right, you should probably start working on that muscle of yours. It’ll do you some real huge favors later on. Wrestling with Eridan was already hard, and you remember just how scrawny he felt when you straddled him; he was just a bit bigger than you. Perhaps you really should work on that Cameron Poe body type. Haha.

“Hm. Where’s that knife?” you round to the front and find the knife where you left it, and come back to poke through the spam-corn mix. “Look’s good to me. Bit burnt on the bottom, but. I mean, you can eat spam n’ corn raw anyway. It’s not gonna make us sick if it isn’t totally fried. Wanna try some?”

You scoop some up on the knife and try some yourself. Oh man, you never thought yourself a spam guy, but after days of no proper food...

“You’re not scared you’re gonna cut your mouth?” You sure are. Despite your fear, you make a grabbing motion, demanding the sharp utensil from Dave. Then you scoop a bite of corn into your mouth, stab the spam, and shove that down your gullet too. It tastes... it tastes like a real breakfast. You’re smiling all over again. “I’m never gonna eat Chex Mix again.” You speak with a mouth full of food, but you don’t care.

“Man, we haven’t got any proper cutlery, have we.” It’s not a question; you don’t remember either of you packing some back at the apartment, and you know you definitely didn’t pick up any at the gas station or during the Walmart run; you were prioritising the life-saving stuff. And cutlery is hardly life-saving.

With that in mind, you follow in the footsteps of your early hominid ancestors and shove your hand into the pot, scooping some of the mix up onto your fingers.

You shrug and steal another bite of spam. “Not until we find a...” A familiar thrum allows that thought to get away from you, and you look around, squinting your eyes, searching for the source. “...house.”

You swallow your food. It’s a little too much; you can feel it slowly moving down into your chest, pushing painfully against your insides. Do you hear that, you want to ask, but you’re too afraid to do anything but look, gaze flitting around suspiciously. The thrumming seems to leave. It sounds like a car, and that’s what you presume it is.

“Let’s move, dude. Maybe there are other people around.”

You heard it too, and you nod. You’re really not keen on other people at the moment.

You take the pot and rest it in the back seat, then slide it behind the steering wheel. The car’s still running from heating the engine up.

Your first instinct is to climb in the back; you want to keep resting, but you don’t think you can sleep when there’s the very real possibility of some malignant people around. Everyone’s just trying to survive. Why would they be kind to you?

You sit in the front passenger seat with your torque wrench laid in your lap, both hands folded neatly atop it. Mentally scolding yourself for choosing such a stupid place while Dave pulls out of the parking spot, you look around, sitting up straight and watching the world pass by outside the window. Some buildings aren’t too badly burnt. But there’s still dead trees and grass, and twisted metal fences and stores with nothing but ashes in stock. You need to find someplace higher up. Someplace colder. You swear you can hear the sound of a separate hum outside; you white-knuckle the wrench.

You drive unhindered for a few minutes, that constant hum in the background, until eventually you look in the rear view mirror to see another vehicle behind you. Your heartrate picks up, and so does the speed on the display. The other vehicle does not fall behind. In fact, it gets closer.

“Fuck,” you spout. “They’re following us.”

Chapter Text

“That’s Vriska’s truck.” You furrow your brows, turning around in your chair to watch the vehicle’s movements. It occurs to you now that of course she’s capable of following you. Not to mention the fact that you spilt your whole plan to her just before you left.

“Go, go faster.” You pat Dave’s arm a few times. The truck gets bigger in your vision, and your eyes widen and you sit back, leaning over to hold both arms over Dave’s body like a pair of extra seatbelts. The truck hits your rear end, and the car lurches forward, in turn lurching you and him. “Holy shit,” you breathe. “Go faster.”

“The fuck,” you curse, and jam your foot against the gas. The car lunges forward and you shoo John off. “Put on your seatbelt or you’ll go through the fuckin’ windshield.”

You watch the needle rack up the miles on the display, but it’s only a relatively small car. You’re not sure if Bro had the fucking horsepower tampered with or whatever. You can only hope it has enough power to outrun the truck behind you.

You see an arm poking out of the passenger side of the truck in the rear view mirror. You push your foot down again, as if that’ll increase the speed.

“Is- is that a-” BLAM. Oh yeah, that’s a gun, and the bullet ricochets off the rear bumper. They’re trying to pop the wheels.

Okay, maybe you should do something. You reach into the glovebox and slam it closed once you’ve grabbed what you want, and you lower your window. Check the safety. Point the gun outside, behind you. Don’t poke your head out too much. Blam blam.

You miss both shots, but the truck swerves a bit anyway. You grin victoriously, proud of yourself for scaring them, if even just a bit. Unfortunately, the truck starts to speed up again. You point the gun.

BLAM.

There’s a loud crack like something broke, and you brace yourself, eyes squeezed shut. When you open them, it wasn’t you that got shot, but rather the car mirror. It’s shattered. You breathe a shaky sigh of relief and sit back, putting on your seatbelt just as Dave ordered.

“Where do we- what do we do?” Your first thought is kill her. Kill her like you killed her friends, beat her like you beat Eridan. Poison her the way they poisoned Dave. That’s evil though, you can’t do that. You’re not a bad guy. You glance at Dave and hold his arm, sinking further back into your seat, like the layers of cheap foam, plastic and fabric can protect you. “Dave? They’re, um, they’re a lot clo-”

With a violent jolt, your body lurches forward. The screech of tires echo in your ears as the car is struck from behind. The impact sends vibrations through the vehicle, the unmistakable crunch of metal adding a dissonant note to the chaos. A disgusting note. Too loud, too close. Right behind you. Your grip on Dave’s arm only tightens. You’re not opening your eyes.

“Motherfucker,” you growl, and try swerving out of their way. Unfortunately, that only seems to bare more surface area of your tires because you hear a shot and then suddenly the car is swerving without you telling it to.

“They hit the fuckin’ wheel,” you say, unhelpfully, and ease up on the gas. “We gotta stop, fuck it.”

“Wait, no, we can’t stop.” You sit up. “We have to keep going.” No time to argue. You unclip your seatbelt and take a quick, sharp breath. Fine, you think, let’s fucking do this. Let’s go. Show off your wicked cool torque wrench skills.

The car swerves some more, and once Dave takes his foot off the gas, you’re turned enough to gaze at the truck through the window. They’ve stopped shooting. Perhaps they want a fight. Perhaps they want to die.

Your hand slides down to Dave’s, and you squeeze it reassuringly. It’s not for him this time, it’s for you, a quick reminder that this is all you have. If you lose Dave, you just fucking... lose. Game over. Bye-bye.

“Do me a favor and step out of the car, boys.”

That fucking voice.

You look to Dave for advice, but he seems just as lost as you. You stare straight ahead. Vriska’s out there, in the corner of your eye, twirling a machete gingerly. Some other girl gets out of the car, and you swallow hard.

“Hafta say, we’re pretty impressed at the fight you put up back at the base,” the other girl says, with short hair and pointed shades. Not the cool kind though, like your Bro has—had. They’re more like cat-eye glasses, and they’re bright red.

The new girl twirls her gun and grins. “Anyway, didn’tcha owe Vriska a proper sword duel, Dave?”

You grit your teeth. “Don’t owe anyone nothin’.”

“Awww, but you left in such a hurry. So rudely too,” she replies tauntingly. “We were just bringing out the food, and you turned down our hospitality.”

“I think you owe us a whole lot after that display of friendliness,” Vriska chuckles. “I’d offer you a spot with us again, Dave, but you seem a little... preoccupied.” She gestures at her own neck, obviously referring to the hickeys on his. Then she twirls her blade once more, a sharp grin settling on her face. “This is what gets you killed nowadays, you know. Being soooooooo overly attached that you just wanna kill yourself once something bad happens.”

You glance at Dave, watching his face for some sign of emotion, some reaction. He just looks angry. You know what? You’re angry, too. “If you came for revenge, let’s get this over with. You already popped our tire.”

“That’s the spirit, Johnny-boy. Now move.” She pushes up her glasses and walks closer, headed toward Dave specifically. You lunge for her— she shoves you away almost too easily. Lifts her arms. Swings the blade at Dave.

You’re fucking glad you picked up your katana before you left the car.

You don’t have time to block her strike, so you dodge underneath and step to the side, and then take out your own sword. For christ’s sake, why is everyone so willing to fight? Don’t any of these people have any preservation?

The other girl whoops. “I think he’s too scared to attack, Vris.”

“Makes sense.” Vriska jabs at Dave, stepping forward with a weirdly confident stabbing motion. “Those who survive this situation are cowardly worms who hide forever, or skilled people like me.” She gets closer, slashes at him, tries to knock his sword out of his hands. You can’t just sit and watch this.

You feel around in your jeans for the gun you pocketed, and slowly raise it up, aiming at Vriska. Most frighteningly though, you’re also aiming at Dave. It’s so hard to tell where she’ll end up. How can you shoot when Dave is right there?

“Hey hey hey,” you hear the other girl say, and then a shot. You freeze, looking wildly around to John, but he seems to be okay. Not wincing in pain or anything. Probably just a warning shot. Distracted as you are, Vriska actually lands a hit—a superficial cut on your shoulder, but still, dangerously close to your neck.

“Put it down, kid,” you hear the other girl say to John. “You wanna blow your boyfriend’s head off?”

That sounds like a threat. Gritting your teeth, you slash forward at Vriska, aiming for her hands and then her feet in diagonal strikes.

You flinch at the sound of a gunshot, then clench your teeth when you realize it was only meant to frighten you. You wanna blow your boyfriend’s head off? You shake your head. “I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off,” you spit, and you walk toward that girl with the short hair. There’s no hesitating even when she aims her gun at you— you pistol-whip her right in the cheek, then you swing the wrench toward her wrist in an attempt to get rid of that gun.

Behind you, there’s more sword clashing sounds. Metal grating on metal, hissing, yelps of pain. Vriska does get slashed. Her hands first, then her ankles, and her grip is looser now. The pain slows her down. Still, she swings right for Dave’s torso. “Who taught you to fight, blondie?” Then she slashes at his thigh, tearing right through his jeans. “You’re sloppy.”

You hiss, and then hear the other girl shriek, and you chance a glance over your shoulder to make sure John’s okay. The girl’s head is snapped to the side like he’s decked her, and you feel proud for a moment before you refocus on Vriska.

“Dunno what that says about you, since I keep landing,” you spit back. God, is this bitch for real? She’s so fucking full of herself—and you’re almost certain this fight is less about revenge and more an opportunity to fight that she was already looking for.

You hear another fucking gunshot and look over again to find the girl’s dropped her gun, but her opposite fist is coming up in John’s direction, and you don’t have time to shout to warn him.

Before you know it, suddenly fists are flying. Your head snaps to the side, your nose stings. You swing. The impact reverberates through your hands as the wrench connects with your adversary’s neck, and the taste of iron drips into your mouth, a reminder that the fight is real.

“You still didn’t answer my question. What’s it with you and being uncooperative?” Vriska kicks Dave in the chest. She holds her machete diagonally, slipping it across his neck from his side and attempting to trap him in a deadly chokehold. “Even cyanide couldn’t kill you. Of course you need me to do the whole fucking job.”

You’re only able to see glimpses of Dave and Vriska. It’s hard to focus when your whole world narrows down to the threat before you, but you see her put him in that chokehold with her blade, and your breaths speed up. “Dave!” You shout, your voice raw and desperate. “Dave! N, no!” Then you remember you’re still in a fight. You lunge forward, push the girl down, bring the wrench down beside her head— miss. Then you’re tumbling, and the gun skitters away, and you’re gripping her neck so fucking tight your fingers hurt.

With Vriska holding you the way she is, you can see John on top of the other girl on the ground, hands around her neck. Her face is already turning red, but instead of fighting back directly, her hands fly to her jeans and she feels around for a moment before pulling something out and aiming a stab at John’s arm. You don’t have time to see it connect before you elbow Vriska hard in the stomach.

Your arm goes limp. The pain pierces through your arm and shoulder, lightning-quick, and you shriek. You have to let go and scramble away on the ground, prying a blade from your tricep.

Watching Dave from afar, holding your oozing arm in pain, you can barely focus. Vriska stumbles away from him, making messy slashing motions with her machete and slashing his arm once, and your chest swells with warm pride. Of course you’re horrified, but look at him, look at how valiant he is. Vriska seems afraid, even as she dashes forward to make a desperate stabbing motion, aimed right for Dave’s chest.

You hear John shriek and you’re barely able to focus as Vriska slashes aggressively, even after she’d stumbled away from you. You manage to channel the fear for that shriek into a burst of anger and energy instead, and with Vriska seeming to fatigue, she makes an amateur mistake and goes for a core attack, leaving herself open. You spin 90 degrees, letting her thrust through air, and stick your foot out in front of her to make use of her forward motion. It’s dirty, sure, but you’re not playing fair with her after the shit she’s tried to pull.

After you take care of Vriska, you think, your first priority is finding that gun the other girl dropped. You hope she doesn’t find it and snatch it—or John’s abandoned pistol—before either you or John can do something.

Vriska thrusts her sword into nothing and trips, immediately whirling around to try and trip Dave too— instead she drops the machete and scrapes her hands on the concrete. “Shouldn’t- shouldn’t you be more worried about him?” She grins and points behind Dave, at you, wrestling Vriska’s friend for your fucking life.

By now you’re both close enough to grab your fallen firearm. You hold the pistol above your head, clawing at her face, trying to shove her away. “Fuck!” You spit. “Get- off!” Your arms are growing tired. You kick and thrash desperately. And what’s that warmth spreading from your arm to your backside? You feel a little dizzy.

Rising shakily to one knee, Vriska points her sword at Dave. “But you know I’ll just stab you if you abscond now.”

You glance between the two, stuck. You want to help John, but you know if you don’t take out Vriska she’ll use the opportunity to sneak up behind you. But you don’t want to kill anyone else. But you don’t want John to die, either.

You’re stuck, looking between Vriska on her knees and John struggling for the gun with the other girl.

Vriska takes her chance during Dave’s bout of indecision. She stands the moment he turns away, swinging her machete toward his neck, specifically his carotid artery—

—while you lose the strength to thrash any longer. Your arms fall limp, and you drop the gun. You swing the wrench; miss. You turn over and attempt to grab the gun again, broken fingers outstretched, pathetic whines surfacing from your throat. Blood. There’s blood on the pavement, a whole lot of it. Dark crimson in the cracks, oozing from your arm. It’s all over your collar, all over your shirt.

Holy shit, you think, this is irreparable.

You don’t have time to dodge completely, so you bring your sword up to block the hit, as well as bend back to avoid the blade, as close as it is, and you swear Vriska’s blade chops some of your hair off. You hear John whining, and shove Vriska back, keeping your sword between the two of you, and chance a look back. Holy shit, there’s blood fucking everywhere. John’s covered in it, the girl is splashed in it, it’s all over the pavement. John’s reaching for the fallen gun, but he’s too slow—the girl on top of him is faster, and she’s reaching for it too. You know Vriska’s after you, but you don’t care what happens to you; you need to get John out of there.

