Chapter Text
You wake up to the sound of snoring. Not a sound you fully expect, but one that once you identify makes you smile. Shifting to your side you look at the bed across from you. He's commandeered your backpack as a makeshift pillow, and borrowed one of your blankets.
He's tossed a single arm over his head, and is relaxed on his back, mouth parted. There's a knock on the door, Troy stops snoring, and rolls over pressing his face into the mattress.
You rise, cracking the door open to look at Jake.
"You seen Troy?" He asks, before noting the clothing you wear. He has the gumption to look concerned.
In response to his question, you pull the door open all the way and step back. Troy's awake now, though just barely and you hate Jake for the interruption, because you wanted to know what it was like to watch him rise in the morning. To see him naturally wake up.
Instead it's taken from you. You fight the crankiness that gathers in you at the thought. He shifts sitting up to look at his brother. He glances at you, taking inventory like he usually does when he hasn't seen you for a moment, before turning back to Jake.
"What?" His voice is still groggy with sleep. From the looks of it, the sun rose maybe an hour ago.
"The militia is being sent to the border." Jake explains.
Troy raises an eyebrow, "What for?"
"There's an old military base, a fuel depot, dad wants you to check out. You're to station there for a week. Gather up anything we can use. It's blocked off by gates, mostly untouched, you'll fly in."
You'd forgotten about their helicopter. A luxury you're not entirely able to wrap your head around. "When do we leave?" You ask, holding out your hand for your backpack. Troy passes it to you without needing clarification.
"In an hour." Jake says.
"Spit it out." Troy snaps, standing up. You didn't catch the fact he was hiding anything. But if anyone would know it would be Troy.
You watch Jake shift backward, not wanting to say whatever it is. "Dixon's to stay on the ranch."
Troy's anger is immediate, he's on his feet in his brother's face in a second. Looking just as threatening in a pair of pajamas as he does fully dressed. "Bullshit."
Jake looks at you, then at Troy. "Dad's orders."
"She goes with me." Troy's voice raises, and you recognize it as anxiety. Yesterday was trying for both of you, good and bad with equal measure.
"I don't understand I'm part of the militia. I'm under Troy's command." You say, looking between them.
Jake frowns. "Not anymore. You're back on laundry duty, they need the extra hands."
Now you're standing too, because this is nothing but personal. You've taken the power out of Jeremiah's hands. You've given Troy an allegiance to someone new. You've made yourself into a threat. And on any other day you'd be proud of that fact, but not today. Because some power isn't all of it.
A wrong move and you might end up out on your ass, fighting to survive and avoiding dying of dehydration.
You try to calm yourself, because you can't handle that. "Indefinitely?"
"I don't know." He turns to Troy. "You need to pack."
Troy looks at you and you can see he's trying to ask if he should fight harder, because he will. He's a fighter, if you want him to he'll raise hell. You shake your head, and cross the room to grab his old and new journals.
He takes the new one, and collects his weapons. "You hold on to that for me." He instructs, and you wouldn't think much of it if it weren't for the shock on his brother's face.
You peek down at the bloody cover, "Can I read it?"
Troy's lip twists up, pleased by your interest, "Sure." Jake's shock grows to stunned silence. But you're distracted when Troy tilts down to kiss you, first your lips and then your forehead. "I'll be back as soon as possible."
You grab the front of his shirt, holding him in place. "In one piece, Troy Otto."
His amusement lessens your sadness, "Yes, ma'am."
-
If you thought you hated laundry before it has nothing on how much you hate it now. Because these women who were unsure of you last time now treat you like a pariah. Troy's unpopularity is made abundantly clear by the extra laundry you're given. People don't talk to you, your portions are lessened by sneering middle aged women who challenge you to say something.
It feels childish, which you thought would be gone nowadays. In a world where the dead walk, and resources are limited you'd think people would get over themselves. They don't, and all the militia members you actually know are gone so you're alone. You barricade yourself in the bunkhouse at night, and you don't shower.
Your anxiety spikes, and the only time you feel calm is curled up in bed reading. You've read Troy's journal cover to cover three times. He has all sorts of things written inside. Facts about the dead. Facts about members of the ranch. Information about his father, where all the hidden weapons on the ranch are. Even breakdowns and how to guides to survival instructionals. Items that can be used for stitches, edible plants.
It's like getting a diagram of his whole mind, and you love it. If you close your eyes you pretend he's there with you. And it's important to pretend because he's now a day late.
