Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Your brother always told you, 'Ain't nobody gonna take care of you but you.' He'd been right, Merle was about as reliable as the bus stops had been in your part of town. Mostly absent, sometimes beat to shit, and always a little smelly. 

But being a Dixon also meant the home-field advantage. It meant you didn't panic and you didn't cry. It had been beaten out of you long before the dead wanted their piece. 

So when you were left alone, dropped off by your traveling brothers, in southern California you made do. They were supposed to come back; they didn't. But that was a tale you'd heard from a hundred other families, promises that were broken by the dead. 

A situation no one had planned for. You weren't stupid enough to think that your loudmouth, opinionated brothers made it long. So you made do. 

You found groups, you watched them die. Rinse and repeat. Nowhere was safe, no one could be trusted. Until him, until Troy Otto snuck in and ripped your whole world asunder. 

-

California is hotter than Georgia. That was becoming abundantly clear. Made only more clear by your burnt and bleeding shoulders, the way your eyes burned, and each step which felt like walking through thick forest mud. 

It was somewhere in the midst of summer, with the sun at its height, that it became clear you were going to die. There was sandpaper in your mouth, tongue swelling to the point speech would have been impossible. Not that it mattered much considering you were alone, minus that one dead son of a bitch dogging your steps ten feet back. 

She didn't seem all that bothered by the sun. She would catch up the next time you tripped on your numb feet. She would consume you. It was your worst fear, no one, no one wanted to be eaten alive. That was why people had feared sharks, and now the sharks were on land. 

With limbs, and feet, and indiscriminate hunger. 

A sob is on the verge of bubbling free from your swollen mouth, because even constant abuse never prepared you for this. 

Glancing forward you spotted the start of a town, a spattering of businesses on a main stretch. A way out, a way away. Shade. The hope of it, propelling you forward. Reaching the first building, you don't hesitate, slamming into the door. Locked. 

You'd lost your only knife in one of the shark's heads yesterday. 

She gained ground at your pause, you keep going. Try the next door. Locked. The sob in your throat comes back in full force, you go to the next one. If this one doesn't open, she'll be there. You're out of energy to fight. 

If this door doesn't open, you'll see Daryl and Merle wherever you're going. You hope for Merle's sake they have coke in hell. 

The door opens, and you go crashing inside. Slamming your back into it, you look around for something to jam it. There's nothing, you can feel the vibration as she makes contact with the door. That sob finally makes its way out. 

A terrible, pathetic, broken sound. 

There's movement across the store, the top of someone's head. There's another shark inside. You need to make a choice, wait and hope it doesn't see you, or run forward and try and find something to fight them both. 

Most of the shelves in front of you are empty, you don't even know what kind of business it was. Another sob comes out, and you clap a hand over your mouth before it draws the shark's attention. It notices you anyway, moving fast down the other aisle, its head down. 

The muzzle of a rifle comes around the corner first, and you don't know whether to be relieved or terrified. You take a chance, "Please help me." The words barely sound human, garbled by the symptoms of dehydration. You sound drunk. 

His head rounds after the gun, looking at you and you're met with calm. Everything about him is collected, there's blood on the military uniform he wears, but he's not shaking. There's no signs of fear, his blue eyes are only observant. Empty. 

He drops his gun, and it goes back to hanging at his side. When he rises to his feet he's tall, over six feet. Confident as he strides toward you, gesturing with a lazy hand to back away from the door. 

When you do so, you trip and land hard on your shoulder. A rush of air leaves your mouth as you grit your teeth. The soldier yanks open the door and stabs a knife through the shark's eye before snapping it closed again. 

And then he crouches down in front of you, that emptiness turning into the start of what you think might be curiosity. 

You don't quite have the strength to get back up so you simply stare back at him. He might be close to your age and there's a certain devil may care energy to him seems to draw you in. 

When he speaks you find that feeling more noticeable, like calls to like. "You look absolutely beat." You try your best to smile, it must come out horrendous because he frowns. "Are you bit?"

That was your other biggest fear. You are relieved that at least this you can say no to, so you shake your head. 

"If you let me check, I'll give you some water." His voice is no-nonsense. A certain casualness, that leads you to believe that though he may have saved you he's dangerous. 

As you're about to question how invasive this search is going to be another voice calls out from behind you, "Jesus, Troy." The other man circles around so you can see him, he's younger too. Though his hair is short, darker. And his eyes aren't empty, they're kind. 

He pulls a cantine from his belt and lowers it, and you find the energy to reach, because you're so thirsty. Troy snaps his hand up and catches it just out of your reach, "If she's bit it's a waste." 

"If she's bit, it's the least we can do." The other man replies, pulling the cantine from him and bending down so you can grab it. You're desperate to press the opening to your mouth, spilling water on your face. Some splashes into your eye, and Troy makes a sound of annoyance. 

He reaches out to yank you into a sitting position, like you weigh nothing. Maybe you don't anymore. You were small and malnourished before this. Your next sip is cleaner, you manage not to spill anymore on yourself like a child. 

When you go to take another drink, the one you don't know the name of stops you. "Slow down, or you'll make yourself sick." He's smiling at you, and you force yourself to listen to him, bringing the bottle down to your lap. 

Now that you're sitting, in the shade, the exhaustion weighs on you. It's hard to keep your eyes open. 

He seems to notice because he speaks again, "I'm Jake, and this is my brother Troy." 

It's customary to say your name in times like this so you do, wheezing out your first name, then adding as an after the fact, "Most people just call me Dixon, that's my last name." 

Jake nods, "Nice to meet you, Dixon. You been out here long?" 

Before you answer you take another sip of water, glad he doesn't try and take it back. While you speak, you keep an eye on Troy in your periphery. He hasn't spoken, but he's watching you. 

"Couple days." You say, finally sounding more like yourself, though your tongue is still thick. "But we were out of water before that." 

Troy cut in, "You're the only one left." 

It wasn't a question, but you nod yes anyway. 

"We come from a ranch." Jake explained, "You can come back with us. Our dad will ask you a couple of questions, but I think he'll let you stay." 

That's not really posed as a question either, everyone in the room knows if you don't go you'll likely die in here. But you suppose there is still a choice. Giving up is always an option, like your mom did, setting your whole home ablaze. 

You promised to never end up like her. 

"I'll go." You agree, and both men look pleased to hear it. Better than the guilt of leaving you to die.

Jake takes back his water bottle, "I'm going to help you up. Can you walk?" 

"I think so." 

He reaches for your hands and pulls you to your feet. Your knees buckle and it's Troy that keeps you from toppling over, arm coming around your waist. He leads one of yours around his shoulder, holding you in place. 

Without meaning to you turn your head toward him, seeing him up close. He's got a spattering of stubble along his jaw, and up close you can see the entire sky in his eyes. And you know for fact you've never seen a gaze like that, all-encompassing as he turns to look back at you. 

That curiosity grows stronger, grows into natural interest, and you seem to pass some sort of test. His grip grows steadier, like he's made up his mind. "Get the door." 

Jake listens and then you're stumbling beside him muttering apologies as your head swims. Wherever you're going you're not going to make it there on your feet. You're maybe fifty feet from the store when you're back to panicking. 

Troy notices the change in your breathing, and it feels like you're alone with him because Jake is scouting ahead for sharks. He says what you need to hear, "I'm not going to leave you behind." He adds mostly to himself, "But if I drag you all this way and you're bit, I'm gonna be pissed." 

You surprise yourself and him when you laugh. It's ragged, and unsure but a laugh all the same. The sound seems to perk him up, eyes sparkling as he grins at you. It makes you wonder how devoid he is of companionship if your nasty laugh makes him happy. 

You make it another fifteen feet, and you can feel your shoulders burning in the sun. They're cracked with dried blood, and you want nothing more than for night to fall. But it's the middle of the day, and you need to walk. 

And you can't. You can't. 

Jake's voice comes into focus as he rushes back toward you. "We gotta run." 

Troy stiffens, you can feel it where your body is pressed to him. "Why?"

"The dead, there's at least fifty." Jake glances at you, then at his brother. A question. 

You come to a stop, feet refusing to move and you just look at Troy. And you know he sees the defeat in your eyes. Because you can't even walk, let alone run. 

The dead are close, you can hear their unified groans. 

"Put a bullet in my skull, please." You hate the idea of begging, you've done it so many times before. But you'll beg and plead before you allow yourself to be taken by the sharks. "Or a knife if you don't want to waste anything. Just, I won't. Not by them. Not like that." 

Troy smiles at you, amusement so clear on his face you can't quantify what he's feeling. He shifts further from you, but still has a heavy grip on your arm so you don't fall. Awkwardly he pulls the rifle from his back and passes it to his brother. 

"I already told you, Dixon, I'm not leaving you behind." He lets you go, only for a moment before your legs are knocked out from beneath you and you're in his arms. Troy carries you with ease, looking no worse for wear as Jake begins to lead, rifle at the ready. 

"Look at you." He teases, entirely ignoring the dead approaching them, "Getting the princess treatment." 

You laugh again, and lean your head into his shoulder as you pick up into a run, one hand coming to cling to the front of his fatigues. Jake fires off two shots, and they sound so loud you flinch. 

"I got you." Troy says as you shift through a long alleyway. Another shot. There up ahead, a red pickup. You all seem to be headed toward it. There are more sharks coming from the other side. You try to keep breathing. "I got you." He says again. 

Troy heaves you over the side of the pickup, and you're dropped somewhat unceremoniously into it, as he turns and shoves a dead one away from himself. Too close. He puts it down, and throws himself into the back of the cab as the engine roars to life. 

He crouches down just in time for Jake to step on the gas, keeping himself from being tossed from the truck. You slide a little on the hard plastic bed, but you are safe, at least for the moment. 

You rest. 

When you wake it's dark. There are a thousand stars up above you, moving as you move. The low hum of the engine, and the vibration of the vehicle make your eyes heavy. Shifting you see Troy, he's lounging next to you, his hands behind his head. 

There's a backpack under yours. A considerate gesture all things considered. He too is looking up at the stars, mind in the clouds somewhere. You can barely see him it's so dark. Without looking in your direction, he grabs a cantine and holds it out toward you. 

You drink, until he makes you stop and then offers a granola bar. It tastes better than a granola bar has any right to taste. He eats one too. 

"Thank you." You say over the wind. 

Troy's lip twists up, "We'll be back in about an hour. Get some more sleep." 

You comply. 

When you wake up this time, it's because you're being moved. You jerk awake, reaching for a knife that no longer exists only to realize you're back in Troy's arms again. It's still dark, nothing but the low sounds of nature. 

You relax, and he chuckles. "I'm harmless, I swear." 

"I don't believe that for a second." You shoot back, and he smiles wide enough you see a flash of white teeth in the dark. 

He sets you down on a cot, a solar lantern casting the only light. A medical tent from the looks of it, there's an IV stand to your left. He's hooking something up to it, and you narrow your eyes in suspicion. 

He rolls his eyes, "For the dehydration." 

You accept even though you hate needles. Troy is kind enough to not remark on the way you cringe when he puts it in. 

You rest again. 

-

"The hell you mean you didn't check her for bites, boy?" A voice snarls you from a dreamless sleep. You keep your eyes closed until you hear that familiar sound. Flesh against flesh. The telltale sound of violence. You snap your eyes open to see Troy rubbing the back of his head. 

There's an older man beside him, red faced in anger. When he sees you're awake he turns that aggression toward you, and it's like looking at your father all over again. That same condescending bullshit that made you want to take a pan to your old man's face until his jaw shattered. 

But you've learned, you've adapted. You say nothing, despite the fact a father has struck a son. Because you don't make that face unless it's your parent hitting you. And all of a sudden Troy is just like you, just a kid looking to please a father that will never be proud. Your lips thin into a line. 

The man sneers at you, walking toward the bed. "Up." 

It brokers no argument, a commander speaking to a soldier. Neither of you are those things, but you stand anyway. 

"Are you bit?" 

You feel significantly better after a night of deep rest and the IV still in your arm. Someone must have changed out the bag in the night. Your mouth feels cleaner, your speech no longer sounds off. It has a bite to it now, "No." 

His scowl grows. "Prove it." 

Troy is standing over his father's shoulder. You can see his anger at the demand, before it's carefully hidden away behind that emptiness you saw when you first met him. 

It's clear this man expects you to cower, to girlishly be ashamed. But you are a Dixon. You ignore the IV and grab the hem of your shirt and pull it up to your collar. The morning air hits your bare skin, and you hate that your bra fell off in tatters last week. 

There's nothing between his eyes and your skin as you turn in a circle. Once he gets a look at your unharmed torso, you drop it back down. The only saving grace from shame is that the numb look on Troy's face has been replaced with something altogether different. 

His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are glued to you. His father looks less impressed so you sit back on the cot, to kick off your boots. You reveal your tattered, blistered feet. And then remove your jeans, two sized too big anyway, held up by a belt. You do another spin, no bites and shoot the old bastard a look. "I promise nothing chomped me in the cunt." 

Troy laughs. 

You can't help the little smile that follows his reaction, even as his father glares at the two of you. He turns to Troy, "Don't you have patrol?" 

The laughter disappears from him as you pull your pants back up. "Yes, sir." 

"Then get to it." 

Troy casts you one more look, and gives a fleeting nod when his father looks away before setting off. You are left alone with the child abuser. You hate him if only because you promised yourself to hate every man like him. 

He casts you a nasty look, and seems surprised when you don't shrink from it. This is a man used to scaring women. "We expect everyone to pull their weight around here." He explains, "We'll get you a bunk. There's plenty of laundry that needs doing, bloody work leads to lots of washing." 

You blink at him, and you feel the indignation rise. "I think I'd be better used elsewhere." 

"I don't care." 

And that's that, he leaves without another word and you're left sitting there. Frustrated and stuck on a fucking IV line. As soon as he's out of hearing you mutter it, "Prick." It feels good to be angry about something again, it feels good to have hope. 

Chapter Text

You don't see Troy for the rest of the day. You spend it stuck in place, watching an older woman hover around two men that were in some accident or other. The most exciting thing to happen is a little kid coming to ask for a bandaid. 

The next day, you are released. They give you a bunkhouse that's covered in cobwebs. You spend the day cleaning it. You like the work, it's simple. There's important purpose behind it all; you throw open the door and two windows. You beat the mattresses, and take a broom to the old webs. 

You stomp a large spider a good eight times with your boot just to make sure it stays dead. You thank whatever gods might exist that undead spiders are not a thing. But honestly, maybe they are, how would you even know? So you make sure there's nothing left to come back. 

Troy finds you sometime in the afternoon, on your hands and knees with a brush and a bucket of soapy water. He leans against the doorframe and watches you until you notice him, letting out a small noise of surprise before following it with a glare. 

"Having fun, Cinderella?" 

You glare harder and consider throwing the wet brush. But considering he saved your life not two days ago, you spare him. This time. You go back to a particularly dirty splotch of the floor. 

He watches for a few more seconds, before speaking again. "You work fast, this place was a shit show a few hours ago." 

"Amazing what you can accomplish when you don't feel like you're about to die." You snark playfully, glancing up at him. 

His own amusement is evident in the way he smiles. Again you are set on the worry he has no friends, and so that's the only reason he must enjoy your company. But there's something nice about having a friend who likes you the best so you don't mind. 

It's not like you've ever had a real friend before anyway. The closest you ever came to companionship was Daryl. And there were certain jokes you just couldn't make to your older brother, especially when he was always so worried about you. 

"I've been assigned to laundry duty." You drawl, the irritation obvious as you attack the floor. 

Troy snorts, "Of course." He looks off, likely at the large cabin that lords over the others. His home, no doubt. Son of the king. "I'll try and get you moved to something else, just go along with it for a little while." 

The question comes out before you think it through, "Why?" 

"Why what?" 

"Why help me at all?" You ask. "You did your moral duty, kept me alive. You don't owe me anything, I own you." 

His answer is immediate, like he's said it before. Many times even, "I'm a good person." 

"I know you are." You respond leaning back on your knees to give him your full attention. 

It's clear he doesn't expect such a strong response in his favor. Because his cheeks go pink, and he almost looks bashful, even as he takes on a sort of intensity that threatens to steal your breath away. 

When he speaks again his voice has dropped into a deeper octave. "That's why, right there. Nobody believes in me like that. People round here are spoiled, they don't understand that what I do for them is important." 

You understand that. There have been things you've done in your life that would make some people horrified. The men you'd fucked just to stay away from home. The violence you'd enacted before and after the fall. 

You were the first to put someone down once they were bitten. You were the first in your group to kill a shark and the first to kill a man. No one looked at you the same way when you slid a knife into a bitten child's head while they slept. 

"Some people don't understand mercy." You say, quietly. "And cowards blame the quickest." 

Troy nods, "Can I - do you mind if I write that down?" 

Your brow furrows in confusion as he pulls a leather notebook from his back pocket. "Uh, knock yourself out." 

He steps in, mindful to walk on the dirty part of the room, before sitting on one of the mattresses. He flips the book open and writes in it with a pencil, as you go back to cleaning the floor. It's a peculiar habit, but everyone has those. 

You actually think it's sort of cute, secretly, the way he bends over the page scribbling with gusto. "What do you put in there?" 

Troy finishes whatever line he's on before glancing over at you. His eyes trail the dirty edge of your tank top and where it hangs loose. The same shirt you'd worn when you flashed him. You grin, pleased to at least be appreciated as you move to a new section. 

"Anything I want to remember." He explains. "People, places, facts." 

You don't look up as you ask, "Alright, give me a fact."

There's no hesitation before he answers, "Jake owns twelve poetry books." 

You smile, and keep scrubbing. "What a romantic." You joke, and Troy doesn't say anything. 

When you look up he doesn't look amused anymore. "He always did get the girls." 

You move a little closer to where he's sitting, which happens to be the last section of the room that needs doing. "I'm sure you had them lining down the block." 

Troy is silent, but you don't look at him this time. You let him collect his thoughts. "No. No, they didn't want anything to do with me." 

"Why not?" You couldn't fathom why. He was incredibly attractive. Soft light curls that begged to be touched, a pretty face, confidence. In another life, you'd have been smitten until Daryl talked you out of it. He'd always struggled with the idea of you dating. Daryl never much liked anything out of his control, even if he didn't know it. 

You listen to his sigh, and the creak of the bunk as he shifts back. His journal snaps closed. "My temper." He says carefully, as if he doesn't want to tell you. "I get angry sometimes, and I don't know what to do with it." 

Looking up at him, you realize he's moved back to give you room because you're in front of him. He's sitting, legs spread wide, and you've knelt before him. His eyes are dark. 

"I understand what that's like. I get angry too." 

"Not like me." He whispers. 

"Maybe," You agree, "But anger only scares me when it's directed at me." 

"I'm not going to hurt you." He says, rushing the words out, almost tripping over them. They run together in a frantic appeal to your better nature. 

It makes you believe him, and you know he needs you to believe him. "I know." You go back to the floor and finish in silence. But he stays with you writing in his journal. This time you don't ask questions, you let him write. 

When you're done your hands are wrinkled from the water and your arms are sore. He takes the bucket without a word and walks it outside to dump in the grass. There's a silent sort of acceptance floating between the two of you, and you know that maybe this time it will be different. 

This time you don't have to be the only one who is strong.  

There's a ring of a bell in the distance that you've come to know as the food bell. You've not eaten with anyone else yet. You'd skipped breakfast and lunch today out of nerves about it. 

You have a feeling Troy wouldn't want you to do so again. He's standing outside the door waiting for you. 

"I want to grab you a change of clothes first." He explains, and you swear maybe there's possessiveness behind that statement as he leads you further into the camp. At least this time he doesn't have to carry you. You keep pace with him easily enough as you walk up to a storage shed. 

Inside there's a spattering of random catch all items. Clothes, playing cards, stuffed animals even. He gestures to the bags of clothes. "Take a couple." 

So you dig, finding a new bra to replace the one you've lost. Three shirts, and another pair of jeans, some socks, and underwear. You've got an armful by the time you're done. He passes you a plastic grocery bag without comment to hold it all. 

He takes one more look at you, before turning a battery powered lantern on. "You can change in here." As if wanting to assuage you, his face falls back into that cool collected expression you are starting to realize is violent focus. "I'll keep watch." 

You find yourself deeply amused as he shuts the door, and snort out a laugh when you hear the click of his pistol. No wonder people fear him. Not you though, you find it comforting. It makes you feel safe. 

You stand there frozen, wondering when the last time you felt safe was. Tears flood your vision until it goes hazy and you have to wipe them away. Not wanting to leave him waiting you change, sliding into a plain red t-shirt and new undergarments. The shirt irritates your sensitive shoulders, but they've begun to scab over. It feels good to have jeans that fit. You grab another bag for your dirty clothes, and rap on the door. 

The clothes make you feel cleaner even though you're still technically filthy. You'll ask him where the showers are after dinner. 

When you step out he holsters the pistol. "Come on, we're gonna get bottom of the barrel." 

You follow, not entirely worried about it. "I've eaten a lot of cat food this week, I'm not entirely concerned." 

Troy flashes a look of disgust. As you walk, you notice he keeps in step with you, letting you pick the pace. Though he's taller, and his legs clearly longer he mimics your steps. 

Right before you get to the main tent he stops, and any happiness you two have been sharing on the way over vanishes. He looks down at the dirt, kicking at it with his boot. "If you sit with me, people will talk." 

Suprise darts through you. Even in this, he's decided to try and protect you. He barely knows you, yet he tries. It speaks to his character despite his words saying otherwise.

"Do you write facts about people in your journal?" It's a silly question, you know he does. At least in regards to Jake, but Jake is his brother. You know the importance of a brother who loves you. 

"Yeah, I do."

You look at him, trying to display your sincerity. "I was born in a bathtub." You say, "That bathtub was in a run-down trailer, in bumfuck Georgia. People have been talking shit about me and my family since before I knew how to walk. My reputation has always been as a trailer trash whore." 

Raising your chin you speak with all the confidence you can muster, "Let them judge me, I don't give a shit. Not my problem if they're too dumb to see common sense." 

Troy's smile is magnetic with how wide it is. He's beaming at you. Without saying a word he pulls out his journal, flipping to a new page. He lets you see it as he writes your name at the top, underlining it. 

He starts to make a bullet point list, and he writes small so he can add far more to the page. 

- From Bumfuck, Georgia

- Born in a trailer park bathtub

- Reputation as a trailer trash whore

- Eyes like the desert

You look at him and grin. "Town was actually called Sakota, but honestly Bumfuck works too." 

You watch him scribble the actual name next to his first description in parentheses before closing it. He's near reverent with the way he wraps the cord around it. 

"Come on, you promised me something other than cat food. You better deliver." The two of you make your way to the queue. There isn't much of a line anymore, most everyone already sitting and eating. 

They're serving powdered mashed potatoes, some kind of canned meat, and lemonade. You take it all with relish. That first day, they'd given you the bare minimum, nothing like this. Thrilled with the tray in your hands, you follow Troy aware of the eyes on you. 

He sits at a table with several others with the same fatigues as him. He shoos one of them over to make room for you, letting you sit on the end so you're only next to him. You hide the relief as you sit down. 

Troy is easy to trust, there's just something about him that you recognize. The others it isn't so simple. But you try, because these must be Troy's friends. As you sit there are curious stares all around. It's a cocky looking guy who speaks first, "I'm Willy."

"Hi, uh Dixon." You offer, scoping up a bite of mashed potatoes. Troy is watching you, his eyes feel different than the others, warmer. 

"Cooper." The man across from her, large with a beard offers. 

And the man next to him, "Nate."  

You say hi again, before going to back your potatoes. Troy's hand covers your own, stopping you halfway to your mouth. You glare at him in question. 

"Did you get butter, salt?" 

Your hostility is replaced with wonder. "Butter?" 

Pleased with himself he stands and is off, collecting his haul and bringing it back to the table. He sets them down for you, and then adds a large scoop of his own potatoes to your tray. 

The others are all looking at him, but it's Willy who remarks on it. "Trying real hard to get sucked off tonight, Otto?" He turns to you, his smile oily. "Will you fuck me too if I give you my potatoes?"

Willy made the unfortunate decision of making such a statement while sitting across from Troy. And so you get a front row seat to the infamous temper Troy tried to warn you about earlier. He shifts in his seat, giving himself room. 

And then he snaps forward like a viper, grabbing Willy by the hair and smashing his face into his tray. Once, hard enough it makes a clatter that draws attention. Twice, and Jake is rushing toward you. Thrice, and then he releases the other man, sitting back down on his side of the table as if nothing has happened. 

It is over in a matter of seconds. Willy sways there, blood running down his nose, meat and mashed potatoes stuck to his face. Troy doesn't say anything, ignoring the sudden upshift in whispering. Jake reaches you, hand coming down hard on his brother's shoulder. "What the hell is going on?" 

You mix the butter into your mashed potatoes, and follow it with the pack of salt you've been gifted. This is not new to you. You once watched Merle beat a guy's face into a wall until he was unconscious because he grabbed your ass. 

Daryl attempted to run over a man who catcalled you all while you were on the back of his bike. All Troy had done was remind you of home. 

Troy too seemed unconcerned, his face still remains that battle mask. Jake however is very much concerned, he asks again. "Can someone tell me what just happened?" 

Willy rises from the table, glaring down at Troy. You watch in fascination as Troy looks back, head tilting ever so slightly in challenge. And then he smiles, and Willy backs down like a deflated balloon and runs off to lick his wounds. 

You finish stirring your mashed potatoes and answer Jake's question. "He was trying to pay me to fuck him." It's a simple statement. You've been propositioned before. Hell, you've done so before. If Troy wasn't in this camp you might have even considered it. 

But all you can think of is the click of his pistol, and how you felt safe. You'll pay him back for that in anyway he wants. 

At the explanation, Jake too deflates. He clearly doesn't like it, but he understands. Because although you don't see Jake as violent, he still comprehends defending a woman. His voice lowers, "Next time, not in front of the whole damn settlement." 

Troy shrugs, and Jake likely figures that's the best he's going to get and walks off. Nate and Cooper are extra polite to you for the rest of dinner. You eat all of your potatoes and Troy gives you the rest of his. 

You take them. 

You're walking back to your bunkhouse when you finally ask, "Do you guys have showers?" 

He nods, and you shift directions. There's a community wash area set up, limited water, just a bucket and soap. It's not glamorous, but you'll take it. There are three 'stalls' all lined up in a row, nothing but repurposed tarps to give privacy. 

And although some smart ass making a comment doesn't bother you, this does. You promised to never let that happen again. You live with it, it lives with you. And suddenly you don't want a shower anymore. Your mouth is dry, and your heart is beating faster than it should. 

You turn to Troy and try for a dismissive smile. "Thanks for showing me, I'll take one in the morning." Night has already started to fall, and it has you on edge. Everything has you on edge. 

But you've forgotten to consider one of Troy's most obvious traits, observance. He knows. He knows it in the way you breathe, your shift in posture. And he doesn't understand, he can't. But he still knows fear, because his hand is on the pistol at his waist in response to it. 

Like there's some kind of threat he can find and eliminate that would fix this. You wish you could kill those demons, but you've never been able to before. 

He asks before you simply go to admit it. "What's wrong?" 

You don't know how to put in words that you have to lock the door in every bathroom. That you need the safety of a lock at the bare minimum otherwise everything spins out of control. You don't know how to describe the feeling of being prey to a man who everyone swore was supposed to love you. 

So you don't say anything, you only look at him. And you beg him to understand in silence. 

His mask falls back into place, and he goes from friend to soldier. "Tell me what you need." Ready to be directed, subservient to your whims. 

It's exactly what you needed without realizing it. "Will you stand guard while I shower?" 

And that's all it takes. Troy nods, pulling open one of the showers to show you it's clear. And when you step inside he stations himself directly in front of the tarp. Close enough you're sure his back is touching it. 

You can see the outline of his body through the blue material, and the fact he has his pistol in his hand. 

You can breathe. You undress and bathe quickly.  You spend your entire 'shower' watching him. He never so much as twitches, or shifts his weight. Only his head moves, scanning his surroundings. 

Once you're clothed again you walk up to the tarp, pulling it to the side. He turns, holstering his gun. When he looks at you, your wet hair and damp shirt he swallows. And then with all the boyish charm of a man who didn't have women lining out his door, he asks, "Are you alright?" 

You nod, and the two of you walk back to your bunkhouse. You've done up one of the bunks this morning so you have a pillow and blankets now. The other mattresses lie empty. 

He stands in the doorway, and you can't tell if he wants to stay or go. So you let him make that decision and sit on your bed. You're still recovering from the exhaustion that followed you the last few weeks. And your full belly makes you yawn. 

Troy chooses not to enter. You don't make him come in. 

He says goodnight and closes the door behind him. You use the one chair in the room to levy against the doorknob. 

You sleep like shit. 

Chapter Text

You start your new job as a laundry slave the next morning. Jeremiah is right, there is lots to do. Though you figure there would be a whole lot less if people just did their own damn laundry. It's not been a day, yet you've washed more men's socks than you're proud of. 

There are four others working laundry, all women. You're not surprised, this seems the type of camp to delegate women's work cliches. They're all older than you by at least twenty years, and none of them seem all that interested in who you are. That suits you fine anyway, you never really learned how to talk to women. So you do your job quietly, and considering you're actually working they don't mind you much. 

It gives you time to learn about the ranch. There's not much to do besides talk, and these ladies do a bunch of it. You learn about the ranch's hierarchy and Troy's feared place in its ranks. You learn that Jake is his half-brother, and that both their mothers died young. There's a great deal of respect for the Otto family, but they tend to discredit Troy's part in it. 

The militia which the Otto boys charge, is made up of a bunch of young men wanting to prove themselves soldiers. But considering most were raised by doomsday elitists they're fairly self-capable. There's a well that supplies your water, and enough food, and varying supplies to last the next seven years. 

All in all, you stumbled into the perfect place. 

You didn't see Troy at breakfast, but garner from your listening that the militia is out clearing sharks. Work you'd have been much more suited to. 

All this information and an afternoon sitting silently by yourself gives you time to reflect. Troy is the soldier and Jake is the poet. You like Jake, but you worry he's not the kind of leader the end of the world is suited for. He seems better suited for politics not laying down the law. 

Troy however seems to possess most of the traits you view as naturally valuable, effective. He's stubborn, stern, and has big opinions. He doesn't care what people think of those opinions, and that's why no one likes him. You can respect that, the willingness to do what needs to be done. You'd walked in those shoes before, not that the groups had ever lasted long. 

Troy doesn't return until after dinner. You've finished your duties for the day and have returned to your room. Your hands ache, and you have nothing to do so you just look up at the bunk above you. To pass the time you count the knots of wood, until you get so bored you wish you were asleep. 

He saves you from the mind-numbing endlessness of the wood grain, with a knock on the door frame, even though you had the door pinned open in the hopes he'd come. You're not proud of how excited you are to see him. But he looks happy to see you too, given his grin. The apocalypse is lonely and Troy helps that feeling recede into the back of your mind. At least, until he's gone again.

"Kill anything weird?" You ask. 

He takes that as an invitation and moves to sit on the bunk across from yours. "Pregnant one." Troy holds up his book to tell you he wrote it down. "No fetus movement though." 

It's a macabre thought, but something to consider regardless. "Might not have developed enough brain tissue." 

Troy opens his book to write your statement down. You decide it really is cute, the way he hunches over his notebook. 

"Or maybe it's something they have to breathe in, maybe it can't transfer through the fluid, it has to be airborne." 

He writes that down too. Muttering mostly to himself, "Didn't think of that."

You watch him, waiting until he's done to pose your statement. You've had far too much time to think about it all day, and you've come to the conclusion that at the very least you need to ask. You need to pose the option, you need to know. 

"Troy?" He looks up at his name, his attention focused solely on you. It makes you feel powerful. It makes the question easier to ask. "About what Willy said." 

His expression shifts and you see the anger just under the surface, the indignation on your behalf. But you have to ask, because it will eat you up if you don't. 

"If I owe you, and that's what you want as recompense. I'm alright with that." You were, in a way. It wasn't like Troy was unattractive. You'd done more disgusting things for far less. But you also understood that any real chance of a friendship would vanish if he said yes. 

You would do it, you would probably even enjoy it. At least a little, but then he'd be another notch in your belt of survival. 

His expression shutters, and his blue eyes turn into something like a hurricane. Troy stands, shoving his journal into his back pocket, and his fingers curl into his palms. "That's what you think of me?" He spits out, "That's who you think I am?" 

You didn't plan for this response. You planned for a yes or a no. Not anger, not him thinking less of you. Not hurt. 

"No." You say, and worry you've done damage you can't take back. "No, I don't mean it like that." 

He's kind enough to hear you out, even as his feet point toward the exit, so you continue on, "It's just every man that's helped me has wanted that. All of them. Maybe if my brothers were with me it would have been different, but they aren't, they weren't always around." Tears are filling your eyes and it only frustrates you. "I just, I don't want you to realize later I won't put out and not be my friend anymore. I will. I can. I-" 

Troy moves so quickly it cuts off the rest of your words. They get trapped and tangled up in your throat, and then you're lost in his eyes. You've never known someone who could stop you with a stare. You are a butterfly with a pin through your back, grounded. Only you have no desire to fight out of this.

His hands are on your biceps, squeezing just on the precipice of pain. He's knelt down in front of you, balancing on the back of one heel. And his eyes continue to blaze, inches from yours. You can smell the outside world on him: dirt, blood, and gunpowder. 

His words are stern, "No. I don't require to be paid." His face twists in disgust. "I'm helping you because I want to." The anger follows the disgust. "If anyone tries to convince you to pay out with your body, tell me. Because I'll make sure it never happens again. Willy is fucking lucky I didn't trip him into a herd of skinheads today." 

One or two silent tears make a run for it down your cheeks and suddenly it's not about yesterday at all. You're a little kid again, thinking that locks on doors can save you. "I did it to survive, you understand that right? I did it because I had to." You're desperate not to have him look down on you for this, to not think you're some cheap slut who sold herself off for a pack of cigarettes. 

His anger softens, and so does his grip. "I'll never judge you for anything you do to survive." 

You nod, shifting forward until your forehead is pressed against his chest, tucked beneath his chin. He doesn't move at first, before he relaxes and starts stroking your arms. Up and down, up and down. The motions are a little jerky, like he's learning with each movement how to comfort someone at all. 

You had to ask, and now you know. Now you know you can be friends, but honestly, with the way it feels when he touches you. Like being touched by a star, you think maybe it's only a matter of time before friendship is a stepping stone to a larger picture. 

Trusting your gut has gotten you far in life. You're not about to turn your back on your instincts now, not when they were telling you Troy Otto might very well be everything you'd ever been looking for. Maybe, just maybe, having him in your life meant the loneliness would finally fade. 

It had been there so long you didn't know what life was without it. It would be nice to find out. Besides what was there to lose? The world was crumbling down around you, impulsivity seemed the least of your worries. You could die tomorrow, and regret not taking each experience as far as you wanted to.

You peek at him and it's a mistake, because he's still right there. And he still has that intensity. And you know in the pounding of your heart, you like the way he looks at you. Like you're something captivating, worth watching, like if he looks away he might miss something. 

"I hate laundry." You say, desperate to keep yourself from doing something reckless. It breaks the spell and you separate. He lets go of your arms, and leans back. You shift into sitting up straight. 

But he stays there in front of you, and you like that. 

His own distaste is evident where scrubbing someone else's clothing is concerned. "Do you want to join the militia?" He offers. 

"Can I do that?" 

Troy nods, "You'll have to prove you're capable, but yeah. You'd be under my command." He looks particularly happy about that fact, and you have to admit you could live with it. Much easier to follow someone you have trust built with than someone you don't. "You'll come out on a run with us tomorrow, and we'll see how you do." 

"I'd like that." You say, ready to do just about anything if it meant not washing a bunch of nasty socks again. 

Troy grins, "Sure beats the smell of unwashed ass." 

-

The next morning you've dressed for success and been outfitted with a hunting knife and a handgun. You're familiar with both, though you'd forgotten to tell Troy you have proficiency with crossbows if the draw is under a hundred pounds. 

Your brother taught you, taking you out hunting was one of the few ways he knew how to bond with you considering the significant age gap. But you could tell him later, today was just about proving that you wouldn't freak out. And you wouldn't, you'd been out there alone before.

Your meeting hadn't been a good example of your skills, given you were sobbing while trying to hold the door closed. But you had barely been able to move your arms, and that was a valid enough excuse. Now you are decently rested, as best you can be anyway, and you've already eaten. 

There is an energy thrumming through you that needs to go somewhere. An excitement to be back out in it. You register that this was a trauma response, and that your desire for violence and chaos is from your childhood. That didn't much matter anymore, now it made you a threat. 

Maybe you owe that dead SOB something after all. Fuck what those therapists said. 

It's the same crowd you've seen before, including Willy with a nice gash on his nose. He's chosen silence, looking sullen where he leans up against the jeep. You figure his pride is far more damaged than his face. Mike and Cooper were there too. Coop gives you a look, one of those nibbling 'is she good enough' looks. You ignore him. 

Troy is already headed for the front of the vehicle pulling open the door. He looks back at you, just as Cooper says, "You sure about this, Troy?"

You fight the urge to roll your eyes as Troy pivots to look at the other man. "You think I'm making a bad judgement call?" 

He shrugs, getting into the back seat. "There's a reason we don't have many women in the militia."

Troy scoffs, "Cause they're a bunch of pussies, Dixon isn't a pussy." He shoots you a look, somewhat challenge and somewhat play, "Right?" 

You take your time getting in the passenger side, relaxing into the seat. "Just because I have one, doesn't mean I am one." 

Willy is forced between the two in the back and you smile at his discomfort. You glance back at him, "Trying real hard to get sucked off tonight, Willy?" Your eyes dart between the other two men he's pressed in with. 

He sputters and Troy lets out a bark of a laugh. 

Coop smiles and a little of his holier than thou attitude abates. 

"I ain't fuckin gay!" He defends as Troy starts the car. 

You giggle, glancing at Troy as he pulls toward the gate, idling as it's opened. As soon as you clear it he reaches for the radio, cranking it up to some bashing metal you don't recognize. Rolling down a window you pop your arm out, letting the wind brush over your face. 

One of your favorite things in the old world was driving with the radio cranked and your head practically out the window. Troy seems to pick up on your contentment because he twists the dial further and begins to bob and weave through the empty two lanes. The three in the back make groans of disapproval as they're pushed into each other. You grin at him, and the urge to rest your hand on the median between you grows. 

You want to hold his hand, because you're quickly associating Troy with safety, with joy. And you want to chase that high as far as it will take you. The last time you'd had a crush had been eighth grade, the year before Merle pulled you out of school. 

This felt a little like that. But more, more need, more want. You were already conditioned for sex in middle school, your environment had created that in you. It had been something to do, something that got you what you wanted. Fucking a stranger was a lot better than your father's drunken breath. 

But this felt needy. You can't decide if you want to curl up in his lap, or ride him until he's desperate. You fight the urge to hold out your hand, but mostly because something in you craves privacy above all else. And you have an audience in the backseat. 

So instead you enjoy the car ride and close your eyes soaking it all in. You come back into focus when the jeep slows and Troy reaches out to tap your arm to make sure you're awake. There's a small group of sharks hovering along the road. You do a headcount, twelve. Two or so for each of you. 

Troy glances at Mike, "Time it." And then he's out of the jeep, machete in hand. You follow, that bloodlust swirling inside you. You and Troy hit the crowd at the same time. 

All you have is your knife, so you need to keep an eye on their movements. You know using the pistol at your belt would make you look bad. Tightening your grip you bring the blade through the ear of an elderly woman. 

Jerking in back out, you twist, avoiding the reaching arms of another and kick it in the knee. It fumbles and goes down and this time it's through the eye. 

Troy is excessive with his kills, he slices necks, arms, stomach before delivering blows to the skull. But he does it with such a final grace, you have to remind yourself not to watch him. You wait to long to face your next opponent. 

It gets too close, and Troy brings his machete down hard through its skull. He shoots you a smile, before returning to the hunt. 

It's not until your third shark, blood spattered across your cheek that you realize the others are still in the jeep. 

You spare a careful glance to see them watching you. Testing. Troy is all bared teeth, and you meet his ferocity with your own. He takes out eight, and you four. Mike calls from the window, "Two minutes and eight." 

Turning to Troy you prop an eyebrow up, "Did I pass, sir?" You're panting from the sudden exertion, and your shirt is damp with rotten blood. It sticks along your torso, and he watches your chest move as you catch your breath. 

Delight lights through him, and he's shining. You can't tell if it was from the sir or fighting with him in general, maybe both. He's thriving even spattered in gore, hand holding a bloodied blade. "Yes, ma'am." 

The two of you return to the truck, and Coop doesn't give you any shit. No compliments either, but you're aware enough that you've done less of the work. Troy is a force to be reckoned with, you've never seen someone kill the dead so efficiently. You're not ashamed to admit you're terribly impressed, maybe even a little more attracted to him than you were a moment before. 

Especially when he gets back into the driver's seat, one barely cleaned hand casually on the wheel and drives away like he's done nothing but walk up a flight of stairs. "There's a rag in the glove compartment." 

You pop it open, aware your hands are slimy, and take it, cleaning yourself off the best you can, before passing it to Troy who does the same. You note there are also two pistols and an actual fucking grenade in there. 

He drops the cloth onto the floor to wash later, looking all too pleased with himself as he drives.

"So what do you call them?" You ask over the music. 

"Who?" Mike questions.

"The dead, infected." Troy answers, not needing clarification. "I just call them what they are." 

"Pricks, skinheads, fuck faces." Willy adds. 