For once, you’re fucking glad for Bro’s training, because it means you can move fast. You sprint over to them and go for the easiest, most devastating target you can, unshielded by tangled limbs—her face. You swing, and you don’t watch where it connects but you definitely feel it, and she screams and falls back off him. While she’s disoriented you grab the gun and wheel around, pointing it at Vriska, finger finding the trigger.

Everyone but Vriska is occupied now. Someone grabs the gun before you get the chance, and you brace yourself for a gunshot, curling up into a ball... but nothing comes. In fact, there’s a scream of shock and agony, then there’s nothing but groaning. Your groaning. And someone else’s, low and weak in the background.

“You’re fast,” Vriska huffs, approaching slow and cautiously, her stance wide. “Fast and sloppy. Look what you’ve done to poor Terezi.” She gestures at her friend, who’s writhing on the ground. “Did you mean to aim at her face? ‘Cause then that’s just evil.”

Sounds reverberate off the ground, but it’s like you’ve got noise-canceling headphones on. “S’ it over?” You slur. It’s cold. Glancing up at the sky and catching a glimpse of Dave’s blonde hair, you grin, then put your head down.

Vriska sneers, fixing her contemptuous gaze right on Dave. “I’m still offering you a chance to be a survivor,” she says calmly. “Put down the gun, Dave. You won’t need it. We’ve got food and supplies still, you know.”

‘Cause then that’s just evil. Your hands tremble on the gun. You step back, closer to John. Guarding him. His voice is quiet. You glance back—he’s lying still on the concrete. He’s still covered in blood. He looks pale.

“You’re not offering me anything,” you hiss, hands tightening on the gun—but they’re still shaking. “You and your friend are getting out of here in the next 20 seconds or I fucking shoot you, and leave her here to die. That’s it, no ands, ifs or buts. And if you come back I’ll fucking kill you.”

You glance at John again worriedly, even as the threat sinks itself down into your stomach like ice. The other girl is still groaning on the ground, glasses shattered. Her face is covered in blood too.

“Dave,” Vriska says, shaking her head like a disappointed parent. “I know what it’s like to be neglected. I killed for my mom, did you know that? She had me kill people.” She walks closer, slowly raising her hands beside her head as if to surrender, still gripping her machete.

“I know what happened to you. Don’t you see, you have someone to relate to now? You’re a skilled swordsman and all you want to do is protect your friend. Just like all I wanted to do was feed mine. You get it, don’t you? You’re a good guy.”

You actually find yourself faltering. I know what happened to you. You have someone to relate to. You’re a GOOD GUY.

As much as you adore John, you never could relate to him. You could never relate to any of your friends. Would it really be so bad if you finally had someone who could understand?

You hear the other girl groaning behind you, panting in pain, and you feel fucking terrible. But you hear nothing from John. Do they have medical supplies where they’re staying?

And then the machete still in her hand glints in the light, and you grit your teeth. “10, 9...”

At first, Vriska looks disappointed. Her expression turns to that of shock when Dave begins counting down, and she makes a rush to grab Terezi and her gun. “Mother fucker,” she spits, and then she wordlessly carries her bloody friend off, headed toward the pickup truck...

Then she pauses.

Six.

Five.

Four.

Vriska whirls around, gun pointed at Dave, finger on the trigger—

You shoot. Then you shoot again, and again, just in case you missed. She falls.

Breathing ragged, you whip around to John and drop the gun. You don’t want to think about it. You're not going to think about it, until John’s safe. Then you can have a meltdown and cry like a fucking baby.

He’s pale, way paler than you’re used to seeing on him. He looks washed out, especially against the rich color of the blood all over him. You shove a hand up under his shirt, pressing a palm flat against his chest. His heart’s still beating, so you lean in and listen to his breathing. Slow, but there.

You check where you saw the blade in his arm, and the wound is deep, and still oozing blood. You don’t want to leave it any longer; you yank your shirt up over your head and tie it tight around the gash. He’s lost so much fucking blood already, you don’t know what you could even do if he went into shock.

You slip a hand under his head, and his hair is matted with blood. You swallow down acid rising in your throat and slide the rest of your arm underneath and around his shoulders, and then the other arm under his legs, and heave him up.

You were bracing for something heavier, but you find it relatively easy to pick him up. Physically, at least. Emotionally, you’re feeling torn up inside. Maybe if you’d just been a man, ended the fight earlier, John wouldn’t have been hurt as bad.

Upon reaching the car, you open the back door and manoeuver yourself in with him, so you can set him as gently as possible down on the seats. You don’t bother with the gun, for now; you’re sure Vriska’s dead, and last you saw her friend was pretty useless. You doubt she’ll be feeling well enough to sit up, find the gun, and start another fight. You feel a wave of nausea thinking about her out there, alone, but you bite it down in favor of tending to John.

It’s easy enough to find a pillow and another one of your shirts, which you wrap over the pillow and then slide that under John’s head. You know it’s not necessary, but you feel fucking awful, you feel responsible, so you’re going to do everything you can to at least make him comfortable on top of treating him.

You retrieve the med kit from the front glove box and set the bandages out ready, and gingerly unwind the shirt from his arm. It’s still bleeding, but you think the flow has slowed. You’re not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

You find the cleanest part of your shirt and soak it with antiseptic and wipe the wound over as best as you can. His arm is already dirty, so you go about wiping a good section of it clean as well to accommodate for the space the bandage is going to take up. Examining the cut without all the blood, it looks to be manageable without stitches, which you’re infinitely fucking thankful for. You would do it of course if you needed to, but you hate the idea of piercing his skin again, even if with a surgical needle.

As best as you can with one hand, you hold the wound closed, and with the other wrap the bandage tight and thick around his arm. You probably use more than you need, but that bubbling, acid feeling in your gut is screaming at you to overcompensate. You secure the bandage temporarily with med tape, and then fish for the duct tape, and tear off a small strip with your teeth and seal the end of the bandage onto itself.

You feel tears rising, and your throat closing painfully, but you push it down in favor of wiping him down first. You don’t want him to get an infection like you did, so you find yet another clean shirt and wet a section with bottled water, and wipe his face clean first. Then his neck, then the rest of the bandaged arm, then the other arm. You’re not game enough to lift his shirt and jostle him, so you make a quick cursory wipe down by sticking your hand beneath his shirt with the wipe in hand—and that reminds you of his taser burns.

You reach for the kit again, meaning to fish out the burn salve, but your vision blurs before you can find it, and feel the blurriness spill down your cheeks. You don’t care who’s watching you—you sob, ugly and loud, and lay your forehead down gingerly on John’s shoulder. This is your fucking fault, and now he’s hurt. And you don’t know how badly. Well, you do, but you don’t know how his body’s going to react to it. You don’t know if he’s going to get an infection. You don’t know how much blood he lost, but it looked like a lot to you. You feel fucking dreadful, and you just wish you could have been a fucking man and ended the fight early and avoided this happening.

For a long while, you seriously can’t tell what’s going on. A few booms here and there, Dave’s face, the concrete— it all flashes and blends together in your mind. You feel like you’re floating, then you’re heavy again.

“Dah,” you croak. “Dave.” A soft smile rests on your face. At least, you think you’re smiling. You try to. You open your mouth and make a few motions, like you’re going to talk, but you can’t. Why can’t you talk?

The only thing you really can do is lift a shaking hand and place it on his back. Dave’s head rests on your shoulder now, and you hear the last bit of a gasp, then a wail. You feel it in your chest. You grip his shirt as hard as you can, which isn’t very hard, and then you close your eyes.

Maybe you should reassure him. You’re not dead, just resting. You’ll be okay, right? “Doesn’t hurt,” you whisper. Your lips feel numb, and they’ve got the blue color to prove it. “Not dying. Just tired.”

You lift your head, relief crashing over you, but also a pang in your chest at how weak he sounds. He looks like shit, and you reach up to cradle his face in both your hands. “John,” you say, and your voice is all wobbly and wet. “Fuck, John.” Another sob claws its way out of your throat and you lean forward, resting your dirty forehead against his clean one. “M’so sorry. M’so fuckin’ sorry. ‘ll take care of you, promise.” You feel your tears drip onto his face, and you pull back, wiping them away. “Fuck, sorry. Just...”

Just what? You don’t know. You brush a lock of hair back from his temple and kiss it gingerly. “‘s all my fault. M’so fuckin’ sorry.”

So many apologies. You move your mouth again, but nothing comes out, and you take that as a sign that perhaps you shouldn’t say anything. Despite feeling like gravity is increasing on you every second, you lift your other hand and wince, enveloping Dave in a pathetic hug.

You comb your fingers through his hair, massaging his head soothingly. You want to cry with him. You want to help him. How do you help? Why does he keep crying? You’re fine, you said you’re fine.

“We were,” maybe you can talk after all. “We were eating breakfast. Being happy. Not your fault.”

You sniffle, and lean your head pathetically into his hand. “Jus’—Jus’ wish I—shot them both at the beginning. M’sorry.”

You’re aware you’re apologizing too much, but it also feels like not enough. John shouldn’t look like this. And you don’t know how he feels, but he probably shouldn’t be feeling like this either.

He looks so tired, and you feel like he’s moving too much, pushing himself too hard already, so you grasp his wrist softly and pull his hand out of your hair and down to your face instead, and you turn your head into it and kiss it. It means I love you, because you can’t find it in you to say it without... without, you don’t know. Maybe just saying it will make it sound shallow. So you need to show it, instead.

You kiss his hand again and then hold it there against your cheek, and keep your other hand against his face. You stroke your thumb over the skin. “You look tired. You should sleep. I’ll be here.” I love you. “I’ll make sure no one else sneaks up on us.” I love you.

“Aren’t- aren’t you bleeding.” It’s less of a question and more of a reminder. You doubt you can stay awake to treat Dave’s wounds, so you want him to pay attention to them. Then he tells you to sleep, and your brain melts at the thought.

You look tired, he said. Of course you’re tired. You’re exhausted. But what about Dave? You want him to sleep with you. He’s sick, you think. He’s injured, he’s.. he needs you...

Unfortunately, you nod off amidst your thoughts of treating whatever maladies are plaguing Dave, and so your arms go limp, one resting on your chest and the other still on his face. You caress his cheek with your thumb.

John seems to fall asleep rather fast, and you exhale. You’re worried, you were relieved to see him awake, but you also want to take care of him, and if he needs rest, then he needs rest. And you’d rather he rest than stay awake worrying about your scratches. Of course he’d be worrying about you when he’s injured—but he’s done so much for you already.

On that train of thought, you decide you should finally be taking care of your own injuries. They’re not bad, they’re very lightly bleeding if at all, but you don’t want to chance an infection again, especially now that John needs you awake and alert—so you dab antiseptic onto your newest cuts and apply the lightest touches of burn salve to your own burns, and then set about lathering his. You’re made of tough stuff—your own will heal quickly, you’re sure. But you don’t know enough about John’s constitution to make that call for him.

Once you’re done tending to his burns, you fish for the duvet in the back and spread it over him, tucking him in comfortably. He shifts a little, and you press the back of your hand to his cheek to make sure he’s not uncomfortably warm. He seems to be fine.

You eye the pot you set down on the floor earlier—you’re still hungry, but you don’t want to let go of him. You settle more comfortably on the floor beside him, and hold him lightly through the duvet, laying your head against his. It comforts you to hear his breathing. And this way, if anything happens, you’ll know.

Your eyes drift to the window, and your thoughts drift to what’s left outside. A mauled girl, probably dying, a body, a truck, and two guns you’d abandoned to attend to John. You feel your eyes sting, and John’s warmth against you only provides the barest of comforts in the light of what you’ve done. You’re grateful he’s alive, of course, you don’t know what you’d do if something worse had happened to him—but you’re also a monster. There’s no doubt about that.

You find yourself crying again, silently this time. You don’t think you’ve ever cried this much in your life, not for as long as memory serves you. You try and focus on John in your arms instead, but the tears don’t stop for a long, long time. Eventually, you develop a headache and reach for the water bottle you left on the floor. John will probably be thirsty when he wakes up, however long that will be from now. The sky gradually grows darker, the air colder, and you shiver, but you don’t move from his side.

Chapter Text

Before you wake up, you swear you catch the scent of latkes and cake wafting by. You’re sitting on the floor, wolfing down a cup of sweet warm applesauce, and look, there’s your dad. He’s on the couch, bathed in the warm glow of the menorah, and he reaches down to offer you an affectionate hair-ruffle. You lean your head against his hand.

Dad opens his mouth to say something in that deep booming voice of his, but you never get to hear it. He takes a breath, and you snap awake.

You first become aware of a pervasive weakness, a heavy lethargy that weighs down your limbs. Then a dull ache in your arm, a slight tingle in your hand, like pins and needles. Your fingers twitch, and you peel your head up off the pillow.

Blinking a few times helps to rid your vision of the murky, blurry mess. You’re cold. “Dave?” He looks cold too, shirtless and sitting on the floor, looking disheveled and worn out, like an old toy. You turn to face him better, studying his grave expression. “What happened? Did they fuck off for good?”

You exhale. He’s awake. And then become rapidly self conscious as you realise he’s looking at you, without a shirt on.

Did they fuck off for good? “They.” Your tongue feels like lead. You feel bile rising in your throat. “They, uh.” You swallow it down. “Vriska’s dead. I. I don’t know about her friend, but.” I left her there to die. “She was in pretty bad shape.”

Oh. You swallow down the saliva building in your mouth. “You saved me.” Yes; that’ll make Dave feel better. You lift an arm out from under the duvet, reaching out to touch his face. Your fingers trace tender patterns, a soothing rhythm against his skin. The touch is gentle.

“Don’t feel like you’re evil for it,” you assure him, curling hairs behind his ear. “I think you did what you had to do.”

Though you lean into his fingers, touch-starved as you are, you avert your eyes. “How are you feeling.”

You glance at his arm—you wrapped the bandages so thick, you can’t see any blood seeping through. Yet. You lift the water bottle in preparation.

“Dehydrated.” You shift positions, turning on your left side to face Dave. “Cold. Is it cold out, or is this just what it feels like to lose blood?” You chuckle. That’s not funny. Dave doesn’t look entertained; he looks dead, eyes red-rimmed and clouded in thought.

“Dave,” you call for him, squeezing his shoulder. “What’s wrong?” Your voice is isolated. There’s nothing going on, nothing but Dave’s breaths and the faint beat of your own heart.

You don’t want to answer that right now, so you give his hand a quick squeeze and dig around for the coats you found. It is cold, and you’re beginning to feel it more intensely, but John’s the one who’s injured, so you take care of him first.

