Archive of Our Own ^beta

“How about tomorrow I come back and we take a little walk? Not far, we won't leave the scan zone if you don't want to, just far enough for you to get some fresh air instead of being cooped up in here. I'll be right there beside you the whole time, promise you, I won't let nothin’ bad happen to you. How's that sound sweetheart?”

Peter had been your usual porter for 6 months, always showing up with a positive attitude and a charming smile that just had a way of drawing you in, even if you only greeted him to your bunker via hologram initially, that magnetic pull towards him was still there from day one. He never quibbled about the distance he had to travel to get to you, or the fact that you were situated in the middle of bumfuck nowhere high up in the snow covered mountains, no, he just showed up, did his job and stuck around for some friendly chit chat. Peter excelled where other porters would downright refuse the deliveries or they would accept them, but deliver your orders in poor shape, forgoing the ‘handle with care’ labels that had been haphazardly slapped onto them.

He genuinely cared.

At first you thought he was just extremely committed to the job, prideful in his customer service and maybe he was, but after the first few deliveries — after the day he saw you just outside your bunker in person, to be more specific — everything shifted and it became clearer to you that there was something beyond just an overeager porter doing his job, and for you? Putting in extra orders between your usual bulk weekly order was new too. New and a little daunting after spending so long by yourself. Your nearest neighbours were a kooky woman who goes by ‘The Spiritualist’ and a man who outdid even you in terms of being a hermit, ‘The First Prepper' neither of whom you were on first name basis with, neither of them people you'd consider ‘friends’ so thinking of Peter in a ‘more than friends’ way terrified you, and yet you still let your mind wander to that place.

Your meetings with Peter had quickly become something you looked forward to, he didn't even seem to mind the extra order during the week, in fact it seemed like he wanted an excuse to come see you.

You left behind the holographic greeting and started leaving your bunker to meet him at the terminal, there the two of you would talk for hours, you'd find yourself getting lost in the oceanic depths of his eyes, forcing yourself to tear your gaze away when he'd give you that knowing smirk. You found out that the two of you had things in common, both of you were DOOMS sufferers, though his sounded a little more complicated than yours. You'd both lost your parents and were now alone in this world, you recognized the pain that etched across his features when he was able to talk about it, he would never fill in the blanks about how he survived though, and you never pushed him. You explained that you had an uncle out there that you'd long lost contact with after your parents died in a voidout, you'd been old enough at the time to take care of yourself so that's what you did.

He admired your strength and your tenacity, but more than that, he'd been falling for the parts of you that were laid bare like open wounds, the vulnerability that you weren't afraid to display, the need for someone to take care of you even if you knew how to do it all yourself and the need you had to take care of someone else who had never had that for themselves. Every time he had to leave your chest would ache a little more each time, never letting him go empty handed, you'd send him away with a flask of hot coffee and a meal to eat for his long journey back down the mountains. You'd watch him leave from the entryway to your bunker until his figure disappeared in the flurry of timefall snow, and you'd find yourself talking out loud to your parents, asking them to keep a watchful eye over him and keep him safe on his travels.

Around the 4th month of Peter making the deliveries, you bit the bullet. He arrived with your weekly delivery of supplies just as a whiteout hit, he'd been shivering even through his thermals, the weather forecast suggested it was going to go on long into the night so you did the one thing you'd never done before, invited him into your bunker for the night. You saw it then, the flash of curiosity and piqued interest behind those blue eyes, and you mirrored that same look.

It all began that night, the blossoming romance between the two of you. He was tender and patient, your agoraphobia had meant that even if you did leave the bunker, you didn't stay around very many people for too long. Relationships were a foreign concept to you, you'd seen your own parents' relationship while growing up, it had been something to aspire to in your eyes, they'd had so much love to give, you knew they'd adore Peter.

He was your first everything, your first kiss, your first love and the first person you'd ever had sex with. He showed you pleasure you didn't know could exist, sure you had your smutty little books that you'd learned a few tricks and tips from, but nothing could have prepared you for the real thing. Peter gave and gave and gave until you were writhing beneath him in ecstasy and overstimulation, reverent with his tongue and lips, drinking your sweet release down greedily before he'd send you into a state of bliss, making love to each other until the two of you would pass out, tangled up in a mix of sweaty limbs and sheets together.