Cooper and Mike agree that Troy's choices are sufficient enough. 

Troy glances at you, before he focuses on dodging past a wreck. "What about you?" 

"Sharks." You say. 

"Because they'll eat whatever's in front of them." Troy fills in, "Not bad." 

You spend the rest of the day clearing the dead, and scavenging in the few buildings you come across. By the time your group returns a tentative rapport has been constructed between you and the militia. They even tell you goodbye when they leave. 

The two of you are left sitting in the jeep, the setting sun casting rays of orange light across the dash. "Am I off laundry?" You ask, hoping he'll say yes. 

Troy gives a hesitant smile, "I'll talk to my father." His eyes find their way up to his house, and lock there. "Then I'll come to your cabin and let you know." He doesn't wait, jumping out to stroll up the hill. 

You return to your bunkhouse, depositing your new weapons. And though you're covered in grime, dirt, and sweat you don't shower. Because the very idea makes you nauseous. Today was good, you were fairly confident you'd proven your worth. At least it had been fun. 

He finds you sitting on one of the spare bunks cleaning your shoes. You don't look at him when he steps in, you're faintly aware you shouldn't leave the door open like that just for Troy, because someone might take it as an invitation. "What's the old ba -" You stop yourself. "What did he say?" 

Troy chuckles and when you look up, you see that his cheek is red. White hot rage curls through you, because that ruby mark is achingly familiar. You've seen it across Daryl, across yourself. A betrayal to your child. 

"Oh no, you can say it." He steps inside. "What were you going for, old bastard?" 

You swallow your anger, because though you like Troy you don't know him. And you remember that there was a time when you were protective of your parents out of a blind sense of loyalty. And you're unsure of where he's at on that path of hatred. If the hurt has changed to indignance yet. 

So instead of an insult you settle on a fact. "He has no right to strike you." 

He looks sad with acceptance when he replies. "He's my father, it's his only right." 

And your heart breaks for him, because he believes it. You stand, unable to stop yourself and walk toward him. The way he changes into a defensive posture speaks of the abuse more than the handprint on his face. 

Wrapping your arms around his neck you step into his embrace and hold him. He takes several seconds to respond, before his arms come fiercely around you, pulling you even closer. And the two of you stay there, reminding yourselves that violence is not the only thing in the world. That there can be comfort too. 

When you finally separate you're on the edge of tears, and he looks bone tired. But he doesn't appear so haunted anymore. "Another fact," You whisper, still standing close. "My father hit me too." 

Troy's response is righteous. "No one's ever going to hit you again." 

You wonder if he's always longed to be seen as a protector. If that's where he places his self-worth, on what he brings to others. So you let him have it, because you want him to feel worthwhile in whatever way he can. "I believe you." 

Someone may hurt you again, you're not a fool to assume that fact. But you know, at very least, Troy will only ever let them do it the once. 

You part further and feel cold. He gives you a quick once over, "Do you need to wash up?" 

"Will you - " You start to ask, but Troy doesn't let you finish. 

"Every day if you want." 

Chapter Text

You settle into the ranch the best you can. While Troy treats you like you belong, the others don't take to you. Your immediate friendship with the resident killer leaves people uneasy. And you can't help but resent them a little for it. Because here is a man willing to do whatever is necessary to keep them safe, and they have the indecency to be disgusted. 

A few more offhanded comments and you might find yourself snapping at some wrinkled little house on the prairie grandma to get fucked. 

Jake adds the icing to the cake when he knocks on your door early in the morning. You're in your pajamas, rubbing sleep from your eyes when you pull the door open, thinking it's Troy delivering coffee, as he's done the last few days. It startles you when it's not him. 

"Oh, hey Jake, what's up?" You ask, still holding the door so he can't see entirely into the room. You really wish you were wearing something outside of ratty sweatpants and a men's XL shirt. 

He gives you the kind of smile that makes people think prince charming. And you're reminded he has a collection of poetry books, and has probably eaten more ass than pizza. 

"Can I come in?" Jake is obviously not accustomed to doors close to his face. You are sure most people let him right in. 

You don't technically have an excuse to say no, even though you don't like it. So you open the door further and give him room to come inside. The way he glances around makes you anxious, but you dismiss it. You try again, "What can I do for you?" 

His eyes cast over the floor, and he looks a bit uncomfortable. You fight the urge to step toward the knife you have hidden under your pillow. This new world has made you paranoid, when did pretty college boys become wolves in sheep's clothing?

"I noticed you've been hanging out a lot with Troy." He starts, and you wonder what path he's about to take. Because it only leads to two places: please don't hurt my brother or please don't let my brother hurt you. 

He chooses, "I know he can be funny when he wants to be." 

Please don't let my brother hurt you it is. You school your expression to indifference. No wonder Troy is unpleasant to most people if this is what he's constantly subjected to. 

Jake continues oblivious to the dismissal you already have at the ready, "And I love my brother, I do." You think anyone who has to declare that fact might not be so sure about it. "But he's reckless, impulsive, quick to get angry. He's better on his own." Jake looks at you with nothing less than pity. "Why don't you join bible study, Gretchen would be happy to have you." 

"I'm not religious." You reply, tone neutral. God had never had a big place in your household. You'd tried it on for size for a bit, but it never stuck. Your old man worshipped the bottle, like a good Georgian. 

Jake smiles to himself, "It's not actually bible study. They mostly get stoned and joke around." 

"How old do you think I am?" You ask, affronted that he thinks you want to hang around a bunch of teenagers. You're a member of the militia, not some kid looking for scraps. 

He pauses, "Nineteen, maybe." 

You scoff, taking a step away. Pressing your back along one of the bunk corners. "I'm twenty three. I stopped getting high when I was sixteen, realized it made me paranoid." You'd almost strangled your friend, and they never spoke to you again. You'd tripped so bad on a mix of things you'd thought he was your father come to kill you. 

Daryl had to talk you out of juvie. He almost didn't succeed. 

"Shit, well uh, you've got a young face." Jake defends, "But, please, for your own sake, make friends with someone else. Coop takes a bit to warm up, or Charlie, have you met Charlie?" 

Yea, you met G.I. Jane the other day. She was the kind of girl that used to comment that you smelled to the whole class. 

"Thanks for the advice, Jake. I should get ready for my shift." You gesture toward the door with more venom than you mean to. 

"You're not going to listen to me, are you?" He asks, clearly disapproving. "He struggles with social relationships. Look, I've seen him do things that - " 

You reach a tipping point. "Things that scare you." You say for him. "It ever occur to you that the reason he's so angry is because everyone who's supposed to love him thinks he needs to be left alone?"

Jake opens his mouth to respond, his face flushed, when another voice interrupts, "Seems like we're talking about me." Troy gives an easy smile, the kind that you've gathered blocks out how he's really feeling. It's been little over a week, yet you feel like his body language mirrors your own. He's easy to read. 

You cross your arms, "We've finished our conversation." 

Jake takes the exit and offers a quick goodbye before leaving. Failing in whatever it is he came to try and accomplish. This is not the way you wanted to start your day. You can feel the irritation in your shoulders. 

You look at Troy, two coffees in hand, and slumped posture. He's disappointed, hurt maybe. You think he may be fighting to bury whatever it is deep. "How much of that did you hear?" 

He looks at you and holds out your coffee. You take it as you await his answer. "Whole thing." 

You sigh, looking at the floor. 

"Jakey has always been trying to protect people from me, all while trying to protect me too. He does his best. Better than everyone else." Troy says. "He doesn't understand that I'd do anything to protect this place. It's all I know." 

His gaze is out your window, looking far into the fields. "When I was a kid my mom liked to lock me in my closet. Whenever I got angry, whenever I would cry or yell. She'd lock me away, haul me there by the top of my arm and throw me inside. And she'd leave me alone in the dark for hours. No matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried to get out. I just had to wait." His eyes are wide, scanning the room, like the ghost of her will show up and do it again. 

"I know I wasn't a good kid." He explains, not looking in your direction. "I could never make friends, I got pulled from school. 'Certain social aspects of academia proved challenging for Troy.'" He quotes, and then he gets to the point of his statement. "I'm alright alone, I've had lots of practice." 

Troy turns to you, and you are once again enveloped in his intensity. You wonder if that will ever go away. "You don't owe me a friendship." 

You approach him, because he's right. You don't, but that doesn't matter. "Fact." You say, "You're the only one here I feel like I can trust." You're standing close now, looking up at him. "You make me feel safe. I forgot what that's like." 

He doesn't reply, but he takes out his journal, carefully balancing it on top of his mug, and writes it down. The list is already steadily growing. It makes you smile when you see it. 

You drink your coffee as he snaps it closed again. There are only a few pages left on the tail end. He needs a new one. It's just the kind of thing you'd have gone out of your way to buy as a gift. Now it's a hunt and find adventure with the hope you find something serviceable, if you ever plan to give presents. No more nine to five. 

"What's the plan for the day?" 

He shoves the notebook into his side pocket. "You're not going anywhere in those, I hope." He jokes glancing at your outfit. It's certainly a far cry from the militia uniform he sports so effortlessly.

"What, it's a look." You say back, giving a sarcastic spin, as he walks for the door. It amazes you the way he's become your guardian. The handle latches, and you don't need to see him to know he's standing just beyond it waiting for you.

It makes it easier to dress, and you finish your coffee as you walk out the door, ready for the day ahead. "Two man scouts today." He explains and you know it's the perfect opportunity. 

"Are we looking for something?" You ask. 

Troy shakes his head, setting the mugs down in a tub for dirty dishes. "Checking for threats, clearing the dead. Nothing out of the ordinary." 

You hope he doesn't take it the wrong way. "Why don't you and Jake go out together? I'll go with Coop." 

His stance changes and there's a note of suspicion when he asks, "Why?" 

You make up an excuse, "I don't want the two of you on bad terms after this morning. He's important to you." 

Your excuse works and he relaxes, "Are you sure?" His relationship with his brother is something that means a lot to him, even if Jake is going around slandering his name. You don't get it, your brothers would never talk ill of you. 

"Yeah, I like him well enough. We'll do fine." You explain and that settles it. Troy and Jake head out in the red pickup and you find yourself sitting passenger in the jeep. 

Coop doesn't talk much, and he prefers country over the heavy metal Troy likes to deafen everyone with. You miss it. But the country reminds you of home so it's not the worst. Where Daryl preferred rock, Merle preferred country, and old blues too. Today you miss them more than you did yesterday. 

You're maybe thirty minutes out, heading toward a town you know has an office supply store when Coop finally speaks, "You two together? Or just casual?" 

There are far less respectable ways to ask that question so you decide to answer it without any sarcasm. "Friends." 

Coop looks surprised, "I didn't think so." 

"Why do you say that?" You question, squashing at that little thing called hope that lives in your chest. It's silly to have a crush in a world like this, but you truly can't help it. Troy makes you feel like it's Valentine's Day in fourth grade, and you're not quite brave enough to stick a card in his box.

Except your card would be the only one. And he'd probably cherish it. Pin it to his wall, or tape it in his journal. There's no doubt in your mind he would have been an adorable fourth grader, big blue eyes and wild hair. And then you remember at that age his mother was locking him in a closet and you think instead of cute he'd have looked haunted. 

Coop pulls into a parking space like it still matters. "I've known Troy since we were kids. My pa grew up hanging around the ranch. The only person he's ever seemed to like is Jake, maybe Mike. But I've certainly never seen him with a woman." 

You're not surprised, what little you've been told led you to believe Troy was afraid to take his shirt off lest someone see the bruises. It's not manly to admit you're getting your ass beat. Your brothers never so much as spoke a word about it. A taboo topic. Boys don't get abused, or so the story goes. 

"What happened to his mother?" You ask.

The drastic change in direction confuses Coop as you both step out of the jeep, pulling free weapons. You have an axe now instead of only a small knife. "She was sick, I think." The two of you head for a close by store, grocery, likely cleared out. You'll check it anyway. 

There are two sharks inside, easy pickings. The building like you expected is mostly empty, with lots of bare metal. As you scan the shelves your conversation continues. "Jeremiah and her were divorced at that point. From what I remember Troy took care of her until she died. You know all that stuff nurses are supposed to do, he insisted on doing it. But I wasn't really there." 

You try to imagine nursing your father during a terminal sickness, and the thought turns your stomach. The loyalty he showed her, if only because she was his mother. Troy was good, a far better man than anyone ever assumed. A better person than you.

You admit what you are scared to admit to yourself. "I like him." 

Cooper snorts, "Yeah, the whole camp knows that, Dixon." 

"Is it that obvious?" You didn't realize. Looking back, the two of you have barely been seen without each other. Troy spends hours of his day with you. You've helped him repair fences, move supplies, and other miscellaneous tasks. Conversations with him come so easy, it's better than doing things alone, even if it's technically extra work. 

Cooper laughs, throwing a hidden can of tomatoes into his backpack. "You look at him like he's hung the fucking moon. You've been here barely a week and I swear it's like you two have known each other right out the womb." 

You laugh, and feel your face flush in embarrassment. Cooper only makes you redder as he goes on. "Not to mention, you can't see the look on his face when he's doing that weird thing he does. He stands outside the showers or your cabin like he'll shoot you point blank if you so much a step closer. Pointed a gun at Tommy when he tried to go use one of the other showers, kid almost pissed himself." 

Another laugh bubbles out of your mouth as you head for the exit, because when he says it like that it sounds ridiculous. 

Cooper just gives you a pointed look and dismisses it. "The way the two of you walk around each other, I figured you were fucking like rabbits. Troy is aware of every single move you make, Dixon. He's always watching you." 

The moment he says it you're ruined, because you've been innocent with a good deal of your thoughts. You've thought of asking him to stay in your cabin, sharing a sleeping place. Holding hands, maybe kissing. But now you're thinking of callused hands, and blazing intensity. You're thinking of rolling hips and what he would look like deep inside you. 

Cooper shakes his head, muttering so you barely make it out. "You will be soon." 

"Can we check in there?" You point to the office store down the street. 

He shrugs, "Sure, maybe there'll be something useful." 

You take what you can get and make it over there without seeing any of the dead. Tapping on the door with the flat side of the axe you wait. Nothing. You tap again, no response. 

The door is locked, so you use your axe to break the glass, reaching in to unlock it. Stepping through with a crackle you look around. It's untouched. It doesn't look like anyone has been in here since the fall. There's a heavy coating of dust, and a musty scent in the air. Cooper heads toward the back, looking for a staff office or something remotely useful. 

You head for the shelf of notebooks. There's a section of leather-bound ones, and Coop finds you there. He lets out a chuckle. "Jesus, sweetheart, you are screwed." 

Ignoring him you touch several, surveying your options. You decide on a bendable soft brown leather with a wrappable cord. It's a whole lot like the one he has. A good replacement. You grab all three and a few packs of pencils. The two of you raid the rest of the store, taking some decal water bottles, coloring supplies for the kids, and the shitty first aid kit they had in the back. 

The rest of your run passes with little importance. Cooper continues to make offhand teasing comments, but he unlike some of the others doesn't seem to mind your interest. He even remarks that he'd be thrilled if the two of you got together, because then 'Troy wouldn't be so pissy all the time'. 

Overall when you return you're in good spirits. The two of you are the first to make it back. You enjoy dinner alone, and wait for Troy's return. You're excited about your gift, you've even wrapped the journal and pencils up in a red bandana. And maybe it was a little silly, but you carved his initials into the corner of each of the covers. 

It's a frivolous, sentimental gift. The only kind of gift you know how to give. Like your brother's crossbow, or Merle's stupid bike. You worked hard to save up enough money for both of those things. 

You don't know how he'll react, but you're hoping he likes it. 

When there's a knock on your door, you jump up, pulling it open. Troy stands in the doorway and any desire to give him a present is replaced by the fact he's drenched almost head to toe in blood. The scent of decay floats in with him, as he eyes you. And you realize that he's looking for injuries.

Because this is the first time the two of you have gone out separately. That protectiveness remains even when you're apart. It makes you feel warm, despite the concern. 

"Is any of that yours?" 

He grins, tilting his head up. All pride. The warmth in your body increases as he tilts his head back, and you watch his adam's apple bob when he swallows. Fuck like rabbits. He doesn't have a right to be that incredible covered in blood and smelling like a sewer. "Nope." He pops the 'p'. 

When he tilts his head back to look at you your heart is hammering. "I don't like the idea of you out there without me." He admits, and you feel somewhat chastised. 

You don't know how to tell him all you could think about was him. Missing his music, the way he drove, the way he joked, the way he killed. 

You know yourself, you know you attach to things too quickly. You know that once you do, you don't know how to let go. It's that trauma again. You're past the point of caring. 

"You're not coming in here covered in all that." You say instead. He takes a step forward over the threshold, and he's pushing a boundary just because he wants to see how far he can push it. You think he might be surprised with how far you'll let him go, before you break under the pressure. 

All you know is that your whole life you've never found someone so attractive. And it is so much more than finding him wonderful to look at, even with blood in his curls. It is everything about him. It is being just like him, and him being just like you. He takes another step and you backpedal. 

Leaning forward, he pulls a ruby hand up to your chin and grips it, forcing your head up. "You almost killed me today, Dixon." 

Your eyes go wide. "What?" 

"I saw one of the dead ones, sharks. Looked like you from a distance. Similar clothes, hair." He lets go, and you can feel the dampness of the gore on your face. "I wasn't going to let you stay like that. I rushed directly into the hoard. I should probably be dead." Troy's breath shakes when he releases it. "No more going out without me." 

You nod your agreement. "I'm alive." If you saw him out there, turned, you'd put him down no matter the cost. Same with your brothers, it's just what you do. The right thing to do. The noble thing. 

But now you're concerned he might not be okay. You reach up to touch his forehead and it's hot. Fear replaces your attraction like a bucket of ice water. Something in you goes numb, analytical. 

He sees the change, and when you take his hand and start pulling him from the cabin he follows. You don't let go, his hand in a vice grip as you drag him toward his house. It's the only place that has actual showers. You don't care who is in there. 

On the way up the stairs, you catch your foot and stumble. Troy keeps you from falling over. His eyes are steel calm, focused on whatever task you've set out on even if he doesn't know what it is. You push open the door, and see Jake and Jeremiah talking in the main room.

They look at you when you enter. Troy is silent, you're still clinging to his hand. Your fingers are entwined so you don't lose grip. You remember that there's blood on your face from where he touched you, and on your hands now too. 

"What's going on here?" Jeremiah demands. 

You ignore him, because you need to get him to a shower. If he's bitten he only has so much time, and you won't miss a second of it. You look over your shoulder to Troy, "Take me to a bathroom." 

Jake stands, "Is he bit!?" You can see he didn't think of this on the drive back, his alarm is too evident. He forgets that Troy is not invincible, he is only talented. 

"No, no. I'm not." Troy says, but Jake is looking at you. 

All you manage is a rushed, "I don't know." And then Troy is pulling you up the stairs into a wood-paneled bathroom. It's not a particularly tiny bathroom, but it's small enough you're aware of the space. 

You've seen more fancy houses after the fall than you'd ever seen before it. This is no exception. You catch yourself in the mirror, blood on your chin and cheek. Big eyes, full of fear looking back. No wonder Troy was quick to comply. 

You snap the door closed, lock it. You think Jake may be outside, but you don't pay any attention. First, you take his weapons: rifle, three knives, pistol, machete. He stands there, watching you, observing. 

Next, you pull free his journal and notice the top is saturated with blood. His brow furrows as he looks at it. You set that to the side too. 

"Can you write it down?" He asks, in a whisper. 

You reach for his jacket, undoing the buttons that hold it together. "Write what, Troy?" The blood has soaked through the fabric to his skin underneath. You yank the wife beater he has on over his head. You don't care that he's shirtless, as you kneel to untie his boots. 

"If I'm bit, write it down. What happens to me. How long it takes for me to turn after I die. Anything important." He's insistent. "I need to know why we spoil." 

You look up at him, as you pull his shoes and socks off. "Okay." Because if that's his last wish you'll grant it. If that's the only thing he wants you'll give it to him. Even if it means barricading yourself in this bathroom with his corpse. 

He looks relieved at your acquiescence. "Thank you." 

When you reach for his belt, his hands snap back against the counter; palms slapping against the marble, as he holds himself still. He stops breathing as you unfasten it and pull the camo down his legs until your level with only the briefs he wears. There's less blood on the lower parts of him, you reach out and trace the curve of his ass and pull your hands back looking for blood. 

He hisses out a breath and you pretend you don't notice the way his body responds. Or that his knuckles are white where he grips the counter. Because now is not the time. You might not have any time at all. Standing you pull back the curtain knowing the two of you are getting blood everywhere. "Get in." 

Troy you find, is great at following orders. He does it like it's second nature, like it's a comfort. You step into the shower with him, and see his surprise. "I can -" 

"Shut up." You respond, moving so he's hit by the spray. He flinches at the cold, before it gradually warms. Part of you wants to revel in how good the warm water feels. You will after you make sure there are no wounds on his skin, the water cleans the front of him. Helped along with the way he scrubs his hands down his torso. "Turn around."

He does, revealing the perfect curve of his back. You grab a washcloth and get to work. You clean every inch of him. Follow the tan lines around his arms and neck from t-shirts. With every brush of the cloth more is revealed until he's clean, unblemished and alive. 

Not bitten. 

He's still turned around, waiting for orders. You can't help yourself you wrap your arms around his torso and press your face between his shoulder blades. And you cry. 

You sob, loud ugly sobs. 

Jake's voice crashes through the door, "Troy! Are you bit?" 

Troy shouts back and it sounds too loud echoing in the shower. "No, I'm good. Go away." 

"You promise?" Jake asks, wiggling the doorknob. 

"Yes. I'm fucking busy, Jake." 

You can't stop sobbing, and you're sure Jake hears you. He listens, and you hear his steps recede down the hall. 

Troy reaches his hand up to touch the front of your arms. His voice is tentative, he says your name a few times, and when you don't respond he untwines your shaking grip and turns. 

You're still fully clothed, you didn't even take off your shoes. He reaches over you and turns up the heat, before wrapping his hand over the back of your head. He presses your face into his chest and holds you. 

"I can't be alone anymore." You choke out. "I can't. I can't lose anyone else." 

He doesn't say anything, but he holds you a little tighter. 

You can't stop the tears, "I'm so tired, Troy." 

His firm grip on your hair turns into a stroking motion. Down, pull away, back up, down again. Careful, soft motions that make the tears slow. When he speaks he's whispering, "I'm not leaving you behind." 

Another minute passes before he shifts you around so he's standing entirely under the water, and you watch as he washes his hair and body. He makes sure there's no more blood on you and then he turns off the water. He steps out first, grabbing a towel, throwing it over his head. 

Ignoring his wet underwear he dries himself off before wrapping the towel around his waist. "I'm going to go get you a change of clothes, I'll be right back." 

He leaves and you wait with bated breath, standing in the shower like an idiot until he returns. Troy slips back into the room fully dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, with the towel flipped over his shoulder and an armful of clothes. Setting them down on the toilet he looks at you. "I'll be right out the door. You can take an actual shower if you want." 

You're still recovering from the blatant relief that he's not dying. But the warmth of the shower calls to you so you wash, using the shampoo you recognize as his. It's a terribly feminine thing to shower with a man's products. And it comforts you as you take a brisk shower. 

Toweling off, you reach for the clothes and realize they're his. You know Charlie lives in the house, he could have grabbed something from her. Instead, you're met with a pair of boxer briefs, a flannel button up, and a pair of men's sweatpants. You need to roll the bottoms a few times just to be able to walk in them. 

The shirt hangs low and you're swallowed in it. You look at yourself in the mirror, folded sleeves and wet hair. There's something affectionate on your face you don't entirely recognize, a far cry from what you witnessed earlier. 

Troy is sitting cross-legged in the hall, in the process of cleaning his weapons. He looks up at you, and you know he's not just looking at you but the clothes too. In the low light of the hallway, you can see his eyes dilate. You blush before you mean to and his lips part. "Hey."

You step around him, "Hey." 

Night has fallen in earnest now, and you can hear the crickets. The house is quiet, empty, or asleep you can't tell. He's almost finished so you wait, glad you have that privilege. He doesn't remark on the mess you became in the shower. 

Once he finishes, he stands and the two of you walk out of the cabin without saying a word. You return to the bunkhouse and instead of saying goodnight Troy enters the room and closes the door behind him. He drops his weapons on the bed across from yours, and sits. 

You know tonight you will ask him to stay. You also know there's a chance you won't have to. 

He runs a hand through his hair, as you hang your wet clothes along the wooden chair. "Did you and Coop run into trouble?" 

You glance toward the wrapped package sitting on the bed. "No," Focusing your attention you sit down on your mattress. "But I lied to you this morning." 

Troy's mask snaps into place, and you know you've started the story off wrong. Too late to backtrack you continue, "About why I didn't want to go with you." His lips press into a thin line, jaw clenched. 

"Why?" He asks, like he accepts you're about to admit some terrible truth that means the end of your friendship. 

Instead, you pick up the gift and hold it out to him. "I wanted to surprise you."

He hesitates before he takes it, unraveling the knot to reveal the journal and pencils. And he stares at it, tracing the hand done engraving at the bottom. 

You go on, wanting him to understand. "I noticed you were running out of room." Reaching into your bag you pull out the two others. "I thought you'd like it if they matched." 

Troy looks at them, then at you. And then he flips it open and catches what you've written on the inside cover. 

You see things and you understand.

"I hope it's alright that someone else has written in it. If not you can erase it." You say. 

The journal hits the floor with a dull thud. He moves so fast you barely register he's moved at all until he collides with you. Troy's hands are on your face, and you catch the faintest glimmer of his sky blue orbs before he kisses you. And you thought you'd been kissed before. 

Troy kisses like you're made of glass and unshatterable all at the same time. His hands are warm on your cheeks, and he tastes a bit like blood and the after tang of stress. You spread your legs to make room, so he can shove himself closer. 

You both end up falling, your back hits the mattress, and his weight is on your chest, but he doesn't stop. He kisses you breathless, tongue on teeth, and with all the relish of a man who has thought of doing nothing but this for days. 

You don't stop yourself from curling your hands in his hair, it's softer than you thought it would be. When you pull at the strands he lets out a small groan that makes you press your thighs into his hips. 

Troy pulls back, looking down at you. He's panting, lips red. It's enrapturing. 

"You like it?" 

He smiles, the sort of smile that crinkles the lines around his eyes, "I don't think you understand how much it means to me." 

You return his joy with your own. "I don't know, you could try and show me again." 

His thumb traces the contour of your cheek, and he kisses you once more. Slower this time, and somehow that makes it a thousand times more intimate. When he pulls back you're sure you're cheeks are pink.

His breath ghosts over your face. "You're beautiful. I think you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." 

You blush more and that only seems to make his adoration grow, because he's looking at you like you really are beautiful. No one has ever looked at you like that, not once, not for a second. He pushes away, picking up his new journal and he begins to write. 

Shifting you move to recline on your bed, dragging the top blanket over your bare feet. "What are you writing?" 

He doesn't stop his quick motions, "I'm rewriting your list." 

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. 

Chapter Text

There's a heavy knock on the door, that jerks you away from the start of a dream. Whatever it was is gone as soon as you open your eyes. A moment later you hear Troy's voice, "Coop! Open the damn door." 

Cooper comes bumbling out of the single bedroom in the back and yanks the door open, it's barely dawn. You cover your eyes. It feels like you only fell asleep a minute ago. 

Troy's voice is panicked and it wakes you up like sticking your finger in a socket. "I can't find her." 

"Dixon?" Coop asks, rubbing his face. 

"Yes," Troy's voice is a higher pitch than it should have been. "I think my father might have - "

You cut him off before he can come up with a hundred terrible things that could have happened to you. "I'm here." 

He completely ignores Coop, shoving past him despite his obvious annoyance. He grumbles before walking back to his room and snapping the bedroom door shut. 

Sitting up you fight a yawn, your exhaustion must show because although his alarm dissipates his concern doesn't. "Why are you in here? I went by the bunkhouse and your stuff was gone, it looked like someone else had been moved in." 

You hold out a hand for him and he takes it sliding next to you, his side pressed up against yours. He has a bandage over his eye again, but it's clean this time. "Your father put the Clarks in my bunkhouse. I don't trust them enough to stay." 

Reaching for your bag you dig around inside it until you find his journal and hold it out to him. "Nick tried to read it but I stopped him. I shouldn't have left it unattended, I'm sorry." 

Troy shakes his head. "It's not your fault." He seems to pause to think, before adding. "You can stay in my room with me." A sheepish grin follows his words, "I promise I won't try anything." 

"Not even if I ask?" You remark, preferring this to all the worry and fear. 

You hear Coop through the wall, "Not in my house, get out." 

Troy barks a laugh, "I'm your commanding officer." 

"Lea is twelve." He says not missing a beat. 

Troy reaches for your bag, and you pull his flannel closer to ward off the morning chill. "You're still wearing it." 

You grin at him as he holds the RV door open. "You ever heard of the girlfriend tax, you're never getting this shit back." 

The door snaps shut when he lets it go, but Troy doesn't move. He looks at you, and your brain catches up with your mouth. You backtrack, "I mean, I didn't mean to assume." 

He lurches forward to kiss you, hand coming to rest on your cheek. He's glowing when he pulls back, "You can keep it." As you walk he takes your hand, and you feel like a little kid. "Looks better on you." 

That playfulness returns now that you're both safe. "You're gonna love it when that's all I'm wearing." 

You listen to him choke on his own breath and smirk. He leans in as you head toward his house, "You're a vixen." 

Wiggling your eyebrows at him you take the steps quick, dragging him with. "Dixon, vixen." You joke. "It works." 

Troy groans. Jeremiah must leave early because he doesn't bother being quiet when he walks into the living room. "Welcome to your new home." He spins holding his arms out like a showman. 

You giggle, and it only encourages him. "I love it really, I do."

"But?" He asks in question. 

"I think I slept for about thirty minutes and," You pause embarrassed. "I haven't showered in a week. I don't want to grime up your bed." 

Troy doesn't miss a beat. "Come on." He glances over his shoulder as you walk up the stairs toward the bathroom you used before. "And it's our bed now, thank you very much." Troy is happy to say it, as you think any man would be. Especially the kind that threatens to shoot people for walking too close to your shower. 

You like it. Possessiveness like that, especially as quickly as the two of you are running toward commitment, would scare most people. Instead, you find it pleasant, it makes it real. Natural.

When you reach the bathroom Troy positions himself in front of the door, and you slip inside. He's only been gone a week, but you craved this safety. Four walls and someone protecting the entrance. It reminds you terribly of Daryl sleeping in the hall in front of your door. 

Your brother stayed long after he should have run. 

This felt like that. And so you wash up, dress, and exit the room feeling better. A hot shower really does make all the difference in the world. 

The exhaustion is heavy by the time you step out, and Troy sees it. He looks tired too. You can't imagine he slept well. Both of you enter the bedroom, and you notice the first thing he does is lock the door. The second is add the bloodied journal to his collection. 

You take the time to kick off your boots before crawling under the covers, burying your face in a pillow that smells like Troy. You could absolutely get used to this. 

He doesn't follow and when you peek out from where you'd snuggled in he's standing there watching you. There's something in his expression you don't entirely know how to recognize. Longing perhaps. All you know is that he looks achingly sad. You hold out a hand, beckoning him to join you.

It breaks him out of whatever thought he's been having and he sheds his own shoes. You're both still fully dressed, and both too tired to care. Troy barely makes it under the blankets before you're asleep. 

-

The sun is flooding the room when you wake up. Checking the shadows you think it may be a little after eleven. But more interestingly Troy is in front of you. He's still asleep, and he's taken the bandage off so his eye can get some air. 

He looks younger, and you find yourself unable to tear your eyes away. Your hand comes out to trace the contour of his jaw, fingers prickled by his stubble. He mumbles something you can't make out. You smile and do it again. 

If you'd known where you'd end up a month ago, you'd have fought harder. You'd have protected him, gone to the depot against orders. The same mistake wouldn't be made twice. 

You reach out and rest your hand against his chest, feeling his breath. A second later his hand comes up to cover yours, and his eyes crack open to look at you. 

It takes him a second to catch up before he smiles, and it's youthful and innocent and you're confused how anyone would ever want to hurt him. 

"Mornin'" His accent is heavier than it typically is, and it fills more than your stomach with butterflies. 

"Good morning." You echo back, and he seems as mystified as you. He turns on his side so you're facing each other. It hides his injury and he looks normal. Like you're two people finding each other before the apocalypse.

"It's late." He remarks glancing toward the window. 

You're not worried about it. The laundry will survive without you. "You needed it." Both of you technically did. Hoping to lighten his contemplative mood you add, "Your bed is a whole lot comfier than mine." Not surprising considering one was a pad of old foam and his is a real mattress. 

"Our bed." He reminds you. "But you're right." 

Your hand is still pressed to his chest, palm flat against the fabric of his shirt. He glances down at it. "You really do like me, don't you?" It's like he can't believe it, doesn't entirely understand why someone would want to be around him all the time.

You shift closer, bringing your knees up so they rest against his stomach. "I do." 

He presses into your calves, his hand coming to curl around your ankle under the covers. You contemplate coming closer, when that dreaded knock comes. 

Whoever it is tries the handle and finds it locked. You're grateful, because this feels private. Troy seems to agree because frustration darts across his face as he tilts his head away from you to shout, "What?" 

Jake's voice responds, muffled. "I need to talk to you." 

You have a feeling if it was anyone but Jake he'd have written it off, but he gets to his feet, adjusting the shirt that's bunched up revealing a slim line of his stomach and goes to the door. He cracks it so minimally you can't even see Jake, and by extension, he can't see you. Curious you stay silent. 

"Thought maybe you'd give a shit that I was alive." He quips and Troy scoffs. 

"You were going to let her scoop my damn eye out." Troy snarls back. You're starting to be able to tell what's anger and what's hurt. It's always hurt where Jake is concerned. "I screamed for you to help me. And you said I deserved it!" 

"Did you forget the part where you were playing god?" Jake said, "You were killing people, Troy." 

"They were going to die anyway. At least now their deaths mean something." 

"Meant what, that they're a statistic in one of your books. Open the door, why the hell am I talking to you like this?" Jake demands, but Troy doesn't move. 

"Knowing how long it takes is important." Troy defends, and you agree with him. Maybe it meant you could cut the infection out. Maybe there was time to save people. Research is the only way to find those things out.

Jake slams into the door and Troy stumbles back in surprise if nothing else. "Get out!" 

"No, I'm not going to talk through a crack like a dumbass. I don't understand why your suddenly - " Jake makes eye contact with you, and his mouth shapes an 'o' of surprise. It's not like you're naked, you're wearing Troy's shirt, but given the way it's fallen, Jake could easily make the assumption.

You sit up, showcasing that you're fully dressed and his relief is offensive. "Shit, sorry." He runs a hand through his cropped hair. "Why are you in here?" 

Blinking at him you open your mouth to reply but Troy beats you to it. "I invited her to stay with me. Since dad decided it was a good idea to stick the Clarks in her bunkhouse." 

Jake nods, before he focuses his attention back on his brother. You're back to being the observer. "Charlie is gone." 

"What do you mean gone?" Troy demands. 

"The dead got her." Jake looks down, and you can see his sorrow. You look to see if Troy feels the same, but although he's frustrated by the news he doesn't appear particularly affected. "I made sure she wouldn't come back." 

"You should have timed it." Troy says, and you can tell he didn't think the statement through. 

Jake leaves without a word, slamming the door behind him. 

Troy turns, "That was insensitive wasn't it?" 

You nod, "A little." 

"Shit." 

"Will you come back to bed?" You ask. You want to go back to whatever peace you'd been finding in his arms. 

He shakes his head no rifling through his closet for a change of clothes. He pulls his shirt over his head and you see a nasty bruise along his shoulder blade. You frown, as he pulls a new shirt on, and the bruise slips out of sight. 

"You should ice that." You say. 

He turns back to you, confused. "My eye?" 

You nod because he should ice that too, "And your back." 

Troy shrugs, "Nothing new." 

You reach for the still in package bandage on the nightstand and gesture him to come to you. His bed is warm, and you're feeling terribly lazy. He towers over you, and you have to crane your neck back to look him in the eye. "Bend down would you." 

Instead of bending down, Troy gets on his knees and your throat goes dry. 

He notices that too, like he seems to notice everything. His smile is criminal, "Something bothering you?" 

You glare at him, but there's no malice to be found in it. "Oh, nothing." You tilt until you're entirely facing him, legs dropped down the side of the bed close enough that you feel the warmth of his chest. 

Troy clearly doesn't fall for the lie, if anything it makes him bolder. "I always thought I was a gentleman."

"You are." You confirm, because he really is respectful. He never tries to oogle, he doesn't take advantage. Anything he takes is freely given. 

His voice sounds like a late-night crackling fire, "The things I'm thinking right now aren't what I'd call respectful. They aren't gentlemanly." 

You feel warm, hot even under his gaze. "Well then I feel like you got two choices, Mr. Otto." 

"What's that?" You're both whispering. Jake is gone, it's just you and him.

Shifting so you're whispering in his ear, you say, "You can tell me about these ungentlemanly thoughts, or you can give me a demonstration." 

"Careful, Vixen." You catch the warning in his voice, and you know if you push him he is not the kind of man that is going to want to stop. 

You push. "Troy." You draw out his name through your teeth and it sounds like a plea. 

He lets out a low noise of want and he's pushing the blanket away so he can run his hands up your thighs. 

"Troy." 

He jerks back, turning on heel to look at Jeremiah where he stands disapproving in the doorway. You snap your expression back into something apathetic, all the while raging inside yourself. Because you don't know how long he stood there, you didn't hear the door open. 

He takes this from Troy too. 

He's standing now, frame in front of you to keep you out of sight. Protective. And you know the fact he feels the need to protect you from his father is wrong. 

Your hand comes out to wrap in the back of his shirt so he knows, you are here. You are with him. He is not alone. He's not a little kid that needs to take the abuse. He's a man, he's a trained killer, and he deserves better than this. 

And you swear he feels what you're trying to say, because his posture shifts. His feet spread, shoulders square, chin up. The soldier he's been perfectly crafted into. "I'd prefer you knock." 

You can see Jeremiah in the gap between Troy's arm and torso in enough detail to see his sneer. He crosses his arms, and glares. "You're in my damn house." 

Troy doesn't back down, "It's my house too, I protect this place." 

Jeremiah makes a dismissive noise, "Following orders doesn't make you a hero, boy." 

Your hand drifts away from his shirt and dips under it instead, pressing against the damp skin at the small of his back. He's spooked, and you want nothing more than to fix it. 

"Be that as it may," Troy says carefully. "I have a right to privacy." 

Jeremiah smiles at him, and it's a mean smile. "I've seen your girls tits before, Troy, besides since you've decided to move her in without asking maybe I have the right to them again." 

Troy steps forward, and it's no longer about him. And that changes things. Because the only person Troy does not protect is himself, and now it's about you. 

"If you touch her I'll put you in the ground." 

"Is that right?" Jeremiah asks, and you can see it. Hesitance, maybe even fear. But he hides his emotions just like all the Otto's seem to do. "I'd be careful who you make an enemy of on my ranch." And then he walks away, a steady calm gait, leaving the door wide open. 

As soon as you're alone again the bravado rushes out of Troy. He stumbles to the side to sit beside you and he's shaking. You reach your hand up into his hair and pull his head down into your chest, wrapping your arms protectively around him. 

His breath quivers with the rest of his body. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He says it over and over again, voice getting quieter. 

You don't push him, you remain a steady grip. He'll come back from wherever he's been sent to in time, you always come back. And you'll be here when he does. 

It takes a good ten minutes for him to calm down, and when he looks up you realize his eyes are wet with tears. They've irritated his eye and a track of pinkish liquid has run down his face. 

You coo, carefully wiping it away with your sleeve. "Hey, hey." You tilt his head up to look at you. "He can only hurt you as much as you let him." 

Troy takes a deep breath, and nods. "If he tries to do anything to you, find me. If you can't find me, go to Jake." In this at least you agree Jake would put aside differences and help you. 

You consent and keep the fact that if Jeremiah tries to repeat your father's sins you'll kill him unsaid.

Troy touches your face, "I have to go." 

"Close the door, and give me a second." 

He does as you ask, and reaches for his uniform jacket pulling it on over his t-shirt. You go to your backpack. The clothing you got is already a bit rattier than it was before, but that's just how things went now. 

Slipping off his shirt, you reach for the hem of yours and begin to pull it above your head. 

Troy makes a little noise of surprise, and when you look at him he has his eyes pinned firmly to the floor. You tease him, "What happened to those ungentlemanly thoughts." 

He laughs, "They're getting worse." 

"Bet they'd be damn right filthy if you looked up right about now." 

Troy takes your sentence for what it is, a challenge, and looks up. You're entirely topless, and entirely amused as your bra dangles from the tip of your finger. His eyes blaze, blue skies turning into storm clouds. You grin at him, unabashed, as you fasten it in place. 

When you round the bed to walk toward his closet, he hasn't moved but he's watching every step you take. You slide open the door, finding a good deal of his clothes on hangers. Organized by color. That fits. 

You begin flipping through them, "I'm seeing a theme of plaid here." 

He doesn't remark, and when you glance at him you think it might have a whole lot to do with the lack of shirt. The bra is semi-sheer along the top. Black contrasting with your skin. 

Selecting a green button up with short sleeves, you hold it out to him. "Can I have this?" 

"Yes." His voice is raspy, and it fills you with confidence. 