“‘f you can sit up for a second I can put this coat on,” you tell him. “And then lie back down. Then you can have a drink. ‘f you’re still cold, I can layer you up with the clothes we brought.”

You nod. Of course you can sit up, no problem— you’d say, if it were as easy as you thought. It takes a bit of effort and deep breaths to sit up, propping yourself in place with both hands. Your right arm is especially fucked up now, with bruises on your fingers and a big bandage to show for it.

“Aren’t you cold? You look like Rambo.” That’s a compliment. Rambo is smoking hot. You scoot over, bending your legs to make room for Dave next to you. “Get in here.” And you open your arms, inviting him in your duvet cocoon.

You want to just fall into his arms straight away, but you have a job to do first; it’s getting cold, and he’s cold. So you take the opportunity to slip a coat sleeve over his arm, loop it around the back, and then over the other arm. The Rambo comment just about flies over your head—you’re not sure what he means. Is he calling you ripped, or making fun of you for being half-naked? So you slip on the other coat, dig around for a second (full) water bottle, and climb up onto the seat with him—he obviously wants you close, and you immediately pull the duvet back over the both of you, swap the bottle out for the half-empty one, unscrew the cap, and hand it to him.

“You hungry? I can turn the car on and heat the spam-corn up again.”

“Yeah, I’m hungry.” Your gaze drifts out the window, and you squint your eyes, trying to get a good look at whatever might be there. You see the pickup truck, and you see some blood, and you see two girls on the ground, laying perfectly still.

Your appetite shrinks.

“Didn’t they pop our tire?” New topic. You’re so smart, yes. You curl up against Dave, resting your head on his collar. “I don’t remember how to change a tire.” You say that because your dad showed you every fucking summer for the past seven years, but you never paid any attention, because it was boring. Curse your snobby little self. Fucking idiot.

Shit, he’s totally right. And of course Bro never taught you how to change a fucking tire. More important to learn how to spar under the blazing Houston sun, apparently.

“Hm,” you say, and you almost suggest you YouTube it. Then you remember. “Uhh, fuck. I guess...” You feel like shit suggesting it, but it’s not like it’s needed anymore: “I guess... we could take the girls’ truck?” Your fingers drift over his hipbone, tracing mindless patterns. Something to ground you.

“That’s real western of us. Stealing a whole pickup truck.” Dave touches your hip, and you suddenly feel dainty. Is that the right word? Dainty? Limp-wristed? Wait, that’s an insult. You can’t say that. Then again you’re gay, so it’s fine. Yeah, you’re fine. You should be more worried about the moral dilemma at hand: steal the truck or wander miserably on foot? You’ve already decided: you’re taking that pickup truck.

Perhaps you should reciprocate. You were bleeding out however long ago, and Dave is all scratched up and dead looking, so you reckon he needs some comfort. Your right hand wanders up to his chest, and you hook your other arm around his shoulders, caressing him with your thumb. Perhaps this is helping. If you kiss him, will Dave forget about his guilt over Vriska and that man in Houston? It seems to work in the movies.

“We’re just trying to get by,” you remind Dave, glancing up at him blankly. “Remember that. If we need the truck to survive, we’re taking it.”

You flinch a little at John’s hand against your chest, because you hadn’t wrapped the coat properly around yourself, and there’s a sliver of skin between the zipper teeth that he’s directly touching. It’s not necessarily unpleasant, but you’re not used to anyone touching you there. To be fair, you’re not used to anyone touching you, period.

“...Mm.” A little late, you hum to show you’d been listening, and you try to ignore the sick feeling in your gut. If John says it’s fine, then it’s probably fine. You’re doing this for him, after all.

You’re dreading going outside and having to walk past the bodies, though. Search them, even, for the keys. You worry your lip, trying to think of excuses to make the situation more acceptable to yourself, and your hand stops its tracing. “It’s probably got a bigger gas tank. And more room for supplies. We could pack heavy shit in the back, like wood.”

“Yeah,” you agree, trying to hype him up. “And since it’s taller we’re more protected. From like, people and weather conditions.” You’re a genius.

You can feel the gentle (yet shuddering) rise and fall of Dave’s breaths, a rhythmic cadence almost in unison with your own indolent heartbeat. Almost. If it truly were, that would be concerning. “We can stay here for a little,” you offer. “If you’re not ready to go outside.” You’re not super clueless, you know what’s on Dave’s mind. Sort of.

Still curled up with him, you nuzzle closer in an attempt to warm him and yourself. Most importantly it’s just nice; you don’t have many words of comfort or insight, but you have a body, and you have emotions, and you’re going to use all of it. When Dave’s hand goes still, you deliberately reach down to touch it, as if to say keep going. And now you’re rubbing his chest, and you feel like some old couple in their rockers on the front porch, and it makes you smile.

Your breath stutters a little at the tingling, almost ticklish sensation of his fingertips against your skin, and following John’s example, you resume your petting—your push the hem of his shirt up the tiniest bit with your thumb and stroke the soft skin there. You worry for a moment you might have gone too far, and stop, thumb just resting there. You don’t want to be too forward; you don’t want to make him think you’re expecting him to escalate, you just... think his fingers feel nice, so you want to give that back.

You’re also grateful he doesn’t seem to be in too much of a hurry. You rest your head down on his, a silent agreement.

You swallow down your anxiety in a wad of saliva, turning and tilting your head so you can look up at Dave, and he looks worn. An old toy, loved and left out in the mud. Fingers slide up his thighs, hand curling around the thickness of them, the fabric of his pants grainy against your palm. You’ve still got one hand on his chest. Is this okay? He’d tell you if it weren’t, you think.

“When we find someplace to stay, we should make those wooden stake fences around it.” You speak in a low and hushed tone, attempting to sound soothing. “And rocking chairs. And we’re gonna sit there every day with guns in case bears come by, and if they get too close to our goats and stuff, we’ll skin them. And then we’ll have bear hide. And bear for dinner.” You grin at that thought. It sounds impossible— John Egbert, killing and skinning a bear, cultivating seeds and caring for mountain goats. You scoff at yourself. “The apocalypse isn’t ready for us, dude.”

You chuckle, even as his hand cups your thigh and slides up it. Your stomach is tingling, but you don’t want to make a big deal out of it, so your thumb picks up in faster strokes, something to distract yourself. “Rockin’ chairs? Sounds awful domestic. Like... like those old ladies that sit there rockin’ all day n’ knitting. We should make pipes and sit out there puffin’ ‘em like scraggy old men in wifebeaters.” You pause. Will you ever grow old? What if you fuck up? You already fucked up, badly, and John got hurt.

You swallow and try to keep your voice even. “Never had bear before though. Hey, ‘f we make it, we could totally deck out our place with big fuckin’ bearskin rugs. Like a hunter’s lodge.”

You shrug. “Well I don’t know how to knit, so the pipes thing sounds a lot more doable.” That earns you a chuckle. It reminds you of your dad and his pipe, and how he always seemed to have it on him. You tried it once. It tastes like shit, and you’d do it again if it guaranteed your father’s return.

“I’m just excited,” you add. “To get old with you. We’re gonna make it, dude. I mean, look at how close we are. Once we settle in we can start being those rugged hunter dudes you’re talking about.” As you speak, your grip on Dave tightens. You can’t help it, you’re just so excited about you and Dave growing old together; being together; for the rest of your life. It’s utterly terrifying. The thought makes your chest swell up with warmth. You smile and squeeze his thigh involuntarily.

You open your mouth to contest what he’s saying; neither of you can guarantee that you’ll grow old together. There are just too many things that can happen—you could run into more people, get caught in a wildfire, die from infection, die of exposure, poison yourselves with acid water, maybe your crops won’t grow... and most of all, what if you fucked up? What if you proved to him that you were just too much work, or that you weren’t enough for him to stick around in the first place?

He just seems so excited, and so sure that you’re going to do it together. That nothing bad is going to happen, despite everything that’s happened already.

“How... How can you be so sure?”

You pause and let out a breath. “Mm...” you’re actually not sure. You don’t trust yourself enough to envision yourself carrying Dave to freedom. But considering how far you’ve gotten, why can’t you? You’ve made the journey from Washington to Texas, then Texas to New Mexico to meet a group of cannibals, and now Colorado, where you’re going to settle in. Sure, it’s dark out and the world is on fire and you can’t go outside for more than five minutes without gambling with the possibility of pneumonia, but you’re here. You’re alive. You put in the work to get this far.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “But it’s a good way to stay motivated. We’ve gotten past cannibals, earthquakes and the world’s deadliest heatwave. That means we have a pretty good chance at overcoming whatever else happens.”

You sit up to peck Dave right on the cheek, and you still the hand rubbing soothing circles on his chest, opting to hold his waist the way he’s holding yours. This is nice, really nice. You don’t want to leave. “There’s probably some cliche speech about the power of love somewhere in my brain waiting to be vomited out in this type of conversation, but that’s never gonna happen.”

You’re touched at the contact, but most of all, the lightly self-deriding joke puts you more at ease—you’re used to this dynamic, you’re comfortable with it, even when your cheek still feels wet from his lips. And even though it’s a joke, not meant to be taken seriously, you feel it reinforces—by the tiniest increment—the hope he’s trying to feed you.

“Disney would be so disappointed in you,” you tell him. “Undermining their whole brand. Man, Walt’s probably turnin’ over in his grave right now. How could you, bro? How could you do that to him?”

You slip your hand higher up to his waist for a light tickle. You want to hear him laugh—that’s normal, that’s grounding. That could distract you.

“Disney’s gone, dude. Take one look at Disney Land and tell me the melted Mickey Mouse statue cares about the power of love.” You almost don’t finish your sentence, giggling when Dave’s hand grazes your torso. “They have a new brand now. Post-Apocalyptic Super Serious Survival. And they’re super rugged and Mickey Mouse wears a gas mask and a cloak. Walt abandoned him, dude. Mickey has no god.”

Is that funny? You hope it’s funny, you’re laughing. This is a welcome distraction from the hell outside, so if you have to keep joking about Mickey Mouse losing his faith in the church of Walt Disney, then you’re going to. It’s good to maintain some semblance of normalcy; it takes you back to sitting on Skype with Dave, playing hours and hours of Call of Duty and Dota 2. Now it’s the apocalypse? Weird.

That actually gets a laugh out of you; it bubbles up from your chest and you feel your eyes crinkle. Something about “Mickey has no god” fucking tickles you.

“Mickey would be a church boy,” you agree, grinning at the thought of it. “Bet he and Minnie were set up from the fuckin’ start. Daddy Walt had them sit together in the pews n’ share the songbook. Bet they played in the yard after with Goofy n’ that other dog. Fuck was his name.” You screw up your nose. “Pluto? You ever think it’s fucked up that the mouse had a best friend that was a dog but he kept one as a pet?”

You’re going on a fucking tangent now, but it just feels so nice to shoot the shit with John like you did before everything went to hell. It makes you feel normal again, for the tiniest moment. You realize you’ve moved your hands up to the small of his back and tugged him closer only after his chest touches yours, and you feel your ears burn.

Woah, Dave is right. You close your eyes and furrow your brows, chuckling through your nose. “That is a little messed up. Maybe the church of Disney is racist against certain dog breeds.” Maybe the church of Disney is racist against certain dog breeds. You feel so immature for that, it earns you another giggle.

Dave is so weird. You’re glad to be joking around with him again, this is the Dave you fell in love with. You’re in a bit of an awkward position, so you sit up more to straddle him— the chest-to-chest contact makes your heart beat normally again, wow— and kiss him gently. “Do you feel a little better?”

You definitely felt your heart hammer against your ribs when he sat atop you, and let out a pleased sigh against his lips. Gazing up at him, you feel your lip turn up at the corner, but it doesn’t feel as harsh as it usually does when you smirk.

“Yeah,” you tell him, and you feel a little pathetic for that—barely anything happened, you’d only been cuddling and talking—but you rest your other hand on his other hip anyway, vaguely supporting him.

You sigh again, less pleased. “Need to get you the food warmed up for you, but I don’t wanna leave. Don’t wanna move.”

You add the last part because it makes you sound more lazy than mushy, content to sprawl out in the back with him and his warmth.

Yeah, you get that. You don’t want to leave either. It’s definitely the fear of what’s going on outside, but also, you need this. The look on Dave’s face, the way he moves slowly and the slight hoarseness in his voice, it hurts you. You’ll sit here all day if it helps. “You don’t have to move yet,” you assure him, and you reach down to fish around for the lever beside the seat, reclining it back.

You think that if someone caught you like this, sitting atop another boy with a duvet concealing you both, you’d piss and scream like a little girl. But no one’s here, only Dave gets to see the rosy color dusting your cheeks, and you lower yourself down with weak arms to kiss his neck and face.

“Maybe just a few more minutes.” Your voice is hushed, honeyed with concern. You want to sound sweet and soothing, but you think it comes off more meek than you intended.

It’s so fucking tender, something catches in your throat that you have to swallow down. You shiver like a fucking virgin when he begins to kiss you, and you tighten your grip slightly on his hips. “You should probably be lyin’ down right now.”

It’s not a complaint, or a call to stop—but a voiced concern. Sure, he slept for fucking ages, but you don’t know how long he should be taking to recover from an injury that fucked him up so bad. He probably shouldn’t be up and active again so soon.

You roll slightly to the left, not enough to tip him but enough to underscore your statement. You keep your grip on his hips firm so he doesn’t fall.

“Maybe.” You want to lay down, but you also like the feel of Dave’s body below you. It’s like you’re the blanket and he’s the... bed? You don’t know. You lay beside him anyway, tugging the duvet up to your shoulder so it sufficiently covers you both, and you wrap your arms around his torso. You’ve got one hand just below Dave’s shoulder blades now, and the other down on the small of his back, just hardly breaking his waistband.

You close your eyes and wait for a while, almost falling asleep while you familiarize yourself with the new warmth you’re feeling. It’s in your core mostly, in fact, you think you’re sweating a little bit. That’s a good thing. The movement of your hand is subconscious, caressing Dave’s lower back gently. When you finally do notice, you don’t stop. There’s a chance what you’re doing is working, and Dave could fall asleep here, and he’ll wake up feeling a little less frightened.

It feels nice. You feel a bit less in the spotlight now that John is beside you instead of on top of you, and you can feel yourself calming down. Not enough to fall asleep—your brain is still running on background adrenaline, prioritizing John—but it’s certainly quieter in your head.

He closes his eyes, and you think he might be falling asleep for a moment. You lean forward and plant a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, you brush his hair out of his eyes a little. You wish you could stay like this forever, instead of having to organize the truck soon and hunt down a real place to stay. You’re sure you could lay here with him and drift in and out of sleep for the rest of your life.