When he had to leave in the morning, it was always bittersweet. ‘Just one more kiss’ was never enough for either of you, he'd reluctantly go when his cufflink would beep and you'd just as reluctantly let him leave. Every second the two of you were apart you'd crave each other, sending mail back and forth like lovestruck teenagers until you'd get the chance to see each other again.

The nights he stayed were full of laughter and passion, but some nights when either one of you were hit with DOOMS nightmares, you'd take it in turns holding each other through the after effects, the first time you'd seen him broken was heart-breaking. He looked like a scared little boy when you were awoken to the sounds of him sobbing beside you, unable to verbalize what he'd seen and what had happened in his dream. Whatever it was had scared him, he'd tremble in your arms like a leaf and neither of you would get another wink of sleep the rest of the night.

You didn't push. Oh how you wanted to, but you never did. You knew there had to be more to it though.

He helped you during the times your phobia took over you, the days when even venturing past your bunker door to the terminal seemed impossible, Peter would be there holding your hand, taking it one step at a time, murmuring words of praise for you with that big beautiful smile of his.

On the day that he'd managed to get you to take a few steps into the fresh snow just outside, that's where he told you he loved you for the first time, a moment you'll replay in your mind for years to come, a moment where each time you thought about it, you'd remember smaller details about it, the way he said it, the wistfulness you didn't pick up on at the time, the slightly sombre look in his eyes that would denote what was to come for the two of you.

The empty promise he made about coming back the next day for a walk that he knew would never happen. One you'd eagerly be awaiting all day, only to turn into distress and panic when you couldn't contact him, one that would turn into heartbreak when your mind conjured up scenarios of what might have happened to him, following the disgust and betrayal you felt when the next month you saw his face on the news, under a new moniker, branded as a terrorist and now a wanted man.

Higgs Monaghan.

The call came just as a porter left after dropping off your delivery, the sound of the terminal just beyond your door with a tune you hadn't heard in a long time. No one ever contacted you like this, you got spam mail in your inbox, your neighbours sending you their wacky conspiracy theories in the middle of the night, but no one ever called, not since—

No. You won't let yourself think about him.

You open the door a crack to make sure the porter is gone, only the sound of the wind howling outside and the continuous ringing coming from the terminal remain. When you're sure the coast is clear, you step out and in a few short steps you're at the terminal looking over who the call is from only to see ‘unknown number’ blinking back at you on the screen. For a moment you let the demons in, the long buried part of you that yearns to hear his voice just one more time slithers its way into your thoughts. What would you even say other than ‘fuck off’? Maybe you'd tell him how much you despise him. How much of a worthless piece of shit he is. How you hope he suffers an agonizing demise for everything he's done. You would, you're sure you would, you'd give him a piece of your mind and then some.

You'd refuse to let ‘I love you’ be the last thing you had ever said to that man, not Peter, but the person he became after abandoning you.

It's not him.

It can't be him.

With a hesitant tremble in your hand, you access the terminal and accept the call, waiting with bated breath to hear who it is on the other end of the phone.

And then they say your name, that familiar voice that you haven't heard in years, evoking a visceral response in the form of memories flooding back to the days when he'd come and visit you and your parents whenever he had a rare and brief period of leave from his job.

“John?” You're in awe, a swirl of grief and confusion hitting you all at once, along with another feeling that you can't quite explain that it's not the person who you thought it was going to be on the other end. Disappointment, maybe? Only because you wanted to tear Peter a new asshole, of course.

A huff of laughter comes from the other end before he speaks again. “Wow, now that's a name no one's called me in a long time. Hold on, let me switch to video call.” There's a shuffling and a fumbling on his end before the flickering hologram appears in front of you, clad in a black suit with red white and blue stripes on the jacket sleeves and an embroidered Bridges logo with a UCA pin on his lapel along with an almost ghoulish looking black mask on his face, even with that on, you'd recognize his voice anywhere.

“Oh yeah, of course… I guess ‘Die-Hardman’ is the new normal now huh? Although Uncle Die-Hardman doesn't roll off the tongue quite as well as Uncle John does.” You're not even sure why you're making jokes with him, he'd stopped contacting you after your parents died, it had been a tough pill to swallow at first given that he had been someone you looked up to, but you adapted to being alone quickly, something you wish you had just left that way in the first place.

A laugh doesn't come this time though, a tentative pause lingers on his end long enough for you to realize this wasn't a social call. “What I'm about to say cannot leave this bunker, I need you to listen and I need you to listen carefully.”