A day late could mean anything. They found extra supplies, they had to reroute, they're dead. Any extreme is a technical option. You spend a lot of time watching the gate, so you're one of the first people outside of the guard to see the dust of a vehicle. You abandon the shirt you're scrubbing and run for it.
You expect him in the chopper, but maybe he's driving. Once it's close enough you spot Blake behind the wheel. There's some woman you don't recognize in the passenger seat.
The truck pulls to a stop and you see Troy's head stick out from around the cab. You nearly laugh in relief, until you spot the bandage. It covers one of his eyes, red and brown soaked through the white. You turn to the militia member, you can't remember his name.
"What are you waiting for, let them in?"
He looks at you and you can see the dismissiveness. "I've got this covered, thanks."
Your teeth gnash together. "He needs medical attention, open the fucking gate."
"They got strangers with them," He explains slowing his speech like you're an idiot. "Why don't you go back to washing my socks, honey."
Troy is close enough to hear the conversation. By the time the man is finished speaking, he's out of the back of the truck and advancing.
"I ain't a stranger, Andy, let me in." There's a condescending edge to Troy's voice that matches how he was just speaking to you. "Or I'll make you eat those socks, yeah."
All that matters is getting Troy inside the gates, you have to know he's alright. He's your only friend, more than a friend. He's the only thing in this fucked up world you have an attachment to.
Andy lets Troy in, snapping it closed like the gate is unpassable. It's idiotic considering it's a cattle gate with a speck of barbed wire at the top.
As soon as he's in range, Troy shoves Andy and wraps his arms around you. He smells like copper, and you know this time it's his blood. You cling to him. "What happened?"
He sighs into your ear, "I made a mistake."
You ask again, "What happened?"
Troy sounds young when he admits, "She looks like my mother. I thought, I don't know what I thought. It was a mistake. I wanted her to like me. I wanted to know what that's like, being loved by a mom."
You lean back, cupping his face, tilting his head to look at the bandage and the dried blood on his cheek. "What did she do to you?"
It takes him a moment, and you don't know if he's trying not to relive it or trying not to think about how his mom is far too dead to love him. "Uh, spoon to the eye. Not my finest moment."
Your vision goes red, and you're pivoting. You've got a gun in your hand and you're through the gate. Troy is on your heels, but he's not doing anything to stop you. A guy around your age is jumping out of the back of the truck, he's got his hands up. You don't hear a single thing out of his mouth.
You yank the truck door and grab the front of the woman's shirt. There's a brief struggle before she's on her back in the road and you've got a pistol against her forehead. All the sound rushes back in.
"Please, please don't." He says. You don't look up at the stranger.
Troy steps toward him. You can see his boots out of the corner of your eye. "Shut up, Nick."
Without saying anything you lean in closer, "You better start explaining."
You've got to give it to the bitch, she doesn't look scared. But she should because you're furious.
"Stand down, Dixon." Jeremiah's voice calls out as he approaches the gate. You glance up at him, and he's got that stupid hat on and you hate him as much as you hate this unnamed woman.
Did no one want to protect Troy? He spent all his time helping the ranch, for what? To be left behind at the slightest inconvenience.
You jerk your head up to glare at him pressing the barrel into the skin of her forehead. "This bitch shoved a spoon in your son's eye!"
Jeremiah looks at Troy in question. He shrugs in answer, but you see his hands shake before he shoves them into his front pockets. He could have died, he could be blind. You don't care what the others think. Your finger shifts to the trigger, and you see acceptance in her eyes. She's tired, like all of you are tired.
But pity is for the weak, and your brothers made damn sure you were never weak.
In the end, it's Troy who stops you. Not your pity for her, not Jeremiah barking orders, not Nick's begging. It's Troy's hand on your shoulder, the subtle squeeze that says stop.
"If you hurt him again." You withdraw your pistol and stand. "I'll watch as you try and hold your son's intestines in his body."
Holstering your pistol you turn back to Troy, his eye is actively bleeding. It's starting to drip down his jaw. You focus on that. "Troy."
He bends to your will and follows you back through the gate, leaving his father to attend to his 'guests'. You take Troy to the med tent, and don't trust the croon at the end. "Sit."
He sits. You're grateful for the way he listens instead of arguing with you. Daryl always kicked up a fuss if you tried to help him, Merle wouldn't even let you try. But Troy lets you, and it helps.