Of course you end up falling asleep again. Only for a few minutes, you think, because when all your senses return, it feels as though you haven’t moved an inch. You leave a last gentle peck on Dave’s cheek for good measure, then you sit up, making sure not to move the duvet too much. You wouldn’t want to jostle Dave too harshly from his much-needed repose.

Then the cold air hits you. It sneaks in through the crevices in your jacket and your pants, and you shiver. It’s not a biting cold, but it makes you feel dry and stiff. You stretch your legs and arms— ouch. When you roll your shoulder, a dull pang stabs through your bad arm, so you make a mental note not to move it too much.

Warmth. You need somewhere warm. You can’t stay under the blanket all day, unfortunately, so you squeeze Dave’s shoulder and cheek, trying to get him up. “We should go,” you whisper. “Let’s pack up. Godspeed. So we can get somewhere warm.”

You groan—you don’t want to get up—but you know he’s right. When you sit up with him, the cold air bites at you where the coat hangs open on your chest and over your wrists, and you hiss. “Fuck. Lemme—grab a shirt. Want me to grab you another one?”

You lay a hand on his arm, a silent signal that you want him to stay where he is. You know he’s likely to jump up and go rummaging about for one himself, even with his bad arm.

“I’m good.” You’re not freezing just yet. For good measure, you zip up your coat fully and hug your arms close to your chest (ouch), taking a moment to shake your head rapidly and squeeze your eyes shut. It’s your way of getting used to the temperature, you suppose.

You scoot into another seat and snatch up the bloody pillow you laid on prior. It’s got a red mark where your head was, a prickly sort of glob, and you realize there’s definitely blood in your hair. You must’ve lost at least a soda can’s worth of blood for it to pool around you like that. How the fuck are you even breathing right now?

Disregarding Dave’s silent gesture for you to stay in place, you reach past him to slide the pot out from under the seat, and you rest it on your lap, atop the pillow. Lifting it up hurt, but you’re not going to mention it. You don’t want to be useless, especially after all Dave has done for you. He’s your hero, seriously.

Of course he ignores you.

“Don’t go fuckin’ movin’,” you scold him, but your voice is still unnaturally soft. “Keep still n’ let that arm heal, ‘kay?”

You rummage around for one of your shirts, and quickly shrug off the coat to tug it on, and then you slide back into and zip up the coat.

You glance out the window, take a breath, and steel yourself. “Stay here,” you order, and step out and walk towards the bodies.

First, you motor past them and try to open the truck door, hoping they just left the key inside, but no such luck—the door is locked, of course. So you turn to what used to be Vriska, dead and cold on the ground.

At first, you manage not to look at her too closely, you just crouch down beside her and pat her pockets. You quickly find the keys in her jeans pocket, and then your eyes drift up her torso, unbidden.

There’s two holes in her chest, rimmed with coagulated blood, and another in her neck. Her clothes are stained red-brown and there’s a sizeable pool beneath her head.

You turn to the side and retch. Nothing much comes out—you’d barely had the chance to eat much before you were interrupted. You wipe your mouth and manage to stand shakily, then you wobble your way back to your car and all but collapse against the side, hands bracing you against the rim of the roof. You suck in a few breaths. Cry about it later. Later, when you find a safe, warm place for John. For now, you’ve got work to do.

You watch in complete silence as Dave goes on his little mission to retrieve the keys to Vriska’s truck. You watch him regurgitate breakfast, and you watch him hobble back to you with a somber look on his face. It feels like everything you’ve tried to help him feel better came to no avail.

You step out with the pillow and the pot resting on top of it. Of course it hurts, but you couldn’t care any less right now, seeing as Dave needs help and you just want to leave. You flash him a little smile and glance at the truck as if to ask, should we start loading it up?

You still feel lightheaded, but you snatch the pot and pillow from John. “Stop using that fuckin’ arm, John.”

You wince when you realize all you’ve been doing for the last few minutes is order him around. He obviously just wants to help, so you hold out the keys meekly. “...Would you like to go unlock the truck for me.”

You furrow your brows. It makes sense why Dave is so on-edge, but you still don’t appreciate how he seems angry with you. Maybe you’re making things difficult. You’re not sure.

“Yeah,” you reply, and you take the keys with your good hand, walking quietly past the pair of bodies in the street. You unlock the truck and sit in the front passenger seat.

You’ve got to figure out how to make him feel better. Dave doesn’t look so good. You watch him haul things miserably out of the car, the red gas station baskets and bottles of gas, and the food, and your clothes. He looks like your Dad that way, doing everything for you.

You’re not sure how long it takes to transfer everything, but you do catch John looking out the window at you, lips downturned. You feel so guilty. If you let him help, would you still feel just as guilty on account of overworking him?

With only one thing left to do, you pick up a bottle of water (he still hasn’t drunk anything, fuck) and walk to the passenger door, opening it and holding the bottle out to John.

“Can you help me with something,” you ask, and you try to smile.

You recognize Dave’s effort to make you feel included. He’s soft-spoken, and you mirror his weighted outlook with your hands folded in your lap, facing him with flaccid (yet unwelcoming) body language. You’re not sure whether to try and cheer him up or not. Maybe you’re not supposed to? Maybe you’re just meant to let him feel.

You take the bottle and unscrew the cap. “Mhm?” Your response is muffled while you drink, and holy crap, that feels great. Finally, some relief. You have to remind yourself not to drink the entire thing despite how good it feels to get water in your system.

“Do you know how to suck the gas out of a car?” You’re not sure if there’s enough in there to even be worth it, but you know you’re going to need all the gas you can save.

You pause. Syphoning gas? He seriously needs help with that? You can’t help but smirk. “Yeah, I know how. Do they have a hose?” You stick the water bottle in the side of the door and hop out to peer over the edge of the truck bed. It’s not like you can reach in there, or even see very well, but you’re trying.

He smirks, and you immediately feel a little better. “Uh, didn’t see one, that’s why I’m askin’.” You follow him the couple of steps and stand next to him. “‘f we can’t find a hose, can we still do it?”

“I don’t know how to do it without one.” You get off your tip-toes and give up peering over the truck bed. Another deed postponed by your chronic smallness, drat. “Do any of our water bottles have those big straws inside the cap? The soft ones?”

You drum your fingers against your thigh. “I don’t think so. They’re all plastic ‘cept for the thermoses, but thermoses don’t have straws.” You look at him and shrug helplessly. “Should we just leave it?”

“We probably have enough to last us... wherever we’re gonna go.” You glance through the windows at the bodies on the other side of the truck, laying motionless. “They couldn’t have come after us without a full tank, that’s stupid.”

You hoist yourself up into the front passenger seat again, hugging your arms close to your torso. Again, ouch. You can’t wait to find someplace with insulated walls and a fireplace and a nice, fluffy, warm bed to sleep in. Then you won’t have to worry about syphoning gas or patting down dead bodies or measuring how tired you are compared to how tired Dave looks.

“‘M sorry for pushing your buttons, not listening to you and stuff.” You look down at your lap. “Just wanted to help you out. You’re doing all this work, trying to get me back on track and load up the truck and move on from, um. The fight.”

You watch him silently while he talks, and you feel your heart sinking just a little. You reach out to lay a hand on his.

“I. S’okay. I just—” You sigh. “You’ve been doing so much. You—You took care of me with the fever, and after the whole cannibal bullshit. And—And I repaid that by. By lettin’ you get fuckin’ stabbed and near bleedin’ out.”

You worry your lip for a moment. “I don’t—want you to get hurt any more.”

“Well yeah,” you shrug. “But you burnt your hand saving me, and you were poisoned and beaten to a fucking pulp because I left you alone.” That keeps happening. You leave, you’re careless somehow, and someone— Dave or Dad, namely— gets hurt. Why does that keep happening?

“Maybe we’re just gonna get hurt a lot. It’s inevitable.” You scoff at yourself, smiling faintly, because you’re so fucking stupid. You reckon you need to take a look around every once in a while and be more observant. “And I’d rather get stabbed fighting for you than for myself. Getting hurt is worth it when it’s for you. Taking care of you is worth it.”

Dave’s hand is touching yours. You lay the other atop his and squeeze reassuringly, which admittedly does hurt your bad arm, but you don’t mind.

You swallow. You can feel your hand sweating in his. Getting hurt is worth it when it’s for you. Taking care of you is worth it.

Your breath stutters. “I—uh.” Yeah, smooth. You’re not trusting what comes out of your mouth right now, so you nod stiffly, give his hand a squeeze, and pull away, shutting the door.

You secure the cover over the truck bed and round to the driver’s side, climbing in. “...Keys?”

It feels like something’s missing when Dave leaves to get in the driver’s seat, like a layer of your skin was simply pulled clean off. You hand him the keys.

“I love you,” you remind him, and when you turn to look at Dave’s face, you half expect to see him in shades. You catch those piercing red eyes instead, half-lidded and somber. Maybe you should stop talking.

There comes a point, you reckon, when you should just shut up and feel. There’s nothing to say when you kill someone. Not “go to hell” or “I love you” or “sorry.” No words could possibly fit the mood that a human must feel when taking another life, or patting down a corpse for her car keys, or making someone vomit poison pills. You can’t always fix that. No wonder Dave is irritated.

You buckle your seatbelt and sit back, closing your eyes. Your throat feels full. You can’t talk anymore.

He sounds so meek, and you feel a pang of guilt. It’s not his fault you’re in this situation, it’s yours. And you’re just making him feel worse.

You slide the keys into the ignition, and you think of Vriska doing the same, and you don’t turn it on, but feel that nausea again. Feel that heaviness in your chest, and the sting in your eyes. There’s only one thing you can fix or maintain right now, and he’s sitting right next to you.

You gingerly take his hand and bring it to your lips, and kiss the back of it. It’s sappy and overplayed as hell, but you hope he knows that you’re not mad at him.

Your eyes remain closed, and a warm tingle travels through your hand. You want to thank Dave, but you’re tired, and your throat’s still got that horrible lump that makes you sound like you’re on the verge of tears (which you are), so you smile faintly. That’s the best you can do right now.

Chapter Text

Eventually you have to open your eyes and look around. There’s the occasional burnt house and dead trees, nothing useful, so you have to go further North, right? Heading for the mountains seems a lot more bleak now than you imagined before, especially considering all the work you’re going to have to put in to grow stuff in a high-altitude low-oxygen environment. Ughhh, this is starting to feel hopeless.

You reach over to put a hand on Dave’s forearm, caressing it soothingly with your thumb and squeezing occasionally. You really want to sleep again. You want to sleep forever, and never deal with food or injuries or gasoline for the rest of your life. Just sleep. With Dave, of course. A cold, guilty weight settles in your chest, and you shiver.

John’s been quiet for a while, so of course you notice when he shivers.

“You still cold?” you ask, and slow down a little. “I can dig in the back for more clothes. You can wrap up in the duvet if you want.”

You’re inching closer and closer to the mountains, and though the landscape outside is gray and bleak and ugly, you feel a little weight lifting from your chest at the thought of finding someplace to settle, to stop running to. If you can find that place, of course.

You shrug. “Let’s not stop for that, I just wanna go.” But not really, you don’t want to go anywhere. You slump down in your seat. Can’t this damn lump in your throat fuck off already? You sound like a little kid trying not to cry. You’re not even that close to crying anymore. Fucking hell. Maybe you should try and cheer up; you don’t know anymore. You haven’t felt this sluggish in ages, it’s seriously messing with you.

“You think we’re gonna find someplace really nice? One of those quaint lodges that rich people live in for a week every few years?” You force a chuckle, squeezing Dave’s arm again. “We’ll probably maintain it better than they ever could.”

“God, I fuckin’ hope so. We fuckin’ deserve it by this point.” You deserve it by this point.

Of course you pick up on John’s energy—or, well, lack thereof. You can hear the hollowness of the chuckle, and know he’s forced it. You glance over at him, sinking into his seat. Would it be creepy to let him know you’ve noticed? Maybe you should just open with the basest, most obvious thing to say.

“You okay.”

You perk up and answer Dave almost immediately. “Yeah, I’m okay.” Nuh-uh. You’re trying to think, but thinking is torture, so you don’t want to think, you want to talk (which, unfortunately, you really can’t bring yourself to do).

“I just wanna go,” you say again. “I don’t want to think or talk about... whatever happened. I just want to sleep.” Your grip on him loosens.

Normally you’d lecture and ridicule someone for expressing such a desire to you. Sleeping through one’s problems? Seriously? How pathetic is that? On the other hand, you completely understand it now, and it’s not like you didn’t spend your whole life coping in equally if not more stupid ways. Stress-eating, biting your nails, breaking your belongings, being an ungrateful little brat. You could really go for a CD shelf to push over right about now. A keyboard to slam on the floor, a heavy book to throw against the wall. That would feel so damn good.

The prospect of causing such destruction also makes you feel even worse, because it reminds you of what a useless brat you are.

“What do you want to do when we get there?” Topic switch. Topic switch. Topic switch. Yes. God, you’re a fucking genius.

He visibly perks up when he answers, and you’re not sure what to think of that. Is he acting or is he telling the truth? You decide the shelve the issue for now, but you decide you’ll keep an eye on him.

“Holy shit, sleep in a real fuckin’ bed.” God, that sounds like heaven right now. “God, a real mattress. And they better have a fuckin’ fireplace. We could sit in front of the fire when it gets real cold. And cook shit on the fire. In the coals. That sounds so fuckin’ good. We’ll have a place to wash our clothes n’ shit... maybe. We’ll have cupboards to sort the food into. No more diggin’ in the car.” You just keep talking, feeling the responsibility of lifting his spirits fall on you.

Man, that does sound nice. Dave describes his hopes for you in such a cozy, quiet way. You’ve truly grown to appreciate the convenience of washing machines and electric ovens now that you’ve been sweaty and hungry for the past week.

“Mm.” You nod in agreement, staring out the window. Away from Dave. “I can’t wait to rest.” You’d listen to him talk forever. About anything, really. If you can’t sleep, you’ll do that instead. You just can’t bring yourself to look at Dave and show your full attention right now, or else that lump in your throat will return. “I’ll take much better care of you once we’re safe. You won’t have to worry about dealing with stuff alone again.”

Your mouth closes of its own accord. Firstly: what the hell does that mean? Secondly: you don’t need looking after, you’re the one who should be looking after him. He just got stabbed, for christ’s sake. And third: even if he hadn’t been, you don’t feel like you deserve to be looked after in the first place.

All of these thoughts run through your mind in a matter of milliseconds, and you have to stop for a moment to consider the pros and cons of voicing them.

“You don’t—need to look after me,” you finally say, shifting your hands uncomfortably on the wheel. “You literally just got fuckin’ shanked in the arm. Because—” Because I failed you. “Because I didn’t do the fuckin’ obvious—”(manly—)“thing and shoot those bitches before they could start a fight.”

The image of Vriska’s bullet holes flashes unbidden across your mind and you feel your throat close up.