You face him, so he's got a front row seat as you slide it over your shoulders and button bottom to top. You leave the first few undone, giving a peekaboo glimpse of curves, especially if you were to stand close and be tall. Two things you know Troy will benefit from. 

You tie the bottom in the front because of the length, and then do a spin. "How do I look?" 

Troy rubs his face, wincing when he comes in contact with his eye by accident. "Like trouble." 

"Trouble?" You question, walking up to him. If you shimmy your hips more than you should it's not really your fault. 

He leans in and then realizes his advantage. He swallows. "Fuck, Dixon. I'm gonna end up in a fight by the end of the day." 

"No you won't." You assuage. 

Troy shakes his head, looking down again and one of his hands find its way to your hip. "I'm not going to be able to stand anyone so much as looking at you." 

You look up at him from beneath your eyelashes, pretending innocence. "Have you worn this shirt before?" 

He nods, "It's my favorite." Then he adds, "Especially my favorite now." 

You press your hands to his chest. "Then everyone will recognize it." 

This time he openly groans and forces himself to step away. He turns, and you pretend you don't notice him readjusting as you gather your own weapons. 

Once you're both armed, you add his bandage. Smiling at him while you apply it, considering his distraction today is the gap in your shirt. "Come on, bright eyes, let's go keep these dumb fucks alive." 

Chapter Text

With Troy back, and his hostility toward Jeremiah you're off of laundry duty again. The militia accepts your return without a word, Coop even gives you smiles now when you sit down to eat with them. 

The Clarks become the newcomers instead of you. And combativeness shifts, because even if you're with Troy, you're militia. You will protect them. The Clarks are blamed for the death of Charlie by association, and people forget their beef with you. 

You'll take what you can get, and well it's not like you're about to feel sorry for them. 

It's while you're sitting at dinner that Troy leans into your ear to ask you a question, "Do you think Nick is like us?" 

You look at him in surprise, before casually glancing over toward the Clarks. Nick's hair is shaggy, face sallow. He borders on unhealthy, and you know the look. You shake your head, whispering back. "No, what you're seeing is the drugs." 

"An addict?" He questions, taking a sip from his water bottle. 

You nod, "Yeah, an outcast maybe but that's it. Why?" 

Troy shrugs, "There's something about him. I don't know." 

Your jealousy is so sudden it startles you. Gritting your teeth you look down at your tray. 

"What did I do?" Troy asks, alarmed. He picks up on your shifts in mood faster than you do sometimes. It's disconcerting. 

Focusing on your roll, you take a bite out of it. It's not fair to be angry about this, but you've been alone for so long, the idea of sharing Troy with anyone frustrates you. 

He keeps staring, "Dixon, talk to me." 

You shrug, and he leans in closer, mouth pressed by your ear. "Please don't be angry with me. I - I don't know what I did, but I'm sorry. I won't do it again. Just tell me what it is and I - " 

Cutting him off you press your mouth against his, and you feel him relax. It's the first time you've kissed in front of a large crowd, and you can tell you've caught the attention of the dining area. When he pulls back, smiling, there are a lot of eyes on you. Troy sends a universal glare at anyone he notices and they go back to their business. 

Coop wiggles his eyebrows and everything about him says, told you so.

Troy keeps his voice low, pressed into your space, "Tell me what's wrong." 

You set your fork down, "Can I see your journal?" 

This isn't what he expects, but he nods and pulls it out of his pocket, and holds it out. You take it, flipping it open to the front page where your list remains. Going to the bottom you create a dash and write 'gets jealous'. 

You are only slightly taken aback by the delight that lights him up. He takes his pencil, and adds after jealous 'too'. You roll your eyes and everything rights itself back into place. Especially when Troy says, "I like you the best." 

"It's the tits." You reply without missing a beat and revel in the way he laughs. 

Jake interrupts you while Troy is still grinning. "Hey." 

Troy tilts his head up to look at his brother as he stands over him and Jake takes that as permission to continue. "The group sent to find the chopper hasn't come back, it's been over a day. Dad wants a volunteer group to go after them." 

"I'll get it done. We'll leave in the morning." Troy supplies, all business, and Jake hesitates only for a moment before walking away.  Troy smiles apologetically, "I'm going to go throw something together. You finish up, I'll meet you at home?" 

You nod, handing him what's left of his roll to eat on the go. He takes a bite and sets off out of sight. You're left at the table alone when Coop and Mike follow, and that suits you fine. However, given your lifelong bad luck, it doesn't last long. 

Madison's girl next door daughter sits down across from you with her own tray. "I'm Alicia." She greets and her smile looks tortured. 

"Dixon." You say, if you eat fast she might not get more than a few sentences out. You take a bite waiting for the inevitable. How can you be with someone like that? Troy is evil. I'm an angel who would never dream of hurting someone. 

But she doesn't say any of those things, thank god. Instead, she asks, "How do you live with it?" 

You relax, "With what?" 

"Surviving." She says, and it sounds like she's running out of the will to even ask the question. You are reminded that the rest of the world was hit harder than you were. 

You shrug, "You just do." It was easy for you to adapt. Your life was one hell, to running away, to hell again. Nothing was all that different for you, only this time law and order won't get in your way.

"I don't know if I know how to do that." She admits. 

"What was the worst thing that happened to you, before the fall?" You ask, finishing up your green beans. 

She looks confused before asking, "Why?"

"Humor me."

"Uh, my dad killed himself." The news apparently still affects her, and you wish you'd lived a life like hers where that was the worst that had ever happened to you. If your pa had killed himself you'd have been fucking grateful. 

"That right there." You explain, "That's why you don't know how to find a way to make it. The worst thing in your life was your dad dying. You've never had to fight for anything in your life, it's a wonder you even survived long enough to get here. And I bet it was on the backs of others." 

Alicia is offended, that much is clear, but you don't care. You keep going, "How do I do it? I do it because I've been fighting my whole life, I've fought and bled just to make it to the next day. Your dad died, mine snuck into my room when he was drunk and pretended I was my dead mother after I turned eleven." 

Her offense diverts to horror. "My advice, accept that being alive means one thing. Fight, or die. If you're weak you put yourself and your family in danger." You stand, drop your empty tray into the tub and walk off toward the house. 

You sit on the front steps and sigh, looking out toward the setting sun. You won't regret saying anything you said, but shit you don't want to think about it. Because if you think about it then it exists. You don't want it to exist. So you wait for Troy to get back, arms wrapped around yourself, head leaning against the railing. 

Night falls, and you start to drift into sleep. The gunshot wakes you, glancing around for a source your eyes struggle to adjust to the dark. And then there, a spark of orange, "Shit." 

You're on your feet and running up the hill. On your way, you catch Troy doing the same a whole cluster of people following. The adobe is on fire. You think of the older couple you know who lives there, and know that the house is vacant now. A bucket train is started, Troy to your right, and Nick to your left. In this at least everyone works together. 

It's Jeremiah who puts a stop to it. And your rescue team stands in silence as it burns. Troy throws an arm around your shoulders and leads you back to the house. He writes in his journal once you're in his room, and you think he might be timing how long it will burn. 

-

You sleep well all things considered. Having Troy beside you has done wonders for your ability to sleep for long stretches of time. His eye improves and when the two of you dress for your excursion he doesn't put on another bandage. 

When he puts on his fatigues you are given your own set, with an apology for taking so long in tracking them down. It makes you feel official, like a member of the militia in earnest. 

The two of you enter the kitchen as one well-armed unit. Jake is waiting with a pot of coffee on. It feels like the closest thing you'll get to a warm welcome to the Otto household. Troy looks pleased to see it and makes your coffee for you. The chipper mood in the kitchen doesn't quite fit the serious mission you're about to set out on. 

But you've learned to take solace in the little things so you kiss him when he gives you your coffee. 

When Troy runs upstairs to use the bathroom you're left alone with Jake. He's giving you a look that you raise an eyebrow to. 

"I've never seen him like this." Jake says cautiously, "It's weird. He's standing up to dad, and he's not angry. He's calm. I've never seen him calm for long." 

You take a sip from your mug, "I'm waiting for the sorry I told you to stay away from my brother." 

He blinks at you and rubs the back of his head. "Right, sorry." 

"Accepted. But I meant what I said too. A gentle touch won't hurt him. He gets angry because he feels all of it a little too much. I understand that, because I'm like that too." 

"I swear every time I leave you two alone you start talking about me." Troy jokes, but he doesn't look so upset this time, and you're sure he was listening to most of it. If anything he looks proud of himself. He deserves some of that so you don't remark and drink your coffee. 

Jake shrugs, "You're a hot topic." 

"Very hot." You add with a wink. 

"Jesus, you two are disgusting. I swear I better not hear it from my room." 

You grin as Troy says, "Hear what, Jakey?" 

"Nope, absolutely not. Be safe out there, I'm out." He's quick to flee out the front door and you laugh. 

Not wanting to waste any you throw the rest back and mourn the day you won't be able to have it anymore, "Ready?" 

Troy nods, and takes your hand as you leave. 

You end up in the red pickup, sitting in the front seat. Today Troy lets you choose the music and you find a Megadeth CD in the glove compartment. He slides it in, "Yeah?" 

"Daryl was a big fan." You say in way of explanation. He cranks it up regardless, and you peel out of the ranch. 

You enjoy the heavy hit of nostalgia, and this time you put your open hand out on the median and he takes it. The only negative is the tiny reminder in the back of your head that the woman who attacked him is currently in the back seat.

And you can tell she's looking at you both, trying to find an angle no doubt. You know people like her, always looking for something they can try and barter for. By force, or pretty words, or bullshit. 

 No matter what happens, or what she says you know you don't like her. You relax into your seat, and tighten your grip on Troy's hand. He glances at you, taking inventory before slamming on the breaks. 

The jeep jerks to a stop hard enough that you smack into your seatbelt, and Coop ends up smashed into the back of the driver's chair because he isn't wearing one. 

You scan for a threat, a reason to stop, and find it on Troy's expression. He's trying his hardest not to laugh, but when you look at him it entirely becomes too much and he breaks. Head tilting back as the sound fills the car. 

You shove him, the same time Coop reaches around to smack his arm. "I thought I was about to meet Jesus." Coop says, and it only makes Troy laugh harder. 

But you see what he's done. He's distracted you, and apparently for an actual purpose because he points out to the right at a tipped over prison bus. Yanking out his walkie he talks into it. "See that, boys? We've got a party to attend to." 

Coop speaks up from the back seat, "That's not on our objectives." 

Whoever is on the other walkie agrees with Coop, Blake you think. You're about to state your opinion when Madison gives hers. "We should do it, make sure they don't end up circling to the ranch." 

And though it really does pain you, you agree with her. Troy sees it on your face, because he says back into the walkie, "We'll be in and out in five minutes. We're not making this someone else's problem." 

There are six of you, and maybe eleven sharks. It's like taking candy from a baby. Especially now that Troy has just handed you a double headed axe. He chuckles when you take it, spinning it in hand. "Shit, that's some fantasy stuff right there." 

"No, no guns, Madison." He holds out another axe for her and she takes it. "We do this quiet." Under his breath where only you can hear, Troy adds, "I'll watch your back." 

You look up at him and raise an eyebrow as you walk backward toward the hoard. "Troy Otto, do you think I need help?" You press your hand against your chest in mock offense. You can hear the dead, he's watching you. So is everyone else, all in various states of amusement. Every day the militia seems to take to you a little more, you've proven you're one of them. Just another loud mouth with a desire for blood. 

You wait right until the moment his eyes start to widen in alarm, and then you duck, twisting around to slam your new weapon into the side of its head. 

Everything falls into motion. You take out three yourself and watch Madison struggle along the ground. It's to your own sick amusement that no one helps her until the last second. 

Coop is always a little too nice for his own good. You think he might actually have been in the military with that honor system of his. 

Lucky for her it hadn't been you, and she knows it too. Because Madison watches you more than she watches Troy and that's a goddamn compliment. 

"What's the verdict?" You ask. 

"Little over a minute." Andy declares.

Troy groans. "When did we get so slow?" 

Coop's response makes the entire trip worth it, "Since you started wasting time looking at Dixon's ass." 

You observe if this will pass a boundary with Troy. All you know is you think it's hilarious and your bout of laughter says so. Troy looks at you, letting your response dictate his own feelings on the matter.

He sees you aren't upset by the comment, the opposite in fact. And then he seems to realize his men are joking with him. You've picked up by now that they treat Troy with a healthy dose of forced respect and fear. This is good, it's an acceptance he's not been privy to before.

Troy comes to a decision, "I mean it's like it's looking at me." 

You laugh hard enough you have to prop yourself on your knees, and the whole group (minus miss pole up her ass) joins in. 

Walking toward Troy you swing the hammer up into the truck bed, where it clatters. And then turn toward the passenger side. "When I'm done with you, your statistics are going to be fucked." 

This time there's no contemplation, he just props your car door open for you and says, "I hope you're never done with me." 

You hop in and smile, looking toward him where he's still propped in your open window. He's so damn cute you don't even know what to do with it. "You're right, cowboy. Now come on, let's get this show back on the road." 

-

Once you start to get closer to where the huey is located the team settles down. They focus on the objective, understanding that the closer you go, the closer to a possible ambush. 

Even Troy has turned serious, he has one hand on the wheel and the other on the pistol at his side. You've been armed with a semi automatic today, plus your pistol. All of it is from his private collection, and you're grateful for it. 

The extra firepower makes you feel more prepared. You go as far as the vehicles can take you. Subconsciously you check your weapons, making sure everything is in its right place before exiting. 

He meets you at the door, pulling it open for you. And you notice something tender in his expression as the others mill behind him. For a flash, you get a sight of the Troy only you have been granted. Nervousness and anger. He's ready to mete out judgement. 

Leaning in you're only a few inches away from each other, and the same height. A strange happenstance that entertains you. "I need you to follow my orders exactly, Dixon. This could all go south in a flash. Promise me you'll listen." 

Your lip twists up, and you kiss his forehead, lips lingering against his warm skin. Salt on your lips as you pull back, "I promise, as long as you're not in danger." 

"No, that's not what I said." 

"I know, but it's all you're going to get." Your head tilts as you look at him. "No heroic dramatics, Troy. In and out, all of us." 

-

When you arrive at Phil's plot you recognize the cars and the sight of blood. Smears of it on various surfaces, some still red in color. Troy glances at you, and you're looking at nothing but the face of a soldier. Even with his damaged eye, he's scanning the surroundings. 

He whispers as he reaches for the door handle, "Madison stay with Cooper. Dixon right by me, right by me. Two steps behind." 

You don't argue, just hike your rifle up and press it into your shoulder. Troy looks like something out of a war movie, with bent knees and an eye down the sight. You don't have that training, but you know well enough the concept of point and shoot. 

For now, it will have to do, but you'll ask him for lessons later. If he's going to protect you, then you need to be able to protect him too. 

The two of you head straight, cutting into a building. He keeps ahead of you, going from room to room, clearing them silently. It feels more official than anything you've done before, and you're grateful for the training your group overall has. 

You pass through a kitchen, down a hall, to a back door. Troy kicks it open instead of taking a hand off his gun and the whole group is out back.

That's when it hits you.

You fight the urge to cover your nose, and keep a level expression. You can't panic. If you panic, you die. You breathe deep through your nose to try and take a calming breath and instantly regret it. You don't even entirely know how to describe the scent other than off. Your body knows to fear a smell like that, and it has your heart racing. 

And you're not the only one, the whole group has shifted closer together. Troy is the first to speak, "What's that smell?" And then he stiffens and you know he's figured it out. 

As a team, you round the corner of the barn, and the smell only worsens. Without meaning to you gag, saliva fills your mouth like you're close to vomiting. Troy shifts closer to you, and you spot the source. 

Burning flesh. 

Its bodies, crisped and half gone. The smell is one of the worst things you've ever experienced and you've been drenched in the blood of the dead. It's like the burnt hair in a vacuum, and something altogether indescribable. 

You've found the militia. 

The silence that follows the sight is deafening. You fight the urge to expel the glob of spit in your mouth, too close to the bodies to be considered respectful. Instead, you swallow it and your throat revolts against the action. 

Universally guns are lowered but you can't quite bring yourself to put yours down. You glance around for any possible enemies and find only the faint image of someone in the distance. Troy too seems to spot this, because he points a finger in their direction and your group takes off again. 

"I didn't see...I didn't see the man. The man. The man, at all." The closer you get the more you can hear the ramblings. He's repeating himself and there's a bird on his shoulder. 

Troy reaches out a hand and presses it to your stomach, until you're partially behind him. You comply, because that's what you promised him. But you don't lower your rifle, you keep looking, trying to spot anything out of the ordinary outside of the one obvious source. 

The man keeps talking in a loop, and the strangeness of it runs a chill up your spine. Your body catches up with your brain and your hands start to shake. In response you tighten your grip, trying to quell the nerves. 

Mike and Troy begin approaching. Troy's voice borders on confused, "Phil?"

And then Mike jerks to the side, bends over, and vomits up breakfast. And that explains everything. The bird, the rambling, the strange scent in the air of what you thought was infected rot. 

It's Madison who acts, mostly you think because Troy's hands have gone lax at his sides, rifle untouched. You reach out to touch his arm, because you don't know the role Phil played in his life. All you know is he's one of the founders. 

He turns toward you, about to say something when he's suddenly on the move. Troy's lifted his rifle and stepped in front of you by the time the rest of the team catches up. 

There is a group behind you, and you don't understand how they could have gotten so close without any of you noticing. You'd been so distracted by the sight, Mike's horror, and Troy's reaction. You'd stopped looking, stopped scanning for a few seconds too long. 

"Have you lost your mind, Walker?" His aim is straight toward the stranger, not apparently a stranger to your party or maybe just to Troy. "Have you any idea what you've just done?" 

Walker is unconcerned, he doesn't even have his rifle drawn. "We defended our land. McCarthy and I go back before you were born, boy." He surveys your group, calm and collected. He meets your eye, notices the way Troy has moved to guard you, and continues on. "He showed barbarism many times over. He took two of my men with him yesterday." 

Troy steps forward, white knuckling his rifle, "And we're going to take the rest. You know you're dead now right? You know that?" 

"Lower your volume, Troy." 

You don't like that he knows Troy's name, that he thinks to say it. Without stepping out from behind him you can't get a good shot, so you survey the surroundings instead, looking for reinforcements. And you see it, the glint of steel. The sparkle against metal, and the overwhelming proof you are surrounded. Shifting you press your back again his, protecting him from behind, not tall enough to guard his head, but better than nothing. 

"And put down your weapons." 

"Troy." Madison's voice, you don't dare look at her, too busy looking for a sniper to fire at. You're not a perfect shot, you'll be lucky if you hit any of them at this distance. It's far more likely they'll hit you, but you're willing to try. 

"Shut up, shut up." 

"Troy." You're the one to try this time, because you know Madison has noticed too. This time he listens, and presses his weight into your back so you know you have his attention. 

Walker tells him for you, "Your lover has seen what you missed on the way in." 

"Don't fucking talk about her." Troy lifts his gun a little higher, and you can taste the tension in the air. 

"You're surrounded." 

He finally sees it. You prepare yourself for whatever comes next, because Troy is brave enough to try and fight anyway. Even on a rock in the middle of a field, and you think maybe he's about to kill you all, until you lean your head back against his shoulders. 

"Disarm, disarm." He lets out a sigh of frustration after the command. It goes against who he is to surrender, but the safety of your group exceeds importance of his baser nature.  

You drop your weapon, into one hand. Troy is the first to set his rifle on the rock's surface and you follow him, turning so you're standing side by side. He doesn't stop you this time. 

"We're going to take your guns, your vehicles, your supplies." Walker talks while you all disarm. This is a man to fear, you know it in your bones. Give him a reason and you'll be adding a new fear to your list, scalping. 

Troy tosses his knife toward Walker, snarling, "My father is going to kill you."

The man is not perturbed. "Your boots." He adds, and it's an insult to injury that you know Troy won't tolerate. 

Your hand snaps to Troy's wrist before he can do anything rash. "Alright. Give us a second." You look up at Troy and beg him not to do anything reckless as you kneel down to loosen the laces of the boots you just got. 

Only one wear. They're brand new and it hurts to remove them. To know they're going to a group that may kill your newfound friends. 

"Your woman is wiser than you, Troy. Perhaps she should lead." Walker is looking at you, and you know what he's trying to do. Any excuse will do for him. Anything that pushes Troy a little too far, all he needs is one step over the line and it's a bullet for the only person you care about. 

Floundering for any excuse, you say, "Troy. Can you help me with my boots?" 

Walker smiles at you as Troy turns to comply, and you both understand the game. 

Troy's hands are trembling as he helps undo the bottom of your laces before pulling them off. You know it's not fear, it's rage. You can see it when he looks up at you, this endless void of anger that goes deep inside of him. This anger that consumes him until he can't think and all he can do is act. 

You reach out and touch his hands, "Stay with me."

Your words settle him, the trembling subsides and he focuses on taking off his own shoes. And you concentrate back on the threat at hand. 

"The land you've lived on needs to be returned. Abandon the ranch."

Troy scoffs, and it sounds like a mixture of a laugh and unbridled fury. "That's not gonna happen." He stares Walker down, "Too much has been sacrificed - "

"I know what's been sacrificed, boy. That's why you'll leave." He looks at you then, so he can illustrate the cost. "Or I'll feed every goddamn one of you to the crows. Do you understand?"

"We need water." Madison drones and you want to tell her to sit the hell back down before she gets you all killed. "You want your message delivered, give us water to get back." It's a terribly risky request. 

"High demands for someone who isn't in this fight. You have no loyalties here."

Madison you are sure does not know the concept of backing down. "It became my cause when you shot down that helicopter. You took someone of mine."

Walker is silent, he watches in a way that makes you feel picked over. It's nothing like the look Troy gives you that makes you feel seen in the best of ways. "Go." 

So you do. 

Chapter Text

You are certain your feet have never hurt so badly in your life. In the beginning, it was uncomfortable as you adjusted to the terrain; then it was fine for a while, you'd adapted. It was going well until it wasn't. 

One moment you felt like you could walk normally, the next each step got a little bit worse. And then you slipped on a patch of gravel and sliced open the bottom of your foot. Now all of you seemed to be leaving little red splotches in your wake. 

And night is falling. Troy walks by your side, and he out of all of you seems the least affected. But you start to notice the way he favors his left a little more than his right. The way he tries to mediate where he steps. You are all in pain, even if he's talented at hiding it.

Soon you won't even have the sun to help you plan where is best to walk. There could be snakes, scorpions, or any number of things to make this so much worse than it already is. 

Behind you, Mike must have stepped on something particularly nasty because he lets out a string of expletives that has everyone looking at him. 

"You alright, man?" Blake is the first to ask, coming to stand by where Mike has sat down. 

One look at Troy and you know he's grinding his teeth together. 

"No, I'm not okay." You fight the urge to roll your eyes. None of you are okay, you are all pissed off and tired. "Indians, really?" As if who attacked mattered. At this point, green aliens could have come from the sky to take your shit and it wouldn't have made a damn of a difference. 

"We should stop." Que Madison, the bleeding heart but only when it suits her. Now Troy isn't the only one grinding his teeth. 

"No, no way." 

"Your men are tired." She says. 

"Yeah, well newsflash so am I." Troy shoots back. "Look at Dixon, she's about to fall over. But I don't hear her bitching. Look, Walker and those assholes will make it back before us if we don't double-time. You want that visited on your precious family?" 

You're in agreement with him, even if a tiny part of your brain is desperate to rest. You feel woozy. They left you enough water to sparingly go around a day, and you haven't eaten since breakfast. Your vision is hazy, and your balance isn't what it should be. 

You should rest, but if you don't hurry there may be no ranch to return to. And the ranch is your home now, the place you have agreed to protect as a member of the militia, it's your responsibility to keep moving. 

"I'm not waiting around for you all to chit-chat like a bunch of fucking women." You snap, and you swear you hear Merle's voice as your own. 

Troy jerks his head to look at you as you take off walking, hoping they'll all follow. You hear him say, "You're overstepping, Madison. Mike, will you pick your ass up? Just wrap your foot and hoof it, let's go." 

"You want them to follow you out of fear or respect?" 

With the day you've had you're about one more bitchy sentence from knocking her on your ass. You pivot glaring at her. 

Troy goes cold, and his attention is suddenly entirely focused on Madison. She is the deer and he is the hunter. "What did you just say to me?" 

"Being a leader is knowing when to stop." 

He swings out latching to her arm to pull her further from the rest of the group. You're the only one close enough to hear what they're saying. 

"This is my mission and these are my men." 

"Yours or your father's? Would he back this play?" She continues to push and your hands curl into fists, because she has no right to talk to him that way. This woman who has mutilated him, who has undermined his decisions. 

Jeremiah isn't here, he doesn't do his own dirty work. That's Troy's job. The shit show is always stacked on his sturdy shoulders.  

"Who do you think you're talking to? I'm not your son." 

She sneers, and you can hear the start of war drums in your head. "You wanna be a mama's boy, Troy? Or was your mother too cruel for that?" 

Before you can say anything Troy responds, stepping back. "Shut up." 

"She hated you, didn't she?" 

"Shut up, shut up." You can see the moment his mask is replaced with the demons of his past. Troy tries hard not to think about his mother, you know that. You know it in the way he avoids conversations about her, in the fact that you don't even know her name. 

"Even in the end, when you cared for her and bathed her. She still didn't love you did she?" 

Troy swallows, and you've reached a boiling point. Your heart is beating so fast you can feel it in your throat. You don't have a knife, but goddamn it you've still got hands. And you know the terrible things someone can do with their hands. 

"Madison!" You say her name so sharply it catches the entire group's attention. All eyes on you. 

He's watching you too with blazing intensity just the way you like it. And you know you care more about him than you've ever cared about anyone outside your brothers. Because this, you will not stand for, not her trying to crawl under his skin to get him to bend. 

She sees it too, the intent of your actions as you stride forward. Your vision swims, and you see two of Troy for a moment and don't feel the dirt when you hit the ground. 

-

When you awake it's beside the warmth of a fire. Your head is on something warm, it takes more effort than it should to open your eyes. Your whole body aches. A little groan leaves your throat as you look above you, and are met Troy's face. 

The warmth under your head is his leg. His hand is on your neck, thumb rubbing along your throat. You know by looking at him that he hasn't slept. 

The rest of the camp is asleep, all curled around the only heat source. "I can take watch." You whisper. 

He shakes his head. "I already took my shift." 

You reach up to cover his hand, "Did I pass out?" 

He nods, "You dropped." His brow furrows, and you can see his heightened distress.  "I tried to catch you, but you smacked your head on a rock. I should have been closer, I should have been making sure you were okay." 

Troy looks over to Madison's sleeping form. "I want to kill her. I want to slit her throat, and watch her choke on her own blood." 

You tighten your grip on his hand, bringing his focus back to you. "Are you okay?" 

He chokes on his dismissal. "Me, I don't give a shit about me, Dixon. You could have broken your neck, or cracked open your skull." Troy looks away from you off into the distance and says something that floors you, "If you die...I won't time it. I don't want to know. I won't let it have you. Nothing gets you, nothing." 

You smile up at him. "My hero." 

Your teasing breaks him out of his melancholy and his lips twist up into a tight smile. 

"But when we get back." You're hesitant to say it, but it's important so you force it out, "I want to talk about what she said. I think you need to talk about it, Troy, if you don't it doesn't go away." 

His fingers twitch around your throat. "Okay." 

"Come here." You coax, tapping the ground. "Lay with me." 

He gives in and you know he's exhausted. Once he's on his back you curl into the crook of his arm, using him as a pillow, one arm covering his chest. You press a kiss against his jacket, and wish you were back home in bed. 

The dirt is hard against your side, but you can already see his eyes drooping. You watch in fascination as one minute he's trying to keep looking at you, and the next he's unconscious. 

-

There's an irritating sensation radiating up your legs that rouses you. When you pry your eyes open it's to the sight of Troy on his knees at your feet. He's wearing his jacket open, revealing the smooth skin of his bare torso. You'd be far more distracted by that sight, because it's a look you absolutely support, if it weren't for whatever he's doing. 

You look down and realize what's happened to his shirt. It's been repurposed into strips that he's carefully wrapping around your feet. When you sit up you notice the gauze around your forehead that he must have done last night. The sun is seconds from peeking over the horizon, and the rest of your group is readying to go. 

"What about you?" 

His lip tips up at your question, "I took a little for myself." You look at his feet and see he's telling the truth even if it's abysmally less than he's currently fashioning for yours. 

"Did you sleep long?" 

He ties off the last one, and you push yourself to stand. Your feet and ankles hate your decision and you fight back a groan. Today is going to be so much worse. "A few hours." 

When he turns they're all looking at him, "Move out." 

Troy estimates you'll make it back close to sundown. The group tries to keep spirits high, telling stories and trying to laugh off the pain. 

"You tell one, Dixon." Coop demands and you roll your eyes as you try and think of something. 

Troy is watching you, as he always seems to be, he's curious too. "What kind of story do you guys want?" 

 They throw out some suggestions: childhood, fights, funny stories. 

"Alright, I got one." You smile at the memory, "I lived on the road with my older brothers, they're both over a decade older than me. I was living on the run with them, since I was fourteen. I was seventeen or so 'round when this happened. My brothers were trouble wherever they went. Merle, my oldest brother, had a love for poppers. If you haven't had them, don't recommend by the way, it's like instant euphoria and you just want to fuck everything." 

The men laugh at that, and Troy joins in. 

"Well, like every addict, he just leaves them around the hotel room. And I'm a dumb kid, nobody raised me right. So it's my first time, and I'm riding this high. The crash is terrible, I'm telling you, not worth it. You're much better off just buying a vibrator, or shit, pocket pussy I guess for you pricks." 

Another round of laughter, and you notice Troy's expression has become sharper. Like he's just now realizing you've spread your legs wide in an empty hotel room and pleasured yourself. 

"Anyway, anyway." You continue, glad for once you're not thinking about your feet and they don't seem to be either. "I'm riding this high, on the ceiling right, it doesn't last long but I'm in the thick of it. And I'm so damn horny I don't know what to do with myself." You say it mostly to watch Troy's eyes darken, and you grin at him. 

"So I'm desperately looking around for anything. Hairbrush, suspiciously shaped vase, anything. This motel's got nothing and all I own is a damn comb. Finally, I decide, fuck it, I'll just do it myself. I've got my jeans around my ankles lying in this bed, no cover, nothing. Moaning and writhing around. I'm a goddamn mess. Lost in it. I don't hear the door open." 

They're hanging on your every word, except for Madison. She's ignoring you, so you do the same. "Merle walks in. And he takes one look at me, horrified, snaps his hand over his eyes, and tries to leave, but he's high and the door is closed and he runs right into it. I yank the blanket over myself. He's cursing, still covering his eyes. And Daryl opens the door, and gets him in the face again." 

You try not to laugh, but you're giggling. "He's fucking bleeding everywhere. Daryl doesn't know what's happening, and I'm not about to tell him. I told Merle later I got into his poppers and he never left them alone with me again." 

There's a final roar of laughter, and you find yourself waiting for Troy's. He's smiling, laughing with them, but his laugh has a unique tone. A sort of hunger to it. He approaches you, curling down to say, "It's a shame I wasn't there. I'd have taken care of you." 

-

The storytelling only lasts so long. You find yourself trailing back, struggling to keep up with Troy. He doesn't remark on it at first, but then you're lagging so badly he has to notice. He holds out his hand for you, "Come on, you can do it." 

You take it, gripping his hand harder than you mean to. "Squeeze as hard as you need. I'm with you." 

You're sure he doesn't realize how sweet that sounds. His loyalty is so natural to him, he has no idea what statements like that mean to you. So you don't squeeze too hard, because you don't want to add to the discomfort he's feeling. 

A root takes you by surprise and you jolt forward, smashing your toe hard enough that you whimper. Troy has already told you the ranch is just over this hill. Soon you'll be able to see it. One more hour, they might even see you and send a car. 

He stops and bends his knees. At first, you don't realize what he's asking. Troy raises an eyebrow, "I'm not offering Mike a damn piggyback ride. Get on." 

"I'm sure Mike would really like one." You say back, and see a flash of irritation. Now is not the time to dismiss his offer. But he's tired and you don't want to burden him further. 

You hear Mike behind you, "Will you carry me, Coop?" 

Cooper snorts, "I'll drag you by your ankles if you really want." 

"I'd carry you, Coop." You tease, and he laughs. 

Troy isn't focusing on them though, he's stuck on you. "Dixon, you promised." Any order he gives, that had been the deal. This isn't something that will threaten his life. Promises are law to you. 

Sighing you approach and let him hoist you up on his back. He lets out one little noise of pain as he takes that first step and then he buries it. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, making sure not to choke him. 

You lean in and press an open mouth kiss to the side of his neck, unconcerned about the sweat and dirt. He sighs out a breath and his hands tighten around your thighs. 

As soon as you start going, the weather turns against you. It begins a low drizzle that you have no doubt for everyone else is chaffing as hell. But you don't dare ask him to put you down, so you try for something else useful.

When you're this close it's easy to have a private conversation. "Would you like me to distract you?"

He nods, "God, I'd kill for something else to think about right now." 

"Well, I best be careful, I wouldn't want to make it even harder for you to walk." You get an up close and personal view of the way he clenches his jaw. 

"Vixen, vixen, vixen, vixen." He murmurs in quick succession. "Do your worst." 

You bury your face in his neck and smile into his skin. 

"Look." He says, and when you do the ranch is on the horizon. 

It feels so good to be off your feet, but the guilt nibbles at you. "Are you okay?"

He hums, "I don't know. I was promised a distraction." 

You place another kiss on his skin, trailing up to under his ear, teeth grazing his earlobe. "What the kisses aren't good enough, for you?" 

Troy's grip on your legs keeps loosening and tightening again. "It's a start." 

"I do believe anything else I can do to distract you would undoubtedly slow us down." You add, "And shouldn't be done with company. Unless you're into that sort of thing." 

His answer is swift, "I'm not." 

Without meaning to your voice lowers, and you find some of that prowess you reveled in the last few years, "So what I'm gathering, is you don't share." 

You're headed downhill, and that lets the group pick up some speed. Everyone is motivated with home in sight. "I've never played well with others." 

"I think you'll play with me just fine."

He loses his footing on the step down, sliding in the mud a few inches with a snarl of pain. 

"Shit, I'm sorry." 

He shakes his head and his damp hair tickles your face. "Don't be." 

Not wanting to cause a repeat you change the conversation, ignoring the heat that's swirling in your stomach. You can revisit that later, there will be time, you'll find time. 

"Alright, new subject." You say, and swear he's disappointed. "What's your favorite color?" 

He laughs, "That's what you're going with?" 

"Answer the question, cowboy." 

"Green." He replies. 

"Why?" You question. "Is it because you like camo so much?" Soon you'll be at the bottom of the hill and you can take the road in. Your group should be in sight, and you don't think they realize they should send a car. Everyone pushes on. 

"No." You think he probably rolled his eyes, "But I've always figured myself to be a bit of a nature boy. What about you?" 

"Blue." You say without hesitation, even as you realize it's going to be terribly embarrassing if he asks why like you did. 

So of course he does, "Why's that?" 

There are a couple of fake answers you could come up with, but you don't like the idea of lying to Troy about anything. So you rest your chin on his shoulder and tell the truth, "My favorite color is whatever perfect mix your eyes are." 

His hands tighten again and you know he's going to write it down later. 

The rest of your questions are conversational, with each half-thought-out question or response the gate gets closer. He's starting to breathe heavy. "You can put me down." 

"No." His reply is simple, and there won't be any convincing him. It doesn't matter that you're both wet and the wind whips around you. He's set out to protect you, and you've no chance of convincing him otherwise. 

Besides the rain has left as soon as it's come and the sun is already creeping back out. Soon the water will dry. 

The ranch is tauntingly close, another five minutes. You wish he wouldn't push himself for you. 

You're all walking at a snail's pace. The gate is in sight, you can see activity beyond it. Troy shouts out, "Open up." 

There's suddenly a stampede of people, loved ones rushing to their kids and family. 

You hear some of their names being shouted out: Mike, Coop, Madison. No one shouts Troy's name, you tighten your hold to remind him you're there. He still doesn't put you down. Not even as Jeremiah approaches him, "What the hell happened out there?"

"We should talk private." Troy responds. 

Vernon doesn't like that. He cuts into the conversation, and you wish he'd put you down. You can't talk to anyone like this, clinging to his back. 

"Talk private? Did I hear you right?" He goes off, the two old bastards going back and forth. You don't care. You don't think Troy much cares either, because he's shifting from foot to foot like he wants to walk away. 

So he does, he ignores the start of whatever Mike is saying and walks past his father. 

Jeremiah snaps out Troy's name but he ignores that too. He's got one destination in mind. He carries you all the way home, up the front steps, trailing bloody footprints up the stairs. Troy doesn't stop until he deposits you on the toilet seat of the bathroom. 

"Freshen up. I'll be right back." He leaves you alone to do your business and you're grateful you don't have to walk around much. 

You're washing your hands when he knocks again. "Come in." 

He does, snapping the door shut behind him before locking it. The two of you are getting good at locking doors. 

Troy is dedicated to whatever is running through his mind. He doesn't speak as he plugs the bathtub and starts the water, filling it up an inch or two before turning it off again. 

You sit because you can, as he sort of stumbles to his knees before you. "Hey, hey, hey." You coo, running your fingers through his hair. "Talk to me. We need to get some water in you." The shower water isn't safe to drink, but you know there's water downstairs. He'd insisted you drink more this morning and you have a sneaking suspicion it was his ration. 

"This first." He mumbles, leaning down to start untying the fabric around your feet. Each strip hurts as it's removed, pulling away dried blood, and the starts to scabs. Troy is methodical with it, careful at the top, quick at the bottom. 

Every action is attentive to hurt you as minimally as possible. When it's finished he has a pile of nasty fabric on the tiles. You stand, and it aches to do so. "Sit." 

To your surprise he listens, taking your place. Though he leans down to take care of his own feet. You catch his chin, pushing his head back up. "Nu-uh. That's not how this works." You press your hand to his chest until he straightens. 

You approach his injuries the same way as yours. As you work you talk to him, "We're new to this whole relationship thing." You look up at him and try for a smile, he tries too but it looks tired. "That means you help me and I help you. Partners. I will never take advantage of you." 

He nods, wincing when you pull his sock off. "Thank you." 

"You don't have to thank me. I want to do this for you." You look up at him, and for once the intensity is your own instead of his, "You deserve this, Troy, you deserve to have someone take care of you."

Troy doesn't say anything back, but he leans forward and presses a long kiss to the top of your head and that's enough. 

"Time for the fun part." You both transition to the bathtub, sitting on the edge as you dunk your feet in the cool water. By the time you're both done the water is filthy. Tinged red with dirt coating the bottom. 

You take turns with gauze and antiseptic to make sure everything is clean. When you're done, he opens the door and gestures down the hall. It doesn't matter that night has barely fallen. 

Changing into clean clothes is all either of you can manage, he doesn't even leave the room, he just keeps his back to you. 

It takes seconds before the sheets claim you. 

Chapter Text

It's morning by the time you wake, starfished across the mattress. The light's streaming through the room in cozy tendrils that make waking up harder. There's the faint sounds of a conversation from downstairs, Jeremiah's voice raising in frustration. The slam of a door. 

That status report Troy had avoided the day before. 

You let yourself drift, because there's nothing you can really add. And most days Jeremiah seems pissed to look at you. So you rest, shifting in and out until you feel the mattress dip. 

He touches your forehead, brushing hair away from your face. The touch is gentle, so much so that you almost don't feel it. 

Troy's voice is a whisper not meant to be heard, "You're so beautiful." He sighs, and you stay still unable to fight your curiosity. Because he's talking to you even as he doesn't mean to. "I never thought...I never thought I'd be with anyone. That anyone would want to be with me. I'm not right in the head. I don't think I've ever been normal." 

He's silent so long you think he's done, but then he starts talking again, "I've never felt this way, and I don't know what to do with it. I love Jake, he's always looked out for me, but he stops. He chooses his battles. It always feels like a competition. He's the only person I ever imagined carrying to safety. But I don't - I can't rely on him. He'll choose others over me every time. He's good, and so he does good things. 

"I think you'd pick me over the ranch. I don't know what to do with that. It's terrifying, because I'm not just protecting you. I don't just have to keep you alive, I have to keep your heart safe. I'm so scared I'll break it. I've never done this before. It doesn't matter how many notes I take, all I have to do is show you the wrong side of me and ruin everything. Maybe I'm just like my dad, maybe I'm capable of hurting you. And the idea of doing that makes me want to cut off my own hands." 

Troy takes a shaky breath and finishes in a tone so fragile you barely make it out. "I think I'm falling in love with you. And the sad part is I don't know for sure. I didn't think I was capable of it."

You don't know if you should expose that you're awake. He needs time to process, to understand his own feelings. So you roll on your back and pretend to stir. He goes quiet, and a minute later you open your eyes and smile when you look at him. 

He smiles back and you know if he's falling in love you're following him. 

"I didn't mean to sleep so long." You admit, you're in bed far later than usual. The room is flooded entirely with light, it's comfortable and warm against the sheets. And it feels so good to be off your feet.

Troy adjusts on the mattress until he's entirely on it with you. "It was a hard walk back." 

"You did most of the work." You admit. "Thank you, for taking care of me." 

Troy glows under the easy compliments, so you give him another one, "You're incredible."

This makes him blush, red cheeks and a smile that crinkles his eyes. He lets out a huff of a laugh, "That's some serious flattery, you want something?" 