You can't help but let the irritation rear its ugly head a little bit now, the audacity to ask anything of you after years of no contact. Your eyes narrow on him, arms crossed over your chest. “Do you make a habit of telling strangers what to do?” Your emphasis on the word ‘strangers’ isn't subtle, that's what you are to each other after all, bound by blood, meaningless now.

A sigh of your name leaves his lips, the masked man continuing on and ignoring your protests. “Bridget Strand is dead.” He gives you no time to process or insert questions. “We're looking for her daughter Amelie right now so she can be inaugurated as president of the UCA.”

The president is dead?

Admittedly, you hadn't been following along much with the whole UCA thing, the network hadn't expanded out your way yet, but you'd heard bits and pieces here and there whether in the form of a hairbrained theory from The First Prepper or on the news. Ultimately though, you can't bring yourself to feel any emotions about a woman you didn't even know and a president you never asked for.

“Well I'm sorry to hear that John, guess that means you're unemployed now, but why exactly are you calling me to tell me this?” Considering you hadn't even bothered to make a courtesy call after your parents — his own sister and his brother in law — died is what you wanted to add, mentally patting yourself on the back for your restraint on that one.

“This isn't about the president per se, rather the potential fallout that's to come surrounding her death.”

The man is speaking in riddles, it's infuriating.

“Get to the point John, what is this about exactly?”

And then he utters the very last name you'd want to hear right now.

“Higgs Monaghan. I assume you've heard of him?”

Your stomach just fell into your ass, was that accusation in his tone? How does he know about your fling? Is Bridges spying on you somehow? Are they in your walls!? All the irrational thoughts hit at once and suddenly you realise you're sounding a bit too much like your neighbours.

A sputter leaves you before you manage to salvage what little composure you have left, just enough to be convincing. “Yeah, I have… leader of the monsters that are going around blowing up entire cities, right?” You'd never admit just how closely you'd been following the stories about Higgs and the Homo Demens since the initial news broke just over a year ago, you'll never let yourself think about Peter too much, but the morbid fascination you have for Higgs is something that keeps you awake at night, there hadn't been any warning signs that this was to come, Peter wouldn't have hurt a fly, Peter wouldn't be committing the atrocities that the news says this man with his face is, Peter would never have broken your heart like that.

He did though.

He did all of that.

It didn't matter that he went by a different name now, a wolf in sheep's clothing is still a wolf.

You must be a better actress than you thought you were because John doesn't pick up on any of your discomfort or the tension in your voice. “That's right. He's been upping his efforts since finding out about Bridget's passing, he's trying to enact the last stranding, so what I need from you is—"

“Wait what!? What do you mean he's trying to enact the last stranding? As in ‘shows over folks’?? You can't just skip over that part!” You don't care that you're butting in, people probably hold this guy in high regard and respect the crap out of him too much for that in his day to day life, not you though, any trace of that died when your parents did.

“What I mean is, his goal is to enact the last stranding, yes as in ‘lights out’ for good, for all of us. We don't know why, but what possible logic could a terrorist have anyway? All I know is we can't let that happen, and we're not going to. But right now I need to get you somewhere safe.”

“Get me somewhere safe?” You balk at him, no longer caring to hide your anger now. “I'm perfectly safe where I am! I've lived in this bunker my whole life, I've taken care of myself this whole time and after my mom and dad died where were you? Nowhere! You don't just get to come back into my life and pretend to give a shit about me all of a sudden just because the world is about to end. Let it! Mine ended the day they died anyway!” The words are laced with pain, anguish and poison. Of course you don't want the world to end, you don't want more people to die needlessly, but right now your filter is off and the thought of leaving the one place in the world that is really yours all because of two men who abandoned you when you needed them most, you've lost family and you've lost a lover, it didn't matter whether it was through death or deserting, it all made your heart ache the same.

Despite it all, John doesn't rise to the heated words you throw at him, they sting and pierce his heart, but he doesn't show it. “I understand that this might be difficult for you.” A loud derisive scoff from you forces him to pause. “But, it would only be temporary, just until we have Higgs in custody and we're sure the last stranding isn't going to happen. You can go back to your bunker when all is said and done, I just… I need you to consider this. It's the least I can do.”

There's words left unspoken on his part, you know he's doing this out of guilt or whatever residual feelings of responsibility he thinks he has for you as his niece. It's about 10 years too late on his part though.