You roll your shoulders. Part of you agrees, but the other part of you feels so fucking guilty. Of course you wish Dave could always sufficiently protect you from danger, but what does that make you? Precious cargo? You can’t keep letting him get fucked up like this. Maybe you deserve to get hurt.

“I know you don’t like hurting people, Dave. It’s my fault you’ve had to do that over and over again.” The lump in your throat returns, making your voice sound full. Goddamn it. You take a shaky breath in an attempt to remain calm. “I just feel like... I don’t know, I’m too stupid to be here. If I had looked after you properly, you wouldn’t have been beaten or poisoned, you wouldn’t have been burned, and you’d never have gotten that infection. You wouldn’t have had to kill anyone if I wasn’t so useless. So I need to make up for it. I’m just not sure how.”

There’s a pause, and you take the silence as a sign that Dave is considering what you’re saying; that you owe him, and he can ask for anything in return. There’s got to be something you can do to make up for how you’ve let him get so hurt. “Is there anything I can do to make things more bearable?”

You find yourself at a loss for words. Why the fuck would he think any of that? He’s precious, he shouldn’t have to be fighting anyone. He shouldn’t have to be dealing with this, period.

“You’re not fuckin’ stupid,” you manage eventually. You’re not sure how to go about answering his question, so you’ll leave that for now. “You’re one of the smartest people I know. And—And I wouldn’t fuckin’ be here if you hadn’t come.” You had hesitated for a moment, unsure if you should be sharing something so vulnerable, but you decided in the moment it’s worth it, to comfort him. “I woulda just holed up and died in Texas with Bro. I wasn’t fuckin’ plannin’ on surviving the apocalypse before you showed up.”

You’re actually starting to warm up to the idea that maybe you don’t deserve to get hurt, when Dave hits you with that fucking semi truck of information. You sit up. “You were just gonna lock yourself up and die?” Jesus. Maybe you did make a good choice, coming to visit Dave. It’s still horrible that you haven’t the slightest idea of how to help him, though— he looks tired. Mentally and emotionally exhausted. And here you are complaining when he just killed a woman, and he’s still grappling with the fact he killed someone a week ago.

“I know you care about me and want to protect me,” you continue, fiddling nervously with your hands, and wince when you touch your broken pointer finger weirdly. “I just feel like I’m in your way, but if you say I’m not, then I believe you. I just want to pay back what you’ve done for me. You deserve to relax.”

“I’m fine,” you say automatically, but wince at yourself when you realize that sounds like a smackdown. Like a complete invalidation of what he’s trying to tell you. “...For now. I’m fine right now.”

...

“...Thanks.”

You chance a look at him to gauge the distance, and when your eyes return to the road you reach over and squeeze his good hand. “You’ve done a lot, okay. You...” This feels so uncomfortable, like you’re handing him a knife and angling it at your heart and just trusting he won’t strike, but you try to push through. “You looked after me through the fever even though I was... sayin’ lots of stupid shit. And... you came back for me at the—the silo. Even though you could’ve left and kept yourself safe. You’ve done heaps.”

“I guess you’re right.” You shrug. “I’m not gonna stop now, though. Like I said, caring for you is worth it. If there’s anything specific you need me to do, anything, I’ll do it.” Dave squeezes your hand, so you reciprocate with an even stronger squeeze. “You don’t have to come up with something right now. I’m just trying to get my point across.”

There’s another pause where you take a breath and move your mouth, and something catches in your throat. You decide you don’t need to over explain or fight back anymore. Dave loves you, and you saved him, and you love Dave, and he saved you. It’s a two-way street, you suppose.

“Thank you, Dave.”

You look out the window. You’re driving on some huge mountainous hill now, on a long freeway with loads of cracks and some dead trees lining the sides. Some dead trees. You’re closer to the mountains than you thought.

You do hear his thanks, but the previous sentence sticks in your mind. If there’s anything specific you need me to do, anything, I’ll do it.

The sentiment in his voice is clear, the intent, and while it makes your heart flutter, his declaring he’d do just as much for you as you would for him, it also scares you a little. Like you’d ask him to do absolutely anything for you—anything dangerous, for instance. Anything that would make him uncomfortable. Anything that he wouldn’t do in the first place. It feels a bit like a power trip, and while the sweet intention is still there... you can’t help mentally recoiling at the idea of commanding John like a puppet. He’s never just done as he’s told, as much as it’s irritated you in the past. He refuses to be chained down, and if he changed that now, it wouldn’t even feel like him.

You notice the increasing incline of the road and decide to point it out, in case he hasn’t already noticed. Give him something imminent to look forward to. “Driving uphill now—think we’re almost there.”

You nod at his observation. “Almost where, a scenic drive through a mountain pass? There’s nothing around. We could be looking for a while.” You don’t mean for it to come off so rude, so you try and sprinkle some cheeriness in your voice and sit forward, glancing around at the scenery. “Or maybe we’ll get lucky, I dunno. It doesn’t look so dead up here.”

You snort. “Well, it’s fuckin’ closer to where we wanna be than Houston, ain’t it?”

You suddenly think of something, and then suddenly you’re not feeling so relieved. “Hey... what do you think the heat did to all the glass? N’ bricks? ...And wood? Do you think there’ll even be any houses left?”

You open your mouth to form a positive response, but then you close it and stare blankly forward at the road. God... God damn it. How the hell could you have forgotten? Look at the dead trees around you, for fuck’s sake. Everyone and everything has been roasted in the fucking microwave oven that was Earth’s surface a few days ago. You’re not getting a quaint lodge in the mountains, you’re getting the remains of a charred corpse.

“Maybe we can repair a house,” you suggest, furrowing your brows. “We’ll start small. A little cabin or those mountain shelters people scatter around with nothing but a furnace inside, you know the ones. It’ll be okay.”

“You think...?—” You’ve read up on this, definitely. It’s just that that was a long ass time ago, and you’re not sure if you remember. “The thousand-degree wave only lasted like, a few minutes tops, right? Maybe that’s not long enough to completely destroy everything. Look, the silos were still standing. Barely. And the signs didn’t melt completely off their poles.”

You have another bright idea. “Aren’t a lot of these mountain homes multi-level? Because of the fuckin’ slopes? What if we found one that was like, half underground.”

“I dunno dude, I’m not a rocket scientist. It sounds legit though.” You lean forward and rest your arms on the dash, blowing raspberries briefly, until you notice a break in the road, with the leftmost path covered in gravel. You look at Dave.

“Campsite?” Maybe it leads to one, that’s how it often looked in Washington, but it could lead to residential property, too. You’re really hoping it’s the latter.

“Yeah, let’s look.” You put the indicator on out of habit and turn, then quickly turn it off, hoping John didn’t catch that. There’s a bit of a bump as you transition over the dug-in gutter.

You can’t help thinking that maybe before the heatwave, this might have been a rather pretty evergreen-dotted drive. Now it’s twisted, blackened, naked trunks dotted along the road.

“See any signs?” you ask, keeping an eye out yourself.

“Nothing.” You look around, anxiously patting your thighs to some made-up beat. As you drive, the trees become more sparse, making way for a good view of the mountains not so far away. You’re pretty high up on some rocky hill, perhaps it could be considered a small mountain, you’re not sure. You never went outside enough to properly identify your environment.

Then you catch a glimpse of a light brown smudge through blackened trees, and you point frantically. “Holy shit, keep driving. There’s a fucking house up there.” Of course some rich fuck built their quaint little lodge on a steep mountainside, through a hidden gravel trail which gives way to a steep drop. Of course! How safe. “Dave, go faster, dude!” You hit the window with your finger over and over, pointing like your life depends on it.

You find yourself smiling at John’s sudden pick up in attitude, and you push down steadily on the gas, speeding up gently. The crunching of the gravel beneath the tires becomes a low drone.

As you draw closer, you feel yourself growing excited, as well. It seems to have a garage, and while the house is charred in some places, it looks like it escaped the worst of the forest blaze.

“Look, some of the windows are even still in,” you tell him. You feel the childish excitement sparking in your chest, so you drum your fingers on the wheel to expel the energy instead of bouncing in your seat.

“Yeahahaha!” You exclaim, shaking Dave’s arm giddily. You’re hardly thinking when you grab your wrench, unclasp your seatbelt and practically tumble out of the truck as soon as it comes to a halt. You sprint to the front door, jostle it, it’s locked— there’s a blackened window just beside it, which you hit as hard as you can.

“Dammit,” you spit, and you thwack the window again, clenching your teeth. The crack in the glass grows larger with each hit, and eventually it breaks, prompting you to knock all the excess shards away and clamber inside. What a workout for your poor, aching arm.

After unlocking the door and kicking it open— you’re excited, you had to— you head back outside to help Dave unload the truck. As much as you’d rather explore, you promised yourself you’d look out for him more, and that starts now. It feels like you’ve just finished school and found a place to settle. Is that corny? Sure.

You grin at him, already out of the car by the time he comes rushing back. “What are you comin’ back here for? Don’tcha wanna explore?”

You raise an eyebrow wink at him seamlessly, grin turning wolfish. “First to find the bed doesn’t have to unpack.”

And you take off towards the front door with no warning.

Oh, shit-

The chase is on. You don’t hesitate to sprint after Dave, first pushing him out of your way, then running elsewhere. The distant sound of his running fuels your determination as you weave through rooms, jostling doors and kicking them open, checking desperately for a bed or a pullout couch, your heart pounding with each rapid step. The house becomes a maze, a labyrinth of twists and turns. You don’t find a bed downstairs. You zoom through the kitchen, the living room, the dining room— fucking hell, is everything you’re looking for upstairs? Shit!

You emerge from a corridor to find the staircase in the foyer, and you can hear Dave’s footsteps above you. You’ve never zoomed up a staircase on all fours so fast in your life.

“You cheated!” You yell loud enough for your voice to reverberate off the walls, frantically opening and closing doors.

“If cheating means having a bigger brain, guilty as charged,” you yell back, and you have to reign in the laugh at the sound of clicking and clunking doors behind you. You’re on the last rooms, however, and you’re pretty sure you know what the next one is going to be.

You open the door wide and leisurely stride in, feeling smug as all hell when you see the huge bed against the wall. And, of course, floor-to-ceiling windows on one side, cracked and scorched, because rich people gotta be rich.

You plonk yourself down on the sheets, still surprisingly intact, and yell across the house. “You’re totally unpacking the car dude, I don’t gotta do shit.”

You roll your eyes when Dave declares his victory, and when you reach the final room, you walk shamefully through the doorway with your arms crossed. “Please, my brain is a million times bigger than yours.” You decide to look around. This is nice, save for the cracks on the blackened windows and a few in the wall, but it’s not unbearably ugly.

“This is definitely some rich guy’s summer home that he brags about to his girlfriends,” you scoff, running your good hand over a scorched mahogany dresser. It’s not in horrible shape. Finally, somewhere to put your clothes. Er, Dave’s clothes. You turn to him, smugly laying on a king sized bed like he earned it. He did. You smile at him.

“You’re such an asshole,” you huff, and you fall face-first on the bed beside him. “Also you shouldn’t have your shoes on the bed, that’s unsanitary.”

“Dumping your filthy, unwashed ass on the bed is unsanitary,” you quip. “Besides, you can’t have a brain that much bigger than mine, or it’d explode out of your skull. Unless mine was smaller, in which case—” !

“Hey!” you roll onto your side to dig your fingers into his ribs, ignoring the pain in your own. He deserves it!

“What!” You gasp and wriggle when Dave assaults you with ceaseless tickling, and you curl up on yourself, trying to slap his hands away. “Stah- stop it!” You gasp for breath between fits of laughter, rolling over and grabbing his shoulders, settling yourself atop him. You shove a hand under his shirt and begin tickling him back.

Oh actually, that sucks.

The tickling forces a laugh response out of you, but it just feels so fucking weird. His hands are also drifting dangerously higher, so you grab onto his wrists, trying to formulate some kind of coherent response through the giggles. “Okay, okay—fah-hah—fuck, I swear, I’ll never tickle you again! Cut it out!”

“Okay, okay,” you huff. Grinning broadly, you flop onto your side (ouch) and cease the onslaught of tickle torture. “Now you know what it feels like.”

You still don’t want to go outside and unpack the truck; you want to be in here, where it’s slightly warmer and a lot more homely. Seeing a house with walls and a roof over your head, seeing a real bed— it’s a sight for sore eyes, that’s for sure. You cup Dave’s face and kiss the crease of his mouth where his lips meet his cheek.

Well, that’s just fucking cruel.

You roll onto your side to face him. “Not even a proper kiss?” You loop an arm around him to thread your fingers through his hair and lean in, close enough to feel his breath on your face, but not closing the gap just yet. An invitation.

I’ll show you a proper kiss, you think. You close your eyes and draw closer, kissing Dave softly at first, and then with a swift succession of intensity that makes you cling to him. You rub his back, smiling into the kiss like always, and scoot a little closer, pressing your chest against his (but not too hard, because of his injured rib).

“Was that proper enough for you?” Your voice is edged with impishness, and your fingers slide up his body, caressing the back of his neck.

You shiver a little at the traipsing of his fingertips, but smirk back at him. “Yeah. Much better.”

Your hand settles comfortably on his hip, and you just look at him. Damn, he’s pretty. Especially when he’s smiling. Especially especially when he’s smiling like that. You feel the tips of your ears burn a little.

“We taste horrible.” You snerk, scrunching up your nose. You don’t really mind though; you love Dave too much to turn down a kiss. “I can’t wait to bathe. And eat. And sleep in a real bed with you.” Ew, you’re starting to sound sappy again.

Okay, you reckon if you want that future to come quicker, you should go unload the truck. Enough fucking around. Running a hand through your hair, you groan softly. “I should start unpacking. You just relax.”

You sigh. You don’t want to move—you don’t want him to move, but you know he’s right. So you sit up. “Someone needs to park in the garage,” you tell him, and stretch, vertebrae popping in your back, before you stand up. “Alright, let’s go.”

“I thought you said you didn’t have to do shit.” You make a weird face in a feeble attempt at annoying him playfully, but you just look stupid, so you laugh at yourself and turn to leave.

It’s still dark outside, as always, and you can spot dots of ongoing fires far, far away, miles out into a dying expanse of forest and field below and around you. Despite the fact that the air smells of burnt meat and wood, and there’s certainly a lack of oxygen at this altitude, you feel weirdly safe. You’ll probably die up here, you think, and this is exactly where you want to be when it happens.

You unload the truck once Dave parks it in the garage, which was a hassle to open, since you had to hunt for the button that does so. It’s darker out, but not night, when you finish. Your clothes (or, uh, Dave’s clothes) are neatly folded and stored in that burnt dresser, the duvet is on the bed, and the food is in the cabinets.