"I want a lot of things." You say noncommittally, before sitting up in bed. "Did you actually sleep?"

"A couple hours." At your stern look, he adds, "Two maybe." 

"That's not enough." He's stretching himself too thin, pushing past the point of healthy. You can see the rings under his eyes, the stress behind his stare. "Come here." It feels like a repeat of yesterday. 

"I can't sleep right now." 

You pat the mattress anyway, and keep doing it until he finally caves and lies flat on his side of the bed. "Flip on your stomach." 

He's finished being stubborn apparently because he bends to your command and does as you ask. Looking down at him you frown, you should have had him take off his shirt. Reaching for the hem you pull it up until it bunches along his shoulder blades. He's got his cheek pressed into the mattress, his swollen eye hidden, but his good eye is on you. 

You smile, before your hands come to his back. Running your thumbs along the tensed muscle that he's sculpted through years of hard work. He doesn't expect this, and he lets out a low masculine sound of contentment that will live in your mind forever. It's nice to have a simple task, so you relax into it. 

"Drop your shoulders." You instruct and he does, wrapping his arms around his pillow. 

You bend over him to work on the other side of his torso, and he's humming his approval. At least this you can do. You don't stop until he's a puddle of loosened muscles against the bed, and you can tell he's barely awake. Finished, you lean down to run several kisses up his spine. "How's that?" 

"Fucking fantastic." He mumbles into the pillowcase. 

You giggle, and are reminded that it's the simple things. You love fighting with him, challenging the world, and doing things around the ranch. But what you love the most is moments like this. Just the two of you behind closed doors, no requirements, no responsibilities. It makes you mourn the old world. 

"I wish I'd met you before." You admit. 

He cracks his pretty blue eye open to look at you, and you see the start of his smile. "Where would we have met?" 

"My brother's dropped me off all sorts of places. Maybe we met in a restaurant, or ran into each other on the side of the road somewhere." You go on, "I wouldn't look all that different than I do now, jeans and a t-shirt." 

"A bar." Troy offers, and you can see him picturing it, "I used to drive up north to go to bars. You'd have been at the counter, I'd have worn my favorite shirt, it was nicer back then. I'd have bought you a drink, you probably wouldn't have accepted it." 

You cut him off, "From you, shit I'd have chugged it." You don't have the heart to tell him you'd been in that exact situation more times than you can remember. "What's your angle?" You muse, and he seems to know what you mean without needing to explain. 

"Lonely rancher boy, sensitive, intelligent. I'd have rattled off some fact or other, you'd have pretended to be impressed." He chuckles, "Maybe you'd have actually been interested in my weird facts." 

You run your nails down his back to give yourself something to do. His eye flutters closed at the sensation. "How would the night end?" 

Troy's answer is far more confident than you expect. "I'd have screwed you in the bar's bathroom." 

You snort out a laugh. A part of you had been curious, and you figured it went one way or another. He'd either never touched a woman in his life or had experienced a plethora. It doesn't bother you. You'd have guided him along as a virgin sure, but virgins were never really your cup of tea. Troy's different though, in so many ways. You'd be happy with a sappy sloppy round in the hay. 

He goes on to explain, "I'm a gentleman. I was always upfront about what I wanted. Always used protection, it was a good way to reduce stress when things got tense between me and Jake or my dad. Something to do." 

You nod, even if he doesn't see it. Both of you seem to view sex in a similar light, and maybe that's why it's so different this time. His blush is because he cares not because he's inexperienced. 

Troy proves that when he tells you, "I've never been with anyone that I actually have feelings for. Half the time I didn't bother to remember their name."

"Me neither." You say, and see his surprise. "It's always been a means to an end, a transaction. Something to pass the time. I usually kept most of my clothes on. I don't like the idea of intimacy, or I didn't anyway." 

His voice takes on a sort of boyish quality, excited, "Do you want that with me, intimacy?" 

You chuckle. "If I wanted my brains screwed out, I'd have done it that first day. I'd have asked you to stay in the bunkhouse. I don't think you'd have said no." 

He shakes his head a confirmation that he wouldn't have. 

Your nails slide along his tailbone and he shivers. "That's the thing, Troy, everything about you feels intimate. The way you look at me, the way you touch me. Everything you say. It feels special. So yeah, I want that. I really want that." 

He changes positions one of his arms coming across your lap until he has his forehead pressed against your thigh. You're still wearing your pajama bottoms, but he doesn't seem to mind. "I'd have gotten your number, because let's be honest you're gorgeous. I wouldn't have been able to let it go. I can't let it go. You'd have been stuck with me." 

"I would have seen a lot fewer people die if I started here." You remark, "Strange picturing meeting your family under different circumstances." 

"They'd have acted pretty much the same, to be honest. I would just have kept you separate for longer. All to myself." 

"Scared the doomsday bunker would have been too much for a first date?" You joke. 

Troy snorts, looking up at you. "I have a lifetime supply of canned beans is not a good opener. Let me return the favor, why don't you get on your stomach." He offers, giving you those big blues. It's pleading, and you let him push your boundaries a little further. 

It's not until you extradite yourself from his grasp that you remember though you've flashed him twice, he's never really touched the bare skin of your back.

That first day you'd been filthy and soaked with old blood. The second time, he'd been quite preoccupied with the front of you. You go stiff as he reaches for the edge of your shirt, you open your mouth to stop him but it's too late. He's already lifting it up. 

Troy doesn't say anything, he's silent. He doesn't move, you don't even hear him breathe. 

You are suddenly painfully aware of the scars that mar your back. They are a match to your brothers, both of them. They are a wound you cannot scrub out. 

From far away they're easy to miss. But the sun is sparkling through the room, and he's close. There's no hiding them. They are the ball and chain to your past you drag with you. And they're easy to forget when you can't see them.

They are the reason you kept your clothes on when dragging random men home. They didn't care to see your back, not when your shirt was around your collar and they had what they wanted. You can't handle the questions. It had happened once or twice, and you'd been quick to throw them out. 

You don't need saving. You don't need pity. 

Finally, he reacts and traces his fingers across one of the worse ones. "What did he use?" 

You squeeze your eyes shut at the plethora of memories that gather at that question. "Whatever he could get his hands on. He wore belts most days. Funny how a buckle works a bit like a mace." It's not funny at all but you say it anyway.  

Troy traces another one, and then he leans down and places a kiss there. And you realize he's kissing each and every one. With each open mouth kiss your walls come down a little more. You cry into the pillow, and it feels invigorating. Like letting go, like you don't need to hide anymore. It's not something that needs to be held onto with both hands. 

When he's done he gives you your promised massage, and he doesn't say anything about your tears. He lets you cry, and you have a feeling that Troy will always be like that. This man, who was locked away for feeling sad. He's never going to stop you, he's not going to try and subside the tears, he's going to let you cry and he's going to be there gathering up the pieces. Putting you back together with the focus of a man who's good with puzzles. 

You'll do the same for him if that day comes, if he lets that part of himself free again. You know it may be too far locked away, buried inside him. The little boy who cries too much. 

When you flip over you know it's time. "Tell me about your mother." 

He doesn't look surprised by your question, after all, you'd told him you were going to revisit it. But he does look pained by the subject. Troy's eyes glaze over you, before they end up out the window looking at the spanning fields beyond. 

"Tracy." He says, and you can hear it in his voice, in the lack of tone. She broke him. "Her name, it was Tracy." 

"Coop said she got sick." You offer to give him a place to start.

Troy laughs and it's not a kind laugh. It's an angry thing. "That's one way to put it. My mother decided enough was enough. She decided if Big Otto wasn't going to kill her, then she'd do it one bottle of vodka at a time. Or two, or three. I was an adult, I moved in with her, those last two years." 

His hands fist the comforter until he nearly shreds the fabric. "I wasn't small enough to toss into another room to get rid of anymore. She told me every day how 'fucking sick she was of seeing my father's face around her house'. He'd never been there, not once. 'You'll turn out just like him, you think you're so perfect just wait until you're a parent. You'll lock your kid up too. All you ever did was cry. I can't take it Troy, I can't take it.'" 

You understood from the start that Troy has an excellent memory, but you never thought of the problems that would cause him. He seems to remember every horrible thing ever said to him. 

"I did everything I could. I begged her to eat, I carried her to bed when she passed out on the floor. I made sure she didn't choke to death on her own vomit. She'd piss herself and not even notice. I'd help her change, clean her up. Two years, I was right there. Only time I ever left was to do stuff for the house, groceries and the like. Jake visited once or twice, but he stopped visiting when she found him there and ran at him with a fire poker." 

You reach out and take one of his hands and he holds onto it like his life depends on it. "She made me feel like I was nothing. Like my presence was a curse. 'I pity any woman that you're with, you're so stifling. Don't you go anywhere, you fucking leech? Attention, attention, look at me I'm Troy I'm so fucking sad all the time. You think you're helping me? I wish you were never born, ugly baby that you -'" 

You press your finger to his lips in the midst of his scripting. "Don't give her words life."

He talks for hours. He tells you every single thing he can remember about her. He tells you every time she hit him, every time Jeremiah hit him. Every little thing his parents had subjected him to. He tells you in terrible detail what it was like being trapped in the pantry for a day and a half. And when he's done he doesn't cry. He sits there in silence, in the dark room. You'd never bothered to switch a light on. 

He doesn't seem to know what to do with himself. So you fumble around until you've crawled into his lap, and you wrap your arms around his neck. His hug is painfully tight, but you don't mind. 

"You deserved better." You whisper. "You deserve the whole world." 

Troy kisses you, and you give in to it. That kiss leads into another, and another. When you pull back his eyes are shining in the moonlight, damp but not quite crying. You kiss above each of his eyes anyway. This isn't something that can be rushed. "I'm going to run to the bathroom, I'll be right back."

You leave him there, and hate that you have to but you've been putting it off for a while. When you step out into the hallway, you find Jake. 

He's leaned against the wall right outside the room and he's got tears running down his face. His knees are pulled to his chest, arm wrapped around himself. He's got one hand latched over his mouth like he's trying desperately to hold in the sobs. 

You crouch down to him, and he stares at you in something that can be described only as grief. Careful not to overheard you whisper, "You didn't know." 

He shakes his head wildly. You reach out to touch his shoulder and squeeze it before rushing to the bathroom. It only takes a minute and when you come back out Jake is the same mess as he was before. 

You hold out your hand, and pull him off the floor. It makes a shuffle and Troy comes out of the doorway, gun in hand. 

As soon as Jake sees him he breaks down the middle. He lets out a heaving sob and throws himself forward, arms tight around his little brother's shoulders. 

Troy doesn't move, he's frozen still processing that Jake knows, that he heard. You reach out to take the pistol from him and he reacts. His arms curl around Jake and he presses his eyes down into his shoulder. 

Jake starts talking between his gasping breaths and you stand there as the sole witness. "I'm sorry, Troy. I'm so sorry." Another wet sob. "I should have been there. I should have been there. I should have been there. I failed, oh god, I failed you." 

Troy holds him tighter and when he looks up at you, he's crying. 

And it's a good thing, because little boys who cry are normal. And he's not some monster that doesn't feel anything. They need this. 

If Troy is going to be your future, if he's the horizon, then Jake is part of it. You join their hug until you're all a pile of sorrow holding each other together. 

-

The next day Jake knocks on the door while you're both dressing. Your feet still ache something fierce, but there are things to do. You open it, smiling at him. "Morning." It's up to him if he wants to mention last night, he doesn't. 

But the way he looks at Troy has changed, like for the first time he sees him. There's a kindness in him that wasn't there before. Jake is intelligent, he knows pieces of the larger picture he's never been privy to. His outlook has adapted, and now it's something new. A tentative familial loyalty. 

And you have apparently been included in that. Troy is silent, but you can tell he's stunned. Utterly shocked by the way Jake is looking at him. 

He smiles at his brother, a sad broken sort of child's smile that Jake returns. 

Jake holds out the olive branch, "I thought we could all do breakfast together." 

Troy nods, a few times more than necessary. "I - I would like that." 

You try to break the safety glass so you can get to the good parts. "You cooking me some eggs, Jakey boy?" 

He smiles, and rolls his eyes. "I guess." And so you find yourselves in the kitchen. Troy chops up freshly grown potatoes to fry, Jake works on the eggs and you set the table for three. 

When you walk back into the kitchen they're both laughing. Jake's face is dripping with water, a likely attack from the sink when Troy went to wash his hands. There's a boyish energy in the air that makes you feel light. 

Daryl and Merle may be gone, but that doesn't mean you can't have a family. 

"Sure does smell good in here." You comment popping your hip against the counter, and Troy glances over at you with a smile so wide you think it might hurt. 

Jake turns spatula in hand, "I'll have you know," He says your first name, and your face scrunched up. 

"Please, god, call me Dixon." 

He chuckles, "I'll have you know, Dixon, that I'm an excellent cook." 

"Learn that in law school did you?" 

Troy shoots his joke, "Well he couldn't gorge himself on freshman college girls forever." 

There's an uptick of laughter, interrupted by the gruff voice of the family head. "What in blue blazes are you boys doing in here, it's making a racket." 

You wonder if Jeremiah can see it, the change. It's so obvious to you. In the barely hidden anger on Jake's face, in the way Troy stops laughing. In the end, it's you who answers, "Looks like making breakfast to me." 

Jeremiah glares at you, "I never would have guessed, sweetheart." 

"Dad," Jake's voice is tentative. 

You're not so easily cowed, and you're angry. Troy has given you a hundred reasons to hate Jeremiah Otto. 

"Well, it's a shame, that you couldn't figure that out when it's so simple." Your smile is mocking. 

He rears back in indignation, sputtering. "You're a guest in my house - "

Troy is abruptly at your side, "She lives here. She's not a guest. This is her home." 

Jake is watching the exchange all the while carefully maintaining the stove. This is nothing new it would seem. Not a situation to ruin the eggs over. 

"Well pardon me." Jeremiah throws up his hands like he's surrendering. "Didn't know you sticking your dick in something made it part of the family." 

"Dad." Jake tries again a little firmer this time. 

"No Jake, your brother clearly has something to say. Let him get it out." 

When you look over at him, Troy is grinding his teeth. And you know that look, it's the same one he makes seconds before he reaches the dead. The dark gleam that's followed by a smile of elation. 

A child of violence. 

Jake recognizes it too, because he shuts the stove off. The eggs will survive this encounter, but you wonder if Jeremiah might not be so lucky. 

"She stays." Troy's voice is quiet and somehow it's more threatening that way. "You can be a shit father, you can fail us. You can hit me. But she stays, and you leave her the fuck alone." 

Jeremiah's responding expression is conniving, because Troy has offered up a weakness to exploit. Something that will press him into calamity. 

He doesn't take it today, but you worry about what tomorrow will bring. Because Otto has long proved himself a force of destruction. 

For today, you eat eggs. 

-

To Troy's immense delight, Jake spends the entire day with you. The three of you reinforce one of the fences together, take inventory, and other such practices. You can tell he's reveling in it, this newfound interest Jake has in his life.

The whole day he radiates a contentment you've never seen. And it's contagious. Despite the shifty start to breakfast, nothing else unpleasant happens. It may be one of the best days you've ever had, if only because everyone else around you seems to feel the same.

And because life is cruel, and knows no boundaries when to give a reprieve, when night falls things go bad. You've got your back to the headboard, reading a book Jake has lent you. Troy is scribbling in his notebook, thoughts about the day no doubt.

Or maybe plans for the future against Walker. You don't ask, he's lost in it. Better to let him get his thoughts down and discuss them afterward. It's comfortable, with the blanket over your legs, and the faint sound of his pencil on the page.

You catch the light out of the corner of your eye first, since you're closest to the window. When you glance up that spark is larger, a smoking orange in the distance. Fire. "Troy."

The tone in your voice has his direct attention. He follows your eyes and jumps out of bed rushing to the window. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." He reaches for the AR in the corner and throws the strap over his shoulder, shoving his feet into his boots with a few more expletives.

You follow, grabbing your pistol and a shotgun. Up close to the window, you can see the start of more fires.

Jake meets you in the hallway, armed as well. He nods to you both and you all rush down the stairs, past Jeremiah where he stands silently on the porch toward the front gate. You can hear voices all around you, panic from the residents of the ranch.

Some are shouting fire, some are running toward the wells to fill buckets. But you don't think these fires will spread. The Indians want your land, they're not going to burn it down.

Troy has his rifle up, and Jake copies him. Their childhood training makes them identical in the way they move. You'd admire the sight if you weren't so busy looking for threats on the horizon.

The fires are all around you. One, two, three, four. You keep counting, twenty one. A wide circle of lights around the ranch. They're coordinated, and this takes people to pull off. At least forty. You can handle forty, maybe.

But they're looking to scare you. And it's working. People are having a fit around you. There's a clutter of voices that steal your senses, and you wish they'd all shut up so you can think. You find yourself pressing your back against Troy's, Jake coming against your sides. A triangle facing three directions.

Back to back, weapons raised. No one approaches the ranch, and you relax from your offensive stance. "They're not coming."

Jake agrees, swinging his rifle down to his side. Troy is the last to lower his. He keeps scanning, paranoia heightened. You rest a hand on his arm, looking at him.

"We'll check it in the morning. We can't go out there at night."

He doesn't fight you. He nods and you head back up into the house. Jeremiah doesn't say anything as you pass. You're grateful, because you don't think Troy's frayed nerves could stomach it.

You sleep in shifts the rest of the night. 

Chapter Text

The next day the carnage is evident. The fires didn't destroy the landscape, but they destroyed something. You can feel it as you walk to get your morning coffee. A sort of unpleasantness. Troy senses it too, because he's walking closer than usual. There's a consistent low whispering around the encampment. 

You can see someone loading a truck in the distance and frown. They're going to run. Cowards. Jumping ship at the first signs of water. 

"I'm not going anywhere." You say, because you need to say it and he needs to hear it. Some of the tension abates in his shoulders and he responds with a smile that barely reaches his eyes. 

"Neither am I." He looks around, "This is my home." 

"Our home." You tease, and his smile is a little wider this time as he fills two mugs of coffee. He hands you yours and you wrap your hands around it, bringing it to your nose. The smell helps improve your morning, but it's all downhill from there. 

It starts shifting during lunch. You and Troy are sitting with a few of the other militia boys. It's a somber sort of meal, not much talking and joking around. It leaves a window to listen to Jeremiah and Madison a table over. It allows you to hear Vernon. 

As soon as he starts talking you watch Troy get stiller and stiller. He's like a statue, fork still in hand, listening. His head tilts and you find yourself setting down your cutlery. Any second he's going to dart, his body is prepping for it, and you plan to be right on his heels. 

He jerks his head up looking over at them, eyes stormy, "Mike going with you?" 

Vernon is dismissive, which seems to be a large part of his personality. Why fight when you can run, it's a trait he and his son share. You don't particularly like Mike all that much. He's the weak link in your company. And the old saying rings true, you're only strongest. His leaving will make you stronger. 

Troy doesn't agree. He's outraged, angry, and worried about the future of what he's spent his whole life protecting. Vernon walks, and Troy makes it less than a minute. "To hell with this." 

You're out of your seat a second before he decides to move. 

Jake is a few feet behind you, both darting after him, but Troy is fast. Faster than you. Jake takes a lead, chasing after him. 

You can't quite make out whatever he says to Jimmie, but he's stopped beside the RV. Your feet burn against the harsh movement, but you ignore it. 

"You open that gate and I shoot you in the head." Troy's voice leaves no room for argument and Jimmie freezes. 

Shit, he's pissed. His whole body is radiating tension, and all you can do is stand to the side. Jake is next to you, watching. Because Troy will do whatever Troy has set out to do, unless you really mean it he won't listen to you. Unless it's important to you, and the Trimbols aren't, he'll find his own way. 

So you watch, like observing a boulder roll at great speeds down a hill with the knowledge there's no stopping it. He will make an impact, it's simply something he must do.

He's right in the RV window. "Open the door."

You see Vernon calculating in his mind. "I'm not doing this, Troy." 

You step forward, a few feet away, arms outstretched like there's something for you to do. 

"Open the door, Vernon." When he doesn't respond Troy changes tactics. He rounds to the other side of the RV, "Mike? Mike get your ass out here now. Come on, get your ass out here. People, died for us, Mike. Our people, and you're gonna run, huh? It's not what a man does, Mike! That's not what a man does." 

He smacks the window with the flat of his hand, it vibrates from the pressure. But you already knew Mike was a coward, he keeps his stare flat ahead. And you know why, because Troy's eyes are dangerous things. Where they hold you close, they burn through others. They're judgemental and mean, and destructive to those who have disappointed him. And Mike has certainly done that.

"Troy, Troy. Stand down." Jake rushes up next to him, hand on his shoulder. "Dad said they could leave. We're still here, if they want to run that's on them." 

He shrugs off Jake's touch and you know he's past talking down. He's too angry, too lost in it. "Yeah, he said they could leave, not with ranch property. They gassed up, didn't they? Gas is ranch property." He starts pacing in front of the RV and you're transfixed with the motion, like a tiger pacing a carnival cage. 

"And I guarantee you that they took plenty of shit from the panty!" He slams his hands on the front of the vehicle, the metal echoing a boom that you feel in your bones. "And I want to see an inventory, Vernon!" He smacks the hood again. "I want it inspected!" 

Jake approaches for round two, "This is not what dad wants." 

And Troy's answer takes you by surprise, because when he's riled up his loyalty falls flat for the man who's harmed him. "Why should I give a damn what dad wants? He never gives a shit about me." 

Jake oversteps; he tries to pull Troy away. It's like watching from the outside in. There's an audience around you, but you can't drag yourself away from a single move Troy makes. 

"You're not protecting the ranch. They don't matter. Let them go, and protect the people that are still here. We'll do it together." Jake pleads.

Troy's cold, systematic. He's in the headspace for timing fights and watching blood coat his hands. He's not thinking of yesterday, he's thinking of every single time Jake has let him down. "The hell do you know about it? You haven't a clue what this ranch is about." 

He finally notices you, and that flame in his eyes turns scorching. You're alight with one look. "Dixon understood on the first day. She walked onto the ranch and understood. Why'd you take so long, huh?" He shifts closer and they're nose to nose. "You gonna fight for what's yours or you gonna surrender it, huh? You gonna fight or you gonna surrender?"

"I'm fighting for you." Jake tries to look down, to de-escalate. You're faintly aware this is the part where you should step in. Because you don't give a shit about the Trimbols but you do care about Jake. But you're stuck in place, and it feels inevitable, whatever this is. A culmination that has to come to a brutal conclusion for them to ever be brothers like they should be.

Sometimes family is rage, it's hurt, it's disappointment. 

Troy says it again, "You gonna fight or you gonna surrender?" 

Jake looks up and you know he sees it coming before Troy is a boomerang that doesn't come back. He sees it in the clench of his brother's teeth, and he does nothing. Troy hits him hard enough he slams into the side of the RV.

You're too slow, Jeremiah gets there first. You were so captivated you forgot he was even here. "What the hell is wrong with you!" You see him pull his arm back, and you lurch forward. 

He gets one good punch in before you're in the thick of it, shoving Troy back from Jeremiah. His fist comes again and catches you in the side of the jaw, you grunt stumbling to the side. And Troy is gone. 

The man you're looking at isn't one you've met before. He is the calm before the storm. The righteous angel you prayed to as a child to avenge you. He is everything, and nothing. He is boiled down to the one emotion he has left. He is frenzy. 

Jake tackles him. 

They hit the ground hard, and Troy is all swinging fists. Jake's trying to restrain him. You're still reeling from the blow. 

Madison has her hand on Jeremiah's shoulder, cautioning him from stepping in. 

You drop to your knees beside them, shoving Jake off. He's taken at least another blow to the face, because his nose is bleeding. You take Jake's place, and Troy is mid-swing. 

It's only due to practice and fast reflexes that you throw up your arms in time to cover your face and he gets you in the wrist instead. It hurts, but not as much as your jaw would have. It's already throbbing as it is. "Troy!" You beg, still covering your face. You're straddling him in the dirt and you never thought this would be the first time you're in this position. "Troy, stop." 

He comes back to himself and grabs you by the shoulders, tugging you down against his chest. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Ah, I didn't - I'm sorry. I'm sorry." 

You hear the jingle of the gate. They run while they have a chance, taking their stolen supplies with them. 

Jake is on his back next to you, breathing heavily, hand against his face. Alicia is bent over him in concern, trying to see if his nose is broken. 

You focus on the only thing that matters, Troy. He's still muttering apologies into your neck, over and over again. 

It enrages you that people are watching, like it's some kind of performance. You jerk up, glaring at them. Sneer on your face, "Want to see the fucking show, go buy tickets!" This scatters most of them, eyes on the ground as they wander off. Let them be ashamed.

It leaves the Clarks and Jeremiah, and a few of the militia. You wonder if they're waiting for Troy to get up and book it after the RV. 

You turn back to Troy and he's calmed down some. His eyes are wet and his hands are shaking but he's no longer thrashing against you. It's over for now. The storm quiets, the frenzy abates into sorrow.

Jake sighs, and glances over at Troy, "You good?"

Troy laughs and there's no humor in it. "Yeah, you?"

"You hit like a bus." 

This time there's a little bit of humor, and they let it rest. You'd be lying if you said you'd never gotten into altercations with your brothers, especially when you were younger. 

They were easy targets when you couldn't tell them what was happening to you. Your father taught you how to talk with fists, and they never hit back. It used to make you feel strong, now it's one of the few things you regret. 

So you mediate the best you can. Your jaw and wrist throb. "I'll give this showdown a three out of ten. Next time I want to see some WWE shit. One of you needs to like do a piledriver or something." 

Alicia picks up on what you're trying to accomplish and joins in, "I expect a double backflip, Jake." 

Your smiles are more genuine. Troy participates, "I'ma call you Little Otto." 

"Fuck you." Jake snorts, sitting up to spit blood into the gravel. Troy's eye is irritated again, and you realize Jeremiah must have hit him on that side. You frown, but fight the urge to glare at the old man. That time will come. 

He taps your leg, "Let me up." 

You do, because you think the time for rashness has passed at least for now. He helps you once he's on his feet and then he's looking at his father, the anger resurfacing. You take his hand, "He wasn't aiming for me." 

Troy snaps to look at you, "I wasn't either, don't make it okay." 

He takes off walking in the direction of the pantry, ignoring Jeremiah completely. You'll never get used to the cold feeling inside the bunker, the white lights, and the scent of dust. It makes you nervous, it feels liminal in here especially because it's merely the two of you. 

Pulling his keys out of his pocket he unlocks the armory, and sets to work locking down the weapons. It's a smart move given people's current panic. So you work on the pistols while he fastens the wire through the rifles. 

You know better than to ask him if he's okay. He's not. 

"He wouldn't look at me." Troy says. "Hard to know how to react to something like that." 

It's better to give the hard truth. "Mike's a coward. Looking at you meant acknowledging that he's running away." 

Troy pivots to you, and he's so defeated. He's lost something today that he will need to find again. It will haunt him until he manages it. 

But that isn't something you can give him, not really. All you can do is listen. He starts working on the next stack, "I've known Mike since we were kids." He admits, chewing on his lip. "I know he's soft. He's always been soft, but he was my friend. He stuck with me when a whole lot of people didn't. Even after I got pulled from school, he'd come to stay during the summer."

He leaves the rifles behind to come over and wraps you in a hug, pressing his face into your head. Troy isn't usually the one to initiate touch, and you know it's not so much that he doesn't want to, as he's been taught not to seek it out. Time will change that. 

You hug him back, wrapping your arms around his torso. He swallows, and lets out a long sigh. "Anyone who leaves is dead to me. He's dead to me." 

In response, you squeeze tighter. Only pulling back so you can press your lips against his. He's slow to respond until his hand comes to your chin. You flinch, and he pulls back looking at the start of a bruise. 

His eyes are storm clouds again, "I should never have let him hit you." He looks so alarmed, "I hit you. I hit you." 

You gave him a demure smile, all calm. No anger, no hurt to be found. "I know what it's like to be beat, Troy, that ain't what you did." 

His hand slides down your arm, finding the welt there. He covers it with his palm, and you know he's on the border of another apology. You kiss him again. 

The pantry door opens and you pull back to see Madison leading the militia down. It's not her place, but she doesn't seem to understand what that means. You catch Jake in the back, his nose swollen, but not broken from the looks of it. 

"They need a leader." You whisper, running your fingers through his hair to smooth some of the wild strands. "Show them who you are." 

Troy falls back into the facade of a soldier, walking to the front of the armory. His hands come to rest on his hips, and he clears his throat, "I want you all at attention." 

You come out from behind him and slide in next to Cooper, curling your hands behind your back, and straighten up. You are a member of the militia, you'll be the first to bow to his leadership without question. 

"All right, that's a start."

"Tracking Mike down and beating his ass into the ground would be a start." Blake spits out and you hear a hum of agreement through your ranks. You find yourself a part of that hum, because anyone who hurts Troy is on your shit list. 

Troy does not join in the sentiment, he buries it, like he seems to do all things that hurt him. "No Mike is gone. He's not coming back. That's the end of it. I don't want to hear his name again." 

You notice Madison has found her way behind Troy, surveying your group like a foreman on a worksite. You tongue your cheek in distaste and Troy notices. He always does. 

He turns to look at her, and raises one cool eyebrow. "Get in formation with the rest of my militia or get out." 

She's jarred, forced to shift and walk over to the other side. Though her posture is still too lax, at least she's not lording over from the back. "Chin up, Madison, look at all the examples you have right next to you." Troy snaps. 

Madison trails her eyes down the line and mimics Blake, it's good enough that he finally ignores her and you swallow your own self-satisfaction. 

"From now on, we set an example. We become a model of what this place needs: order, discipline, chain of command. We have to make those people up there feel safe. Or they'll leave, all of them. And then they're on their own, and they'll die out there without us. We have to defend this ranch with our lives or they will be slaughtered behind our own gates. This place - this place is all we have. And right now it is teetering. And the only thing that can save it is us. Now, I'm not going to draw a line on the floor."

You hang on to his every word, and everyone else in the room is doing the same. You knew he was capable of this from the moment you met him. Troy demands respect, it's who he is. He tilts his chin, and surveys you all, "I'm not asking whether you're with me." His eyes find yours and lock there, "You are with me, all of you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir!" The chorus of it with your voice in the mix makes you smile, because you're a part of this. A part of something for the first time in your life. Your decisions, your actions will affect others. You're life or death will matter, and that's all you ever wanted. To matter. 

"Dismissed." 

-

Occasionally Troy rises through the night, you've come to know he's an uncertain sleeper. He sleeps in short bursts, and you've woken up to him writing or silently pacing a few times before. But tonight feels different. 

When you crack your eyes open, bleary from sleep he's putting on his boots. He's fully dressed in his militia uniform, and you can tell he's trying to be quiet. "Where are you going?" 

Troy looks at you, "I'm going on patrol." He leans across the mattress and kisses your forehead. "Go back to sleep." 

"Okay." You mumble, and bury your head into the pillow. The door opens and closes not long after that. 

You trust your gut. 

You jump from bed yanking on your own uniform, and notice he's taken two pistols and the AR. You grab gear, and book it downstairs after him. You spot him keeping low as he walks to the east. That should be the first warning sign. There's no gate to the east. 

And when you see the way he's careful to keep out of sight you know what he's going to do. If Mike had looked at him this would have been different, but he didn't. Mike left it unresolved and Troy can't stand it. 

They're probably still close. They'd have stopped to prepare more for their journey, maybe a few miles. And if they're headed toward Colorado, there's only one highway to take. 

He's aiming for the stables, a horse is quiet. A good choice. 

You let him go in first, one more chance to prove you wrong, but then he comes out in the saddle. You slink from your hiding place into his line of sight. "Troy." You whisper, and he relaxes when he realizes it's you. "We don't take horses on patrol." 

"I need to know." 

You hold out a hand, "I'm coming with you, he rides two. I'm not that heavy." 

Troy hesitates, before giving in and helping you up behind him. The stallion, Ivan, if you remember correctly jumps the east fence and you loop over the hill toward the highway. 

You're right, it's not five miles up the road you see the camper. It's jacked up with a flat tire, and Vernon is fixing it. Idiot. 

"What's the plan, Troy?" 

He shifts to look back at you, "I need to talk with him, I need to understand." 

"And if he doesn't talk?" 

"He will." 

You're not so sure, but you stay silent. Troy will do whatever it is he feels he has to, and you'll be there to help in whatever way you can. 

Vernon sees you coming and stands still holding his tire iron. "Troy?" He's hesitant, unsure what your angle is. 

"We just want to talk to Mike." You say, leaning so he can see you. Vernon looks relieved that you're there too, and glances toward the RV. 

"He ain't going back with you." Vernon says. 

Troy gestures for you to dismount, so you do and he follows. You tie Ivan's reins to a nearby street sign as Troy approaches. 

"I just need to hear him say that." Troy says, "I need to make sure you're not taking him against his will." 

Mike steps out from the camper doorway, and he's still failing to meet Troy's eye. You can tell he's starting to get agitated. It's insult, on injury. 

Your back itches and you know this isn't going to turn out right. The hairs on your neck have stood up, and you're becoming more and more aware of the AR that Troy gave you to wear on the ride over. You notice where it rests against your shoulder, and the weight of your pistol on your hip. 

All your instincts are saying: fight or run. 

"Mike, fucking look at me." 

Vernon is twitchy and you can see the way he's dropped his arm by the pistol on his belt. He's watching Troy carefully, poised to act. Your own arm stiffens to reach for the rifle. 

There's a clash of movement behind you and you take the excuse, spinning on heel and pulling the rifle free. Everyone turns to look, and you snap the safety off, setting it to auto. It's just a shark, like you thought, but you keep the rifle in your grip like you've not gotten around to putting it back. 

You free your knife with your left, and awkwardly put it down when it starts to spook Ivan. 

Attention goes back to Troy and off you, good. 

He's fixated on Mike, who's got his eyes on his feet. Troy's patience disintegrates and he shoves Mike back into the RV with a bang. 

"Hey!" Vernon shouts, and you step forward at the same time. 

Mike finally looks up, and he's pinned. You've never seen anyone else fall prey to the web of Troy's stare. He's frozen in place, blinking at him. "What do you want me to say?" 

Troy huffs, but you're more focused on Vernon. 

Everyone seems to have forgotten about you. Troy commands the space, and you catch Gretchen looking out between the curtains. 

"The truth. Tell me that you're a coward, that you want to abandon the ranch."

Mike frowns, "It's not safe, Troy." It feels like a parrot to his father's opinions, and you know it won't be enough for him. Troy needs more, he feels owed more. 

Troy grabs his face, forcing the eye contact to remain. Vernon shifts forward, and he's gripping the tire iron like a weapon. 

"Tell me you're alright with leaving those people to die back there." Troy points back in the direction of the ranch. "You're not a man are you, Mike? Daddy didn't teach you to have a backbone? You a bitch?" 

"Now you've said your piece, Troy. I think it's time you and your lady go back." Vernon forces as much authority into his tone as he can. 

But Troy is angry, he's hurting. 

Mike ruins it. He speaks, and it all comes crashing down. A wave that inevitably collides with the cliffside. "I used to think you were brave, but now I know you're just nuts. If you want the ranch to be safe so bad, then go defend it yourself. I'm done with you, done with that place." Every word is a nail in a coffin, "I don't give a shit about you or the ranch. My family is going, you can say whatever you want about my dad, at least he doesn't hit me." 

Troy's control, that grey line he walks every day, is lost. His fist comes hard into Mike's jaw, and once feeds into twice. He starts wailing on him. Mike's not nearly as talented or bloodthirsty. He's forced to try and guard, and that's about all he manages. 

Gretchen screams. Vernon drops the tire iron and pulls out his pistol. 

Troy's going to kill him. "You don't know shit about me and my family. You don't - you don't get it." 

You might be able to pry him off, but Vernon is raising his gun. You raise yours in response, "Put it down." 

He remembers you're there. You've got the stock in your shoulder, eye down the sight. Just like Troy has been training you. 

Troy's not stopping, Mike hits the ground, curling into a ball. This isn't a deterrent, he switches to his feet instead and starts bringing his foot down into Mike's head. 

Vernon makes his choice, you make yours. The auto is faster and you catch him with a burst to the chest. 

The gunfire shakes Troy from the spell he's under and he looks at Vernon, seeing where he's fallen, gun still in hand and realizes what was about to happen. Mike makes a mad scramble for the knife at his waist, and Troy jumps back just in time. 

He yanks his pistol out and it's no longer about understanding, it's about survival. He gets Mike between the eyes. One shot, not a breath of hesitation. You spot the flash of a muzzle in the window. 

"Drop." 

Troy obeys, he hits his stomach and you squeeze the trigger down hard, feeling the recoil in your chest. You spray the whole RV in hysteria, bullets slicing through the thin metal. You hear Gretchen again, but this time it's a wet sort of scream. 

There's a whiny from the horses too and you think you hit one of them as well. 

You drop the gun, and fall back on your ass. 

Troy is of one solitary focus, he gets up and yanks the RV door open. Two shots follow his entry and there's blood spattered on his pants when he walks back out. 

You have killed the entire family. You. Maybe not Mike, but everyone else. You know you hit Gretchen. Any shots Troy fired were mercy killings. 

You look up at him with wide eyes, "We shouldn't have come." 

Troy collapses on his knees and reaches out. "I didn't come to do that, I swear." 

"I know." You whisper, "I know." But you had done it. There's no pouring spilled milk back into the glass. It's bloody now. It's rotten. 

This is your first murder. You've killed in the past, but only those with plans to hurt you. Gretchen was a child. 

Now she is a dead child. 

You feel bile rising in your throat, and you don't know if it's the horror of your actions that causes it or the understanding that you would do it again. 

That you'd slit a little girl's throat to keep Troy safe. 

You look up at him, and he's still reaching for you. Not quite touching. He doesn't know what you want. 

"I killed them." 

You see the calculation in his eyes and think he may be trying to come up with a lie that's good enough to convince you otherwise. Instead, he nods, moving the rifle out of the way so he can come closer. 

"What do you need?" He desperately asks. 

"You." It is the only answer that is the truth. "You have to live." 

Troy moves closer, and you reach out and grip his shirt. "I won't do this without you." 

"I'm not leaving you behind." He keeps saying it, and maybe one of these days it will stick. 

"Okay." You take a breath and start shaking out your hands. "Okay." With some effort you manage to stand, swaying. You shake your arms out next, "Okay." 

You have a mission. You are a soldier, you need to keep Troy safe. 

"Gather up all the supplies, everything Troy. Leave nothing useful behind. Drag the bodies out into a pile." 

It's lucky that sharks haven't been drawn by the sound, that you're far enough out to not be heard from the ranch. You calm Ivan first, he's nervous from all the gunfire, but used to it enough that he's not trying to run. 

A few slow pets and he settles. 

Troy follows your orders. He starts with the corpses first, and then the feed. He's methodical as you walk up the hill to scout your surroundings. Some ways down the road there are cars. 

You set out toward them, and hope there's one that's operable. Pistol in hand you set to work and find an SUV with a tint that had to have been beyond the legal limit. Perfect. 

The shark on the inside is still alive and chomping along the window. You pull on the handle and thank your lucky stars as it opens. The infected fumbles out and you run your knife through its skull. 

The keys are still in the ignition and it makes you want to cry. "Thank you." You start the engine and look at the half tank of gas and the tears come back. It barely stalls, but you turn it off. It's too risky to move it. You'll have to make the walk. 

When you return to the RV Troy's finished with the bodies and half done with the supplies. He barely looks up, preoccupied as he is. You go to the horse trailer and peer in. One of them is panicked, and the other is on its stomach, not enough space to lie flat. 

Carefully you knock the bolt loose and drop the back open. The uninjured horse bolts down the road. You let it go. The other gets a bullet to end its suffering. 

You're shaking again, so you hide your hands in your pockets. 

"I think I've got it all." He says, looking at you, waiting for orders. You don't know how to tell him you need direction as much as he does. So you suck it up. 

"Start carrying supplies down the road. There's a black SUV with an infected right outside it. Trunk is open, start loading it up." 

He blinks at you and it's doubt he's showing now. "Are we leaving?" 

You shake your head, you're not cowards. "No, we need to make it look like Walker did this. If he did, he'd have taken everything. Besides, it's a good just in case." You don't want to say it. "If the ranch falls, meet me there and we'll run together." 

"It won't fall." 

You don't have time for his optimism. "Promise me, Troy, fucking promise me you'll meet me there. You're not dying for the ranch. You owe me this." 

He swallows, head tilting in submission. "Alright." 

"Promise." It's a demand, an assurance you need at that moment with your sins in a pile to your right. 

"I promise." He says, and turns to his task. 

You check the RV to make sure he didn't miss anything and pretend you don't see the blood. Troy was thorough, and all you find is a screwdriver that's fallen by the driver's seat. You take it. Anything is a resource if you have to run. 

It takes a good thirty minutes to haul everything into the getaway car. By the time you're done your arms and feet are sore. 

Troy's tired too, but his stamina is better than yours. If you'd known the world was going to end you'd have exercised your whole childhood like he did. You cover everything with a blanket you found in the backseat, and hope no one comes across it. 

You show him the keys, and hide them inside a tear in one of the seats. 

"We need to get back as soon as possible." All things considered, there's very little blood on either or you. Little enough it would be easy to dismiss in this new world you live in. "If anyone catches us we needed to get out of the house." 

You walk back toward where you've left your horse, and he's there waiting. Troy helps you up again, and you sag against him. "I want you to smile if we get caught, okay." You feel the need to overprepare, anything is better than thinking about it. "I'm going to laugh, I'll make some kind of sexual innuendo, and you need to play it off. Can you do that?" 