This conversation is taking it out of you, draining any energy you had for the rest of the day, just wanting to curl up into a ball and sleep, if the DOOMS will let you. You need an out, you could just hang up on his ass, but you know your genetics and if he's anything like you, he'd just keep calling until you answered again.

So you say the only thing you can think of to placate him, not a yes, but not a no either. “I'll think about it.”

“That's not an answer” Yep, he's definitely from your gene pool and you should have seen this response coming. “Listen, if it's your phobia, then I understand that, but I can send a porter to come get you and bring you here, I wouldn't ask you to make the journey alone, I have someone I trust more than I trust myself, just say the word and I'll set it up.”

He really is persistent. It's fucking annoying.

“I said I'll think about it, John.” You reiterate, pinching the bridge of your nose between your fingers, a cluster headache forming between your brows.

He must recognize that he's met his match with you, reluctantly giving a shallow nod as he smooths over an invisible wrinkle on his lapel. “Alright, you've got 72 hours to decide, after which I'll contact you again and arrangements will be made.”

“If I accept.” You interject, leaving no wiggle room for misunderstanding.

A beat before he speaks again, almost begrudgingly. “If you accept.”

You're almost sure you're not going to change your mind over the next 72 hours, how much safer are you going to be in a Bridges facility than you are in your bunker? If the world is going to end, what does it matter anyway?

“Alright. That it? Can I go now? Things to do, places to be.” That last part is not entirely a lie, if the place you needed to be is your bed.

“That's it. Thank you for hearing me out.”

“Yeah, great catch-up.” You don't even bother to hide the lack of enthusiasm in your response, already reaching for the end call button when he says his final parting words, leaving you with a real gut punch.

“You look so much like her, you know?” You can't see his face, but you can hear the melancholy in his voice, a hint of fondness for a sister long lost and then he's gone, he'd hung up before you even got the chance to say anything in return, your eyes still a little wide and your lips parted ready to thank him, something you didn't think you would have done in response to that, but the words come out to the empty space in front of you where he once was anyway.

When you retreat back into your bunker, you take a long look at yourself in the mirror, you see the oaky brown eyes from your mother staring back at you, the soft and rounded tip of your nose that resembles hers so much, you even wear your curls how she used to when you were little, you remember the hours the two of you would spend together as she taught you how to take care of your hair and she let you practice on her, you'll never forget the time she walked around with wonky braids because it had been your first attempt and she didn't want to discourage or upset you, it wasn't until you were older that she told you the truth through fits of laughter.

You miss her. You miss them both so much.

That night you talk to them before you go to sleep, asking for guidance and the strength to forgive the uncle that left you behind.

You're deep in the middle of a sketching session the next day when the internal buzzer sounds, notifying you of the presence of a porter at the terminal.

“Huh? Haven't ordered anything?” You mumble to yourself as you push off the couch, setting the sketchpad and pencil down on the coffee table before padding over to the intercom, probably some poor sap that's gotten lost in the snow looking for one of your neighbours.

When you press the button on your end and project yourself to speak to the wayward porter, you're met with an empty space and a single rectangular piece of cargo on the floor with a note folded on top. No one in sight.

You close the shutters to the entrance of the shelter as a precaution before making a beeline for your door, peering out to stare at the yellow container on the ground. A smell hits you that makes your stomach rumble, the unmistakable scent of melted cheese and dough seeping out of its confines.

You definitely didn't order a pizza, but is it worth the hassle to mail one of your neighbours and tell them to come get it? Decisions, decisions.

“Fuck it.” You gleefully push off the door and crouch down to scoop the container off the ground, grinning from ear to ear to yourself over the prospect of free pizza. No MRE for you tonight.

Just as you turn to head back inside, the note flutters to the ground and with a huff you pick it up, taking a moment to read who you're stealing this from is the least you can do, right?

Wrong.

‘Did you miss me sweetheart?

- P. E’

You drop the pizza to the ground and the note with it like they've scalded your skin, your appetite suddenly gone altogether.

He was here. Peter was here. Higgs was here.

Your call to Die-Hardman comes before the 72 hours are even up, accepting his offer to get you to Central Knot City, you hid your fluster well somehow during that call, hiding any sense of urgency that was bubbling away inside you.

The thought of the outside world scares you shitless, but the idea that you're still on Higgs’ mind scares you more.

And it scares you that you liked it.