Now with nothing urgent to do, you find yourself peeking into the cupboards and cabinets—and you break out into an impish grin. “Shit, John, we hit the fuckin’ motherlode,” you tell him. “There’s cutlery—pots, pans—half the glasses are burnt, but there’s also fuckin’, fancy-ass ceramic mugs n’ plates n’ bowls n’ jugs... holy shit, these people were loaded. Hardly any plastic in the place.”

Before he can reply, you think of something else and immediately motor on. “You think they have a generator? Rich people n’ people livin’ in the mountains, I’ve heard it costs a lot to get connected to the power grid, so they deal with their own shit. Like Jade, she’s got solar panels and generators out the wazoo on that island.” You panic internally for a moment, waiting for that sinking feeling to return, but it doesn’t, so you motor on gladly. “Fuck, and Rose and her mom too, I know they’ve got a generator to keep them going through blackouts.” The more you talk, the more you’re beginning to realize how well-prepared your friends already probably were. How they’re probably doing okay, self-sufficient, safe. You wish they knew you and John are safe, too.

“Yeah, I thought they were as good as dead, but they seem so well prepared compared to us.” You climb on the shiny marble counter and stand up shakily, reaching the top of the cabinets to take a look at Dave’s discoveries. Who in the fresh fucking hell needs cabinets this high? “Do you think they have running water then? Try the sink.”

You step over and turn the cold-water knob. The tap itself vibrates for a second, and there’s a clunking sound in the walls, but nothing comes out. You frown, turning the hot-water valve, waiting for a moment, and then turning off the cold water, but still nothing.

“Maybe it’s turned off?” You look up at John. “I mean, if it’s just like, a vacation house... they probably wouldn’t need to have the generator going all the time.”

That makes sense. Stupid cheap rich people. You kick them mentally for inconveniencing you in a time of great need. Can’t a man just have a nice bath after his long journey?

“Man.” You blow a raspberry, plop yourself down on the counter, and slide off. “It’s okay, I guess. There could be a natural water source nearby. A spring or stream or something, since any snow up here melted. We can worry about that later though, are you tired?”

“Exhausted,” you agree, and step over to rest a hand on his back. It’s getting easier. “We can go find the generator later if you wanna sleep first. ‘M sure we can get it working.”

You nod. “I’d rather sleep,” and for emphasis, you yawn and roll your shoulders, then rub and knead your cheeks. “Bleh. I need seventeen electric blankets, a bath and something to squeeze to death while I sleep.” At least one of those things is accessible. You grin at Dave.

“Seventeen electric blankets? For a northern boy like you? Thought you people were immune to the cold.” You do catch his grin, and you don’t acknowledge it just yet. You turn the hot-water knob back off just to be safe. “I dunno about a bath right now, but we can figure that out later.”

You yawn and squint out the kitchen window, at the dark world outside, and the thickening clouds above. “Wonder what time it is. You think it’ll get so dark we won’t be able to tell?”

“Sure it will. I saw a YouTube video on it. It’s why everything is gonna turn cold; the lack of sunlight.” You feel very smart for that. Yawning again, you take Dave’s hand— sure it’s sappy and gay as fuck, but you’re too tired to care anymore— and lead him upstairs to that big fancy bedroom. “I think we’ll have a good chance at a little bit of light up here though, the mountains were a good choice.”

You follow along like a content puppy, smiling at his obvious pride. “It was your idea,” you remind him—very obviously, but happy to inflate his ego, because he definitely deserves it. He is very smart; and he’s the reason you’re here.

When you enter the bedroom, your eyes flick to the electric—seriously? rich people can’t even be bothered to burn wood?—fireplace across from the bed. “We’ll have to refit that,” you tell him, jerking a thumb in its direction. “So we can stay warm up here. Wait, hey, what the fuck—there was a real fireplace downstairs. Like, huge, brick, Santa-level shit. They seriously can’t have a real one up here too?”

You sit on the bed and shrug. “Maybe they didn’t want Santa to be mistaken and visit two chimneys,” you joke, leaning down to take off your shoes, and holy crap that feels great. You shimmy off your jacket too, balling it up into a huge lump and tossing it onto a plush chair in the corner, like a basketball.

You sit next to him and copy, taking off your shoes and socks—holy fuck, you can’t believe you’ve had these on for a fucking week, you swear your feet have been compressed—and very hesitantly remove your jacket, bracing for the cold, but it’s actually not as bad as you’d been expecting. Maybe this house is insulated?

You don’t even bother taking the coat somewhere else—you let it drop to the floor on top of your shoes. Man, you bet your feet fucking stink—John’s right, you both sorely need to wash—but you figure you’re allowed to have gross feet in an apocalypse. Your hands go to your fly because you are so fucking ready to get out of these jeans, but you pause and glance at John. Even though you have underwear on, you’re not sure if... that would be crossing a line, or something. So you flop back on the covers instead and sigh.

You catch a glimpse of Dave hesitating to remove the rest of his clothes, and you snerk, covering your mouth, then you giggle and fall back on the bed with him. “It’s not gay if one of us still has socks on,” you tell him, kicking and maneuvering the covers until you’re somehow underneath. You fold your glasses, place them on the bedside table, and turn to Dave, staring silently and intently at his crimson eyes.

You scowl at him, considering, bouncing back and forth in your mind... but ultimately, your need for comfort wins out in the end.

“Don’t look,” you tell him childishly, and sit up, turn to face away from him, and yank them down as fast as you can before slipping under the covers with him. You give a delayed shiver at the cold against your legs.

“I can’t see anything without my glasses.” You rub your eyes and wipe the bridge of your nose where your glasses sat. The sides of your head feel a bit sore from wearing them for a week straight, so you massage yourself, breathing a sigh out through your nose. “Only when I get super close.”

That’s an invitation for Dave to come a little closer. You initiate the action by scooting toward him and reaching out beneath the blanket, placing a hand on his upper waist. “We made it,” you say quietly, brows drawn inward with a melancholy smile.

“Yeah.”

You find yourself whispering for some reason, like speaking louder would swell between you and break whatever this is. Your stomach buzzes with anxiety at the hand on your waist, but his hand’s warm and comfortable.

You stare at his eyes. While they’re usually blown up a bit bigger through the lenses, by definition easier to see, they somehow look clearer without the barrier. They’re the deepest blue you think you’ve ever seen on a real person. Like the ocean, but cleaner, a crystal-like quality to them.

“At first I thought coming to see you was selfish, like I was abandoning my Dad and getting in your way.” You move your other hand, the bad one, to touch Dave’s face. To ground yourself. You’re here. You made it. You’re together. “I think coming here with you is the best decision I’ve ever made.”

Your hand retracts, and you pull Dave into a hug, closing your eyes while you bury your face in the crook of his neck. “I love you,” you murmur. “So much.”

You shudder—there’s something about the fact that you’re so close with so little clothes on, the whisping of his breath is tickling your neck, you can feel the vibrations of his words intensely, like all the feeling and meaning behind them had transferred into kinetic energy.

“I.” You’re safe, now. There’s no one else here but him. He’s come back for you, he’s saved you, he’s looked after you...

“I l—. ...I love you, too.”

You have to catch your breath after you say it.

You close your eyes and kiss Dave’s neck, and almost immediately you feel like you’re sinking into the bed. The first to go is your spatial awareness, your touch, then your hearing, and you drift asleep with Dave in your arms, in a world beyond contentment.

You dream about your dad again.

Only this time you can see his face, and you can hear his voice, and he’s happy with you. He says he’s proud of your capabilities and quick thinking— I’m so proud of you, he says, squeezing your shoulder reassuringly— so you shed a tear, hug, and willfully eat one of his cakes. You don’t think any dream could be better than this.

He falls asleep and you wrap your arms around him more snugly. You feel like in holding him like this, you’re protecting him. So even though you find you can’t fall asleep, you don’t move.

You stay like that, holding him, for a long, long time. You think a couple of hours pass. You can feel the temperature still steadily dropping, but with John’s warmth against you, you don’t get too cold. Eventually, you do fall into a sludgy sleep, with John latched onto you like a barnacle and his face against your neck.

The first thing you see is Vriska.

Chapter Text

It takes you a moment to register that you’re even awake at first, until you flex your fingers and feel the warmth of a body wrapped around you. Dave’s presence is comforting. You don’t think to wake him up, why would you? He’s probably so tired— but he shudders, then his breath audibly catches, and you pull back to see his brows drawn together, lips downturned in a frown.

“Dave?” You hug him a little tighter, tug his shirt and stroke his head comfortingly, trying to wake him up. “Dude, are you okay?” Your voice is edged with concern.

Vriska lifts a hand to her chest, drawing your attention to the bullet holes bleeding through her shirt, and grins coldly at you. “Look what you’ve done to poor Terezi. That’s just evil.”

You feel a tug at the back of your shirt and whip around to find the other girl—Terezi—on her knees behind you, glasses shattered, shards of plastic buried in her skin, protruding from her open eyes, keeping her eyelids from closing. There’s so much blood. It looks like she’s wearing a macabre crimson ribbon across her eyes.

As if only just feeling the pain, she starts to scream and falls backwards onto the asphalt, writhing and thrashing about, and you find yourself frozen in place. “You shot me and left her to die like that,” comes Vriska’s voice from behind you, and you shake your head vehemently. You don’t want to see this. You deserve to see this.

“Dave.” You call for him again, speaking as soft and soothing as you can manage. Poor guy. You sit up and peel back the blanket, then shake him. The only explanation to this sudden bout of trembling, you think, is that he’s having a terribly vivid nightmare. “It’s not real, wake up,” you reassure him.

Vriska grabs you by the arms from behind and starts shaking you, and you turn around and shove her off. “STOP!”

You’re in bed. Facing John. Your hands are out, against his chest, and you snatch them back like he’s on fire. “Fuck, fuck. I’m sorry, did I hurt you? Shit, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He’s looking at you so sadly. Did you hurt him? You bet you hurt him. You’re such a fuck up.

Oh, thank god. You don’t expect Dave to thrust out his arms and shove you the way he does, and it honestly hurts, like, it really hurts, but you aren’t angry in the slightest. As soon as his eyes open you pull him up for a hug.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” you repeat, running your hand through his hair and brushing aside stray bangs. You rub his back, careful not to squeeze too tight. He shudders against you. “You didn’t hurt me. What happened, what did you see?”

You don’t believe him in the slightest—you saw the way his eyes widened. “‘M fuckin’ sorry,” you repeat, and you copy him, rubbing up and down his back. You can’t take it back, but maybe you can distract him from it. “Just—them. The girls. Fuck.” Your eyes are burning and you can feel the painful lump in your throat, but you don’t want to fucking cry again. You take a few shaky breaths.

“What about them?” You ask, pressing him for a better answer. You think you can see where this is going, so you pull back and cup Dave’s face, studying him. His eyes are red-rimmed and glistening. “Just tell me. It’s really not gonna get better if you don’t.” You’re one to talk.

You gaze at him for a moment, debating lying to him, but you find you can’t when you look into his eyes. “...Dead.” Well, not exactly. “Just—how they died. Vriska with bullets in her. Terezi...” You feel a tear escape and you curse yourself. “Fuck. Terezi... glasses broken, plastic in her eyes. Blood everywhere.” And you did that. “She must’ve—been in so much fuckin’ pain. Bled out.” Though you try to hold it back, a sob claws its way out of your throat. “I just—fuckin’ left her there.” You’re a monster.

You nod slowly, taking in everything he’s saying. Dave looks really, really frightened, and even more guilty. It makes you feel cold and heavy.

“You acted... based on what you knew then.” You speak thoughtfully, trying your hardest to think before the words come out. God forbid you say something that hurts him even more; look at his face, the way his lip quivers, how his breath shakes. “Not because you wanted to hurt people, but because you wanted to save someone. Including yourself. It just... things just happen, you know? Instincts... pop up, and we act on them...” Shit, you don’t know how to say this. “You’re not a bad person for it, Dave.”

You shake your head and close your eyes against the look he’s giving you. “I dunno, I could’ve—could’ve helped her out, I just—you were fuckin’ passed out and bleedin’ everywhere—” You’re rambling like a fucking kid. You bite you lip and lean into him, head against his chest, so you can hide. “What if... What if they were just like us...?”

You don’t elaborate. You leave it unsaid. If he gets it, he gets it.

You blink. What if they were just like you? Just like you? Of course they weren’t, they were fucking crazy! You press your lips together in refusal to say that though, maybe you should humor the prospect.

“Okay, let’s say they were exactly like us. They were best friends and they wanted to find somewhere safe to live, with a steady food source and clothes and shelter.” You keep rubbing Dave’s back. “They did what they had to do to make it happen. And for them, I guess... poisoning and eating people was the way to do it, just like we needed to kill them to get here. Otherwise we would’ve died.” You suck in a sharp breath. Was that really the right thing to say, or do you sound apathetic? Shit, you’re not good at this emotion and morality stuff.

If they were just like you, just trying to survive... then you really are a fucking monster. They never got to find their own cabin in the mountains, they never got to where you are right now. And it’s all your fault.

You cling onto John and bury your face in his chest, trying to soak up the tears with his shirt. You don’t care right now; you have plenty, he can change if he needs to. You just need to... curl up, try and muffle the sobs, ugly and loud as they are.

You open your mouth to speak, then immediately close it. There’s not much you can say. Maybe Dave just needs this; he needs to cry, so you let him. Wordlessly, you stroke his head and pull him down with you, laying with him tucked into your chest. Each sob and gasp shakes you to your core, like an earth tremor.

You cry for a long time, you lose track of how long. John stays quiet; at any other time you’d feel anxious, feel like his silence speaks volumes about the uncomfortability of the situation, but you’re too emotionally drained to care.

When your sobs finally peter out, you press a long, firm kiss to his chest, to say sorry. And you immediately feel embarrassed.

“‘M sorry,” you mumble, face still in his shirt. “That was fuckin’ stupid.”

You shake your head. “It wasn’t stupid. This is how you feel, your emotions aren’t stupid.” Your hand slides down to his back, feeling the tension in his muscles, and you rub slow, rhythmic circles. “You’re worth loving and fighting for no matter what you do, Dave. You’ll always be good to me.”

You’re not sure how to reply to that, so you don’t say anything. You don’t believe him, but you know that he believes what he says, so why is it worth fighting over?

You pull back so you can squirm back up to the pillows, and sigh. “I’m... sorry if I woke you up.”

It feels pretty pathetic, but you want to remind him that your sorry ass isn’t the only one that should be given attention.

“You didn’t wake me, I was already up.” You kiss Dave’s cheek in a feeble attempt to lift his spirits. “I’m gonna make us breakfast. You should stay here. Relax.” This is what your Dad would do when you were distressed (and in general), so it seems to be the right choice. If only you had the ingredients to bake a cake; that’d be perfect. Ew, is this how Dad used to think? Crazy.

Still fueled by your little bout of cringe caretaker instinct, you roll out of bed, go round to Dave’s side, and pull the blanket up to his shoulders. “You want anything specific?”