"I will." He takes his free hand and curls it over your arm. "But no one is going to see us." 

Chapter Text

He ends up being right, no one sees you. When you get back to the cabin, Troy barely removes his clothes before he's asleep. He's stone still, dead to the world. It's a rare sight.

You don't sleep. Instead, you sit there, staring at the wall across from you. There's a painting of the ranch, a huge canvas that dominates the wall. You look at that, though your vision is so fuzzy you're not really seeing it. 

You're falling. You know you're falling. You don't know when you're going to hit the ground. 

Troy doesn't wake when you tread down the hall to the bathroom and scrub your hands in the sink. There's no blood on them. You scrub anyway. You become Lady Macbeth, out damned spot, out. There's no spot, same as there wasn't one for her either. It's symbolism for guilt, you learned that in seventh grade. 

You look up at yourself in the mirror, look in your eyes and find them empty. 

And that terrifies you because they've never looked like that before. No matter what you'd been through, your eyes always told your story. They were angry, sad, scared. They were books of information. Now they're flat, emotionless, numb disks. 

That makes you want to cry, but your face doesn't echo the sentiment. No tears, nothing. You are a stranger. You do not know who this is. The fear doesn't echo back, like the mirror is stuck on an old expression. 

You force yourself to smile, and it's wrong. This stranger smiles like a clown, the kind that frightens children. Your painted on face. 

Unable to stand it you close your eyes and try and imagine what Daryl would say. He was always the best at comforting you. But you can't picture Daryl in this world. He's too loyal, too many inflexible edges. 

He's gone. 

You open your eyes. You're gone too. 

You've become a different person, a different thing. A creature capable of murder to protect its own interests. Because Troy is the only one you would kill for indiscriminately. And that means it's selfish, not kind, not heroic. 

You're a beast, not a soldier. 

Without realizing it your hands become fists pressed against the cool marble. 

Pretty little child of violence. Child of rape and slaughter. 

You punch the glass and it shatters like a halo. Your hand aches from the pressure, and your vision distorts. You hit it again and the damaged glass slices your knuckles. 

You rear back for a third blow when arms wrap around you, pulling you away from the mirror. 

His voice comes to your ear, and you know he's done this before. "Don't. Don't. It's alright." Jake's words are a hushed whisper as he holds you in place. 

Troy doesn't come, and you know it's a testament to his state of mind. You've never known him to be a heavy sleeper. So Jake holds you, his arms tight around your biceps. You don't fight it. Your head droops, and exhaustion weights you down like a wet bag of sand. 

"Can I release you?" He asks. 

You shake your head no, because you don't know what you'll do if he does. You don't know if you'll run in there and smash your hand back into the glass. You don't know if you'll rip your own hair out or start trying to brain yourself against the nearest surface. You don't know anything. 

So you hang there in his arms, and Jake holds on. You stand like that in the hallway for several silent seconds. 

"As long as you need." He murmurs. "You'd be surprised how many mirrors Troy has broken, no wonder he's so unlucky." 

"I wouldn't be." You say back, whispering too, "Surprised I mean." There's another long silence, before you say it. You need to say it to someone, and you can't say it to Troy. "I never wanted to become like him." 

"Who?" 

You recognize the defeat in your voice. "My father." 

His grip tightened. "I don't know much about your dad, but if he's anything like mine you're not that sort of mean." 

A broken sob falls out of you. "How old was she?"

His breath hitches in confusion, "Who?" 

"Gretchen. Oh fuck, oh god. Let me go." 

Jake doesn't, he squeezes you harder. 

"I'm going to throw up. Jake, I'm gonna throw up." He loosens his grip enough that you're able to bend down and vomit on the hardwood. 

You gag, acrid spit fills your mouth and you hock it onto the floor. Jake's still got his arms around your middle, hands on your wrists. It's like a warm straight jacket. It helps. 

"Tell me what happened." 

"Jeremiah." You question, because he can't know. You can't be overheard or it puts Troy in danger.

"He's not here. He's up in the adobe." Jake assures. "Drunk." 

You spit again, drool running down your chin. It's disgusting, you feel like a baby. But you don't want him to let you go, and he seems to know not to. 

"Tell me what happened." He asks again. 

You don't have the motivation to resist, so you do, "Troy needed closure. We went to find it. Troy was angry before we even got there.  He was trying to get Mike to talk to him, to admit that he was running away. Vernon got nervous. I knew in my gut that it was going to go wrong, I could feel it."

Jake stays silent. 

You feel like you're about to shatter into pieces the moment he lets you go. "Mike was so fucking stupid, so stupid. He should have just said it, admitted what Troy wanted to hear. But, stupid stupid idiot, he told Troy that he's psychotic, that at least his dad doesn't hit him. Troy lost it." Another sob builds in your chest. "Vernon would have killed him, I had to shoot him. I had to. I swear I had to." 

The sob comes out, and it sounds haunting echoing back at you in the empty hallway. "Mike came at Troy with a knife, and he just reacted. And all I see, all I see, Jake, is someone in the window. And Troy is right fucking there and they're armed." You're shaking like a leaf. "From that range, they'd have -  they wouldn't miss. I yelled at him to drop, and he hit the ground, I didn't think. I'm not thinking, I unloaded an entire clip into the RV." 

You're crying in earnest now, big fat tears and sobs. Each word is accompanied by your meltdown. "He made sure they didn't suffer. I told him - I told him to make it look like Walker did it." You lift your head up, pressing it into Jake's shoulder, and you're distantly dazed that he hasn't let go of you out of disgust or horror. "If someone has to take the fall for this, let it be me, Jake. It was me." 

Finally, you hear him react. It's nothing but a slow intake of breath, calming himself. "No one needs to know." 

You choke on your own guilt. "I couldn't let anything happen to him. I can't. I think I love him. I think I love him, but what kind of love is that? The kind of love that kills children." 

"It's the kind of love he deserves." Jake says in your ear, tightening his grip until you feel leveled. "Everyone he's ever met has failed him, Dixon, everyone except for you." 

"The fuck is going on here, Jake?" Troy's voice is harsh, because all he sees is the way his brother is holding you pinned. 

It probably looks disturbingly inappropriate, the vomit on the floor, the way he's got your arms pinned to your sides. Your whole body is flushed flat against his chest and legs. Your hand is bleeding; there's a small pool of blood on the floor and that's not even considering the snot and tears on your face. 

Troy steps into the hall, and Jake releases you, stepping back. His hands snap up in surrender, because he sees how it looks too. Troy tilts his head, and he's that man he was today when Jeremiah hit you. 

His words are controlled, almost casual. "Am I going to have to kill two traitors today?" 

You stumble toward him, and his arm latches around you. "It's not - it's not what that looked like." You say. 

"Don't protect him, Dixon." Troy's voice is cold. "He doesn't deserve it." 

He's not currently armed, but you know that's not really a problem for someone like him. You grab hold of his shirt, trying to hold him in place. "Troy, look at me. Troy!" 

He shifts gradually, like it pains him to tear himself away from Jake. "What?" 

"I was hurting myself." You hold up your hand. "I had a breakdown." You hate to admit it to him, because you didn't want him to know how much this affected you. He doesn't need the additional guilt. "I was punching the mirror in the bathroom, I left the door open. He saw me. He stopped me. I asked him not to let me go." 

Troy turns back to his brother, "Is that what happened, Jakey? Is that what really happened, because if you told her to lie ... I'll fucking beat you to death." 

Jake nods, gesturing toward the broken mirror in the bathroom. "She told me what happened. No one needs to find out about this. No one needs to know, it stays with the three of us." He looks at you next and it's pity he gives you. "You did what you had to do. You're not your father, whoever he was." 

Troy's surprise is palpable. He turns his attention entirely to you, registering that if it wasn't what he thought it was, then it is this. "Why didn't wake me?" 

Jake takes the chance to leave, and you don't blame him for running for it. You want to run too. 

You avoid his eyes, and he hates it. He reaches out to touch your face and you flinch away from him because you haven't wiped it. Troy frowns, "Don't do this." 

All you do is blink at him.

"Don't do this to me, don't shut me out." 

You wipe your face with your hand and wipe it along your pants, just as Jake returns with cleaning supplies. You twist toward him alarmed, "I can do that. Please let me do that." 

Troy snatches your wrist holding you back, "No, you're going to talk to me." 

You don't know if you have the energy. "I don't - I can't." 

Jealousy rears across his face, "But you can cry in Jake's arms?" 

"Don't, don't make it sound like that. This isn't a competition." 

"Isn't it? You sneak off and won't talk to me. But you tell Jake everything. You let him be there for you. You let him in, but I'm kept out." 

Jake doesn't say anything, he focuses on cleaning the hallway. 

"I didn't want to make this harder for you." 

Troy sneers, and his walls are endless. He's burying his hurt, shoving it behind a cruel expression. Acting like it makes him angry, when really it scares him. 

You don't know how to climb over those tall walls to the man inside. So your anger attempts to smash them down. "I did it for you." 

He raises an eyebrow in silent judgemental question. 

You explode, and your hands come out to smack into his chest. He wheels back in shock as you shove him again. Not hard enough to injure, but enough that he feels it. "I fucking killed a child for you. I killed a kid, she was just a kid." You're shouting and you know you need to keep your voice down. "Isn't that enough, isn't that enough! All I wanted was to protect you." You shove him one more time for good measure. 

He's alarmed, worried. He steps toward you, but you jerk out of his grip. "No, fuck you." You snarl, and it's shame that makes you mean. You're just like Daryl, lashing out whenever anyone gets a step too close to your weaknesses. "Fuck you for questioning me after what I did today. I didn't have to do that. I did it for you." 

You take off, dodging past Jake on the stairs and you're out the door. Alicia is on the porch, and you crash into her. Stumbling to the side you look at her. "Sorry, fuck, I didn't know you were out here." 

She takes one peek at you and whatever booty call she's about to attempt disappears. "Are you okay?" 

Troy's rushing down the stairs, he hits the porch at a run and stops himself so abruptly he almost stumbles into the railing. He sees Alicia as he's about to speak and his mouth snaps closed, "Dixon, come up."

"Not tonight, Troy. I need tonight." You can't think about this anymore, or you're going to fall apart and there won't be any fixing you. You'll be out of commission for weeks. You'll stumble down into a hole you don't know how to get out of. 

Troy pushes, he only knows how to push and you can't be pushed anymore. He looks so pained you almost change your mind. 

Alicia, innocent as she is steps in, "I was just coming to get her anyway. She told me we were going to hang out tonight." It's such a silly childish thing to say, and you remember Alicia would have just graduated high school. 

Troy knows she's lying, because you'd have told him. Mentioned it at the very least. He doesn't say anything to Alicia, he examines you, "Vixen, please." 

"We're going Troy, if she wants you to leave her alone, then you need to leave her alone." Alicia is all firey spirit and you get why Jakes likes her. She grabs you by the arm and starts pulling you away. 

He watches as you go, sentry while you leave him behind. The guilt grows. 

Nick meets you halfway down the hill. You're seeing more Clarks today than you planned. 

He's concerned, you think, his expressions are misleading. You find him exceptionally hard to read. 

"I saw Troy meet you on the porch." He's looking at his sister, the concern is for her and you're good with that. 

Your lip curls into a grimace, "Your opinion is noted." 

He ignores you, outside of the weird look he's giving Alicia. She seems to know whatever he's trying to ask, "They were arguing. Troy wasn't letting her leave." 

"That's not what was happening. He got confused, is all." You're quick to defend him. No matter what happens you have his back. 

Alicia disagrees, "I heard you shouting when I walked up on the porch." 

Your expression snaps to neutral, "What did you hear?" 

"A bunch of fuck you Troys. That's about it." She shrugs and it's casual enough that you believe her. 

"I only said it twice." You say, trying to make sure she doesn't overthink it. 

Nick snorts, "Once at Troy is probably bold enough. I'm surprised he didn't push you down a flight of stairs for hurting his feelings." 

You glare at him, "Fuck off, Nick." 

He laughs and it's water off a duck's back. "You're just handing them out like candy then." 

You look at Alicia, and find the humor that has been swallowed up by all the negatives of your shitty day, "Fuck you too, Alicia."

She laughs and that helps more than anything else has so far. "We've got an extra bunk, you're welcome to it. I don't get what you see in him, but," She shrugs, "You can hide out with us." 

You smile as you make your way toward the bunkhouse, "It was mine first, ya know. I cleaned that whole place myself." You add, wanting people to understand at least a little, "If you knew him, the way I do, maybe you wouldn't mind him much. Plus, I've heard you and Jake, if that's more than tail then you're stuck with Troy too." 

The contentment on Alicia's face says she'll be staying around before she can deny it. Nick is too busy plugging his ears and saying, "La, la, la." 

You turn to him, raising your voice, "Jake really likes when she pegs him. He moans like an animal." 

They both laugh, and maybe they don't annoy you as much as you first thought they would. Their mom however, she's another story entirely. You don't think Madison could do anything that would make you trust her. 

-

Alicia wakes you in the morning. It's not a here's coffee kind of wake up, more a rough shaking. You blink at her, covering your eyes. "Good morning, jesus, I'm awake. Would you stop assaulting me?" 

But then you see her face and your sarcasm dies. "What is it?" You sit up, shoving the grogginess away. "Is Troy okay?" 

"What? Yes, he's fine." She dismisses it. "Jake is gone. He went to try and make a deal with Walker. I don't know what to do." 

You rub your face and exasperation eats at you. Of course he did, damn hero complex. Because obviously, no one can give you a single afternoon to cope. "Alright. Alright." You throw your legs out onto the floor. "Did he tell anyone where he was going?" 

"Just me. I stole this map from him." She holds it out to you, and it helpfully has the path he's going to take highlighted. Idiotproof. 

"Where's Troy?" You ask next, trying to make a plan. 

"He's snapping at anyone who comes into the pantry making sure they don't take anything." She grimaces. "He's in a nasty mood. I steered clear." 

You don't blame her, you can't imagine he's coping well either. But you can't focus on that right now. "Where's Jeremiah?" 

"He, Nick and my mom went out to look for the Trimbols. Their horse came back last night." 

You fight every urge your body has to freeze, and hum like it doesn't matter. "Good, that makes this easy. I need you to do me a favor." The look you give her should be enough to prove you mean what you're about to say. "Distract Troy, the later he finds out I'm gone the better. Because once he knows that both Jake and I left he's gonna come after us. Once he finds out, tell him I told you to tell him I want him to stay put. He probably won't listen but he might. Tell him he owes me a favor and I'm cashing it in." 

Alicia nods, "You think you can catch up." 

You nod, and know the few remaining scabs on your feet are going to hate you. "I need to go pack. Watch Troy, keep him from the house." You take off running, entering before anyone sees you. It's a good thing you live here now, no one will think it's strange. You take your spare pistol but nothing else, if Jake goes through with this they'll probably take your shit again. 

With backpack and militia gear prepped you head out after Jake, ducking under a weak part of the perimeter. He can't have gotten far, so you run in sprints that make your chest hurt. You're careful though, you have two gallons of water with you. Food rations, medical equipment. 

Walker will take it, but you might need it on the way. When you find him, you're gonna whoop his ass. 

You spot him on a lower edge of a rocky hill and sigh, at least you won't have to sprint anymore. You skid down the hill with a newfound appreciation for shoes. 

He hears you coming, and twists raising his rifle. You throw up your hands and stumble closer, tripping on a rock in your haste. "I promise, officer, it wasn't me." 

He lowers the muzzle toward the dirt, before throwing his head up and sighing. "Dixon, what the hell are you doing here?" 

Chapter Text

You give Jake a look that makes it clear he should know damn well why you're here, and he should be ashamed about it too. Dragging you out here to go get yelled at by a bunch of Indians.  "I'm not letting you march into Walker's camp alone. Come on, we should keep moving." 

He looks relieved that you're not attempting to talk him out of it. You won't because you've garnered that he shares his brother's mule-like stubbornness. Wasting your breath isn't something you're keen to do.

"Troy know?" Jake asks, moving to walk by your side. It feels more natural than you thought it would, you've never really been alone with Jake. Someone has always been close by, but now it's the two of you against the wilderness. You're not worried he won't have your back, he's a good guy, under his mistakes. In spite of them even. Come hoard or ambush he won't run.

"I've set your girlfriend upon him as a distraction. She should be tough enough to deal with his shitty mood. I'm the only one she told." You say, rounding through some bushes. The sun is hot on your back, and you know this is going to be one hell of a hike. You seem to be doing a lot of those. You're getting sick of walking places when there are perfectly good trucks back home. 

"Where's your rifle?" He questions next, and you think he may be a little concerned about your well-being. 

"Awh, Jakey are you worried about little old me?" You smile teasingly, "Figured they'd take it, that's one less weapon for them. Besides got a pistol, knife, this hammer. You can do some nasty stuff with a hammer." 

He rolls his eyes, "You're feeling better?" 

"Not really." You admit, but that's about all you're going to say, "I can't think about it right now. The ranch needs me with my head in the game." 

He asks you a question that pierces right through your armor, "Did you enjoy it?"

"No." You shake your head. "No, not that. There's something satisfying about killing sharks, or even people that are coming after you. But no, no that wasn't fun. I was terrified." 

Jake nods, reaching out to touch your arm in something you think might be an attempt at comfort. "Then don't feel guilty. I know that's easier said than done, but it's something you had to do, not something you wanted to do. Let it be that, a necessary sacrifice. You don't have to sacrifice yourself with them. You protected Troy, and that doesn't have to be a bad thing." 

His perspective helps and some of the weight falls off your shoulders. "Thanks." 

"Anytime." He smiles at you, "Lawyer remember, I got good at telling myself not to feel guilty for stuff. Walker's not wrong. This land is his, I just knew the legalities it would take to beat him." 

You nod, and bump shoulders with him in solidarity. "Troy's gonna be furious." 

He agrees, "Did you two make up last night? I'm sorry about all that by the way, I should have let you go sooner." Jake looks off into the hillside, recalling some far buried memory, "I used to hold Troy like that when he was little, so he wouldn't hurt himself." 

"No. I needed it. If you hadn't been there I might have done something worse. I have in my past. Besides I should apologize to you, that could have gone a very different way if Troy hadn't listened." You'd done a whole lot to forget about your father. Far worse things than assaults on mirrors, though you'd punched your fair share. "But no, I took off before it could get resolved, he wanted something I couldn't give him without breaking off a piece myself. And I already did that killing Gretchen." 

Jake frowns, "He still might kill me for bringing you out here." He gives you a shrug, "I didn't want the Trimbols dead, but I'm glad my brother's alive." Your conversation shifts to Jake's recent understanding about Troy's past, "Learning what I have, it's been hard. I can't get it out of my head, but I'm glad I know. I understand him now, in a way I couldn't before. I didn't know how far they were pushing. I might have butchered a few rabbits too, if they did that to me." 

You look at him in question. And Jake is hesitant to tell you, "Troy had or has, I'm not sure, a bit of a vendetta against them. One of them bit him once, and he took a very literal approach to if you're not my friend you're my enemy. I found him skinning them alive." Jake shudders. "When I asked him why, he told me he wanted to know what it was like. He wanted to write it down. He hadn't even finished a journal yet." 

It's a strange fact to know about Troy. "How old was he?" 

"Ten maybe." Jake estimates. 

You find yourself relatively unaffected by this knowledge. Sure, you weren't particularly interested in hearing the screams of a small rodent, but that didn't mean you didn't get it. There'd been plenty of moments when you wanted to hurt something. Rabbits would have been an easy target. 

"Better than people." You shrug and Jake huffs out what could be considered an incredulous laugh. 

"You love him. I don't doubt that at all." He says. 

"So do you." 

Jake holds out his hand to help you down a larger rock path and you take it. "You love his faults in a way I don't know how to." 

"They're not flaws, just bits of him." You're a bit flustered when you ask, and you wonder if it's that giddy school crush turned obsession. "Do you think he could love me? Someday."

His lips press into an amused line as he fights a smile, "I don't think that'll be hard for him." 

"So, what's the plan with Walker?" 

Finally, you reach a nice easy sloped hill, and shift to pull your water out of your bag. He follows your example, "Hope I can convince him to form some kind of treaty." 

"That's a pretty broad plan." You remark. 

He shrugs, "I know, but until I speak with him I don't really know what he'll want. We may be able to come to some sort of trade, anything is better than outright killing each other." 

"What about what he did to the militia, to uh Phil?" 

"Phil was a jackass." He shoots back, not missing a beat and you get a little glimpse at the Otto he is. "And the milita, well that's what I'm trying to avoid happening again. No more killing. The dead are a threat enough, we shouldn't be fighting each other too." 

"Jeremiah would shit himself he hears you talking like that." 

His expression sours, "I know. I've tried too many times in the past to try to convince him that surviving can mean more than killing anyone who walks up to the gates." 

"Old dog, new tricks." 

"It's like begging a brick wall to care. He doesn't get it." Jake groans, and you can tell it's a conversation he's had with Jeremiah a dozen times. 

It's interesting to hear Jake speak more about his opinions. You've got a good grasp on Troy's conflicted love for his father. But Jake is a different story, he's the golden child. His experience far differs from Troy's. "Were you ever close?" 

The look on his face answers that question, "No. Not particularly. I had my mom, before she was gone. She did the actual caring part of the parenting. Dad rules with an iron fist. That went to the way he raised me too. Less literally than Troy, but strict, no nonsense. Step up, Jake. Be a man, Jake. You better not let my legacy die. My going into law was convenient to him, probably the only reason he didn't give me shit about it."

"How old were you when your mom passed?" You phrase the question cautiously, not sure how sensitive a subject it is. Jake seems to have positive feelings in regard to his mother, and you don't really know what that's like. 

"I was fourteen." He says and there's a sad sort of love there. The kind you feel most people must entertain for dead parents that actually cared about them. "She was killed during a gas station robbery, trying to be the hero. It only made dad want to prepare for TE more. I think it cemented a lot of his fears. I went into my career so I could help people. My father had other plans. I'm starting to wish we lost, and built the ranch somewhere else. Or done something else, been someone better." 

"Thinking like that won't change anything." You console, "I'm sure we'll find tons of uses for your constitutional lawyer brain." 

You set out again, topics flowing from place to place. You decide with some finality that you like Jake, that if you had to choose a brother then you picked a pretty good one. He seems to feel the same about you. 

"It's just over this hill, you let me do the talking okay." 

You nod your agreement and press on. When you breach over the hill you're met with what you wouldn't really call a reservation. "It's a gas station." 

"Tribal headquarters, their land runs ten miles in either direction." Jake explains, and you know he has the entire plot memorized. 

"We're just gonna walk in?" 

"Yeah, let me go first. They won't shoot on sight." He explains as you start down the slope. 

"That's comforting." You mutter and trail behind him. You keep your pistol firmly in its holster, ready to put your arms out if requested. 

This is not what you wanted to be doing today. The understanding that you're out here, risking your life, without making up with Troy bothers you. The last moment you would have had is a dismissal. That's not right, but you need to protect Jake. 

He's optimistic, foolishly positive with the way he's approaching this and you need to make sure he doesn't walk himself to the gallows. 

You're close enough that you can see them watching you. Your skin crawls at all the eyes facing your direction. "Hands!" 

Jake puts his up first, and you follow his lead. They converge on you, and your weapons are gone, backpack pulled from your shoulders. You force yourself to stay calm, this is part of the plan. You've made it with less before, you'll get back together. You are a survivor. Jake won't hang you out to dry. 

There are more of them than you thought, and if they can all fight you have a massive problem on your hands. This isn't a guerilla group, this is a small army come to hunt you down. You refuse to show your nerves, and keep your chin up as you stick close to Jake. 

There's a crowd in front of you, the gruffness of barking. You hate dogs. They're more dangerous than the sharks, fast and aggressive. One of the Indians sticks a gun up at you and you freeze. Your hands are still flat at your sides, palms facing toward the dirt. 

Jake looks relatively calmer than you feel, but he likely knows at least one or two of these people. He's been on the reservation before. 

"Qaletaqa." One of them says, and you know now is not an appropriate time to make fun of his weird name. 

Walker rounds the corner and he's got a blade dripping with blood. Thick fresh slow dripping goo that makes your breath speed up. Don't panic. Breathe. Smelling the flowers, blowing out the candles. If they catch your nerves they might shoot you. 

You'd feel much better if this was a firefight instead, if this was an action you could control. Your back against cover, Troy laughing by your side. But he's not here, and Jake probably wouldn't laugh if you turned this into an all out battle to the grave. 

"Hello, Taqa." 

Walker does not look happy to see either of you, he looks first at Jake and then to you. It's you who he lingers on, and you know he remembers you perfectly fine. "You're two hundred years too late for peace, Jake. But just in time for lunch."

You had a sneaking suspicion that Walker was one of those dramatic kinds of assholes, and he proves it when he drops a pig's head to the ground before you. Your pride cools your head more than anything else, and suddenly you're not so afraid anymore. It'll take a lot more than a pig's head to frighten you. 

You're searched again, more thoroughly this time before they lead you into a building, and from there a scarcely decorated office. Jake has been here before, you can tell by the way he doesn't glance around and heads for one of the chairs like they're meeting over last session's minutes. 

You tentatively sit in the other as Walker moves behind the desk. He's got one hell of a poker face, you don't know what he's feeling. And he doesn't guide the conversation, he sits and stares, uncompromising. 

Your new brother, the lawyer speaks, "My father will never abandon the ranch. You know that."

"Then we'll feed him to the crows like Phil McCarthy." 

His answer is so stereotypically Native American you snort, it's a lot less scary without a scalped corpse stinking up the air behind you. "You must have a lot of pet crows." 

Jake shoots you a look and you fall silent again. 

"We need the violence to stop." 

"Soon will, Jake." He smiles, and it's the kind of smile you give to someone before you tell them you're going to hurt them. You've made that smile before. "Three down, one to go." 

You both stiffen, because that means somehow he knows about the Trimbols and the dead old couple that lived in the adobe. And you hate that he knows that. 

Jake is all about compromise, "My father never did anything to you or your people." 

Silently you disagree with Jake, because this kind of hate is not the hate of ancestors. It's the hate of a man who has been wronged in this life, and still feels that anger daily. 

Walker's immediate anger proves you right, "Tell me, junior, do the lies turn your stomach? Do you taste the bile in the back of your throat?" 

"State police investigated this. They found no correlation between - " 

The flat of his hand hits the table and you reach for a pistol that's no longer there. "Stop talking. You're boring me like you did in court. Those days are dead." 

Jake has left something important out, and you're irritated by it. How he expects you to save his ass if he doesn't let you know the details is aggravating. 

"I thought we had an understanding, even outside of court." Jake tries to redirect him. 

"I understood when you came here with your drunk friends, I was to serve them their food with a smile on my face. Tolerate their slurs, clean up their vomit in the toilets, and thank them for their pocket change tips. The days of white man's courts are over. Land grabs, desecrations, over. Now you have our verdict, the first human's verdict. You must vacate our lands."

Jake is getting frustrated, you can see it. He's not all that different from Troy, not in the ways that matter. He's desperate to always come out on top, to prove himself no matter the encounter. In this, they are no different. "I was hoping for a parley. A chance to negotiate and to avoid more loss."

Walker is silent, and it's like you can see him trying to find out how to turn this to his advantage. How he can use Jake's words back against him on a different day in a different place. "Maybe you're right." 

You smother your surprise, because if he agrees it can only be a good thing. Jake straightens up in his chair, interest caught. 

"If a parley can spare blood, we can talk about it." 

They talk quick, filtering in some kinda court jargon that goes right over your head. But by the end of it, Jake looks pleased with himself and that must mean you're not getting fucked too hard. You trust him to be the brains of the operation. 

By end of the negotiations, you're ready to leave. But it looks like that's not going to be happening. The dread pools into your spine, and you itch to run for the hills. 

"I need you to go back and tell my father the terms." He says and you grin to cover up your nerves. 

"You shoulda told me that off the bat, Jakey. I wasn't listening to half the shit you said. I would have pulled a Troy and brought a notebook." 

He smiles for a half second at your joke before it's back to business. "I'll remind you." 

"No, I'll stay. You go. They require a hostage right. Jeremiah won't listen to anything I say. You're the only one he remotely tries to pay attention to. It has to be you." 

It only takes a second for Jake to agree, because you're not wrong. Jeremiah has made his feelings about your existence blatantly clear. But it means leaving you here, and if Troy's upset you went with, it's nothing compared to you being left behind as a hostage. 

He'll go ballistic. 

You touch Jake's arm, "You have to keep him calm." 

"I don't know if I can." Jake lowers his voice, "When it comes to -" 

"Do we have a parley or not?" Walker's voice cuts through the conversation and Jake is forced to decide. He does. 

"Yes." He throws one more quick glance your way before facing Walker, "We have a parley." 

"Best not leave me here too long." You say, looking around you. Yep, scalping is absolutely one of your fears now. 

Jake reaches out and touches your arm, squeezing it. "I'll be back before you know it. Just try and keep the peace." 

"Never was very good at the whole hakuna matata thing but I'll give it a go." You don't take your eyes off the truck until it's gone. Now you really are alone.

Chapter Text

Troy can't decide if he wants to go pace the perimeter of the ranch, or close up the pantry doors and sit in the dark. That sounds nice right about now, because it's so loud in here. Every sound they make is an echo in his head, and his body is gearing to run, to fight. Kicking everyone out and having a chance to breathe, to scream appeals to him in a way it hasn't in years. 

You aren't here. You're angry with him, hiding away in the bunkhouse. Sleeping in someone else's bed. Nick probably watched you like a creep. 

Troy runs a hand through his hair and is faintly aware it's likely a mess. You're supposed to be here to fix it and he can't find Jake. He doesn't know where his damn brother scurried off to, so he can't help either. Troy is stuck. Jake was supposed to be different, more reliable. But when Troy needs him, he's off somewhere, doing fuck all. Letting him down again. 

So he guards the pantry, and sneers at anyone who looks at him too long. People give him a wide berth, casting wary eyes at the spot he haunts. Good. He doesn't give a shit. They're all trying to run off anyway. If Mrs. Thompson goes for the rice again he'll be able to add elderly abuse to his list of misconduct.

Troy checks his watch, counts the minutes he's been standing here waiting for a woman that has no reason to come down into the pantry. He's half tempted to make Cooper go talk to you, you like Coop. Maybe he can convince you to come to the pantry and talk. 

But Troy isn't entirely sure where Cooper is right now either, and if he starts wandering around the ranch like this he might break someone's arm for bumping into him. 

Really he's made up his mind to stand here until you show up, because you have to show up eventually right? This was exactly what he was worried would happen, one mistake and it all comes crashing down around him. 

You should know though, shouldn't you? What seeing you last night had done to him. Walking out into the hallway and thinking he'd failed to protect you from the worst thing that someone else could do to you, and his brother being that man. He just wants to help, but he doesn't know how to do that from far away. 

He leans hard into a shelf, letting the corner dig into his shoulder. His head falls back against it, and he's stuck back at that moment. You were terrified, he'd never seen that before. He did that. All Troy wanted was answers, for Mike to give him the same loyalty he'd given his whole childhood. He hadn't even gotten what he wanted.

You'd killed them to make sure he was safe. And it had hurt you. 

Cracking open his eyes he catches Alicia in the pantry doorway. He waits for her to come down, to make some sort of benign request for one supply or another. But she doesn't. Ten minutes later she's still there, and he can feel her watching him. He always knows when someone is watching, feels it along the back of his neck.

Suspicion prompts him to move. She's up to something. Troy takes the stairs two at a time and comes to a stop in front of her. She jumps in surprise, and his mouth twists up into a fake grin. "Skittish aren't you." 

She shrugs it off, and he gets to the point. "You talk to Dixon?" 

Alicia looks away from him, out toward the surrounding fields. "Yeah, she wants her space right now." 

Hurt tears through him, because you've never wanted space before. If you'd talk to him he could explain himself, grovel. Maybe he'd get on his knees again, you loved that last time. "Why aren't you with her then? If you're friends now, then you should be painting each other's nails or some shit."

She rolls her eyes. "You really think she's the type to want her nails painted?" 

"I know who she is." He snaps back, and he hopes he's right. Because he thought he knew you, knew what you needed. He thought affection, and loyalty would be enough. He didn't think his jealousy and need would destroy everything so quickly. He'd paint your goddamn nails if that's what you wanted, you don't need other friends. He'll be anyone you require. 

But that's the thing isn't it, he thought you liked him for who he was. Not who he could pretend to be. Troy is good at pretending, wearing faces. And you are good at seeing through them. 

"Okay, then you know she'll come when she's ready." Alicia replies, and glares, crossing her arms. Troy doesn't understand Jake's interest, she's simple. One of many. And apparently, a shitty friend if she just left you in the bunkhouse alone. 

Troy taps his boot into the grass. "Did she talk to you?" He asks, even as he hates that he has to. "About how she's feeling?" It bothers him that you'd want to talk to someone else before him in the first place, but any information he can get is valuable. 

"A little, not much. I think she was really tired, she passed out fast." She supplies. "Quick to defend you though, I don't think you're going to break up or anything." 

It shouldn't console him as much as it does, but the relief floods him. 

"I got jealous, last night," He kicks more at the grass tearing a hole to the dirt beneath. "I shouldn't have and now she's mad." 

It's embarrassing to need someone he barely knows to give him advice, but he doesn't know what to do. "How do you make up for that?" He asks, and it sounds juvenile. "Flowers are out of season. I could make her a rabbit's foot or something." 

Alicia laughs, "Killing rabbits isn't romantic, Troy." 

He blinks at her, and faintly he knows that. Jake's continuous horror is a good example, but what else is there? "There's chocolate in the pantry." 

"Flowers and chocolate, very original."

"I told you, the good flowers are out of season. All we have is chocolate." He's getting irritated. Alicia has clearly never heard the phrase listening ears. "What do I give her to fix it? Socks? Jewelry? Mashed potatoes? A fucking M4?" 

Alicia laughs again, and Troy doesn't find it funny. He wheels back, because he hates being made fun of. It takes a forced breath before he realizes it's not really all that mocking. It seems like she finds it genuinely amusing. 

Nick is attracted to Troy's misery, and wombles over. "You're chipper." He remarks to his sister, throwing an arm over her shoulder. 

She's still coming down from her laughing fit, and Troy is waiting for an answer. Because he can't take another second of this weird being away from each other thing. 

"Alright, Casanova, I'd go with the chocolate before you give her an assault rifle as an apology gift." She directs. 

"You trying to grovel for being a dick last night?" Nick asks. 

Troy glares at him. "You better have left her alone." 

Nick laughs, throwing up his hand in mock innocence, and it grates along his nerves. "I'm not a savage." 

Troy sneers at him, "Funny." He turns back to Alicia, who appears at least to sort of be helping. "So chocolate, that doesn't seem like enough." 

She thinks, before her eyes dart down to his pocket. "You're always writing in that thing, why don't you write her a letter." 

That's actually something he knows how to do, so he nods. "I can do that." 

"Better write fast she left the bunkhouse." 

Troy's brow furrows, and he glances toward the house and wonders if you went home. 

Alicia cuts in before he can head off to grab the chocolate and find you, "Oh, she mentioned to me that she was going to take a shower in a bit. That's probably where she is. I'd leave her alone for now." 

Troy goes still, turning to look at her. "What did you say?" The alarm bells are ringing in his head, his whole body prepping for a fight. Lying. She's lying. He shifts closer, hand falling to his pistol as he waits for her response. 

Both siblings stiffen at the change in his mood, gone is any sign of an unsure boyfriend. Alicia looks at the grass, and his suspicion expands, "She told me she felt gross and was going to shower. Why's that such a big deal?" 

He steps even closer to her, eyes narrowing. "You're lying." 

"No, I'm not. That's what she said." 

He's not convinced. If there has been anything you are consistent with it's that. You wouldn't go off alone to shower without him unless it had been days, weeks even. "Yes, you are. Tell me the truth, where is she?" 

"Back off, Troy." Nick's shifting forward, and his hand comes to the vintage gun he now carries in his waistband. 

"What are you gonna do, Nick, you going to shoot me? Your sister is a liar. What did she tell you?" He's insistent, growing more and more nervous. "Is she - is she leaving the ranch?" 

Alicia shakes her head no, and it seems genuine enough that that particular fear ebbs for the time being. "So why don't you want me to go into my own house?" Troy looks back up at the house and her hesitation return. That's what she's nervous about, he's certain of it. "Let's find out, shall we?" 

He sets off and Alicia trails after him. He pulls open the door, glancing around the main room. Nothing is out of the ordinary. He checks the bathroom next, door open no sign of you. Alicia's lie proven false. The mirror is still in shards on the counter. He'll clean it later.

Troy sets into their bedroom slamming the door in her face. He tracks differences, your uniform is still here. Shoes gone. He looks to the weapon's storage in the corner, one off. He's missing the P365, your backup. 

Swallowing down his growing worry, he looks for where your backpack typically lies and it's gone too. 

Alicia opens the door, stepping into the room and he turns snarling, "Tell me what you know." It's getting harder to breath, each breath makes his chest a little tighter. Yesterday was too much, you're gone. You're gone and you didn't even say goodbye. You should have taken a better gun than the 365, at least a rifle. 

If he'd known he'd have let you take it all. 

She's scanning him for something, probably scared he'll launch himself at her. Troy doesn't have the energy. He's too busy trying to remember how to fill his lungs. He collapses into a sitting position on the bed, "Did she have a community in mind when she left? Will she be safe?" 

Alicia's eyes go wide. "She didn't leave you, Troy." 

He glances up at her, hands curling into fists. He doesn't want her damn pity, like he's some puppy stuck in a rainstorm. "I don't understand." 

She's thinking through whatever she wants to say, but he doesn't push. He's too busy considering what to put on the end of your list. 'Gave up on me' comes to mind. 

"You can't leave the ranch, that's the most important part. She made it really clear she wants you to stay here." She says, "But Jake went to negotiate with Walker this morning and Dixon went after him." 

Troy's mood switches like a light. He's at attention, ready to grab the nearest vehicle and haul ass to the reservation. Alicia sees it, she holds her arms up like she has a chance in hell at stopping him. He's more likely to bash her head into the wall and leave her unconscious in the hallway. "She wants to protect Jake. She knew you'd try and come after them if you knew, so she asked me to stall you. You have to stay here, Troy. They'll be back, she's with Jake." 

His relief that you haven't left is overtaken by the fear of what Walker might do to you. He seemed interested at the outpost. Troy doesn't want his interest anywhere near you. Phil is an example of what he does to those he fixates on. "I'm going." 

"She said you owed her a favor. That she was cashing it in." 

He pauses, hand a few feet from his bag. Troy straightens, and he's angry. But you listen to each other and he can't forsake that. He already has enough to make up for. "Three hours. I'll wait three hours." 

Alicia leaves him alone, and Troy thinks that's a wise move. He snaps the door closed, and pressed his palms into his eyes. His right eye is still sore, but he ignores it. 

And then he pulls out his notebook and writes. 

-

Troy moves to the gate after he finishes, and relieves Andy. He's not liked Andy since the washing socks comment, and he shares the same sentiment. He spends a good deal of his time with his eyes on his watch counting the seconds. Another forty-eight minutes and he's grabbing a truck. It's a thirty six minute drive, but he can make it faster. 

Alicia is hovering, but he doesn't speak to her. He's wound too tight with tension. Angry at Jake for going out there in the first place. Not as angry at you for wanting to protect him. But he is worried, and Troy isn't good at being worried.

It makes his trigger finger twitchy, makes him punchy. So he waits, literally leaning on the gate for your return. 

He spots you in the distance, two solitary figures walking down the road and he lets out a breath of relief. "Watch the gate." He orders Alicia before slipping out of it. 

You're not a hundred yards away, and he takes off at a dead run. It doesn't take long enough before he can make out his brother's face and by extension the woman beside him. Blood rushes into his ears, "Where is she?" 

Jake's already got his hands up, placating bastard. Troy is having none of it, he covers the rest of the distance and grabs him by the front of the shirt lifting him from the ground. "Where the fuck is she, Jake?" 

He lets his brother hover there by his shirt until he answers, "It's okay, Troy. It's okay. Dixon followed me to Black Hat. She's safe. She's safe. I made a deal with Walker." 

Troy can barely hear him, all he can recognize is that you are gone. He drops him, and Jake stumbles before regaining his footing, mostly because Troy is still clutching his shirt. "What did you do?" 

"It's part of the custom." He tries to explain. 

"A custom? I don't give a shit about the Indian's voodoo woodoo bullshit. You left her?" His grip tightens on Jake's shirt. 

"Dixon's their hostage. I'm the hostage on this side." 

Troy lets Jake go, and pulls the pistol from his holster. He puts it in her face and smiles when she flinches back. Hostage, they have you fucking hostage. His vision is blurry on the edges, he feels seconds from losing himself to it. "Was I fucking talking to you? Do you know what I'll do to you if she's hurt?" 

Jake's hand comes down on his shoulder and he shrugs it off. "You should have brought her back, brother." Troy snarls, without breaking eye contact with the stranger.

"She offered to stay to avoid more bloodshed." But Troy doesn't care, all that matters is you're not here. "The sooner I talk to dad, the sooner we get her back." 

Troy glares at him, "So her safety is dependent on our father? Correct me if I'm wrong, Jake, but have you met Big Otto?" 

"We will get her back, Walker gave his word."

Troy scoffs, gun still pointed at the Indian. She's frozen in place, unsure how to proceed. She keeps looking at Jake and Troy laughs. "Whatcha looking at him for? I'm the one with the gun. He can't save you. If I want you dead, you're going to die. Doesn't matter who's around, or where you are. I'll kill you." 