Your hands shake when you pull the bandage from his face, and are met with the bloody mess of his eye. You flinch. He sees it, "That bad, huh?"
You don't know what to say, so you don't respond to the question. "Everything I do is going to hurt." You warn him, and he nods.
"I trust you."
You swallow and reach for a sterile wipe to clean off the blood. Starting as far from the injury as you can, you clean the blood off his face. There's a single line of blood streaming like tears from the corner of his eye.
You have to pause and take a breath to steady your hands. He smiles at you, despite the fact his face is mangled and he has to be in so much pain. "It's okay. It's okay." His hands find your hips, grounding the two of you together. "Take your time."
Swallowing down the guilt you nod, reaching back toward his face to wipe away more of the blood. You reach the part of his eye that's actually injured and his whole body locks up. He starts glancing around the tent and you know this isn't going to work. You stop, gather up everything you'll need, and take his hand.
You lead him to his cabin, grateful that it lies empty. "Take me to your room."
He shows you the way, opening up a door only a few down from the bathroom you were in before. It's just like the rest of the cabin, mostly wood features and ranch-style furniture. But there are pieces of Troy scattered around. There's a clutter of weapons on a rack in the corner, his own personal armor; a framed drawing on the far wall, Crayola marker artwork with Jake's name scribbled at the bottom.
You see his bag thrown on the chair in the corner, and a half-eaten candy bar on the nightstand. It smells like him too, faintly. There's a open window with curtains pulled back facing out toward the rolling hills. "Is this the room you grew up in?" You point to the bed, "Sit."
"Yeah, we moved here when I was seven I think. I don't remember anymore." You glance around again and notice a shelf you didn't see at first in the closet, the door slid partway open. Journals, at least twenty of them.
Setting up your supplies on the end table, you prep to clean his eye again. Planning in your head how you'll do it. It will help that you're alone, that he won't have to worry about anyone else seeing him in pain. You walk to his door, and lock it gradually so he can see you do it.
Returning to stand in front of him you brush his hair off his forehead, and you ask him the question you've been terrified to voice. "Can you see out of it?"
He nods and the breath of relief you let out is involuntary.
"Thank you."
"For what?" You ask.
Troy's response makes your heart hurt, "For caring about me. I don't know anyone like that."
"What about Jake?"
He frowns as you reach to wipe at his eyebrow. "Jake cares what I do, not that I'm okay. You know what he said when she was holding me hostage with that thing in my eye?" He doesn't wait for you to answer, he keeps talking. "'I know my brother well enough to know he brought this upon himself.'"
You still. "He said that?"
"Yes."
It takes a great deal of control not to pull him into your arms, but you need to clean his eye. The sooner the better, because if he can see then that means it might heal. You need to give him his best chance. "I need you to try and relax okay." You keep your voice as soft as you can make it. "Close your eyes."
When you clean by the edge he lets out a sound you hope to never hear him make again. "When I was a little girl, there was a forest behind our trailer. I used to explore it." You say, as you continue to clean. "One day I got bit by a snake, it's Georgia mind you. Daryl always told me to watch out for snakes."
Your talking seems to ease him a bit. You get a little closer to the crease of his eye. "I thought I was going to die. So after I ran back home, leg bleeding, I laid down in my favorite sunspot in the backyard. I cried and cried. But I thought, at least it would be a pretty place to die. I had these ideas of flower bouquets and singing angels." You chuckle, "Merle found me."
His eye is already starting to look better, not good but not worse. "Tilt your head back, these eyedrops will burn." Troy obeys, "I didn't tell him what happened, I just said I love you and goodbye over and over as I cried. I was maybe eight, he didn't know what to do. Here's this grown man, trying to understand his little sister. It was Daryl who noticed the bite. I told them I would send the angels home."
"Daryl quizzed me about the snake, and then he goes out and finds it. Brings it back. It's a corn snake. I'm going to be fine." You smile as you drip the drops down and Troy hisses. "Merle laughed so hard he cried. But Daryl, he was horrified."
"They were older than you?"
You nod, "Daryl's fifteen years my senior. Merle is three older than that. We couldn't really be close the way normal siblings are, but we did our best. My mom died before I turned one, she burned our trailer down. Merle thought she did it on purpose, Daryl thought it was an accident." You shrug, because there's no way for you to have developed an opinion regardless.