You laugh weakly, hand settling over his where he’d pulled up the covers. “You.”

Oh Jesus, maybe this is why you shouldn't try being all sappy. It always comes out weird. “I mean, not that I want you for breakfast—not that, y’know, I’d turn it down—” Oh fucking hell. “I mean like, I just want you in bed. With me. That doesn’t sound any better, fuck.”

You groan and pull the covers over your head, blocking out the world. Why are you so bad at this. John doesn’t freak out like this.

“Me?” You know what Dave means, but it’s still fun to pry and watch him get all flustered. You’ve gone a good seven years without seeing him emote the way other people do, so this is your chance to make up for all that. “I wouldn’t turn it down either.”

You crawl onto the bed, straddling Dave, gently settling yourself atop his waist. You’re careful not to crush him. “I know we’re like, disgusting, but we can do, um... something, maybe.” Now you’re flustered. You snerk and drag a hand down your face, pressing your lips together and biting the bottom one anxiously.

You can feel your face burning bright red. Oh man, oh man, he’s on top of you again, and it’s like, with intent this time. You stare up at him, and even though it’s undignified and awkward, he bites his lip and well, with him on top of you, that sends images through your head. Ohhh shit, you can feel that familiar pleasant ache, and he’s right on fucking top of you, he’s gonna feel it.

“Uh, uh.” Your hands skitter over his hips, wanting to hold them but also giving him ample room to move away if he wants to—you don’t want to trap him. “I—it’s up to you, I don’t wanna—make you uncomfortable, I know you haven’t done anything like this before.” You are desperately trying to ignore the Situation down there. His comfort is more important.

“I’m... not experienced at all, obviously, but um, I want to do this. With you. We don’t have to go all the way, I just... I want you to feel good.” Your smile returns, and there’s an odd little lump touching your rump, and you suck in a breath so fast it makes you dizzy. Now you’re worked up, and oh shit you can see it as soon as you glance down at yourself, it’s so fucking obvious. Whatever. You’re both hard, it’s normal.

You try not to feel ridiculous while you adjust yourself, pulling the covers off Dave once again and sliding your hands up under his shirt, feeling up his body. You can feel his ribs against your palms and the tips of your fingers. “Can I take this off?”

Your breath stutters, and you arch your back a little into his hands before you realize what you’re doing, and promptly drop the short distance back to the bed.

“Yeah—Yeah,” you tell him, and slide your hands up to the skin of his waist beneath his shirt. Fuck, you’re so fucking anxious, you can feel your heart beating its way out of your chest, but you’re also excited to figure out what he likes. You’d be lying to yourself if you said you hadn’t thought about it before, and now that the opportunity’s here, you’re feeling almost dizzy with anticipation.

Grinning out of pure anxiety, you bunch up the fabric of his shirt and lift it over his head, depositing it unceremoniously at the foot of the bed. You don’t even know how you got here. Your mind is too hazy to care about your surroundings, all you need to worry about is the beautiful boy beneath you, shirtless, squirming a little each time you touch him. Your heart is fluttering.

Next is your shirt, then your pants, and you hesitate while unzipping your fly. “I’d tell you not to look, but I guess looking is the whole point,” you giggle, momentarily climbing off Dave to slide your pants down, then your boxers. You can’t help but hug your knees close to your chest, whining through closed lips. “Dave, I have no idea what I’m doing.”

Holy shit, he’s so pretty. Especially when he smiles like that. You draw in a deep breath and let your fingers ghost up his legs, tracing patterns into his skin. It’s so hopelessly soft and romantic, nothing like what you’ve done before.

“I do,” you say, quietly. “I can take things from here if you want. But I won’t—make you do anything you don’t want to.”

You want to kiss him so bad, melt that anxiety off him, but he’s too far away and too closed up right now.

“Okay,” you respond quietly, smiling at him. “I’ll let you know if I wanna stop. And you let me know, too.”

Shivering at the feeling of Dave’s fingers touching your legs, you part them hesitantly, scoot closer, tilt his head to the side and press a tender kiss into his neck, pulling him closer to your body. You want to seem sexy and bold (despite having established that you absolutely aren’t), so if you let him get a good look at the blush burning across your cheeks, it’ll ruin it.

You almost squeak at the kiss, but let out a shaky breath instead. Good, good. He’s going to tell you if he needs to. Your hands drift back down to his hips, and inch a little lower and a little back, just enough to be able to stroke the skin at the dip in the small of his back.

“Can I—hold you here?” you ask, but since you’re not actually already touching there for fear of going too far, you realize you need to be more specific. “I mean—your, uh, cakes.” Wow, how fucking sexy, Strider. You follow it up with another question. “Can I flip us over, or do you wanna stay like this?”

“Yeah.” Cakes? Your breath hitches and you chuckle, taking a moment to breathe and laugh before continuing to kiss Dave’s neck, sucking gentle marks into his soft, warm skin. Then he asks another question, and you sigh a quick, shuddering breath. “Yeah, just— yes, you can, thanks for asking.”

His assent and the shaky breath that comes with it gets you going more than anything, but you don’t let on, staying slow and gentle. Holding him by said cakes, you manage to pick him up and turn the two of you over, settling him back into the blankets as gently as possible. You’re treating him like glass, but he’s so precious to you, you wouldn’t forgive yourself if anything happened to him.

The marks left on your neck are still drying, you can feel them intently against the cool air, and you lean down to press your lips to his, traipsing your hands up and down his sides. You want him to relax, you want him to feel comfortable first and foremost.

Shit, you’re trembling. You take a deep breath and feel yourself sink into the mattress, arms wrapped around the back of Dave’s neck, kissing his cracked lips softly. You feel warm, malleable like putty, like a melting marshmallow.

“Dave,” you say shakily. “Please. Please.” You don’t know what exactly you’re begging for anymore, all you know is that you need it. He’s so pretty, so soft, and he’s so nice to you. Dave’s tummy brushes against your straining shaft, and your heart stops beating for half a second.

You pull back when he speaks, and just look at him. Holy shit, he’s so fucking pretty. You’re so fucking lucky.

You feel him throbbing against you and you can feel yourself aching in response, still restrained by the underwear you never took off, but you don’t remove them just yet.

You lean forward and whisper into his ear, breath hot. “I wanna get my mouth on you,” you tell him, and you find it’s much easier to dirty talk than to say all this sweet, careful stuff, and you stroke his sides with your thumbs in compensation. “That okay? Do you want that?”

Crap, Dave is so close, you can’t help but shiver again. He really seems to know what he’s doing, at least, in comparison to your clueless ass. He knows what he does to you. He knows what you’re thinking, how to make you think certain things.

“It’s more than okay.” You buck up your hips. It’s involuntary, you don’t mean to, it makes you feel desperate— but you want that friction, you need it. “Please.” You have a nagging feeling that you’re going to say please a whole lot.

You chuckle—he’s so polite. You plant another kiss on his mouth and then shift back, kissing his jaw, down his neck, chest, and stomach, slowly and softly. You know you’re teasing, but you’re drunk off his reactions to the smallest things you do, and you’re already parched for it.

You detour around to kiss at his thigh, and then back up to his already weeping cock—you want nothing more than to take him all in right away, but he’s new to this, it’s strange and it could be scary, so you begin only by holding him with one hand and kissing slowly up the side. You want to give him plenty of time to soak it in, to make a decision, and besides, you’re enjoying yourself far too much already.

You hide your face in the crook of your elbow and keep your legs open for him, gasping and writhing just a little with each kiss. You feel so appreciated, so important. Dave kisses where thigh meets hip, not seeming to care about the erection right next to him, until he finally wraps a hand around your dick. You’re trembling.

You cover your mouth with one hand, the other holding a shaking fistful of your own hair. Watching Dave makes you want to curl up and hide and melt into an unsuspecting puddle of water. You love it, this unfamiliar feeling in your stomach and abdomen, the soft lips kissing up the side of your cock. You whine. “Daaave...”

You smile at him. He looks so damn cute, and he’s trusting you so deeply, you wish you could capture this moment and keep it forever.

You don’t have the heart to make him really beg—you don’t need to, you can see how much he wants it, you don’t need any validation. So you close your mouth over the head and suckle gently. You don’t move your hand yet, but you watch him for any signs of discomfort, pleasure, anything.

You whine again. Actually, no, scratch that— it’s more of a moan, a loud and effeminate one, fueled by shock and pleasure. Your hand, still gripping a fistful of your hair, trembles the tighter you clench. It takes a great deal of self control not to snap your legs closed and crush Dave by accident. “Ahhhah-” you gasp. You’ve never made a noise like that before. “Keep- keep going.”

Like you have any fucking plans of stopping after a reaction like that.

You sink down on him, the tip of him grazing the back of your throat, and pull back up, hand pumping slowly where your mouth isn’t covering—and you groan. Fuck, it tastes like him, and right now, if he isn’t the hottest thing you’ve ever seen. You slide your hands under his ass, kneading the flesh there, and close your eyes as you begin to bob. You listen intently for the sounds he makes, and every now and then you pull back almost completely to suck at the tip, keep things interesting and exciting for him.

You can feel Dave’s tongue moving against the underside of your cock as he takes your shaft, hollows his cheeks and pulls back all the way to the tip, creating an unbelievable suction. You groan, squeeze your eyes shut, suck in a sharp breath. He sinks back down to the hilt, unbearably slow. You make another desperate noise, a mewl of sorts, trying desperately not to move too much.

A groan surfaces from Dave’s throat and the vibration sends a shock wave of pleasure though you. Another slow drag back to the tip, his tongue swirls around the head, and you’re begging again. “God, Dave, go faster, please. Please, please.” He goes down again and his lips hug the base. You feel like you’re going to implode.

Faster? You can do that. Fucking christ, he sounds incredible. You’ll do anything to keep him making those noises.

You speed up, enthusiastic. You knead his ass again, you push him up into you. You really want him to fuck your mouth. You want to see what he looks like even more desperate than he is right now.

You groan again, your own dick straining against your underwear, and grind against the bed for some relief.

“D- Dave.” Feeling the pleasure building fast between your trembling legs, you run a hand through his hair because you can’t think of what else to do. Dave is working you in earnest now, swallowing you down over and over until you can't bear it any longer. You grab his face, gently of course, cupping his cheeks, and thrust your hips up into him, hitting his poor nose with your pelvis.

You don’t really notice how rough you’re potentially being, too focused on bucking up and face-fucking Dave, shoving your dick down his throat like a handheld onahole. You curse yourself for thinking that way about Dave— he’s not a toy, he’s your boyfriend. Your beautiful, wonderful boyfriend. It takes a moment for you to realize the effeminate moans and whimpers reverberating off the walls are all yours.

Fuuuuuuuck yes, so good. So fucking good. You moan in response, long and surprisingly high what with the way he’s rhythmically hitting the back of your throat. He’s getting faster which means he’s getting closer, and you’re burning up. You retrieve one of your hands to shove between your legs and grind against—you don’t care what you look like right now, this is so fucking hot. He’s so fucking hot.

He keeps moaning and whining and so do you—you need him to know you’re enjoying this, enjoying making him fall apart, just as much as he is.

A smile replaces your desperate expression for a moment when you hear Dave’s muffled whines. You’re glad he’s enjoying himself, he deserves to, so you keep pumping yourself, bobbing Dave’s head up and down. Looking down at him, he’s got his brows drawn together in an expression like yours, and you smile even wider. He’s so pretty. The noises he makes are just as beautiful. Amidst that thought, something springs apart like a broken egg in your stomach, and you gasp. You’re crumbling like sand, fading into warm, cozy bliss. “I’m- fuck, I- ngh!”

The pleasure borders on pain, and you think you call out Dave’s name as you spill into his mouth, but you can't be sure. You're shaking all over from the effort of orgasm, and you let go of his face, taking big, sharp breaths.

You shudder, feeling him spill into your mouth, hearing your name on his lips, feeling his tired hands drop from your cheeks, tips of his fingers tickling you for a moment before they retreat completely—and you swallow without hesitation, and then pull back.

“Fuck. Fuck, that was so hot,” you tell him, leaning back up to kiss fervently at his neck—you want to kiss him properly, but you’re not sure if that would gross him out, so you’ll just settle for this for now. You can hear him still panting into your ear, and that’s more than enough. “You’re so fucking hot, John, holy shit.”

You’re still woozily processing what just happened when Dave crawls up to kiss your neck, and you moan again. “Ahhah- shit...” you breathe, wrapping your arms around his torso, with a finger just breaking his waistband. “You’re... those noises... I never thought I’d hear you make those noises. They were so pretty.” You chuckle airily. “You’re so beautiful like that.”

Your hand slides down into his boxers, careful not to touch anything too risqué despite having just came down his throat, and you squeeze Dave’s asscheek playfully. You’re still panting, chest rising and falling in rapid succession. “Is- is there anything you want me to- should I-” you laugh. “Did you finish?” That’s the question you’re looking to ask.

You groan a little at the squeeze, even as you feel your face burn from his compliments—you? beautiful? he’s beautiful—and you plant another open-mouthed kiss on his neck before replying. “Mm, nah. Didn’t really need to, watchin’ you was just as good.”

You wouldn’t be opposed to continuing, but you’re telling the truth. You could call it quits here and be just as satisfied, knowing you made him feel good. You kiss his neck again, and suck, just a little. Just enough for the sensation, not enough to bruise.

You’re tuckered out, so you sigh again and confirm with a breathy “Okay,” turning so Dave lays at your side, and hugging him so close to your chest that you can feel his rapid heartbeat thumping. You pet his head, kissing his neck and shoulders. You trace the muscle under his neck and let your hands roam for a bit, rubbing his back and feeling up his hips. “You’re really good at sucking dick, by the way.” And you giggle.

You snort, and press another kiss to the junction of where his jaw meets his neck. “Wow, thanks. Glad to know my hard work has paid off.”

You kiss him again, on the cheek, and again, on the forehead. Wow, it’s been so long, you forgot how touchy you get after sex. You don’t think he minds, though, not like the other guys in the past—judging from the way he’s kissing and touching you back.

You traipse a hand up the soft skin on his side, and then around to his back, tracing nonsensical patterns. You’re going to jump up at some point and help him tackle breakfast, find and fix that generator, but for now you’re more than happy to lie here with him, in a space that feels even more intimate than what you were just engaged in, because it’s so quiet and calm and soft.

“I love you,” you tell him, and it slips easier off your tongue this time. Maybe it’s the bubble of safety you find yourselves in, you’re not quite sure. You really want to say I adore you, you’re so beautiful and so smart and so sexy, I’ve loved you for years and I can’t believe I can tell you that now... but you think the simple “I love you” will do, for now.