"Hurting her puts Dixon at risk." 

"Oh I know Jakey, that's the only reason she's not already dead." 

"I promise you, I would not have left her there if I didn't think she was going to be safe. She's a part of our family now, I'm not going to jeopardize that." Jake gestures toward the gate, "Come on." 

Troy juts his gun in her direction a final time before sliding it away. "He better be right or all your little friends are going to die." 

Chapter Text

The tone shifts after Jake leaves, and you're left alone with a bunch of strangers. You're unarmed, and with their own collection, if you fight you die. Walker knows it too, because he's standing there like the king. You watch him, and try to survey if he's about to become a threat. 

You miss Troy. 

You've forgotten how lonely the world is without his constant overeager presence. His eyes on you while standing right beside, in front, or behind you. You always feel Troy's presence. You don't feel him now. 

Now you are alone in a snake pit. 

"So are you actually a lawyer?" You ask, because you're not gonna stand here at his beck and call. Might as well learn what you can. You never were talented at keeping your mouth shut.

He starts down the road and you follow after him, keeping a good distance. "I was. Now the old ways are gone. I am a hunter, a leader. Far more than I was before." 

Several not very appropriate slurs come to mind, but you bite them back. Jake needs you to play nice and Troy needs you back whole. You stay silent. 

He keeps talking, and you spot the huey off to the side. There's someone working in the front, and you can see the bullet holes from where it was brought down. "Ya'll even know how to fly that thing?" 

Walker hums, nodding at it. "We'll have our own air force soon." 

"I thought you weren't Americans." You say dryly. "Are there buffalo in the sky I don't know about?"

Someone clicks a gun behind you, and you grin. "Hostages work better alive from what I hear." 

Walker stares, and you feel like he's trying to dissect you. "An Otto at heart I see." 

"I was raised in a trailer in Georgia." You bare your teeth, "My brothers taught me never to trust anyone who wasn't white." You shrug, "Well they taught me to never trust anyone at all, but that would make it a very small world for me so I settled." 

He doesn't say anything, but he waves whoever is raising their gun at you down. The two of you keep walking. Walker is intense in a way that makes you itchy. You can't tell if he has the stomach for it or if he only has men loyal enough to do it for him. 

What better way to find out than to ask, "Did you scalp Phil yourself?" 

He's good at schooling his expression, you don't see any kind of reaction. "Yes." 

"Why?" You're genuinely curious, and you think he sees that because your path suddenly diverts toward a trailer. It's painted on the outside, some Native landscape you dismiss. He props the door open and gestures for you to enter. 

You do and are met with the sideshow bullshit you recognize. Daryl always did have a fascination. Windchimes, dreamcatchers, and pretty rocks. All the stuff that you know is made in Taiwan not America. You walk to a glass cabinet looking down at the cluttering of knick-knacks. 

"Do you take card?" 

He shakes his head. "Cash only I'm afraid." You don't expect the joke and end up chuckling before you can stop yourself. 

There's a corpse on the wall, but it's off. You've garnered what these things look like by now, and the skull is wrong. Not quite the right shape, it could be ancient, but it's in a cheap hot trailer. "Clay?" 

"Paper mache." He says, "Tourists used to pay us a couple bucks to see it." 

"Why do you hate the Ottos?" You ask leaning against the glass cabinet. "It's not a land disagreement, look around you, property is at an all-time low. It's personal." You get to your point. "I need to know if Jake and Troy are on your hit list." 

"What about Jeremiah?" He asks, and you feel like you're finally getting somewhere. 

You keep your posture approachable. "Jeremiah likes to beat his son." You can feel that internal anger rise at the thought. "I wonder what he'll say while the crows pick at him."

"At last, something we agree on." Walker says, and you see the desire for blood in his eyes. 

"You didn't answer my question." 

"I didn't." He replies, and leaves the trailer without another word. You hear the click of a lock, and for once it doesn't make you feel secure. 

As soon as he's gone you start taking inventory. The best weapon in the room is one of the antlers for sale, or were for sale, you guess. Not many tourists these days. You take one, shoving it half into your pocket so it's easy to grab. 

You find boxes of bones along the top shelves and you know these are not paper mache. 

With nothing else to do, you pace. 

He returns after several hours with a half-full water bottle and a can of beets. Instead of handing them to you, he sets them on the counter.  

"I see you met my great grandfather." He says, glancing at the trunks. 

You don't respond, you watch him the way he's been watching you. And you see it, the surety in his posture. The high chin, eyes of coal. "There's no parle is there?" 

"Jeremiah murdered my father." He says, and it's an answer to all of your questions. "I never even got a corpse to bury." 

"His sons had nothing to do with it." You bargain, because really you don't care what happens to the old man. 

Walker tilts his head at you, "I disagree. Junior made sure we had nothing to reclaim, and well your lover is far more likely to set the reservation on fire than ever settle for peace." 

"I can talk to him, make sure he doesn't retaliate." You barter, and think there's a chance you can convince Troy to listen to you, especially with Jake on your side. Troy is only as retaliatory as his defensiveness makes him out to be. 

"It's too late." Walker says, "It is far too late." 

When he leaves again you start to look for a way out. You don't touch the water or the food. There's a window in the back, but it doesn't open. You could break it, but then stealth is no longer an option. You glance out the curtain and see that night is swiftly falling. 

Darkness soon comes in earnest, and there are no lights in here. Your eyes adjust as the light leaves, and you're stuck with the shadows of the portable gift shop. 

Troy will know for certain you're gone by now. Jake will be there though to hopefully tide him over. But now you don't know if Walker even plans to let you go. If his problems are with the Otto family, they may very well be with you.

He knows you'll protect Troy. Buffalos in the sky had not been a smart move, but Merle always speaks through you when you're nervous. You could be the prize piece used against the militia. You don't know what Troy's play would be with a knife to your throat and the ranch at his back. 

Of what he'd do if Walker showed up with your severed head, that seems to be one of his moves. You like having everything attached and connected. You're not about to meet your end for a blood feud that Jeremiah's dumbass started. 

"Fuck." You keep looking, shifting your steps to look for a bad piece of flooring. It's a portable camper, the floor is solid. You're left with two choices, the door or the window. All you have is an antler, and a desire to survive. 

It'll have to be enough. The longer you wait, the longer Jake thinks there's peace coming. You don't know what Walker's game is, but he's dangerous. He's angry. You won't see the whole ranch fall because of this. 

You walk back to the window and look out, scanning for a patrol. There's a red truck at the top of the hill that wasn't there before. F150. Its lights are off. 

It's the same model of truck Troy favors, same color. You're staring at it when you make out movement, two bodies hop out the back, another shifts out the driver's side. 

You recognize those bodies, their postures. You know Troy even as a blurry figure on the horizon. They're headed down the hill, and you don't know if they see you. Jerking around you look for anything that can signal them. 

There's a small mirror on the counter, you make a mad dash for it and run back to the window and try and catch the dim light from one of the lanterns outside. It's too dark in here, and you don't have much to work with. 

They're close enough now they're identifiable. Troy, Coop, and Blake. The only friends you have. 

You flash the mirror a little more as they get close, if they don't notice soon they'll pass you. "Come on. Come on." You dare to tap the glass when they start to pass by. 

They follow Troy's lead and walk right past the window. You slap it hard enough it vibrates and makes too much noise. They're gone. 

But you discredit him, because Troy's most reliable trait is his observance. His face as well as the muzzle of his gun appears in the window. When he sees you, he beams, dropping the rifle, and presses his hand to the glass. You cover it with your own. 

His other presses a finger over his lips and you nod. He's wearing a beanie to ward off the night chill, and now is not the time to think he looks adorable. You think it anyway. You're so pleased to see him. 

You shouldn't have left last night. You're going to tell him that first chance you get. 

The sound of footsteps makes you freeze in the window and someone on watch rounds to where the three men are hiding. Troy pounces, slapping his hand over the man's mouth. They struggle, before you see the strain in his shoulders and the Indian's head twists hard to the side. 

It's an awkward angle, but you think they're shoving the corpse under the trailer. Coop mimes opening the window. 

You shake your head no and mouth 'doesn't open'. 

He shoots you a thumbs up. 

Troy's face comes back into frame, and you can't get enough of him. He whispers something to the others and Coop pulls up his rifle. Blake takes off, low to the ground to return to the truck. 

They wait for him to get there, before Troy gestures for you to step away. 

You back up, grabbing a 'hand woven' rug you find hanging in the corner. Troy hoists his weapon and you see the AR impact against the glass. It doesn't shatter, it cracks and makes a hell of a lot of noise. You prep to move fast, muscles coiling. 

There's someone walking up toward the trailer, too late now to hide out for longer. You wave your hand in a come on motion for Troy to hurry up. There's the jingle of keys, someone's at the door. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." 

It opens outward, there's no way to block it from this side. He sees your panic and slams into the window with the butt of his gun again. Walker's voice calls out, "You're making a mistake, Dixon." 

"I'm not letting you hurt my family!" You shout back, and Troy hits in a final time and it shatters. 

Everything happens in a blur. No time for the rug, you drop it, and throw yourself out of the window, praying you don't bowl Troy over. 

The antler falls out of your pocket and there's a searing pain up your thigh, but you don't have time to think. You hit the ground in a roll, and Coop starts firing around the corner. 

The truck's lights flash on, and Blake's rolling backward down the hill. He's already propped the truck bed's door down. Coop jumps in first to lay down cover fire. 

Troy grabs you by the waist and doesn't give you a chance. He throws you in the back and follows close behind. Both men reach out to snap the door closed in tandem. "Go, go, go, go, go, go." Troy hisses, but he's smiling too. A little too amused by the situation, and that might just by why you like him so much. 

Blake floors it and you're all shoved to the back of the truck at the incline. Coop smacks his head on the side and curses. Troy's got one hand on the side and one hand on your arm trying to keep you from rolling into the back door. 

There's a spare rifle sliding around and you grab it. Troy tries to stop you as you snap your feet to the back of the door and hoist yourself half up. You aim for Walker, and he's forced to throw himself out of the way. 

You fire at anything that moves until the clip runs out. When you're out of range you collapse onto your back breathing hard. It takes you a second to realize you're laughing, a manic desperate sort of laughter. 

The truck steadies as it hits asphalt and you're on the way home. Troy is lying next to you, beanie half pulled off, laughing the same laugh. 

Coop is busy being responsible and watching for other vehicles. You're past the point of responsibility. 

You roll over to Troy and practically crawl on top of him. And you kiss him, a desperate hungry kiss that has his hands gripping in your hair. You follow that up with a plethora of transient wet kisses across his jaw and down his throat. 

He tilts his head to let you with a low groan. 

"No fucking on a mission is your rule Troy." Coop remarks, but there's no bite to it. 

"It's not mine." You reply and press your teeth against his throat. One of his hands trails down your side, gripping your hip, before following the shape of your thigh. 

Troy stops, his other hand comes out of your hair, and he starts pushing you away. You reach for him. "Please don't be angry I - "

He shakes his head, and you can barely see him in the dark. He speaks through the small open window into the interior. "Hit the light." 

It's a shitty bulb, but it casts the three of you in a cool glow. His eyes trail you, and stop on your thigh. 

Once he looks at it, you feel it. The adrenaline stops protecting you and your leg burns. The front of your pants is coated in blood. Any chance you had of getting him to kiss you is replaced by cool focus. 

Coop pulls a portable first aid kit out of a bag and hands it over wordlessly. 

Troy approaches, tapping where he wants you. You don't dare stop the truck to get in the front. He wraps your leg with gauze and a bandage for the ride. "I'll look at it when we get back." He promises. 

You don't really care about your leg, "I shouldn't have left last night." 

He smiles and reaches to touch your cheek. "We'll talk about it at home." It's not something you can discuss here in the company of others so you let it go and leave the statement as is it. At least he knows it, you've told him. He doesn't seem angry.

Troy presses his back up to the metal and you sit between his legs, leaning against his chest. There will be an opportunity to talk about Walker when you get back, for now, you enjoy the feeling of his arms around your stomach holding you to him. 

-

You're not met back with fanfare. Most of the ranch didn't even know you were gone. Jake's sitting on the porch as Blake drives up to the house. Troy insisted he come up the drive, given your leg injury. 

He sees your group and stands up. You prep for an earful and he doesn't disappoint, "Congratulations, you just declared war on Walker's nation. Someone call Joe, they could be right behind you!" He's rushing up to the truck as Coop kicks the back down. 

Troy doesn't say a word, he's still holding on to you. His grip gets tighter the closer Jake comes. 

When Jake sees the two of you his arguments fade, and guilt splits over his face. You think there must be something in Troy's expression that makes the anger die. And when you tilt your head back to look at him, he looks scared. 

Like for the first time he got a taste of a future without you. A little boy holding on to his teddy bear terrified it will be ripped from his arms and lost forever. 

Jake sighs and runs a hand through his hair. He spots your bandage and his frown deepens. "I'll help her out." 

You inch forward with Troy at your back and they both help you out of the truck. It makes you feel nice to have them work together on the task despite the current frustration in the air. 

Blake has run off to help with the perimeter watch. And Coop gives the two of you a final look before heading back into camp. You'll thank them tomorrow. 

Jeremiah meets your group at the door, and you can tell with one look he's drunk. He's pointing a wavering finger in Troy's direction. "This was Jake's scheme, you shouldn't have interfered." 

Troy scowls, "I wasn't leaving Dixon there." 

"Bodies dropped didn't they?" He questions and you want to kick his knee in and watch him fall. 

"Two." Troy says, "Maybe more Dixon really sprayed them down at the end there." His accompanying grin with the statement proves Troy doesn't much care. 

Jake looks at you in surprise as you are led to one of the dining chairs. 

"There was never going to be a parle. He admitted it." You look where Jeremiah sways. "He wants your head. Jesus, Otto is his father's body buried on the ranch?" 

The old man sneers, "Under the adobe. If I knew what trouble he'd cause I'd have gone after the son too." 

Jake stares at him in horror. "What?" 

Big Otto laughs, "You really thought I was innocent. All four of us played a part, they were coming onto our land, killing our cattle. It was a punishable offense." 

"By law! A punishable offense by law!" Jake shouts, "You call the damn cops. You don't shoot someone and bury them under your house. I wish you'd told me that before I went over there and fucking tried to convince him peace was an option." 

"Don't raise your voice at me." 

"Dad, do you hear yourself? You murdered his father, and covered it up with your friends. I spent three years of my career making sure he never got access to the ranch." Jake's angrier than you've ever seen him. 

Even Troy looks intrigued until he remembers your leg and starts prepping the medical equipment on the table. 

Your blood has already made it through the temporary wrapping. He cuts it free with a pair of scissors and you say goodbye to your pants as he cuts the leg off too. It's stained beyond repair anyway. Might get a pair of shorts out of them. 

There's a nasty red gash at the top of your thigh, but once he cleans it the damage actually isn't that bad. Besides you're plenty distracted by the carnage that's taking place in front of you. 

"You're the one who decided to be a damn lawyer." You think Otto might be missing the point, might be on another page of the book. 

Jake does too because he throws up his arms in frustration. "You lied to me." 

His father heads into his office space and gets another bottle. He's drinking the expensive stuff. You could use a sip of that right about now. 

"And what would you have done if I told you, Jake? Turn me in? Lie for me? Better you didn't know." He gestures the bottle at Troy and you stiffen. "Only one here who'd bury a body for me is Troy." 

You try not to laugh and even Troy looks a little amused as he rewraps your leg. You won't need any stitches, you're grateful for small favors. 

"That's bullshit. I have been nothing but loyal to you my whole life." 

Troy is smart enough not to draw attention to himself. 

"You're a damn pansy." 

"And you're drunk!" 

It really would be funny if you didn't know Jeremiah was a physical drunk. But maybe that doesn't matter anymore, because even abusers get old. The fight in him left when arthritis came. Now all he has is words, his hand is still wrapped from when he hit you the other day. 

Troy helps you up, and you start to make your escape toward the stairs. 

"And where do you think you're going?" Jeremiah calls after him. Troy turns, and sends him a questioning look. "You're not going to defend me?" 

You're sure Troy spent a good deal of his childhood defending Jeremiah's shitty decisions. He's loyal like that, but his father forgets that Troy is more loyal to Jake than to him. With every beating, he lost a little more of Troy's dedication.

Jake presses his fingers into the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "No one should be defending you, what you did was wrong." 

Troy looks at his brother and with a barely contained grin says, "You're right, Jakey stop being a prick to your father." He shakes his finger for good measure, and you snort. 

Even Jake is fighting a laugh, edged on by the ridiculousness of it all.  

Jeremiah is the only one who doesn't find it comical. "I raise you, I feed you. And this is it. You mock me in my own house, you move people in and you try and give away my water." He's still mumbling as he takes his bottle and walks out the front door. 

Jake looks at the two of you and shakes his head. "I don't know if he makes me want to drink until my liver gives out or never touch it." He looks at you, "I'm sorry that I put you in that situation. I'd never have done it if I knew." 

You nod to him, "It's okay. Everything worked out in the end, sort of. We'll figure it out in the morning." 

Jake agrees, "I'm going to crash somewhere else. I can't be here right now." He gestures to the office, to his family home. And you wonder how many opportunities Jake gave away to help Jeremiah. A life abandoned to be the man his father wanted him to be, all for nothing in the end. 

Troy helps you up the stairs. He's hovering, overprotective. You don't mind, it feels good to have him close again. 

Even though the house is empty, he locks the door. The sound is becoming a symbol of him, of the safety he provides. Troy has only proven that by saving you today. There's no telling what Walker would have done. It makes your mortality thrum within you. 

You start your conversation over, "I shouldn't have left yesterday." 

He looks at you, and you're that butterfly again. Pinned and surrounded by the security of the glass. "When I found out you were gone, I thought you left the ranch. I thought you took the SUV and went to find a new place." 

You want to tell him that you never even considered it, but whatever he's trying to say he needs to get it all out. 

"I have a temper, that's no secret." He pulls the beanie off and tosses it onto the dresser. His hair is in disarray, vibrant curls going in all directions.  "But I wasn't angry. All I could think about was how much I missed you. I spent all day waiting for you to come talk to me." 

You approach him, limping though you are and press your hands to his chest. You repeat the question he asks you when he's unsure, "Tell me what you need." 

His hands come to cup your face. "Say you need me. Tell me I'm irreplaceable, that you don't want to go. That even though I'm me, you still want me. Because I need you, and I need you to need me." 

You smile up at him, and it's soft and it's gentle. "I need you." Carefully, as to not startle him you tilt up to kiss his cheek. "I need you." A kiss on his other cheek. "I need you." His chin. "I need you." His forehead. "I love you." His lips. 

It takes him a second to register, and then his mouth parts in a breath of surprise. He doesn't say it back, but you find yourself being pushed toward the bed. 

You let yourself fall and watch as he starts pulling at the buttons of his jacket. He sheds it to the floor and his undershirt follows. He doesn't make a show of it, it's in casual confidence the way he removes his boots, his socks, his blood stained pants. 

And then he reaches for you. Your shirt and bra are the first things to go. And then he's on his knees taking off your shoes. There will never be a day when you stop enjoying him knelt before you. 

You prop up your hips and ignore your thigh as he tugs your jeans down. You're both wearing plain black underwear, the kind that the Otto's stocked for the end of democracy. 

And then he sheds that too and you get your first real sight of everything he is. Pretty skin, the faintest line of light hair that follows his belly button down. 

Your thighs clench reflexively, and he smiles as he reaches for yours, careful of the bandage. He steps closer and grabs your ankles, and takes one in each hand. There's a certain level of appreciation you have for the way his hands wrap around the entirety of them. 

And then he spreads your legs open like he owns the place, and he does. He hums, and you trace your eyes down his body while he peruses yours. Fascinated by so much as watching him breathe. 

His voice is husky, "You're beautiful." 

"I do believe you've said that before." You tease, and the intimacy doesn't scare you. This is a man who has kissed your scars. You feel comfortable in your skin, not a show for his amusement, not a doll to be used. 

You are his, and you know he'll cherish you. 

Troy shakes his head, "Not like this. This is different. You're perfect." He leans down and presses you further onto the mattress so he can join you. 

Once he's near enough you kiss him again entangling your hands in his hair as he settles himself between your thighs, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. Like he was made to fit right there.

His voice is a whisper into your neck, "I've read all twelve of Jake's poetry books, you know." 

You giggle. "I really don't think we need to involve Jake in this." 

Troy is close enough you can feel his lips turn into a toothy smile, "She had a weakness," He pulls back so he can wrap his fingers around your neck and you are beholden to him, "For his hand around her throat and his words in her heart. Neither of which did she have the willpower to refuse." 

Just when you think he can't get any more attractive, poetry slips from his lips while he presses the tip of himself against your entrance. The hand around your neck tightens, and you swallow. "Shall I continue?" 

"I think we're a little past the point of words." You breathe, rolling your hips. 

"I think you're right." He slides inside of you gradually. One hand on your throat, the other cupping your side. He's lit only by the low light of the lamp and the moon through the open curtains. He's careful, aware that time has passed and you need time to adjust. Of course, he is the kind of lover who thinks of these things. 

You let out a keen, because you needed this. The empty to full, the stretch. But this is different from your unfeeling past because this is skin on skin, and you feel like your soul is burning beside his. 

When he tilts down to kiss you, you latch on to his back and hold him close. His movements are slow, tender. Gentle. A polar opposite of the way he approaches most things. 

He's quiet, as his hands slide down to test your flesh. He explores every place he can reach, and you think he may be creating a diagram in his head to draw out later. Soft here, hard there. 

You wrap your legs around his hips and pull him closer until he sinks all the way inside you. And then you get rewarded with your first sound, a groan from the back of his throat. 

His pace stutters and you know he's reminding himself to go slow. So you wrap your hands around his neck and play with the edges of his hair. You entertain yourself by kissing his jaw. His hands find your hips and he lifts you to shift the angle deeper and you let out a sudden gasping moan.

The steadfast control he's holding unravels at the sound and he snaps himself forward. You moan again, and he's increasing the friction. You try not to close your eyes, because you want to see the way his mouth is open pulling for more air. The way he looks both bashful and confident. 

You want to see your favorite color reflected down at you as his brow draws together in pleasure. His tongue dips out of his mouth to wet his lips and he's breathtaking. You tilt your head back, baring your throat as the pleasure curls through your legs all the way into your toes. "Troy." 

He hums, "Say it again." 

"Troy~." 

He laughs, and it's the sexiest thing you've ever experienced in your life. "Try again." 

You open your eyes to look at him, and he's such a mix between wrecked and amused. 

"I love you." 

He kisses you and changes to a faster, harder tempo, "I love you too." 

You groan, "Is that the sex talking?" 

He shakes his head. "No. No - I didn't say it back because I wanted to show you. I'm far better at actions than words." 

You nod, "I can - I can, oh that's nice. I can see that." Talking becomes a thing of the past. He takes your mewling incoherence as a compliment and kisses the center of your chest. 

And then like a fucking gentleman he sticks two fingers in his mouth, wets them, presses them between your legs, and circles your clit like a damn expert. You don't have time to be impressed, you're too busy saying his name like a mantra as he fills you. 

It hits you out of nowhere and you let out a noise that would have absolutely been overheard if you weren't completely alone. You clench around him and Troy gasps out a breath, and presses closer to you. 

"Ah," He kisses across your collar as you come down, but he doesn't slow. He's chasing his own high and you're utterly invested in experiencing it with him. "Ah - ahbsolutely perfect." 

His hips jut forward, and his arms snap out to either side of you. And you're blocked in by him as they shake. He comes with your name on his lips and his eyes squeezed shut. 

You wait for him, running your fingers through his hair, across his damp forehead. And when he opens his eyes you reply, still a little out of breath, "You're right, you're absolutely perfect."  

Chapter Text

Troy is already awake when you come around to the morning light. He's traipsing his fingers up and down your bare back. It feels right, comforting. "I could get used to this." You mumble, still not entirely awake. You are always a slow riser and his soft touch only makes you more likely to drift back to sleep.  

He presses a little harder, and you feel the drag of his nails against your skin. "You know if we weren't bordering on an invasion I'd keep us locked up in here all day." 

"You won't be able to walk the next day takes on a new consequence when you're in charge of camp security, huh." You joke, flipping over, squinting as you adjust to the light.

Troy smiles as his fingers change to tracing the front of your chest, following the rolling flesh with interest. He's bathed by the morning light, and it makes him look gentle. Sparkling blue orbs and pretty tanned skin. He's not yet dressed, blankets pooling around his hips. "You can be the resident sniper from my bedroom window." 

You laugh, and it feels good. It feels so good to be here, to have this moment, to be more than what you are. "I don't think I'm that good of a shot."

His lips pull up as he leans forward to kiss you. "I will teach you, but first responsibility calls. Shower with me?" 

The thought makes you feel warm, especially as he smuggles you in his robe into the bathroom. 

He helps you shower and dress and it's a far better shower than the first one the two of you shared. Especially because he rests the strap of his rifle along the towel rack, as a promise of extra safety. On guard even while he's running soap down your back. 

You know you are telling the truth. You love Troy. You love him in a way you've never loved anyone, and you are going to hold on to it with both hands. 

The camp is abuzz with energy when you exit the house, and it takes a minute to find out why. It's Blake that tells you, halfway up the driveway. "It's Jake." 

The two of you look at each other, and you're coasting down the rest of the hill toward the gate. By the time you get there, all that's left is an empty truck. You change course, hoofing it to the med tent, and find Jake on a cot inside. 

There is a great deal of blood on his face, but it's the defeated countenance that you worry about. Troy rushes forward, stopping in front of him in a crouch to get a better look. "What happened?" 

Jake frowns, as you stride toward the medical equipment and take it from the medic trying to make her way over. "I got it." She lets you with a nod and sets back to another task. You think most of the residents see the Otto's a bit untouchable, and so helping their injuries is easily passed off.

You have to push up his hair to properly see the long line across his forehead. Troy stares at it, and you notice the rage building underneath his skin. Soon it will break, and he'll lose control. Instead of asking questions you prep to clean the wound. 

Troy doesn't have that kind of patience, "The fucking Indians got on the ranch?" You can tell he's upset with himself. He spent last night entirely indisposed regarding camp safety. 

"No," Jake explains. 

Letting out a little breath of relief that you are not responsible for this, you prep a cotton swab. "You took them the water." You say, beginning to dab at the side of the wound. 

He winces. "Their hostage too. I thought I could appease them. They took the water. He was going to kill me. Ofelia stopped him. He's coming for the ranch. It's not just about dad. Taqa said he was going to kill us all, make him watch while he kills me and feeds Troy to the pigs." 

Your cheeks heat in anger. That is not going to happen, you will not allow it. You've already lost one family, it'll be a cold day in hell when you'll lose another one. "Let's see him try. My scalping skills are a bit rusty but I'm sure I could figure it out with a sharp enough knife." 

Troy chuckles. 

You run a long line of cleaner across his forehead and Jake swears. 

"Sorry, sorry. Gotta get the dirt out. You shouldn't have gone. Reckless isn't safe, that goes for both of you. No going off on your own, you're not untouchable. You bleed the same as anyone else." You instruct and Troy looks at his lap, before returning to watch Jake in concern when he mutters a few swears as you finish sanitizing.

Neither of you wants to see Jake die. And he looks a little vain when he sees that. 

Troy sits in the grass, "Can't have a big happy family with two." 

"Three isn't exactly huge," Jake replies, but he's fighting a smile anyway. 

It's a thin cut, the knife Walker used had been exceptionally sharp. So it's deep but not wide. You dab at it some more and you're sure Jake wants to tell you to screw off. You're bending down to see if you should give him stitches when there's shouting from the gate. 

You look at Troy and he nods, darting off to take care of it. 

"I can't fix it," Jake says, looking up at you without moving his head. It's the first time you've ever noted him to look like Troy, but it's the same stare. The same silent way of asking for help. 

You try your hand at a comforting smile. "You can't fix your father's mistakes, he has too many. We'll protect the ranch, trust that Troy can handle that." 

"We need to keep a heavy perimeter watch, so - " 

You cut him off, "Trust Troy." 

"Alright. Alright." He sighs, "Thanks." He gestures up at his forehead as you finish wiping the rest of the blood off his face. 

"It's a little strange." You say conversationally, "Having a brother close to my age, but I like it." 

- 

The Clarks are happy to take responsibility for Ofelia after she's deposited at the gate, but Troy's far from convinced. Whenever he sees her, he watches her like she's going to snap any minute. 

You're not sure yourself, but you don't know her, and you trust Troy so you keep an eye out too. The next two days are going to suck. Troy's about to put all of you on heavy watch. He had the decency of warning you with a little apology smile beforehand. 

You meet up with the militia in mess and find that coffee has been left for you and the other campers. Thank god for the kitchen staff. You didn't sleep much last night, and you're already feeling it. Worth it of course, but you're tired nonetheless. 

There are about eight or so of the militia cluttered in the tent, and you even spot Nick in uniform. You'll ask Troy about that later. You're gone for a day and Nick enlists. Strange world. For now, there is a cup of coffee with your name on it. Blake hands you a cup as you get close and you thank him. 

"Okay, nobody sleeps for the next forty eight." Troy commands striding in right behind you. There's a universal groan of mourning for your sleep schedules. You are one of those groans. 

"We should take the fight to them, man, not sit and wait for it." Coop's the first to offer a full out assault, and to be honest you're not exactly opposed to the idea. 

Blake adds, "No fire on the ridgeline. Indians are holed up. I'd say offense is the best defense." 

Troy listens, waits to see if you have anything to add, before speaking, "Yeah, well, that's not what Otto wants right now." 

You don't think Jeremiah should be making any decisions given he's on an at home bender. 

"So what happens if Walker attacks while we're on the perimeter? It's a long haul back to the ranch." Nick asks, and you're glad he's at least paying attention instead of spacing out like he usually does. 

"Well, there's only two roads he can use, and we'll be on both of them with fast trucks. We stop him. We leave a suicide note, we fall back, and we defend the camp." Troy explains, coming to hand you a pack of sugar. 

You pour it into the lovely brown mix. 

"Suicide note? What? One of our guys stays behind to fight to the end?" 

Troy nods and a rush of nerves slip down your spine. This idea you don't like. "Well, yeah. Yeah. We're all willing." 

There's a chorus of agreement, and you glance at Coop. He's looking at you, and you're forced to consider it. Would you stay behind to protect the militia, the ranch? If it meant keeping your friends alive, keeping Troy alive? You state your opinion by tipping your mug in the other soldier's direction, "It's a good day to die." 

They chant it back, "It's a good day to die." 

"Well if it does come to that, I'll do it." Nick volunteers and you look at him curiously. There's an angle there, or maybe a desperation to prove himself. You take a sip of coffee and let him have his hero moment. 

"You feeling blue, Nicky?" Troy questions, as you reach for a pack of crackers. 

Nick's answer makes you snort into your mug, "No, I'm just suicide-proof." 

Troy gives him a long look, "Alright. Well if shit hits the fan, push Nick to the front of the line." 

He turns back to you and looks for his own mug. There aren't any left. You hold yours out, and he shakes his head. "You enjoy it." 

Troy puts you on gate watch with Blake and Coop. He's antsy and you know standing around won't be good for him. It's a good thing he's not caffeinated or it would be worse.

"I'm going to do a sweep, I'll be back in five." He says, and you lean up to kiss him before he goes. Just in case, you're going to be doing a lot of things with Troy as a just in case. 

Coop's got a crazy looking night vision thing on his head, and you laugh at him. "You look like you fell out of Tron." 

"Hah. Hah." He responds dryly. "So you and Troy done the nasty yet? You wait anymore his balls are gonna turn into sapphires." 

You walk between the two men resting your arms on the gate like Blake. "Wouldn't you like to know." 

"That's a yes then," Blake says and you shrug. It's dark out, and you and Blake are left mostly looking for truck lights. 

Coop fidgets with his weird equipment, "I do not like this. Do not like it one damn bit." He mutters and you agree with him. 

"You see shit?" Blake questions, alarmed as he starts scanning more frantically. 

"If I see shit, you'll be the first to know." The sarcasm is so blatant you huff out another laugh. 

"What about me?" You tease. "Do I get to know?" 

"Nah, man, you're just going to have to guess." He replies, adjusting another nozzle.

The coffee didn't sit well on your empty stomach. And the longer the three of you hover there the more you're sure you're coming down with something. You've got an irritating itch in the back of your mouth like the start of a sore throat. You hate being sick, and now's not a good time for it. But if it's too late, it's too late. 

Troy comes back around, shuffling in to stand next to you, but he's tapping his foot as soon as he stops. 

Blake speaks and his voice is kind of quiet. "Hey, any of you put creamer in your coffee?" 

Coop keeps scanning, "Drink mine black, besides haven't drank any yet. Wanted to wait for that bit before the second wind." 

You nod, "You think the creamer was rotten? My stomach's upset too." 

Troy scans you, "You alright?" 

You're about to assuage him that you're fine when Blake presses his hand to his stomach and falls back from the gate bent over at an angle. "Blake?!" You reach for him, holding him up as he vomits onto your boots. "Shit," You'd have been less concerned if it weren't for the fact the vomit was off-white foam. 

Coop jerks back, pulling his headpiece off and Blake hits the ground on his side. 

Troy whips out his walkie, "Medic, to the gate. Medic, to the gate, now!" 

It starts to hit you when you get on your knees to roll Blake onto his side. He can't choke on his vomit. If it's a seizure he has to ride it out. 

But then you're not able to think past the unexpected sharp pain in the pit of your gut. You let out a shriek from it and barely manage to tilt yourself away from Blake before you're vomiting too. It's the same foam, and you know that's not right. 

There's something wrong with you. Your head swims and you feel arms around your chest, keeping you level as you gag. It's ripping through your stomach, this horrible burning pain. Your eyes water. 

"Dixon, fuck, fuck, fuck. Dixon. Breathe. Coop, get help." 

There's a flash of movement that you think might be Coop following orders. Troy barks into the walkie again, but he stops when he hears it. The screaming. It starts to echo all over the camp. 

Troy is posed with the question you asked yourself earlier. What will he do when forced to choose between a knife at your throat and the ranch at his back? 

His grip tightens on you. 

The vomiting helps, and you're able to twist to look at him. His eyes scan your face frantically. "Are you okay?" He presses his hands to your cheeks tilting your face up. He lets go with one hand to talk into his walkie again. "Jake? Jake?! Help me." 

Jake's voice crackles through. "Where are you?" 

"North gate. Please." His voice sounds different than you know it to be, younger. He keeps holding your face, looking into your eyes. And suddenly the idea of dying dawns before you. He sees it, like he sees all things, your own personal god and you smile. There are worse things than dying in his arms.

"No, no absolutely not. You keep fucking fighting." Troy snarls. "You don't get to leave me behind, you can't. I just found you." His anger is left behind by the gut-wrenching fear in his eyes. The color of the sea during a tsunami. 

You force the words up your aching throat, even as your whole body shakes. "You need to help the ranch. Go." 

"No." 

"Jake will ... find me." You say. 

He looks back, and surveys the screaming, the gunshots, and the desecration of his home. And he is both man and protector. "I -" 

"Go." You plead. 

Troy leans in to kiss you and you stop him, it's not safe. And it kills him. "I love you." And he means it. But this is his home. The only home he has ever been allowed to know. If he stays he is not the man he promised himself he would be. 

You lie down on your side when he goes. You forgot to say it back. It's too late now, but you still watch him run off, rifle pressed to his shoulder already firing. 

There's a shuffle along the gravel and you're grateful Jake has found you. Forcing your eyes open you see he's leaning over Blake, checking on him. And then your brain catches up with your eyes and you remember Jake isn't blonde. 

And he doesn't make that guttural groan. You reach for your pistol, fumbling with it. And the movement makes the shark look up at you instead of biting into Blake. You pull it out of its holster but as soon as you raise your arm your grip strength disappears and it falls back to the road with a clatter. 

It's Jimmie, you recognize his ponytail and fatigues. If whatever is eating you up from the inside out won't kill you, the dead will. You reach for the gun, but it feels like it's a thousand feet away. 

He's abandoned Blake's still body and you pray he's not dead too. Blake is your friend. One of the few people who talk and jokes with you.  You don't want him to be dead, thank god Troy didn't drink the coffee. 

He'll be alright, a few infected won't kill him. He's stronger than that, but you might not be. You're outreaching for the pistol when it grabs your arm and its teeth sink toward you. You feel the wetness and touch of its teeth before its brains splatter the road and your legs. 

Jake is there, kicking Jimmie away. He crouches down by your arm and frantically runs his hands down it, wiping the muck away. Not a scratch. You sob out a relieved sound, even as the pain in your stomach tears more whimpers out of you.

"Is he dead?" You mumble and Jake reaches toward Blake and presses two fingers to his neck. 

"He's alive." 

You're relieved about that too. Jake scoots forward and doesn't seem to know whether to stay put or move you. He makes a decision, readying his rifle on one knee, and guards you. 

While he's there, a silent figure above you, you swim between awake and unconscious. 

For a second Troy returns, bent over you, and you feel his hands on your face. But you're not sure if that was a dream. He makes a lovely dream. 

-

When you crawl back to reality you're in the medical tent. There's a flurry of activity all around you, and you've never seen it so jam packed. You feel drained, like you've spent weeks fighting a flu. Your throat is raw, and you're too cold for a late summer day in California. 

To your right is Blake, still asleep, and to your left is Nick who's watching everything around him. Alicia is up fluttering about between patients. There's an IV in your arm and you hate it, but at least you weren't awake when they put it in. 

You catch Jake at the end of the tent working with the others. But you don't see Troy. This isn't really his scene you know, but you look for him anyway. Another second passes before you realize you're handcuffed by both wrists. 

Nick notices you're awake. "We match." He points to his own single cuff. Must have talked his way out of the second one. "Granted getting you in those things was hard work. Troy was swinging at anyone who tried. I thought he was going to put Jake on his ass for sure." 

"He's okay?" 

Nick nods, "I think he's moving the bodies." 

You let out a long breath and try and ignore the pinch of your gut. "Ofelia?" 

"Yea." 

"Fucking bitch." You curse, and it catches Jake's attention. He makes a b-line for you. 

His hand comes out to touch your face, "You've still got a fever." 

"So that's why I'm so cold. I thought you turned on the air conditioning." You remark, and he smiles.

"Good, humor is good. If you weren't being a smartass I'd be worried." He checks your IV bag, and gets drawn away when the man across from you turns. "Damnit." 

And then Troy is there. He pulls out a knife with a little spin of his fingers and slides it into the man's skull before wiping the blade on his pants. 

When he sees you're awake he rushes over. "Hey!" He looks at Jake, "Does she need anything? Is there anything you can give her?" 

"You got a few minutes?" Jake asks, shifting toward one of the shelves.

Troy nods and Jake hands him a small bowl and a white washcloth. "Try and get her fever down." 

He follows the order without question, pulling a stool up beside your cot. And then notices your wrists, "Jake, get her out of these cuffs." 

He takes a look at you, at the way your hands grip the bars of the bed to stop the shaking and know if it was anyone else he'd have said no. Instead he throws Troy the keys. 

He unlocks the first, bending over you for the other. Nick watches his face dripping with sweat but he doesn't ask to be let out. You're extremely grateful you only had the one cup of coffee, more grateful that Troy and Coop had not consumed any. 

You rub at your wrists as he wets the cloth and presses it to your forehead. It feels good against your skin, and you relax into the touch. "I shoulda stayed in bed." You whisper, a pretty lie. 

He tells one of his own. "We shoulda stayed in bed." 

"It is more fun with two." You joke and he seems encouraged the same way Jake was by your sense of humor. He dabs the cloth across your neck. He's got this look that screams guilt, and he's not meeting your eye. That for Troy is unusual. Eye contact is his first and foremost sign of affection. "You were right to go. You saved lives." 

"I could have lost yours." He says, rewetting the cloth. 

You hold onto his shirt with one hand to feel grounded. "Jake got there in time. I wasn't bitten." 

He looks up at you and you realize your mistake. Jake didn't tell him. 

"What do you mean?" 

It won't do to lie, so you recount your close call with Jimmie and remind him again it's not his fault. "That's not on you. I'm alright. I'm going to be alright." 

"We don't even know what it is," Troy whispers, as they carry out the man he put down a few minutes prior. 

"I'll be okay." You affirm and he works on keeping you cool. The soft touch lulls you asleep before he can reply. 

When you wake back up it's late in the night, only the low sounds of crickets and Jake shuffling around. You watch him in the low light and he smiles when he sees you're awake. 

"You need anything?" He whispers, leaning down to keep the conversation private. He glances down with another smile, this one for Troy.

He's asleep bent over with his head on your legs, facing you. Jake's jacket is draped over his shoulders to keep out the nightly chill. You're almost positive he's drooling on you. You wish you have a camera, so you could prove it to him in the morning. 

Instead, you gently run your fingers through his hair. "We're good." You say back, "But you should sleep too." 

Jake touches your wrist, the same one that almost got munched on. "Soon. I'll sleep soon." 

Chapter Text

Coming to in your own bed is both normal and disconcerting because it's a different place than you fell asleep in. Troy likely carried you, and you know you were safe in his arms.

It's early morning, and there is a note on his pillow. Given the paper, which you see often enough it's ripped directly from his journal. 

You sit up and find it's a little easier. You still feel shaky, but it doesn't feel like you're seconds from falling over anymore. Jake absolutely gave you the high-tier medications. If it makes you stop throwing up you're alright with the biased treatment. 