Once the eyedrops are in he squeezes his eye shut again. "Head up." You curl a hand in his hair directing his head. "Open." There are tears streaming down his face when he does, one side tinged pink. "Good." You compliment and notice the way he seems a little braver at the compliment. You shouldn't be surprised, praise for Troy was likely nonexistent growing up.
This you can offer him. You scratch at the back of his scalp, trying to redirect his focus. "You're doing so well."
Despite being in pain his eyes snap to yours and that intensity that you desperately missed is back. You cup his cheek with your other hand. "I'm proud of you. You could have panicked and lost the eye, you didn't."
You rest your forehead against the top of his head and you give him time to recover. His breathing evens and you realize after a minute that he's fallen asleep pressed up against your chest, sitting up. As carefully as possible you help him lie back.
His legs are still off the bed, but you take off his shoes. It will have to do for now. Slipping out of the room, you close the door only to find Jeremiah in the hallway watching you.
For once his animosity is lessened, if only by a little. "Will he keep the eye?"
You nod, "I'm no expert, but he can still see out of it which is a good sign."
Jeremiah nods, "Good, now get the hell out of my house."
You find the little bit of self control that lives inside of you and comply. Only because you were going anyway, to bring back the extra supplies you took. Stopping into the med tent you drop the items off and head for your bunk. You can't quite shake the sight of his eye all bloody and damaged.
All you need is a few minutes, just a few to compartmentalize.
When you arrive, there are two people in your bunkhouse. Given their bags are still in their hands they've just arrived, but Nick is reaching for the journal on your nightstand. Protectiveness rears up inside you, "You touch that and you're not going to like what I do next."
He jerks his hand back, and they both gawk at you. "Jeremiah put you in here?"
The mom nods and you laugh. There's no humor to be found it it, of course there isn't. But you gotta give it to his own shitty sense of humor. "Excellent. That's just great."
"That's one of Troy's journals." Nick says, and you stare at him.
"No shit," You walk forward snatching it off the table to shove it in your backpack. It doesn't take long to pack up your stuff. You pull Troy's button up over your shoulders, and sling your backpack around.
"You're his girlfriend?" The mom asks and you can't bite back the retort.
"What gave it away? The journal?" You gesture at the shirt, "The clothes? The fact I was ready to shoot your stupid ass?"
Nick seems particularly disturbed by the assessment. "How can you be with someone like that? He was slaughtering people."
You don't know what he's talking about, but really you don't care.
Nick continues on like you should, "He attacked my group, shot my girlfriend. He was killing people in a basement and tracking how long it took them to turn."
This is news to you, "Who?"
"Anyone who tried to cross the border." She says. "He locked my daughter and I in an office and almost killed Travis."
Merle's voice whispers in the back of your head, "Well we told the Mexican's not to cross the border." Your lips twist up in amusement and the disgust on Nick's face is palpable. "Shoulda stayed where they came from. Besides Troy's research is valuable. You're barking up the wrong tree you think I'm turning my back on him."
"Clearly." Nick spits, and you leave. Because why should it matter if others die. It's a dog eat dog world out there.
The unfortunate news is you're out of a bed. You might be able to get away with passing out in a med bunk if there's no emergencies, as long as you're in late and out early. That or you saw some sleeping bags in the shed, you're no stranger to camping. It'll suck without a tent though.
Coop finds you wandering around like a chicken, "You look lost?"
You glance at him "Jeremiah gave my bunkhouse to the newcomers. I'm not sleeping next to someone who almost blinded Troy."
He nods, and luckily he doesn't think that's an unintelligent concern. "Come on, you can sleep with me and my sister. It's not much, but I promise to leave my spoons out of it."
You're grateful you're not entirely out on your ass and follow him into the RV. Your bed is comprised of a booth seat that turns into a sleeper when you slide down the table. His sister doesn't seem to mind.
Dropping your pack to the ground you sigh. Coop watches you, "Anyone tell you what happened?"
You shrug, "Sort of."
So Cooper fills you in after his sister runs off to play with her friends. His story is more rational than Nick's was. They were telling the truth. Troy was running experiments on the aliens, Willy is dead. Madison, the mom's name apparently, ransomed Troy off for her husband. Jake took the chopper with the rest of the Clarks and they're still not back yet.
You thank him for filling you in, and let him know Troy will hopefully make a full recovery. And then you bunk down for the night. Without the comfort of solitude or Troy's journal, you spend most of the night staring at the off-green upholstery.