“I love you,” you retort, and you bury your face in the crook of Dave’s neck, hooking one leg over his. You need to be closer to him in a way you can’t explain. For a while you lay there quietly, still rubbing soothing circles on his back, a hand on his ass because Why Not. This is so fucking nice.

You feel your stomach rumble, a sign that there are things to do. “What’s really on the breakfast menu this time?” Such a stupid joke. You can’t help but giggle.

You snort with him. It’s not even funny, but the way he laughs makes you laugh. You kiss the top of his head, resting your face there. “Mm, spamcorn. Cookies. Jerky. Chips. We can raid the place for anything else. Take your pick.”

You smile. “Jerky,” you say dreamily, silently chastising yourself for thinking of something else instead of the food. “Can’t go wrong with barbecue beef jerky.” It’s become your favourite food now. You wouldn’t give up beef jerky for the world. Too bad you’re going to run out soon. “Mmm, I should get up and do that now, shouldn’t I?”

You hum. “If you’re hungry, probably.” You scratch gently at the hair at the nape of his neck. “Then I can go find that generator. See if we can get some light in here.”

Sounds like a good plan. You roll your neck from side to side, loosening any kinks, and you feel a satisfying little crack. “We’re gonna have to live like it’s the eighteen hundreds,” you joke, slipping your (Dave’s) shirt over your head. It feels more special now that you two are together. “Boiling water over the fire, washing clothes by hand.”

Huh. He’s right.

“Back to washing clothes in the shower then,” you tell him, sitting up and pulling your own shirt on, and then shifting to sit on the edge of the bed to reach your jeans. “Easy as.”

You thread your feet through and yank them up quickly as soon as you stand up, still camera-shy.

“I hope they left behind laundry detergent.” You crawl across the bed and stand beside Dave, turning him so you can hug him from behind. “We’ll be fine. I’m glad we made it here.”

You smile, and rest your hands on his arms around you. “Yeah.”

You think about it; a lit, toasty-warm house, and sigh. Like in a movie.

You almost turn around in his arms to face him, but decide you like feeling his arms around you like this more, so you speak over your shoulder. “Do we wanna sort breakfast together or should we split up, and I’ll look for the generator?”

“I’ve got breakfast covered.” You squeeze Dave gently and kiss the back of his shoulder. “And I’ll go out and look for a water source. We’re kind of fucked without one.”

With that, you let go to find your shoes and socks, slip them on, and head downstairs after pecking Dave on the cheek. You waste no time pulling out beef jerky and some more of that canned corn, then setting the pot down by the fireplace, which offers quite a challenge when you try to start a fire. Thank god there’s firewood in there, probably for decorative purposes, and you finally start a spark with a broken piece of wood.

You don’t want to put those goddamn shoes on again, but you bite the bullet anyway and slip them on before you head downstairs. You pass John messing around with the fireplace, and smile to yourself, and duck into the kitchen to rummage for some of the cereal you stole. You don’t bother to find a bowl or spoon, just rip open the packet and eat straight from the box while you head outside, like you used to. There’s some level of comfort in it.

It proves more difficult to tour the perimeter of the house than you thought—these people didn’t have much of a garden to begin with, but now it’s definitely more inkeeping with the hellscape you drove through below, burnt trees and fallen branches scattered everywhere.

You pass a large water tank built into the hillside, and you do find a generator. Tucked into the alcove of where the larger house branches off from the garage, yellow plastic shell melted half off, solid metal a little rusted, but otherwise whole.

You rush into the house and through the door into the garage, sweep the place, but there’s no extra gasoline lying around, just the stuff you left in the car. You decide to sweep the house just in case before you use that.

“Found the generator,” you call out as you motor back into the house, through the kitchen where you set the box of cereal down again, and the past the living room. “Just checkin’ for extra fuel.”

“You can use alcohol as a substitute for gas, I think,” you call behind you, then you carefully place the pot in the fireplace, ready to pull it out once you think the corn is done. In the meantime, you munch on some beef jerky, ready to use the plastic bag it came in as a sort of glove.

You make a cursory sweep of the rest of the house, checking in the spare bedrooms, the downstairs bathroom, the utility room, and finally the office/workshop. You find nothing of importance, but just as you’re about to leave, you notice something metal poking out from underneath the rug. You push the rolling chair away and kick the rug back, and your eyes blow wide.

“Holy shit, there’s a fucking trapdoor in here.”

It’s probably a storm shelter, but what if there’s supplies down there? Holy shit, what if there’s people still down there?

While watching the pot, you hear Dave searching about the house. He says something you can’t quite make out. “There’s a what?” You shout, wrapping the plastic jerky packet around the pot handle and removing it from the flames. You leave it on a fluffy grey, white and brown carpet behind you to go in search of him.

“A huh?” You find Dave in the office, with the rug folded on itself and a swivel chair in the corner. “Oh, a trapdoor. Only one way to find out what’s in there.”

You kneel down beside it. There’s a weird metal handle, built so it’s flush against the surface of the door, and you yank on it. There’s a heavy click! and you heave the thing open, pushing the rug out of the way as you go—it’s surprisingly heavy, definitely a heavy-duty storm shelter kind of thing.

There’s a short ladder going down into the hole below, maybe 8-or-so feet, and you swing yourself down onto it and climb down. It’s a small space, maybe the size of a larger broom closet, and a door set in the wall. Just a regular door, like one leading to a basement.

You climb down after Dave, careful not to grip the ladder too hard with your broken fingers, and you let yourself drop down the last two rungs. Just for fun.

“Maybe there’s food in there?” You squint your eyes. It’s dark in here. In fact, it’s dark in the entire house, so you suppose it can only get worse now that you’re beneath it all. “Rich people have lots of supplies, I bet. Since they know the carbon emissions and chemical warfare they’re funding is going to destroy the planet, and they don’t want to die because of it.” What a horrible joke. You reach for the doorknob and swing it open.

It is dark inside, but you step in anyway, listening. All is quiet.

You close your eyes to let them adjust for a moment before looking around—it’s just like a comfortable, one-room basement, with a couch in the corner, mattresses leaning against the far wall, and the closest walls lined with shelves, packed with all kinds of stuff. You begin snooping around, and pretty quickly find something on one of the closest shelves. “I think this is fuckin’ gas. For the generator.”

“Hallelujah.” You walk in and flick a light switch beside the door, like that’ll do anything. Click. Click click click click click click. Okay, you tell yourself, enough messing around. You stand beside Dave and slide one of the red gas canisters off its shelf, holding it in both arms, until you find it really hurts your bad arm. You put it down. “Should we bring all of them up?”

You notice, and you almost really chastize him—but you catch yourself, and instead lay a hand on his arm. “Careful.”

You look from the canisters to the ladder leading upstairs. “Nah, we can leave ‘em here for now. Easy enough to grab another one when we run out, right?” You pick up the canister he set down and head out to the ladder, before you stop. “Oh—are you good to climb up?”

You shrug. “I climbed down, I can climb up again.” In truth it wasn’t a very pleasant experience, but you can deal with it, you’ve been through worse. Like getting shanked. And bleeding out.

To prove that to yourself, you look around, then promptly exit the room when you’ve gauged there’s nothing else you want to take. You scale the ladder as quickly as possible, managing to not only minimize the pain, but beat Dave in a mental race you never told him about.

You snort. “Alright, message received, loud n’ clear.” Gripping the canister with one hand, you manage to scale the ladder using only the other and your feet, and pop out next to John on the ground floor. “Alright, I’m gonna go fill it up and turn it on, see if it still works. Be right back.”

“I’ll have the food ready when you get back.” With that, you retreat to the living room to haul the pot to the kitchen, where you scrape out the corn and put it in little porcelain bowls. This is the best breakfast you’ve ever made in your life.

It looks even darker outside with the windows in front of the counter all blackened and cracked. You attempt to wipe one, but the damage is on the other side, which you can’t get to. Ash falls from the sky like snow. You can’t wait to see real snow again, if you ever do.

Ash begins to fall on you when you trudge outside, and you’re sure it’s leaving you spotted like a goddamn Dalmatian, but you’re thankful for the fact that it’s no longer burning embers from the sky. A sign that maybe things are finally beginning to calm down, go back to the new normal you’ll be living with.

As it turns out, the generator is already half-full of gas, but you top it up anyway, and then pry the melted plastic covering off to get at the buttons—which, some being plastic, are melted too. Jabbing the biggest one yields no results, so you retrieve a knife from inside and pry the covering from that, too, and reach in and flick at what lies underneath.

The generator purrs to life.

You jump to your feet and rush back around to the front door, and you see a flash of green in the sky, just where the clouds are thinning, and then watch as a few streams of red light pass overhead. You prioritize and dash inside, and slap the light switch by the door.

You wait a couple of seconds. And then, the bulb overhead lights up, dim at first, and then flickers brighter, then off, then on again, and the entry corridor is bathed in light.

Next you rush into the kitchen and beeline to the cracked stovetop. If the induction stovetop is running, then so will the electric fireplace upstairs—you click the dials around, and watch in delight as the individual cookers light up with rings of red.

“It’s working,” you say breathlessly, and turn to John, and you can feel the grin splitting your face. “It’s fuckin’ working!”

The lights flickering on catch you off guard, but it brings a smile to your face, finally, finally, you can regain some sense of normalcy. When Dave rushes in to exclaim his success, your grin only widens, and you offer him a high-five. Pack a punch in that fucking high-five. It’s the hardest high-five you’ve ever given anyone.

“Last time you smiled like that I had just walked through your door,” you chuckle, and you click on the light over the stovetop. “You think the TV still works? Maybe they’ve got, like, downloaded stuff.”

“I dunno, I dunno,” you motor, mind racing. What’s the next most important thing? Water. John wanted to bathe, and now you’ve got the electricity running—

You bolt back out the front door and round the house to that water tank you saw nestled into the hillside. A quick inspection of it yields nothing, but for a section of pipe running away from the tank, unearthed by the fires and fallen trees and wind. You make an educated guess of the direction of the pipe and run into the garage, and a quick round of the space finds you first a fuse box, and then another metal box full of switches. You begin flicking them erratically, listening—and then a sharp clunking in the walls, and you run back into the kitchen, shoes squeaking on the polished floors, and crank the hot-water tap. The faucet trembles, there’s more clunking, grating—and then water shoots into the sink, splashing up at you and over the front of your shirt, but you don’t care.

Too excited to remember to turn the damn thing off, you rush over to an unsuspecting John, still plodding away at breakfast by the looks of it, and you grab his hands away from the bowls, spin him around to face you, and loop your arms around his waist and lift him up, spinning him around. You’re laughing; you’re safe, you have shelter, electricity, water—and you’re with him.

You’re not paying enough attention to notice Dave racing toward you to spin you around. You gasp and laugh, a little frightened, but mostly excited, with a wide grin spread across your lips to prove it. “So does that mean we don’t have to smell like wet dog anymore?”

You giggle, wrapping your arms around the back of Dave’s neck. “God, I missed the lights. I missed being in a house.” He seems even happier about it than you are, like he just solved the world’s hardest puzzle. In a way, he kind of did. Leading the journey from Texas to here was, quite literally, torture.

“Yep.” You go to kiss him on the mouth—but you still haven’t fucking washed your mouth out yet or whatever, so you peck him on the cheek instead. “Means you can fuckin’ bathe to your heart’s content.”

You remember something. “But first, I have somethin’ to show you. You wanna come see?” You nod at the bowls on the counter. “We can bring the food if you want.”

“If you put me down, I can look.” When Dave complies, you reach for the drawer right under the counter and pull out two spoons, which you place in the bowls of corn and beef jerky. What a fulfilling breakfast you have here. Gordon Ramsay would be exceptionally proud of your cooking expertise.

You have to snort when you look at the bowls. “Cornjerky.”

You pick yours up anyway, and grab ahold of John’s right wrist, making sure not to knock his splints. “C’mon, I think you’ll like it.”

“Professionally made cornjerky.” That required correcting. You turn off the sink and take your bowl before Dave guides you along, through the living room and the foyer, then outside. What could possibly be outside? “I’m gonna get ash in my food,” you complain, and you start eating, nose-deep in your delicious (not) cornjerky without even looking around.

You huff. “You’re such a fuckin’ baby,” you tease, and guide him to a small outcropping of rocks across the obliterated yard, which you sit down upon. You let go of his wrist, and point up at the clearing in the ashen clouds. “Look.”

You scoff at Dave’s remark about you being a baby, but you can’t be playfully annoyed with him forever. You look up, swallowing a mouthful of corn, and your jaw goes slack.

Ribbons of color paint little clearings in the sky, unfurling across the heavens in a cosmic ballet. The greens, yellows and reds shimmer and twist, painting ethereal strokes against the backdrop of the velvety night. Even with plumes of ash covering most of the sky, it looks prettier than you’ve ever imagined. You never thought you’d get to see this.

“Christ,” you remark, your voice low and hushed. That’s all you have to say.

You watch a few meteors streak across the patches of open sky, trailing red-hot tails through the existing light show, close enough to appreciate, but far enough away to not have to fear them. You look at him, at his wide eyes and open mouth, and you smile.

“‘S beautiful.”

“It really is,” you reply, hardly paying attention. If you had your phone, you’d totally record all of this. You assure yourself you’ll never forget watching the northern lights with Dave; it’s impossible. Your hand touches his, and you lace your fingers together.

You snort quietly to yourself—for a guy that watches so many mainstream guy-gets-girl movies, he really is fucking clueless.

You hesitate, but you gently squeeze his hand in yours to remind yourself that he’s not gonna reject you or make fun of you, and you shift closer, lean your head against his. “Almost as beautiful as you.”

It’s sappy, it’s overplayed—sure. But you made it. And you didn’t fuck up. And you’re sharing something special with him you never thought you could. So that makes it okay.

You? Beautiful? You shrink into yourself and look away, intent on hiding your flushed face, burning with a warm blush that spreads from your cheeks to the tips of your ears. Then again, you should show your appreciation, right? Show Dave how much you love him, how thankful you are that he brought you here. He saved you. A little blush shouldn’t get in your way.

You turn and lift Dave’s chin with your good hand, offering him a tender kiss on the lips. Then you pull back and stare into those crimson eyes, and your smile only widens, and your cheeks hurt from smiling so much but it’s okay, because you’d rather feel joy like this and hurt your cheeks than be as miserable as you were a week ago.

“Well it doesn’t even compare to you,” you finally reply, caressing his cheek. “Thank you for making this happen, Dave. I wouldn’t have made it without you.”

His affections are so soft, it melts you, and you lean your forehead against his. You sigh happily. “And I wouldn’t’ve made it without you, babe. We made it.”

The spectacle in the sky is all but forgotten to you right now as you lean into him and close your eyes, as is the breakfast bowl in your hands. You never thought you’d be spending the rest of your life with him, nevertheless that it would be your only option—but now that you find yourself faced with it, despite the ash and the dark and the cold for years to come... you couldn’t be happier.