Picking up the paper you look down at it, across the front is a quick scribble, 'Wrote this when you were gone. I'm out on the range.' 

You find yourself rereading it several times over. And you are grateful to be loved by him. To know that this man is the man that will always be in your corner. There's no getting sick of him, no letting him go now. Troy Otto is in your veins. 

It makes getting out of bed a little easier. You slip the paper into your bag and dress in uniform. When you come down, no one has made coffee and you're sort of happy about that. 

Nothing like aversion to make something easy to quit, at least for today. Jake is at the table, and you're happy to see his forehead is starting to scab over. "Morning." 

He looks up from where he's been blankly staring and it's clear he's half asleep. "Morning. How are you feeling?" 

You raise an eyebrow at him, "How are you feeling?" 

He laughs, and that sounds tired too. "I don't know. Like I'm trapped in a cave with no obvious way out, and I'm running out of air." 

"Have you eaten?" 

"No." He rubs his face with both hands. "Don't have the energy to do just about anything."

This is something you can actually help him with, even if it feels small. So you wander into the kitchen and find a quick mix oatmeal. Not the most glamorous of breakfasts, but it's better than worrying himself into the ground. 

You whip it up in a bowl and portion it for two. Coming over to the table you find your seat next to him and slide the bowl his way. 

Jake starts eating wordlessly, though each bite gets a little hungrier. "Can you tell me about your time at Black Hat?" 

"Sure." The two of you eat, and you tell him everything you can remember. Some of it doesn't seem all that important, but you tell him everything that pops into your head. He gets particularly interested in the trunks of bones, and so you tell him you think they're his family. 

Jake's mind whirs and he finishes his oatmeal. "I have an idea." 

"Let's go get Troy then." You don't mention Jeremiah. He's probably passed out somewhere, nursing a migraine. 

Halfway down the hill, you're winded, and Jake is worried. Your breaths wheeze out of you and your head swims. The antibiotics are working, but there's only so much they can do in such little time. 

"Maybe I should take you back." He's got his arms out like he thinks you're about to topple over. You don't think you are, but rolling down the hill is not your idea of a good time. 

"You got a walkie?" You ask, shifting to sit on the side of the gravel to catch your breath.

Jake pulls it out where it's clipped to his belt and holds it out to you. 

You're smiling when you press your finger against the side. "Requesting a Mr. Troy Otto to the driveway of his childhood home, over." 

There's static for a second before he answers his tone playful, "Yes, ma'am. On my way, over and out." 

Jake rolls his eyes. "You two are something else." 

"We try." You tease, and your smile only grows as you see a distant figure cut up the driveway. 

He's at a jog, that drops into a saunter as he grows closer. "My presence was requested?" Troy spans his arms, "What can I do you for?" 

Your grin becomes flirtatious as you pull yourself back up to your feet. "I'm in desperate need of a ride, cowboy."

Jake pretends to gag. 

Troy doesn't catch your literal meaning, and his eyes dart from you, to the house, to his brother. "I got time, maybe fifteen." He eyes you up and down, "Twenty." 

You laugh, "My prince charming." You giggle again. "I don't think my body is ready for a quickie." 

"I really don't want to have to bleach my eyes today," Jake says in exasperation. "Let me translate. She's winded, will you please carry her?" 

The way Troy spreads his arms and smacks his chest is hilarious. You trust him, and at the incline manage a good solid jump in his direction. He catches you, latching his arms under your ass as you hold on to his neck. 

"I was more thinking piggyback." You say, as he adjusts to steady his grip. It's a reminder of how strong he is, because he just grins easily down at you. As if you weigh no more than a sack of flour.

Troy ignores you, turning on heel to continue down the hill, Jake following at his side. "Where we headed?" 

"We need to discuss plans with you. I've got an idea for dealing with Walker." Jake explains. 

Troy settles on his locale and you're carted off in high fashion to the militia's base of operations. He deposits you in a fold-out lawn chair, and you feel pampered. 

He doesn't seem to mind, in fact, he looks smug. There are a few boys in the tent already, considering you keep snacks and drinks in here for militia members. You're on severe watch, the drink canisters have been entirely thrown out. And only militia members are currently allowed to prepare food and drinks. 

"Hit me with one of those juice boxes, Coop. If I'm getting carried around like a toddler I might as well enjoy it." 

The bearded man laughs and pulls one from the pack throwing it in your direction. 

You catch it easily enough, and look down at it. It's one of those little boxes with the straws separately glued to the side. You pout, "Troy~ I need help." 

He turns to you, as you hold it out. "Can you put it in for me?" 

His eyes darken as he takes it, and you think it would be fun to see how much you can tease him. Obviously, it's not a difficult task, inserting a straw, but he completes it nonetheless holding it back out to you. 

"Thanks, I just - I was so worried it would be too big to fit." 

The militia in the room finally give in and a few laughs break out as you beam at Troy, even his lip is twitching. 

His response only makes your desire to tease him worse, "I promise you'll be able to get your mouth around it just fine." 

You blink at him and nod, sticking the straw in your mouth, you grin at him as you hold it between your smile and choke as he says, "Ah, ah. No teeth, darlin'."

Jake groans, "Can someone please deafen me? Make it quick." 

All in all the tent is in a much better mood than it had been a minute before and that was your goal. Best to stay distracted than think about all the people who are no longer here. The militia lost good people, too many.  

You look at Coop and wiggle your eyebrows at him. He shakes his head back at you and sips his own juice. "Take us away, Jake. What's the master plan?" 

He takes the stage, probably glad the sexual innuendos have capped for now. "Dixon was telling me about her experience at Black Hat this morning. It gave me a target, a weakness. We need to steal their gift trailer. Troy, you'll put a group together that you feel is healthy enough to do it. If we get that trailer, we have a bartering chip." 

"What does it have in it?" Blake asks, hovering by the baggies of chips. 

"His ancestor's bones." You reply. From your understanding, that kind of shit is important to Indians, and Walker certainly wants to pretend he's as native as they come. 

Troy speaks before you can offer, giving you a look. "You're sitting this one out, Dixon." 

"We stay together." 

"You can't walk down the hill." His voice softens trying not to sound harsh, which is hard for someone as blunt as Troy, "If you go it's a liability to both of us. To the whole mission. We need militia members here anyway, just in case Walker strikes while we're gone." 

No part of you likes the idea of him going out without you, but you trust Troy. He's more than capable even on his worst day. Troy might very well be the most dangerous man on the whole ranch. You give in, "Alright, but I want my new M4." 

He grins and runs a hand through his hair. "It's yours." 

- 

Troy's nose is dripping blood, and he's still catching his breath from running into the house, but he looks invigorated. That same energy he gets when fighting the dead. You were asked to return home after you tripped and busted your ass trying to walk out of a tent. The only good thing about it is the journal collection you've been given access to.

He dropped them all off beside the bed with a soft smile and a long kiss before he left. You were beyond thrilled. 

You're currently knee-deep in the thoughts of a sixteen year old Troy. He seemed to have two settings at that age: fuck or fight.

With the way he's looking at you now, it seems like that hasn't changed all that much. He's come right from the fight, there's still a scent of gunpowder in the air and the only thing he's done to deal with his nose is lick the blood from his lips.

"Have a nice rager?" You tease and appreciate the way he catches his breath. The steady heave of his chest, the way he looks like he wants to pin you up against a wall until you're incoherent. 

"We got it." He declares, and he's vibrating with energy. 

"I didn't doubt you for a second." 

He goes to say something else, but his walkie sparks to life and Jake's voice fills your bedroom, "Walker and his people are here. He's got the road walled off. Madison's taken it upon herself to talk to him." 

You roll your eyes as you kick the covers off and crawl from bed. You're still dressed, and he hands you your M4 while speaking into the walkie, "Otto and Dixon, eta 4 minutes." 

Any fatigue you have is buried by the importance of protecting the ranch. Other militia members state their times, and when you arrive a small group has beat you to it. 

You're busy trying to hide how badly you're shaking by the time you get there. Troy shares a look with Jake and all of a sudden he's shoulder to shoulder with you. Troy moves to the front of the group, one hand on his pistol. 

Madison is too far off to hear, but you can tell she's tense. All you can do is hope she returns with something like good news. "It should have been you out there talking to him." You mutter to Jake. 

His expression gives away that he agrees with you. "It's Otto family business. Madison loves to pretend it's hers. It's complete bullshit." 

Nick scoffs and you send him a challenging glare. 

"She could have waited." You snap at him but he doesn't respond. 

When Madison returns she's stone-faced, silent.

"Will he negotiate?" Jake presses, glancing back toward the long line of Indians up the hill. 

She hesitates, and you see it. "No, he wants the ranch. We have until sundown tomorrow to leave, or die." It's obvious she's hiding something, and you'll be the first to figure out whatever the hell it is. 

You reach out and touch Troy's arm. "I'll be right back." 

He looks confused but lets you set off after Madison. You follow her into the bunkhouse and close the door behind you. "What'd he really say?" 

She looks up at you from where she's sat and sighs. "I'll do anything to keep my family safe." 

You lean against one of the bunks, "So will I." 

"You don't have children, the things - "

"I'll never have children, I'm infertile." You snarl, skidding over her act. "But I'm still perfectly capable of getting stuff done. Let's skip the woe is me, I'm a mother shit. What did he say?" 

She doesn't remark on your shame. You are glad of it, otherwise you might hit her. "He wants Jeremiah, in exchange we share the ranch." 

"Share? A fucking fifty-fifty split or what?" 

"Yes. He'll accept him dead or alive. Our communities will join together, everyone will live here. That's the only way this works." She admits. "I'm going to go talk to Jeremiah, try and convince him." 

"Wait until after dinner." You direct, and you're already coming up with plans and countermeasures. "Troy and Jake need to know." 

"No. They'll only protect him." 

You give her a long look. "I'll talk to them, not you. Troy listens to me, we'll discuss it as a family. This is a family matter. You can stick your nose in it after I have a chance to hear what they think. After dinner. Not before. You come into the house before sundown and I'll consider it a threat on my family, and I'll shoot you. Same with your kids." 

You don't wait for her response, you dip out of the bunkhouse and find Troy and Jake still at the gate. Now is not the time to be so damn tired. "I need to talk to both of you, at the house." 

They don't argue, and you make your way back up the hill. You're frustrated by the way you're forced to lean against Troy on the incline. He doesn't offer to carry you, probably can tell your pride wouldn't be able to handle it. So he helps in silence, offering only the crook of his elbow as a crutch.

Jeremiah is already in his cups at his desk, you bypass him and he doesn't speak to any of you. 

Wanting to be as private as possible you make your way to Jake's room, the most secluded section of the house, and snap the door shut. "You two should sit down." 

They share a look before Jake sits on his bed, and Troy flips the desk chair backward. You're left awkwardly standing. And nothing in your life has ever prepared you for a conversation like this. Troy picks up on your unease and stares at you more intently. 

"Madison lied." You start, they don't seem surprised by that fact. "Walker gave another option." 

Jake perks up, trying for an angle. "What is it?" 

You cross your arms around yourself as they both look at you. "He's willing to share the ranch, to live as one community." 

Troy frowns, gripping the back of the chair, resting his chin on his knuckles. "This is our ranch." 

"It is. But if we don't do this, there won't be a ranch left. They've got the Huey operational, guns, and more soldiers. We're weak from their attack already, if it's an all out firefight we're going to lose a lot of people. We'll lose all our cattle, likely the horses too. Our ammo supplies will drop significantly and there's always the chance we lose anyway. He's got us in a corner." 

Jake hears the logic, but Troy is caught on having to give up something that's all he knows. 

You try to assuage that fear, "It would still be Broke Jaw, it's still our home. We'd be working together." 

"It could work." Jake offers, "We'll get pushback but with time, it could make us stronger."

"Or weaker, they'll keep gaining ground until we're all pushed out without a fight," Troy adds in. 

You throw your own opinion into the mix. "They're resourceful people. Having that on our side is a good thing, and it's better than gambling the ranch. If they see we aren't going to give in, they may just burn us out. It's dry out there. I can see Walker being an 'if I can't have it no one can' kind of man." 

Jake agrees with that sentiment. "It's worth a shot." 

You look to Troy, you need him to back this too. You're still avoiding the extra to the deal. He stays silent mulling it over. "The militia stays in place." 

"Jake can help discuss the red lines." You offer and that calms Troy some. 

But he's still watching you, surveying. Calculating. "You ready to tell us the rest?"

You look at your feet, and you want to say no. Because how does anyone pose this without sounding like a monster, even if the guy is a piece of shit. 

"He'll only do this, agree to share..." 

Jake finished for you, and there's no emotion in his voice. "If we give him dad's head." 

"Alive or dead." You whisper. 

Troy's gone still. "He'll never agree to that."

"No." You say, "But he doesn't have to." 

"You're suggesting we kill him," Jake asks and you can't tell how he feels about that sentence. 

"Madison offered." 

Troy grits his teeth and you let him have his space. Because you have just suggested the murder of the man who raised him. But you say it, because it's the truth. "It's Jeremiah or the ranch." 

You don't tell them you've already made up your mind. Troy isn't dying in service to this place, nor is Jake. It's them or their father and you know who you'll protect first. Madison is willing to do the dirty work, all you have to do is make sure Troy lets it happen. 

He rises without a word and leaves the room. For once, you don't follow. 

"Troy's not angry at you." Jake consoles, resting his elbows on his knees. "He's been around dad more than anyone. He was eleven when dad pulled him from school, he's been on the ranch ever since. This isn't a choice he ever expected to make." 

You take the chair he's left empty. "I don't think anyone saw this coming." 

Jake's voice is breaching acceptance, "He brought this on himself. It sounds awful when I say it out loud, but he murdered someone. That has consequences, even if he pretends it doesn't. Why should he get to live while everyone else dies?" 

"You're right. Revenge is one hell of a thing." You look out the attic window, toward the rest of the ranch. A place you swore to protect no matter the cost. "You don't need to be here tonight. Madison and I can take care of it." 

He shakes his head. "I should be here. If I'm going to agree to patricide, I should at least be man enough to not run from it." 

"Well if you change your mind, no judgement here." You stand, walking toward the door. "I'm sure Alicia could use some company. Take the happiness where you can get it. And if you don't come home tonight, I'm good with that. There's nothing wrong with not wanting your hands in this." 

You leave him staring at the floor. 

Troy is in your bedroom, lying on the mattress, eyes on the ceiling. He speaks as soon as you close the door, "He's all I know." 

You lie down beside him, but don't touch. You're unsure for the first time where you stand with him. "I know. I know what that feels like." 

"How did you feel when your father died?" 

You trace the woodgrain, "Honestly, relieved. There was a blip of sorrow, but mostly I was relieved. No more beatings, no more shitty comments. No more late-night visits. My old man is a bit different than yours, Jeremiah has actually taught you things. Things that have value. But he's willing to let the whole ranch burn out of self-preservation. Out of pride."

"I'd do it." He tells you. "If it was between my life and the ranch I'd blow my head off right in front of Walker." 

You reach out and tentatively take his hand, "That's why you're a better man than he is. Than ever be. Let me do this for you." 

-

Like Jake, Troy chooses to stay. You tell them both several times that they don't have to, but they insist and it's their choice to make. 

You set up a card game at the dining room table and wait for Madison to make her move. None of you are playing for keeps, the tension is too high. You can see it in the way Troy's posture is distorted. 

He likes poker, he's pretty damn good at it most days. They both are, they leave you in the dust, but today you're winning. Jeremiah is down to the bottom of his glass and pointedly ignoring you as he barricades one of the windows. 

It's bothering Troy, every time the hammer impacts, he twitches. 

The door opens, and it's time. "Take a walk." You whisper, "Please." 

They don't get out of their chairs, Jake makes a move like he's still playing. You wish they'd be selfish, but they're good men. The kind that will see even the worst shit through.

Madison strolls right in and you feel the tension in your shoulders, "You planning on holding out in here?" 

"Still not much for knocking, huh?" Jeremiah drawls, and you're glad you chose a chair that faces toward his office. It's easy to keep an eye on things. The pistol on your waist is already unfastened, ready to quick draw. "I'm going alamo, Madison. Last line of defense." 

Jake's hands are shaking so he sets down his cards, giving up the ruse. You try and convince him with your eyes to go, but he doesn't. 

"I built this house as a hold out. We got everything we need, ain't that right Troy?" Jeremiah drags you into the conversation and you wish you could make them go. 

Troy swallows, shifting in his chair to look toward the office. "Yes, sir." It's formal, a rush of breath, because maybe these are their last words and he wants to be respectful. 

Otto reaches for his bottle. "Why don't ya'll come drink with me, since you're mucking up my house." He starts pulling glasses from behind him, four crystal cups that he starts sloshing with whatever he's drinking. 

The fumbling drunken pour reminds you of your father, and that makes it a little simpler if your pa had survived in this world, you'd have killed him. You'd have thrown him into a pit of sharks and let him experience what it was like to have his body taken from him. 

You're the first to get up and take a glass. You don't sip like a lady you toss it back. Jeremiah smiles at you and addresses Troy, "Look at that, just like your mom." 

Your glass hits the desk hard as you shove it back at him, "I hold my drink better than Tracy." You reach for Troy's glass, and drink that one too. Mostly so he doesn't feel honor-bound to drink it. You know how he feels about liquor, and part of you missed the burn that travels down your throat into the pit of your stomach. 

Madison takes hers and sips like a polite girl. 

Jeremiah holds up his glass, "I want to thank you, Madison, for standing by my boys. By Troy. And for trying to stop what's coming." 

She takes more than a sip this time and sets the glass back on the desk. You can feel the energy of both men behind you. "I was able to come to a deal with Walker. There is one way to secure the peace, only one."

"He probably wants my scalp, huh?" Otto laughs and looks around the room. He picks up on the atmosphere, and he laughs a drunk man's laugh. "You all know about this. So you're here to kill me. Which one of you is it going to be?" 

Otto looks over his shoulder at Jake, "I don't think you have it in you, son, you've always been such a pussy." He laughs again, takes another sip, and launches the glass in Jake's direction. 

Jake flinches, arms coming up as he barely dodges the glass and it shatters against the far wall. Troy jerks forward, shifting in front of his brother. Protecting with his very body if he must. 

They don't deserve this.

His father notices and sneers, "Or will it be you, Troy? I raised you, made you everything you are. I let you have your little notebooks and your soft girl's heart. And this is what I'm repaid with? I should have beat you harder." 

Madison jerks her pistol out and tosses it onto the desk between you. Troy goes still, eyes flashing to find where everyone is in the room. Gauging the best places to hide in a fight. One of his hands stretches toward you, ready to yank you down if needed. 

"I'm not going to kill you, Jeremiah. I think it would disappoint my kids. I'm tired of disappointing them. So you're going to do it." 

There's a fat chance in hell he's going to change his tune now. 

"Well, I didn't outlive Phil and Russell and two good women to die like some rabbit with no resistance." 

You get a taste of the man he was ten years ago. A violent, cold, angry drunk that could snap at any moment. This is the first time you've ever seen him as a real threat, a threat with his hands, not his snide comments. 

He's got this look in his eye, and you realize Troy inherited it. The calm before a storm. The capability of sinful acts in service to solely serve himself.

"Walker has us surrounded with firepower. If you don't do this, you lose the ranch." She explains and you find yourself tensing as Jeremiah sits down. The shiny black weapon is still right there in front of him, easy enough to grab and shoot. You know he's a good shot. 

Point blank like he is now, it could go bad real fast. You shift your steps, preparing to throw yourself in the boy's direction if it comes to that. 

"The ranch wasn't meant to shelter cowards scared of a few Indians."

"No it was meant to be your legacy, if you don't do this you lose that too. Everyone dies." She gestures to Jake and Troy. "Including your sons." 

Jeremiah scoffs and drinks from the bottle instead until it's empty and he drops it to the floor with a thud. 

"It's your chance, Jeremiah, to make things up to them. Every neglect, every drunken rage. You can save their lives. Look at them, they're better than you. Even after everything you've done, these boys don't want to see you dead." 

He does look and you've all moved around enough you can see them looking back. Troy's fallen back on his cool, blank expression. A safety net, don't think, act. Jake's more emotional, his eyes are damp and he keeps moving from foot to foot like he wants to run. Troy is still somewhat in front of Jake, eyes drifting around the room. 

"To hell with you." Otto spits, and your blood rushes into your head. "Junior's is a feckless crybaby, and well Troy, you're a chip off the old block. To hell with both of you, and you too girl, since you keep looking at me like that. I did my part, it's not my fault they turned out worthless." 

He turns his attention to Troy, and you see the way he tenses for impact, for the verbal assault he will memorize, "Look at you, think you're a man, Troy? You ain't nothing to this ranch, to this family. A failure with no balls to stand up to a few Ind-"

Your temper catches up with you. And he's every word your father ever said, every thankless jab, every unwanted touch. Jake's tears have escaped, and Troy's stumbled back to hold his brother like they're little kids again. 

You decide. It doesn't need to be Madison. Troy taught you how to ease your weapon out of the holster so it doesn't catch. It comes in handy now, you jerk the pistol up and aim it. 

Impossible to miss this close. You fire, cutting off his line of insults. Blood spatters across the books and liquor stand and you holster your weapon back with a snarl. "Fuck you." 

Madison stares and collects her gun off the desk. You think she might even look grateful that it didn't have to be her.

You redirect your focus on those who matter, the ones that are still alive. Your family. "Get out, Madison."

For once she follows orders without question and does, meeting her son on the front porch. 

Someone had to protect them, you're fine if that someone is you.

Troy and Jake haven't moved, they're still staring at their father as he drips blood onto the hardwood. Troy breaks his eyes away, and he's not able to mask the grief fast enough. It's there and gone in a blink. "He's dead." A statement of fact, like he's playing catch up. 

"I'd kill anyone for you. No one is ever going to talk to you that way again. Enough is enough. We have given enough." The whiskey in your belly is the only thing keeping you calm, you forgot how you are intoxicated, cold, cruel. You try to hide the fact that killing Otto felt good, it's singing under your skin. The war cry of an abused child. 

But Troy is observant, and he sees. He always sees and says, "I'll never judge you for what you do to survive." 

Chapter Text

The militia stands at attention as the Indians roll in. Everyone's angry, you're angry. But you stand and let it happen anyway with your hand firmly in Troy's. He's the worst off out of all of you, this is his ranch now and he already has to give some of it up. 

Jake is good at diplomacy, it makes the pill easier for him to swallow. Not by a lot, but by enough he can greet Walker with some air of friendliness that others can't. You respect him for that, for being able to turn off his own bitterness, because you know it haunts him too. 

"This ain't right." Coop mutters, and you give him a silencing look. 

They spread out in their own little section of the fields, and you watch with nothing less than suspicion. It's going to be hard to feel secure in your own home for a little while. "You and Lea can stay at the cabin." You offer. There's more than enough space, it's a big damn house. Jeremiah isn't exactly around to tell you no. 

Troy doesn't say anything at first, until he speaks over your head to Coop. "Any militia members that want to can. If you don't feel safe, we'll have you. Spread the word." 

By mid-afternoon there are twenty more people living in your house. 

Walker probably doesn't like it, all the militia bunching together. You don't very much care. He should have thought of that before he decided to be roommates. 

It means changing things around. The front room is overhauled into a mess hall. Jake returns to the chaos as you direct where to put the newly constructed tables. Your man has a secret talent for woodworking you come to find out. He's quite good at it, and you're trying to figure out how to suggest whittling. Could probably carve a bear statue or something.

Troy throws himself into the project, working with power tools and hammers. Half your morning was spent glancing out the window to see him with nails pressed between his lips or sawing away at something. You're glad he's holding it together at all, because every time he carries something in he looks at Jeremiah's office.

You'd scrubbed it down in the middle of the night, tried to erase any signs. Some of it you even burned. It's been transformed into a reading nook. 

But sins linger. He looks at it anyway. 

When Jake walks through the door and spots the change in the layout and some eleven people sitting around, he pauses. 

Troy is reclined in one of the loveseats in your new reading nook, relaxing since the tables are finished. He spreads his arms in a dramatic exclamation. "We're landlords, Jakey." 

"Shit, hear that, we're charging rent boys." You call out and get a few chuckles. You don't trust the Indian's food so you and a few of the others, mostly family of the militia are working on cooking something up. It's kind of nice working in the kitchen with them, familial. A strange new feeling you are still trying to adjust to.

Any hostility towards you and Troy has been left behind. You're the lesser evil, and Troy has been proving himself a capable leader. They like him now. It's high time they started showing him some respect. 

Jake shakes his head and wanders over to you, "Your idea?" 

You shrug, "Sort of Troy's too," And pass him a spoon gesturing toward a pot to stir. "It's the least we can offer." 

"It was smart, it makes us look capable." He says, before lowering his voice. "How's Troy?" 

"Pissed." You say, reaching for the salt. "But he's been feeling better since we started bringing in people. More might come, we've got three rooms left that could be filled." 

Jake stirs the pot of corn you have heating. "Need help serving?"

"Sure." You smile at him, happy to give a doable task. "I'm not a dinner bell, but ding ding." You shout, and Troy hops out of his seat to start the line off. Others follow his lead and line up behind him.

"Can I kiss the cook?" He asks, holding out his tray with a debonair grin.

You lean over the counter and pucker up. He chuckles and kisses you, lingering there a second longer than proper.  

There's pleasant chatter in the room as you find seats at the table. Jake turns on the stereo and the room fills with music. Coop and his sister sit down with you, and you smile at her. She's a bright girl, a spot of sunshine. 

Nothing like you were as a kid. In fact, you don't entirely know how to communicate with children, especially happy ones. Troy doesn't either because he avoids them. Coop nods to you, "I appreciate you letting us stay here." 

"It's our pleasure to have you." Jake chimes with a politician's smile. He's definitely still trying to adjust.  

Troy ignores all of you in favor of his food, digging in like hasn't eaten in days and after you think about it you can't remember the last time he did. You scoop a pile of corn onto his tray and he glares at you. 

"Thas yurs." He mumbles, trying to give it back. 

"You return it, I'm stabbing you with my fork." You reply, sweetly. 

Troy gives in and lets his hunger decide. He's done before you even take three bites, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. He's about to stand up when you grab his arm, "Where do you think you're going?" 

His eyes flash, he's still filled up with tension. It takes him a second to come down from the spike of adrenaline. You worry. He seems ready to combust. He's playing at calm with jokes and teasing, but he's raging inside his head. 

He's not even touched his journal today. 

"I'm going to do inventory." 

You shake your head, "We'll do it together tomorrow, as we planned. Sit down with me until I finish eating," You add, "Please."

He gives in and sits. Jake watches silently, and you wonder if you've destroyed them. If killing their father and letting the Nation in is going to be the death of everything you've found. Troy is not the kind of man to surrender, and you've made him bend the knee. 

You eat quickly, ignoring the way some of the others at the table are surveying the two of you. They think Jeremiah killed himself. They don't realize that Troy and Jake were there. They don't know that you killed the Trimbols. 

Part of you disconnects and you feel separate from yourself. Your appetite fades. Look at you playing hero like giving up your living room was going to change anything. 

You finish your food and don't taste it. Troy takes both the trays to the kitchen, and you walk upstairs without a word. He follows. You slip into the bathroom and look into the shattered mirror while he closes the door and locks it. 

Your forty eyes stare back at you, Troy is a distorted figure in the glass. 

"Did I ruin it?" You whisper. You don't want it to be over. You were banking on forever in his capable embrace. Maybe that was a terribly naive thing to do.  

He takes your arm and pulls you around so you're facing him. He's close enough your legs are tangled up in his and he's got this look. This silent observance. It makes you feel like he can see the bones and scars inside you. 

Your eyes burn with unshed tears as you look up at him, "Did I ruin us?" 

His expression softens and his hands come to hold your sides. Troy drifts closer until your hips are pressed together and he's gazing down at you. Your grip comes to his sleeves, curling over his arms. 

"We're good, so damn good." He leans in and nuzzles his face against yours, "My father was willing to let me die yesterday, because of his pride. His last words might as well have been go to hell." He says, and his hands tighten, "You have shown me more loyalty in a few months, than he has his whole life. Dixon, if you hadn't shot him, I would have. I swore to protect this place, even from him." 

That shouldn't make you feel as good as it does. "I thought I might have lost you." 

He shakes his head, "No. Never."

You let go of his arms to press your hands against his chest instead, feeling the warm muscle beneath. "Did we make the right call?" 

Troy's lips twist into a wry smile. "If you and Jake change your minds, all I need is a weapon and an order."

"If we decide to keep playing wild west I'll let you know, cowboy." 

His hands find their way under your shirt feeling the smooth expanse of your stomach, thumbs swiping in little circles. "Well, we know who won the west."

With an amused chuckle you roll your eyes, "You're okay with all these people in the house?" 

Troy shrugs, "I don't mind it. The noise is kind of nice. The house has always felt empty." 

"What about Jake, do you think it matters to him?"

"Nah, Jakey was out the door as soon as he was eighteen. He doesn't view the ranch the same way I do." 

You're glad about that. At least overstepping doesn't need to be on your list of concerns. "The militia has really taken to you lately." You remark, and your voice reflects your pride, "Shaping up to be a damn good leader, Mr. Otto." 

"Jake said he wants us to lead together. I plan to do my part in that." He straightens up a little at the comment though, pressing his hips harder into yours, always flourishing under positive feedback. 

You should compliment him more. He looks so young when he smiles like that. Plus, well you know a good way to relieve the tension in his shoulders. You're about to try and come up with a different compliment when there's a knock on the bathroom door. 

Troy tilts his head back and sighs. He looks exhausted as he reaches out to yank the door open. He doesn't bother however to move from where he's pressed up again you. Jake stands there, as Troy remarks, "You're interrupting a tender moment between me and Dixon. Is the ranch on fire?" 

"No, but - "

"Unless our home is burning to the ground, or there's infected in the walls I really don't care." 

Given Jake's own rundown expression, he shares the same sentiment. "Walker wants to talk." 

"I don't give a shit what Walker wants," Troy replies, running his thumb along the curve of your stomach again; his hands are still in your shirt. 

Jake seems to agree with that too, "If we're to lead that means I need you by my side for these talks. As exciting as hiding in a bathroom is, besides Dixon's welcome too." 

It's a little bit of pride, and a little bit of responsibility that makes Troy follow Jake out to the front porch where Walker and his friends are waiting. 

"I thought we agreed to share the ranch." He remarks, looking through the window where a few groups are mingling inside. "Many of your people did not come to eat with us. I see they have found their meals here instead." 

You're the one that replies, not able to help yourself, "Last time I had your cooking I almost choked to death on my puke." 

Troy's expression falls at the reminder, but he lets Jake take the lead. 

"We are sharing." Jake answers, taking a casual stance leaning up against the house. Though Troy is resting against the front door, blocking them from entering, one knee crooked as his foot rests against the door. "You have access to the pantry, fields, cattle, our medical tent. That seems like sharing to me." 

"Your people will never live with us if you separate us now." 

Troy makes a noise from the back of his throat that sounds a good deal like an insult. "That wasn't part of the agreement. We share the space, but that doesn't mean we have to come to your powwows." 

Walker narrows his eyes. "You invite fear."

"I thrive on it." Troy says in such a monotone you have to fight the urge to rest a hand on your weapon. "But my people don't, that's why they're here. They don't trust you. I do not trust you."

Jake slides in as good cop and you have to admire their teamwork. "You must understand why, Taqa. You poisoned us, and good people died as a result. They have a right to be afraid and if they feel safer here then I'm fine with that. This is helping to keep the peace." 

You watch Walker's frustration rise. He wants to cow you, wants to scare you off the ranch without wasting any bullets. But you're a hardy people, a bunch of government naysaying preppers. Ignoring authority is kinda the whole shtick. You'll be alright. 

Troy will carry on a better legacy than Jeremiah left. 

"If you hold on to this hate -" 

You cut him off, because the irony tastes like bullshit. "Hold on to hate, like you did? You've been waiting your whole life to kill a few old jackasses. I thought Indians were fucking migrators or whatever, you're telling me your people lived singularly on this plot of land the whole damn time? You want our shit, but you didn't earn it. Your blood debt is paid, it was paid when Jeremiah died. It was paid when," You drop your voice low so only those closest can hear. "I shot Russell. All you have to bargain with is complaints, Walker. They ain't doing nothing wrong by being at the cabin. Smoke a different pipe." 

Troy's dropped his hand to his pistol, but you can see the humor shining in his eyes as he watches to see what Walker will do next. You think he might get off a little at the way you tell them to shove off. 

Jake has taken to massaging the bridge of his nose in exasperation. You don't talk like a lawyer, that much is clear. "What she's trying to say is - "

"I know what the woman is trying to say, junior. She's saying we will not know peace here." The man behind him rests his hand against the stock of his rifle. What was his name? Crazy Rhino? Crazy Cat? Crazy Dog, that's it. You show your teeth at him so he feels included. 

He shows his back and proves his name. Jake however gives you a look and you stop, feeling sort of chastised. Really going for the whole big brother thing. 

He shoots one at Troy too, but it doesn't stick as well. Troy's still got the taste of blood on his teeth. The way he and Crazy Dog are looking at each other is downright aggressive.

"This is the best we can do." Jake assuages, and you muse if constitutional law even applies to the Nation since they don't consider themselves Americans. "It will take time to adapt to a change like this." 

The Indians retreat without so much as a goodbye. And you fight the urge to ask Troy for a high five. His taunting smile feels like the same thing anyway. 

There's joviality floating about when you walk back in, and you're sure some of them were eavesdropping. They consider this a success, and so you give a polite curtsy in your military uniform that gets laughs and cheers all around. 

Troy does his own playful ringmaster's bow. And then everyone is looking at Jake. He rolls his eyes and bows. Another round of applause follows, and it feels good to be appreciated. 

You throw your arms around both their shoulders and have to drag them down a bit to really pull it off. "They love us." 

Jake's eye roll is so intense it must hurt, but Troy is grinning like a kid in a candy store. "Not the only one popular around here anymore, Jakey. Dixon's gonna steal the hearts of the people." 

He snorts in response, pulling away from your grip. "I have no doubt." When Troy heads off to chat with some of the militia you see Jake watching him, making sure he's okay. 

You bump your arm against his and say, "He was your father too. I'll make sure Troy is alright." 

Jake's smile is sad, "Troy loved Otto in a way I didn't. They were a lot closer, had a lot more in common. I'm good, it was what it was. I just worry about tonight, when he stops for a second, he's going to think about it."

He's right, you've picked up enough about Troy to know if he's distracted he's level. But when it lulls, he lulls with it. You've caught him pacing one too many times in the middle of the night for it to be a coincidence. 

So you scheme and Jake helps you plan. 

When it starts to get late you take your chance and wrap your arms around Troy's neck and look at his cards. "Winner takes me home. I come with all sorts of sexy benefits."

Troy turns to stone beneath you. Though you're pressed close, you see the way his eyes narrow at his three opponents. 

Blake laughs, "I fold. I'm not getting buried tonight." 

"Safer for your to stick with your blowup doll, huh Blake." You tease and Cooper laughs. 

Coop and Joe don't follow his lead. But you caught Troy's hand and know his poker face is one of the best you've seen, besides maybe your brothers. They don't stand a chance in the end. 

He turns to kiss your cheek, "Looks like you're coming home with me, vixen." 

You give a hearty sigh, "Oh whatever shall I do? I guess we'll just have to head to bed, won't we? Gotta cash in those benefits." 

It had taken a little finagling and help from Coop and your brother, but in the end you'd managed it all under Troy's observant eye while they distracted him.

The newcomers had flooded in with the other RVs, which kept the fields to the east empty. They'd already been grazed, so the cattle were moved over. It's walled off, but private. The perfect getaway location.

You borrowed one of the trucks and had Jake drive it over there an hour ago, all loaded up with sleeping bags, a walkie, two assault rifles, and a bag of popcorn you'd had to make in Coop's trailer.  

There wouldn't be any drive-in showings, but the stars like to shine for you anyway. That's at least what Daryl always said, that they shone just so you could learn how to. He'd stopped saying that when you turned nine. 

Troy rises to follow you upstairs, but you turn at the last second cutting down the downstairs hallway. He follows, no questions asked. He's good at spontaneity, likes the adventure of it. It's easy to tell because his eyes are alight with interest. 

You pull open the side door and step out. It's a beautiful night, no clouds and a warm wind. Not too hot or too cold. The truck is a good walk from the cabin, far enough that he won't see it until you crest the hill. You chose a low spot so no one would be able to see you from the cabin. 

He looks a little confused when he spots it, mostly because you both know in theory it's not supposed to be there. "Are we running away together, Dixon?" His tone is laced with sarcasm. 

You take his hand, and start pulling him a little faster, "We are, but only for tonight." 

The back door is already dropped open so you hop on up and lay down in the fluffy bed you've created. 

He looks at you reclined there, before hoisting himself up into the back of the truck. "You did this?" 

You nod, "I realized today that we've never been on a date." Your smile is gentle, "So will you go on a date with me?" 

He shifts so he's lying beside you, one hand tucked under his head as he looks over. "How could I say no to that face? Take me out, darlin'." 

"We discussed our first meeting in the old world, a sexy bathroom rendezvous." You giggle. "But I say that this is our very official first date. I've got popcorn, pillows, and a billion audience members to laugh at my jokes." 

There's a pause as together you look up at the night sky. You're sure it was probably always easy to see the stars here, but now with cities entirely wiped off the map, they're brighter than you've ever seen. Sometimes it's easy to forget to look, to remember that beauty exists in all sorts of places. 

"It's not a date without," He glances at the weaponry, "AK-14s. Also, it would have been louder." He says, and you don't know what he means until he explains, "We had a herd of nearly four hundred at one point, these fields were full." 

"If you promise not to laugh I can do my best interpretation of a cow." 

He laughs before you even have the chance. And then he moos, throwing his accent into it for good measure. 

You join in, two idiots in love making cow noises at the end of the world. 

The mooing turns into riotous laughter. You twist to press yourself against him as you laugh. It feels good to laugh until your stomach hurts, and your face heats up. Troy's in the same state, holding his hand to his side while he tapers down. 

"Would distant cows have set the mood?" You ask still wheezy, "Is that what does it for you?" 

He laughs again, this loud carefree thing. "Dixon you look at me for a few seconds too long I get a stiffie." 

You respond by making prolonged eye contact until you see those pearly whites again. 

"Oh, yeah. There it is." He teases. But he doesn't expect your wandering hand. Not as it slides against the coarse fabric of his cargo pants to find out. He tilts his head back and sighs, "That'll do it." 

"I might have brought you out here to do more than look at stars." 

He has his eyes closed as you stroke him over the fabric. His response is lazy, "I was looking at you anyway." 

"You aren't looking at me now." You say, as if you're having a normal conversation. As if you're not reaching for his belt, and the button of his pants. 

He hums, "I don't need to see you to know you're here with me." It's a romantic thing to express given you're pulling his waistband down his thighs. 

"I'm with you alright." You murmur as you shift down by his knees. He's still got his eyes closed, lost in the moment. You're glad to give that to him, to take everything away. Troy looks calm again, less consumed by grief and anger.

He doesn't realize what you're doing until you taste him. There's something you've always loved about this, the salt on your tongue. The familiar motion and soft hardness. 

His eyes snap open looking for yours in the dark. You've got a little solar lantern to the side, and it casts the two of you in a barely there glow. But it's enough for him to get an eyeful of you sinking your mouth down on him. 

He lets out a groan and touches your cheek, "You - you know how I ah - how I said no teeth. That was a lie, I like a little."  

In response, you run your teeth gently along his skin. He hisses and has to fight to keep his eyes open. He fights the urge as you speed up, wrapping a hand around him in tandem with your lips. He wants to look, to experience this. You want him to watch.

It makes you feel as beautiful as the stars. Encouraged you bob your head, curious to see how he reacts. He relaxes underneath you, nothing but the slight subconscious fluctuation of his hips. Trusting that you won't hurt him. 

One hand is fisted in the sleeping bag, the other is in his own hair, tugging at the strands. You take your time, interchanging pace when his breath starts to quicken. You tease him to the edge and down again, over and over until he's practically whimpering. 

And you get drunk on it. Making a powerful man powerless beneath you. This perfect creature that kills without hesitation, and here he bows to you. 

Here he begs, "Please, please, please. Oh, you are so so so so perfect. My girl, my pretty pretty girl. Please - ah - deeper." 

You give in, following his instructions, lathing your tongue along the underside of him. He chokes on another sound of pleasure, and then his hand is in your hair, holding you in place as he comes. 

You've never been a quitter, you swallow. And when he looks down at you, wide eyed and breathless, you know there would have been a second date. 

Chapter Text

Troy hadn't expected to be invited by Jake to help keep the peace first thing in the morning. But he seems to be serious about leading together, so Troy had in a way been happy to go. 

Not so happy to leave you curled up in bed, lips parted in a light snore. Watching you wake up is of particular interest to Troy, he's still memorizing the way your eyes flutter to adjust to the light. The way you stretch out like a cat with a soft sigh. The way you shift unbothered by bare skin. 

Soon he will be able to track your scars without looking, to know what you taste like on sight. 

These talks are new to him, a different approach that Troy stopped trying years ago. People have been ignoring him since birth, they seem keen to continue to do so. At least in the case of the Indians. The residents now follow orders, look to him for guidance. He is proud of that fact, proud that they finally see that he's been the one keeping this place afloat the whole time. 

Things are on an upward slope, even if his father isn't there to see them. But really what would he have said, insults? He would find something to criticize, insult you or Jake. He would be ungrateful. 

Troy is starting to understand what you meant about being relieved. His grief had felt like a breath, a moment of weakness. A desire for a father, but not for Jeremiah. Mourning the missed opportunity of a man that had never existed in the first place. Now he doesn't have to hold his breath when walking inside his home. Doesn't have to watch his mouth or try to make him proud.

You and Jake are already proud of him, and that is the only approval he needs. 

He lets Jake do the majority of the talking, given he's always had a knack for it. Troy spends his morning standing over his brother's shoulder daring people to argue with his eyes. It works well enough, at least for today. He should ask Jake for tips on what to say when he is the one forced to talk. It's been a long time since Troy asked his big brother to teach him anything. It sounds nice. 

Glancing down at his watch he frowns, you would have been up for at least a few hours by now. You'd have likely helped run breakfast, helped yourself to a cup of coffee, and found something to entertain yourself. 

He'd much rather be up there playing cards, or talking with you than down here listening to Kimosabe complain that they weren't fairly distributing soap portions. 

Even Jake looks a little run down. He's been doing the heavy lifting all morning, and Troy can see with each conversation how he's getting a little more snappy. When the soap complainer wanders off Troy leans in whispering, "I say we make a run for the house." 

Jake huffs a laugh, "If the next conversation goes nowhere again, I might take you up on a retreat." 

Troy glances toward the cabin, regretting not bringing a walkie. He spots Nick wandering nearby in uniform, his hair greased back. Playing soldier. As if it were so easy. But Nicky seems to like to play dress up, he'll get bored and move on soon enough. 

He doesn't seem the dedicated type. Never earned his spot here in the first place, freeloader.

Nick spots Troy and wanders over with a barely concealed grin. "She's the life of the party." 

His brows come together in confusion, "Who?" 

Nick snorts, and looks up the hill. "Dixon, she's so plastered I don't think she even knows where she is. She's taken over the library, got the record player as loud as it will go. I just watched her absolutely destroy everyone in a round of cards. I lost an entire pack of smokes." 

You'd been fine last night, normal. Nothing out of the ordinary. You'd gone on patrol together, killed a few infected. The Indians haven't given you any trouble. No reason you should be upset. 

Troy has only seen you drink the once, and it isn't high on his list of favorite memories. 'I hold my drink better than Tracy.' That's what you said. You'd drank from his cup, saved him the choice. Saved him.  

He takes off without a word of goodbye to Jake whose attention has been commandeered by someone new. And as Troy walks up the hill all he can think is not again. 

Not again.

Not again.

Not again. 

He can't do that again. 

Because if you treat him like his mom something is going to break, and he'll never be able to put it right again. If you hurt him then it's no longer a coincidence, it's him. That's the rule right, two is a co-occurrence, three isn't. Three is his fault. 

He hears the music as soon as he hits the porch, loud grating rock music. You've found his record collection. 

Normally that would amuse him, but it doesn't today. Entering into the main room Troy finds it relatively empty, only a few heads. 

There are no signs of blood, no taste of gunpowder. That kind of conflict at least he can understand. There's only the thump of music. He follows it up the stairs toward the library and finds the door open. There are eight others inside, all in various stages of sobriety. 

Troy searches for you immediately. You are right next to the blaring stereo system, reclining in an armchair. Residing like a goddamn queen, arms over both sides, legs spread, head lulled back. You're still in uniform. There's a glass in your hand, half filled with dark liquid, and a cigarette burning in the other. 

'No smoking in the library', his father's voice echoes in his head. Scent absorbs into the books. 'I built these porches for a reason, Tracy.'

Your expression is cool as you survey those around the room. And Troy is stuck realizing even in this you are beautiful, and so it will hurt all the more if you throw insults at him. 

He wants your love, not your hate. He wants to prostrate himself before you and hope you grant mercy. 

This king of queens. 

But then you see him, and that indifference melts away. It transforms into something he knows, a vibrant unending delight. The look you get every time you spot him in a crowd, when you turn to him after fighting the dead, when he makes you laugh. Love. 

Your smile is infectious. 

Troy smiles hesitantly back and approaches. You jump out of the armchair, spilling some of what you're drinking onto the floor with a giggle. And then bring the glass to your mouth to drink, waving to the chair for him to sit. 

He follows the instruction and blinks away his surprise when you sit on his lap, flicking your spent cigarette into a spare glass you've made into an ashtray. Your breath reeks of liquor, and your eyes are dilated. Troy has a particular skill at identifying levels of drunkness, and he knows you're going to hate everyone tomorrow. 

His mom was always particularly nasty in the mornings. 

Troy prepares himself for the shift from lighthearted, to rage. If he prepares enough before the switch, maybe he can salvage some of himself off the floor in the dawn light. 

In an attempt to calm himself, he lets your presence be that balm. Counterproductive if you are to be the destruction, but he's always been a glutton for punishment. His hand comes to rest on your thigh, making sure you don't go tumbling off his lap as you wiggle to the music. 

Your glass is empty. 

Surveying the room Troy recognizes everyone, all militia. There's a card game in the corner, another group chatting. Joe sitting by himself, asleep. None of them are on shifts today, at least they're being remotely responsible. 

It leaves him without an excuse to tell them all to fuck off, because they live here now and it's their day off. So he sits silently with you. Ignores the way you keep coaxing his hand higher on your thigh. He allows it, submits to your desires. 

You refill your glass twice, and he recognizes it as his father's whiskey. 

You don't talk, you're too distracted by the stereo and half-dancing. Troy doesn't talk because he's terrified to draw attention to himself and face your ire. He is stuck. It's a horrid predicament.

One that Jake finds him in when he makes that retreat. His head pokes around the doorframe and meets Troy's, eyebrows cresting in surprise. It makes the pink line along his forehead more noticeable. 

You notice him too, and Troy knows the moment it happens - the shift from calm to violence. When you rise from his lap, he's frozen. Like looking down a long tunnel, vision blackened at the edges. Panic creeping into his chest like the smoke of your chain smoked cigarettes.

There it is. There it is. There it is. 

He watches. Observes. Distantly his hand twitches for his journal, for a weapon, for a way out.

You tap the pause on the stereo and the silence is so loud his ears ring. "Everyone out." 

They look at you in surprise, seeing the change in your demeanor. It's Coop who gives in first, he stands, cards abandoned. "You heard the boss lady, let's go." The group flees in varying degrees of dexterity.

Jake turns to go too, "Not you." There's an anger in your tone, one that makes the hairs on the back of Troy's neck stand up. 

His brother turns, awkwardly backtracking. 

"Close the door." You command. 

Troy can't see your face, but he doesn't need to. He can see it in the familiarity of Jake's own expression. He too knows this situation, and how quickly it can go from normal to catastrophe. He keeps looking at Troy, over and over; eyes flicking back to check on him. 

Jake hesitates before he pushes the door shut and the three of you are alone. This is when you'll strike. Tell him every little thing you hate about him, maybe you'll launch the glass in your hand at him. Maybe he will let it impact, if only to be distracted by the pain. And those things will eat - eat - eat away at him until there is nothing left. 

But it appears Jake will be hit by the storm first. 

Your feet are steady all things considered, though you're sloshed, you were right. You hold your liquor better than his mother. At least in terms of balance.

You still stumble a little, slapping the glass down on the table, and turn to one of the shelves to point. It's the TE tapes. Troy avoids those tapes at all costs. He can't think about them, can't consider the experiences he had during their creation. 

Troy pretends they don't exist. 

You walk over to them, reaching for one and he knows the one you're reaching for before you even touch it. Jake seems to as well, because he's crossed his arms in front of his chest defensively. 

You turn tape in hand, "I was uh, cleaning the library this morning." You start, and your words are a little slurred but recognizable enough. "I wanted people to be able to use it since they're living here. I thought - I thought it would be a nice place to be." 

Troy knows how curious you are. You've read every single one of his journals, some more than once. The idea of tapes with him in them would appeal to you, especially the raw footage. Of course, you'd have stuck them in the tape player. 

There was no way you could have known. He wished you hadn't, because now he's starting to think you're drunk because of him. That this really is all his fault. 

He has upset you, and now you know how pathetic he really is. You're a strong woman, you need a strong man. Is that what he is, strong? Not on those tapes he isn't. He's weak. Inadequate. He is still weak. 

Jake steps forward, "You don't need to play it." 

You ignore him and press the tape into the player. Troy wants to sink down into the earth and die. Because not only does he not want to think about it, watch it ever again, but it's also embarrassing. He's not good with embarrassment. 

And Jake is not good with shame. Troy shouldn't get satisfaction from the expression on his brother's face, but he does, a little. There's a tiny bit of him that is hurt by Jake, that might always be. Only time will tell. 

The TV turns on and no matter how much he doesn't want to watch, Troy fixates on it. You're looking at the screen too as the tape starts to play. It's like watching a car crash in slow motion. 

"Hello there, my name is Jeremiah Otto." The tape quality is shit, it's from years ago. The distorted image of a younger Big Otto flashes on the screen with Sally. That horse died when he was fourteen. Broke her leg, Jeremiah made him shoot her. 

Troy had learned how to make jerky with the same horse he'd learned to ride on. She'd been a terribly gentle thing, he'd cried for hours afterward. He'd never named a horse again. 

"And this is the end of the world as we know it. The only way to protect your family is to be prepared." Jeremiah drones.

Troy's smile is mean, if only they'd known the kind of world-ending disaster it was going to be. He knows it's about to go wrong. Troy knows it down to the last second. His jaw tightens, hands curled into fists. 

You also seem to know, because your hands turn to fists too. 

Jake walks into the frame, holding a toy in his hands like Jeremiah would have actually let him play with it. His eyes burn, and it feels like he's right there, like it's happening all over again. 

His younger self, youthful and innocent, comes on camera running up to Jake. It's been years since he has seen this, it's strange to see that little child. Because that's what he was wasn't he, nothing but a child? Troy may not understand children, but he knows not to hurt them, that they are passengers in a world of war. Guiltless. 

The microphone doesn't pick up what he says so he fills it in for you, "Can I try and fly that?" 

You look at Troy, registering it slowly through your drunken fervor before looking back. You're all dedicated to watching it play out. For better or worse. And it's definitely for worse. 

The camera quality doesn't fully showcase the way his big brother's head jerks up to look at Otto. But Troy remembers the fear well enough. He was there. Both the witness and the victim. 

Jake steps toward the TV to turn it off and you shove him hard enough he falls back into one of the bookcases, books falling to the ground with a clatter. "No!" 

Troy isn't looking though, he's pinned to the screen. Pinned to the expletives that drift out the speakers like poison. He watches in silence as his father lifts his seven year old self up by the throat and shakes him. 

He's so small, frail in the way he flops like a fucking fish in his father's grip. It had hurt, he hadn't been able to breathe. Troy had thought he might die. He'd touched his mortality for the first time and found the noiseless emptiness of death tempting. 

That little boy didn't know he'd spend the rest of his life looking into that great cavern with nothing less than longing.

Otto drops him, like he's nothing. His form collapses in a crying mess onto the grass. Jake looms in the background, still as a statue. Then there's his mom, rushing to the scene. Her high toned voice was picked up by the microphones just fine, "You little shit, I told you to wait to the side until I told you. It's not that hard." She looks at Otto and shakes her head. "We'll need to change his shirt, that bruise will show up on the camera." 

You eject the tape hard enough it might very well have broken the button. 

"When I found you in the hallway." She says, looking at Jake, "I thought you didn't really know the severity of the - of the situation. But this, you were right there Jake." 

"I was twelve." He says, "What did you want me to do, Dixon?" 

You explode, and it's like seeing the sun combust into a thousand sparks. You launch the tape into the wall where it breaks into pieces. The film unravels on the hardwood. Troy likes seeing it lie there broken, just like him.

"You were supposed to take care of him!" You scream, voice hoarse and full of anger. "I get it, you weren't taking Otto in a fight at twelve. I've been there standing down a monster at that age. I get it. I get it in a way no one else is going to get it. But why the fuck does this tape even exist?" 

Troy answers that question, resolved, "He played it for me when I misbehaved, as a reminder. Easier than having to cover the bruises." 

Somehow your anger grows, it swells until Troy swears he can see it bubbling underneath your skin. You point a finger into Jake's chest, and he looks cowed. "Jesus, fuck, Jake. Why wouldn't you have assumed he was being treated worse?" You step toward him pressing that single finger further into his chest. It's far more threatening than it seems. "This ends, it ends right now. Destroy them all Jake or so fucking help me." 

He throws up his hands in acquiescence and walks toward the shelf where the rest remain. 

Troy is happy to see them go, to see them disappear. To see them burn. 

You turn to him and he goes on the defensive again, gearing up for it. To have that rage turned toward him. Instead, it seems to abate, Troy sees it fade from your eyes, your posture. Watches that rage turn to sadness so deep he almost wishes for the anger back. 

"You didn't deserve that. I don't want anyone to hurt you anymore." You whisper looking at the floor. 

Troy had prepared himself for abuse, he had not expected this. That even in a drunken rage it was on his behalf, in protection of him. That your anger would not touch him, only fight for him. Like he is safe in the eye of the storm.

"I just love you so much." You say in a broken whisper and start to cry. They're drunken tears, overwhelming and slightly dramatic. 

He doesn't care. Troy is on his feet curling his arms around you, breathing in your safety. 

Jake watches the two of you, tapes in hand. His expression is guilty, all his mistakes written on his face. 

Troy feels the need to say it, to lay it down between them. You are right, it has to end somewhere. "I forgive you." 

His big brother nods, "I - I'll do better." He leaves, carrying the memories of their shared past with him on drooped shoulders.

Troy tightens his hold, humming in your ear. 

You're still crying when you start talking again, half mumbled into his chest. "My father taped it once. I'll never forget how ashamed I felt because of that. Those shouldn't be here, not in this house, not near you. It's not right." 

Troy gets a taste of the anger you must have been feeling a moment ago, because his own fills him up like kettle steam. He squeezes his eyes shut to ground back into the moment, to let the temper go. He can't kill a man that's already dead and buried in Georgia. But if you ever return to your family home he'll piss on the bastard's grave. 

"I got you." He murmurs, kissing your head. And so you hold each other, two children again, "I am with you. You're safe."

Chapter Text

You are an idiot. 

A complete fucking idiot. 

The sun is your enemy. The world hates you. It is too bright. 

Troy's chuckle, normally endearing grate's on your nerves. Your arm is over your eyes, desperately trying to block out the villainous sun. 

"I made tea." His voice is sickly sweet, innocent, like he's pretending he doesn't see your anguish.

"Fuck your tea." You grumble and he laughs again. 

You hear him walk around to your side of the bed and set it on the end table. And then his voice is in your ear, soft enough it doesn't hurt your head. "Drink the tea, darlin'. It'll help."

You grumble some more, "Never let me do that again. I forgot what this feels like."

"Gladly." He says, and then it clicks. Tracy. You didn't stop to consider how drinking would affect him. 

Forcing your hand down you squint at him. "I'm sorry." 

His smile lessens. "What for?" 

"I didn't think - Troy, are you okay?" 

He shifts until he's crouched down beside the bed, casting a shadow over your face. "I didn't like it." He admits, running a hand through his hair. "But it was good too in a way." 

"How?" Because you can't imagine how yesterday could have been good for him. You don't remember much of anything after a certain point. Dancing, the music, something about Jake, crying. You can't remember why you were crying. 

Troy reaches out to touch your forehead, smoothing his fingers across your skin. "You were sloshed." He explains, and you believe him full-heartedly given the state of your pounding head, "And even out of your mind, you didn't say a single cruel thing to me. I kept waiting for it, but it never came. What do you remember?" 

You try to recall more but it's irritatingly fuzzy. "I found Otto's tapes when cleaning the library. One of them upset me, and I started a bit of a party, because I couldn't think about it. I found a bunch of records, I think they might have been yours given the genres. I won a game of rummy. And from there it's slivers. I cried about something, don't remember what though." 

Troy shifts closer, resting his arms on the mattress. "You showed Jake and me the tape. More so held Jake hostage and demanded he participate really." He explains softly, "You were angry at him for the way he treated me, and made him destroy them all." His brow furrows and you see a flash of anger. "You told me about your tape." 

Your body warmed by the sun drops to ice cold. 

"I told you about that?" You're aware of the shame in your tone. You'd promised yourself never to tell anyone, ever. But Troy is good at getting you to do things you'd otherwise never do. 

His expression confirms it plenty and you bury your face into your pillow. Troy doesn't say anything, but his hand takes yours and he sets his head on the mattress by your chest and lays there with you for a while while you process. 

"Drink your tea." He tries again, picking up the cup to hand you once you're sitting. 

You curl your hands around it, comforted by the warmth. But the first sip you take has your lips puckering. He smirks at you, shifting to sit too. 

"Go on, drink up." He's trying not to laugh again, and it's a losing battle. 

"What the hell is in this?" You question and he lets out another little laugh. 

"Green tea and apple cider vinegar." He's amused by your disgust, but you suppose that you have to accept the consequences of your actions. "I made a whole pitcher full, you're not the only one." 

You nod and drink it faster wanting to get it over with. Troy would know what to give you. "What are you like drunk, do you know?" 

His expression darkens, and he looks out the window. "I've never had the misfortune." 

You lean forward to kiss his cheek, but he turns his head to kiss you instead. His lack of fear for your hungover morning breath is courageous. 

He waits until you finish the glass and takes it. "Get dressed, Jake wants to meet about something in his room."

With Jeremiah's office repurposed, Jake made a space in his room for meetings. You're grateful Troy gave you some time to get your head on straight before getting you up. 

Your body is achy when you stand, and as you shift you recognize it. Rolling your shoulders you groan, realizing you're only wearing one of his t-shirts. "Jesus, what position did you put me in last night?" 

Troy's smile turns into a self-satisfied smirk. "Several. You weren't being very quiet. It was a face in the mattress kind of night. That part of the drinking I didn't mind, but I rest easy knowing I'll likely be able to get you to do that sober." 

You shake your head, laughing. "Did you wheelbarrow me? My back feels like I got wheelbarrowed." 

"It's only wheelbarrow if your hands are on the floor." He remarks with a snort. "You were certainly not coordinated enough for that. And for the record, I told you no seven times. You started blowing me in my sleep. I took that as enough consent." 

You roll your eyes, but appreciate the sentiment. "If it's you it's consensual. I mean with that pretty boy face of yours, sheesh." 

He looks entertained as he starts handing you pieces of your uniform. 

The tea sinks into your system, and you're already feeling a bit better. At least the world doesn't feel so dramatically bright. But when he hands you a baseball cap you take it. "Cute." He says, before reaching out to distribute weapons. 

Your mini armory has grown since the merger, you now have enough weapons to arm most of the house. But you also know there are other hiding places around the cabin, and that the other militia brought their personal supply too. You're a goddamn fortress on a hill. 

Troy closes the door behind you and together you walk down the hall to Jake's room. He knocks twice, waiting. A second later Jake opens the door, looking haggard. Alicia is in the room behind him, sitting cross-legged on his bed. 

You're glad to see her, she wasn't around for a bit so you smile to be as welcoming as possible. She sends one back, though it's strained. Troy catalogs the exchange, before focusing on Jake. 

He walks back over to his desk holding a folder in his hands. Something is upsetting him, given the way Jake blows out a breath and tosses it back on the desk. "Dad was lying." 

"He lied about a lot you'll have to be more specific." Troy drawls. 

"The aquifer, the water levels." He gestures at the papers and Troy crosses the room to look at them. 

"I did the math." Alicia says quietly, like she isn't sure if this is the appropriate time to speak. "We have maybe six weeks left, less if we don't ration." 

Troy's silent while flipping through the packet. He clearly knows how to read the charts, because he's frowning. He looks up at her. "Do another equation." 

"What variable are you changing?" She asks reaching for her notebook. You didn't realize you had a mathematician in your midst. You're glad, because these aren't the kinds of things you can contribute to. The joys of a shitty education to a nonexistent one. Honestly, sometimes you feel lucky you even know how to read. 

Troy flips to another page before expanding, "The number of people and cattle." 

"Troy." Jake starts.

You hold up a hand to stop him. "Math isn't going to hurt anyone, Jakey." 

Alicia understands too, "How many?"

Troy thinks, and you're not surprised he knows how many residents there are on the ranch. "With the recent attack there's fifty-two and switch it to four cattle. Milking cows, they use double the water compared to the others." 

She nods and sets to work. Jake clearly doesn't like this line of thinking but he lets her do the math. "Fourteen weeks. Three and half months." 

"Versus a month and a half." You say, and Troy's looking at you. He's got deadly intent in his eyes. "Did you calculate the water reserves we gave Walker?" 

She shakes her head no. 

"That's at least another week or two." Troy adds. 

Jake sits, and runs his hands over his face. "They're not going to just go." 

"I wasn't thinking of letting them go." You can see the plans forming in his head, "We know where they sleep. An organized attack. Only use guns if we have to. Any ranchers that don't like it can leave, that'll save even more water." 

"You're suggesting slaughtering them in their sleep." Jake whispers, and you think what horrifies him the most is that he's considering it. 

"We can't do that." Alicia exclaims, the bleeding heart she is. At least unlike her mother, she's genuine.

You fit her with a stare, "Remember what I told you about survival." 

Her lips press together into a thin line. "That's not how I want to be." 

"You don't have to be anything." Troy grins, hand tracing the handle of his pistol. "You just have to keep your mouth shut. This working as one bullshit was never going to work anyway." 

It doesn't surprise you that you readily agree with him. It doesn't surprise you that this tentative peace has lasted less than a week.

Jake seems resigned. He's taken the idea of fifty-fifty leadership to heart. Troy's opinion has heavy weight. It's only added to by the fact the militia will agree with you. "We should give him a chance at least."

"No." You cut off his train of thought. "If we go to Walker, he'll have a warning. The more warning he has the more likely we lose people on our side. We need to make this as seamless as possible."

"You sound like you have an idea," Troy says, leaning against the edge of the desk, crossing his ankles casually. As if you are not currently discussing mass murder. 

"I do. We gather the militia, spread the word." You nod to him, "That's your area. But after we're ready, I want one of us to lose our shit. Walker will expect it to be one of us, me or you. We'll toss everyone out of the house in a rage. They'll return to their RVs, bunk up. Closer to their side, instead of seeing us come out in a group up the hill. The cabin isn't exactly subtle." 

Jake doesn't want to mention it sounds like a decent plan. He's got his lips pressed together. 

You look at Alicia and see her silence. "You have two options: keep your brother out of it or let him be in it." You can't risk this ranch over one woman even if you like her, "If you try to go to Walker, if you fuck this up in any way, I'm going to shoot your brother in the head." 

Jake leans back in his chair and lets out a noise of frustration, "Dixon! Can the two of you go a day without trying to commit felonies?"

"Ain't no felonies anymore, Jakey." Troy jokes, but he's in agreement with you, even if there is a bit of hesitation in his eyes. If she wags her tongue, Nick dies. 

"Alright, fuck." Jake rubs his face. "Make the arrangements." 

-

You were right, the militia is one hundred percent on board when you shove them all in the library and go over the plan. Not a single one disagrees, most of them look eager to get started. There are two boys 'hanging out' on the porches watching for Indians while the rest of you scheme. 

The only reason this is going to work is mostly because Walker doesn't expect that level of ruthlessness. They decide Troy should be the one to throw them out, it makes more sense to have him do it and plan for it during dinner. 

Coop's going to drop his glass. He's even volunteered to take a good punch. Troy already told you he doesn't have any plans of decking your best friend. He doesn't tell Cooper though, because his fear will apparently sell it. You think he thinks it's funny and that's the real reason. 

It's all in the works, you've planned it for when Walker likes to hover around the cabin. Your men might not be perfect actors but they're good enough to look disgruntled and wander off. This will work. 

You'll attack tonight, two in the morning. Nothing good ever happens after two. 

-

The idea of staging a fight sounds silly, but you trust that Troy will be able to handle it. He's hyper-focused on the task at hand, from the time you walked into mess he looks pissed off.

It feels real, it radiates off him in waves that have you looking for the source of his ire before remembering it's for show. But Troy has a lot in his life to be angry about, there are a hundred memories that could probably make faking it pretty close to the real thing. You'll have to ask him later what he's thinking about. 

Coop rises from his table, cup resting on his tray. Tipping at the edge. It looks natural when it falls, shattering on the floor. The fact that some people in the room don't know what's going on sells it. You'd all made the choice not to tell the families, it keeps them safer.

Troy rises from his seat, and it draws eyes. It doesn't matter if he's faking it, because Troy plays his part like a Hollywood show stop. "You got fucking butter fingers, Coop?" 

Coop rubs at the back of his head as he crouches down to pick up pieces of glass. 

"I'm talking to you." Troy snaps and a rush of adrenaline fills you. The two of you fight together, it's strange not to have his back. To not jump up and join the thick of it.

The militia feels the change in the air and you're amazed as Troy saunters over. "You think it's cool to dump shit on my floor, my family's floor, asshole." 

"Troy." Jake calls out, pretending to placate. 

"No, Jake, you should be mad at this too. I didn't want any of you in my house in the first place. Running around like you own the place before my father's corpse is even cold." He turns to you and you go still. Butterfly in a jar. Sitting pretty.  "You know what, get out!"

He's standing in the center of the room. His posture reeks of tension, he looks barely contained. You're fascinated. Maybe a little turned on, or a lot turned on. He really is something else. 

People stare at him in surprise looking at each other, whispering. 

Troy sneers and reaches down to his belt and pulls out his pistol. You're on your feet, because this wasn't part of the plan and now you don't know if he's faking. "I said get the hell out of my house." 

A few people start to rise, looking unsure, some looking at Jake who is approaching Troy with his hands up. 

Troy jerks his pistol into the air and fires a shot into the ceiling. "Five, four, three."

People scatter hauling toward the entrances. The militia knew to be fully armed, so they don't need to grab their weapons. By the time Troy gets to zero, the room is empty of everyone but you and Jake. 

The Indians are probably still close, watching with curiosity. It isn't hard to play into it. It's actually sort of fun. "Troy, what the shit?" 

He turns to you, his eyes gleaming once he knows no one will see his expression. "It's my house." He holsters his pistol as Jake gets 'fed up' and leaves without a goodbye. He might actually be a little irritated by the new hole in the floor.

At least you don't have to worry about the Clarks, Alicia made it clear she was keeping her brother out of it. 

Troy strolls toward you, and you're consumed by the look on his face. He's riding a power trip high as his hands latch to your hips, pressing himself up against you. He kissed you, all teeth and tongue and you moan into his mouth. 

His hands tighten on your waist. Pulling back enough to press his mouth against your ear. He chuckles, and it's low and sexual. You press your thighs together. "Did I startle you, vixen?" 

He sounds like he wanted to. 

"Yes." 

Troy chuckles again in your ear. "I need the Indians to fuck off. It's up to you if you want this next bit to be play-acting or not. But you should know, I'm not pretending." He pulls back, brazen and speaking louder. If anyone has their ear pressed to the door they'll hear. He spreads his arms in challenge, "Run and wherever I catch you, I fuck you." 

"Troy!" You gasp in astonishment, even as your blood pounds in your ears. 

And then he starts counting again. This time from ten, taking his time on each number. 

A startled sort of giggle leaves you, and you bolt. Taking the stairs two at a time, when you make it to the last step he hits one and you fear his heavy footfalls following after you. You giggle again, knowing you won't make it to the bedroom. 

You jerk into the bathroom and go to slam the door, but it hits the side of his boot as he bumps it back open. 

Your breath is coming out in quick pants, and he's smiling. It's not his usually bright eyed smile, this one is dripping with promise. 

"It's those long legs." You joke, even as you start to back up. Your whole body feels like it's being electrified with trepidation. 

You're positive you've never been so turned on in your life. But Troy moves so fluidly, so beautifully you're lost in the moment. 

He snaps forward, grabs you by the waist, and lifts you onto the counter. You lean your head back as he fumbles with your pants, yanking them down to your ankles. "Didn't get your fill last night?" 

He unfastens his belt. "I want you to remember every single time I'm inside of you." 

Your breath shakes as he pulls your hips to the edge of the counter. Sex with Troy is still new, and you're not used to having a repeat partner. You get the feeling he isn't either. Despite that, you love the way he's starting to feel familiar poised between your thighs. 

But you don't think you'll ever get used to the look of absolute contentment on his face as he presses inside you. This is the first time you've been in decent light, the bathroom lights above your head encase him in a pleasant glow. 

You can see the swirling blues in his eyes, and the flush of his cheeks as he rolls his hips. 

He sighs your name and you know this won't be a long encounter. You're both too amped up by everything going on, a ploy turned reality. 

There are things you need to do and prepare for. 

"Stop thinking." He commands, and snaps his hips forward until you're forced to comply. You think he may be leaving bruises on your hips, and you ache from yesterday, even though you don't remember it. 

The burn drives you higher, and you reach out to cling to the front of his jacket. 

"Like that, like that. Oh." 

He doesn't stop his pace. Troy keeps steady until your hands are shaking from the grip on his jacket. And you're overwhelmed with the way he's watching you. Seeing you. Knowing you. 

Troy's quieter than usual, but you still see his emotions. His want, his adoration. His pleasure in parted lips, gnashed teeth, and the tightness of his hands. 

"There, there - ugh - there." You direct, bending your back to give him the best access you can. It forces him even deeper, and even catching your breath becomes difficult.

His fingers twitch, hold even tighter and then he's letting out a low drawn out groan. His hips stutter as he comes, head falling forward onto your shoulder. 

You comb your hands through his hair, coaxing him down. 

Troy kisses your shoulder, then twists his head to kiss your neck. You're not used to that either, a man lingering inside you. It makes it feel more meaningful, and you actually get a taste of the making love sentiment you've never known was real. 

Even if it's a quickie on the bathroom counter, it feels special. 

"We should get set up." You murmur. 

He shakes his head against your shoulder. "Not yet."

"We have stuff to do, bright eyes." 

"There's no way you're leaving this room without finishing too." He says, and nips at your neck. Without looking he reaches out and takes your hand, bringing it to his mouth. You watch in fascination as he takes two of your fingers between his lips and feel his tongue roll over them lazily. 

He's still inside of you, and you never realized how hot it was to have a man suck on your fingers. When you pull them out, he nuzzles your shoulder. "I'd do it, but that's one hell of an awkward angle." 

You smile, "I think I'll manage somehow." You're perfectly aware that he has an intimate view of your torso, all the way down to where you're still connected. 

This is something you have plenty of experience with. Most men left you wanting, some rarely didn't. But you and your hands have been friends for a long time. You curl your free hand in the back of his hair, and slip your fingers down to the bud of nerves between your legs. 

You're already halfway there, especially when he starts kissing your neck again. These long open mouth kisses that he breathes on as he draws back. You whimper, quickening the pace of your fingers, mumbling out, "I can feel you writing notes in your head." 

"You'll thank me later." He says into your skin. 

There, right and, "Troy~" You hit the spot and your body rushes with warmth, toes curling. The delicious tight to loose release. His hips twitch as you tighten around him. 

He hums his approval, holding you through it. Once it ebbs he pulls away and you feel the stickiness between your legs that he leaves in his wake. 

You tsk, "Always making a mess of me." 

Troy takes a long look at you on the counter, and then his expression draws together in alarm. You've been waiting for this, putting it off.

"I'm not pregnant." You say because you know that face, you've seen it before. "There will be no little Ottos in our future." 

He helps you down off the counter and reaches for a washcloth in the cabinet wetting it in the sink to hand to you. "How can you be sure?" 

Troy misses your sad smile. "I'm sterile." 

He looks at you, and you can see him going through that fact. On one hand, no birth control or worry needed. On the other hand, that means even if you wanted to there would never be a child with blue eyes and soft curls. 

You choose not to think about that. You don't want to go through the mourning again, you'd done that once long ago. If you did, it would be worse this time. This time you'd have an image to grieve. "Come on, cowboy. We've got a mission to do." 

-

Troy doesn't bring it back up. He takes the news with a great deal of tact and lets it lie. You're grateful that he knows you well enough to know when to let things be what they are. Besides, you have other things to worry about. 

Like in ten minutes you're going to slaughter a bunch of Indians in their sleep. It will by far be the worse thing you've ever done. Yet, you're calm about it. This is a choice. 

"You don't have to go." He offers, strapping on another knife. That's the third one. If he fetches another, it's complete overkill. 

He gets a fourth. 

"I have to." You say, "If I back the play, then I'm part of it." 

You already decided, you will be the one to go to the adobe to kill Walker and Ofelia. A lawyer and barber's daughter, easy pickings. Troy and the others will go down the hill and take care of the rest. 

Reaching out you test the grip of the crossbow for what feels like the twentieth time. It's got an eighty-pound draw, which means you'll be slow to reload it. But it's quiet, and there are only two of them. Crossbow for one, knife for the other. 

It'll be easy to kill Ofelia after what she's done to the ranch, to you. Walker is a necessity. 

Troy is eyeing the crossbow too, and you think you see nerves before he compartmentalizes it. "You've fired one before?" 

"You've asked me that twice. Daryl taught me. I used to hunt with one of these. I promise with the extra practice we've done on my aim I'll be fine." 

"The drift is going to be different, you have to make - "

"Troy." You set it back down to approach him, hands on his chest. "I will be alright." 

He takes a deep breath and nods. His mask falls into place and you're looking into empty blue eyes. It reminds you of first meeting him, enough that you lean up and kiss him. His mask slips, and he kisses you deeper. 

"Be safe." You say against his mouth. 

"I'm not leaving you behind." He promises and you separate, heading for the door. The lights in the cabin are off, you're supposed to be asleep. You'd tried to get an hour or two, but neither of you had much luck. 

He heads to the front and you to the side door with one final nod to each other. 

Show time. 

You steady your hand and creep out the door, crouching low to the ground as you travel through the high grass toward the adobe. Its windows are dark, and you hope this will be simple. But then, as you get closer a sudden orange glow. You drop to your stomach, squinting at the figure on the front porch smoking a cigarette. Fuck. Klah. 

Your plan is left in tatters when faced with an extra target. If you fire, all you can do is hope that his body stays in the chair, and that his cigarette doesn't light the whole place on fire again. 

But if you wait you don't know where he'll go, who he'll see. It's too dangerous to wait, you need to act fast. From your stomach, you aim the already drawn crossbow. He sees the movement, shifts to look and all he gets is a flash of shock before the arrow buries itself in his eye. The corpse stays in the chair, and his cigarette fizzles out without turning into a blaze. 

You release the breath you were holding, and move back into a crouch. This works, if he was staying inside they'll expect the door to reopen. 

Readying your knife, you adjust your grip and reaffirm your decision. You can do this, don't think, act. Troy has said that at least four times to you today. Don't think, act. Thinking will get you killed. Your body knows how to kill, if you let it know. He's trained you for this.

All of those drills, the morning exercises. It was for moments like this, the rest of the ranch is counting on you. 

Reaching for the doorknob you creep it open and slip into the darkness. There's a sleeping bag on the floor, empty. Likely belonging to Klah and in the bed both Walker and Ofelia sleep. 

Don't think.

You tiptoe over to the bed, the longer you hesitate the more likely they'll wake. You don't dare take a settling breath, you hold the knife in both hands and plunge it down into Walker's skull. It jerks the mattress, and makes a scraping noise you're now all too familiar with. 

Ofelia is too, because she's awake in an instant. 

Her eyes look from Walker to you pulling your knife free. She reaches for something under her pillow and you both burst into movement. 

She's got a knife, it swings forward and you fall back to avoid it. But you feel it, the burn in your cheek where it must have gotten you. Could be a scratch, or could need stitches. Right now it doesn't matter. 

She launches herself out of bed. The two of you flail. You manage to twist your knife around and bury it into her side. She screams. You need her to stop. Too loud. 

"Fuck." You twist, slamming her onto her back. "Shut up." When you try to cover her mouth she almost bites you. In an attempt to silence the noise quickly, you rip the knife out of her side and ram it down into her throat. 

Her skin splits, and blood flows. You can taste it in your teeth, smell it in the air. 

You watch her bleed out across the hardwood, eyes going blank. Some part of your brain quotes Troy, 'time it'. You don't have time to wait. Don't have time to feel any level of guilt for this. They chose to try and take the ranch, they brought it upon themselves. It was you or them.

Hopefully, the others had better luck and you didn't screw it all by letting her scream. You shift to your feet and take inventory of your faculties. There's the cut on your face, pouring down your chin. But anything on the head bleeds like a bitch, it won't kill you. 

You're definitely going to have a couple of bruises from tumbling to the floor. And you think in hindsight she punched you in the face. You were focused on not getting stabbed. 

Gathering up your knife and crossbow you look at the carnage in the low light. You'll talk to Troy about burying the bodies in a mass grave.

Blood dripping, you exit the adobe, and see people milling about. A few minutes later it's over before it's begun. The Nation is no more. 

You meet Troy down at the bottom of the hill. He's got blood all over him, coating his hands, but otherwise looks no worse for wear. In fact, he looks exhilarated. His calling, indeed. 

He spots the cut on your face and tilts your head to get a better look. It must not be too bad, because he dismisses it. There's no one left alive to punish for it. "I can't find the dog, was he up there?" He asks, scanning you for other injuries. 

You shake your head, "Crazy Dog? No, I didn't see him." You're about to remark on the events when you remember. "Shit." You swivel and there she is, bumbling down the hill. You'd mistimed it, you were thinking at least thirty seven minutes. 

Troy watches the shark as she approaches, and the militia around you do nothing. They're curious about what Troy will do. And considering she's the one who killed nearly two dozen ranchers no one feels particularly bad about it. 

He waits until she gets close enough to start snapping before he buries his knife into her head. And then, with all the anger of a man who almost lost the woman he loves, he hocks a wad of blood and spits onto her corpse. 

Chapter Text

THREE MONTHS LATER 

The sky is dark, and you've never been so glad to see it. You glance over at Troy, where you both lean against the railing of the second-story porch. You swear you can smell the rain. He's watching the sky too, and together you're hoping. Hell, you're willing to give praying a shot, and then you feel it. 

A drop against your hand. 

You look down at the little droplet, you've not seen rain since that day walking back to the ranch with no shoes. That seems like a lifetime ago. Back when the Nation existed. They're nothing but rotting meat in a grave a few miles west now. 

Another water droplet. You hold your hand out past the overhang and wait. Another. Then another. 

A smile takes over your face, and between one blink and the next it's pouring. You let out a whoop, throwing yourself at Troy. He catches you in his arms spinning you in a wide circle. 

Jake and Alicia laugh from where they're sitting to the side, lounging together on one of the benches. It doesn't just rain, it pours. You look out toward the rest of the ranch and see people emerging from their RVs to stand underneath the water. A few kids are rushing for the soon to be mud fields. 

Not wanting to go through the house you run to the side of the porch closer to the hill and drop down. Troy taught you how to hit the ground in a roll and it makes the impact practically weightless. You're getting pretty good at this soldier shit.

He looks out at you from the porch and shakes his head. But he joins you the same way, except he's tall enough he can land the drop in a low crouch. 

You walk backward into the downpour. It soaks through your jeans and button up in seconds. Spreading your arms you twirl, and it feels so good. 

You've had the water catchers set up for weeks, and you see some people setting out bowls and containers. With every second the water in the aquifer rises. You know when this rain ends it will be back to searching for water again. But in this moment you allow yourself to enjoy it. Troy enjoys it too, because he's helicoptering with you, head tilted back. 

He looks beautiful with drops of water running down his face. 

"Troy, dance with me." You say holding out your hands for him. 

He shifts his gaze to look at you without turning his head. "I can't dance." 

"There's nothing you can't do." And you believe that completely. Troy is the most capable person you've ever had the privilege of knowing. Not only is he a talented protector, but he's also proven himself a leader and tactician. 

His reputation as a black sheep has vanished. People respect him, possibly more so than Jake at this point. To them, Troy saved them from dying of dehydration. He's a hero. 

You've traveled up the ranks too, becoming Troy's second in command. The militia listens to you when you give an order, even if you feel mostly underqualified. But you get advice from both Troy and Coop to make sure you're giving the right calls. 

Becoming what basically amounted to a third leader of the ranch wasn't your goal, but no one said you couldn't fuck your way to the top. You'll take the assurance, the security the Ottos offer you. At the end of the day, you're not humble enough to put people's safety over your own. 

Troy takes your hands, and instead of trying at slow dancing or something remotely considered dancing he shifts his grip to your wrists and the two of you start spinning. It reminds you of being a kid, Daryl whipping you at high speeds around the side yard. 

Memories like that are the ones you choose to remember the best. The feeling of the wind on your face, your bubbling laughter. Troy recreates it perfectly, minus the fact you're much too big to have your feet pulled out from under you. 

You're slipping in the mud and it's not two more turns before the force rips you apart and you both splash down into it. You've wrapped intestines around your neck like a scarf so a little dirt is nothing. 

You lie there and laugh. 

It rains all day. Spirits are at an all-time high as people take umbrellas to the mess tent. Mess at the main house was quickly diverted back to one big common area. Most families chose to move back to their prior living situations, but some stayed. 

Coop and his sister, Blake, the Clarks, and two other families still live up in the house. You like the noise. 

Troy is calmer than you've ever known him to be. Content. You'd dare say he's happy. 

You are too, happier than you'd ever been before all of this. You have a home, a family, someone who puts you above everything. 

He is the angel you prayed for at the age of eleven. You just never expected him to be both deadly and pretty. 

-

One of the benefits of the ranch is that it had been an immediate sanctuary. And with Troy's focus, you've managed to keep track of the days. That meant an accurate timing of holidays, birthdays, and seasons. It meant your birthday. 

You'll be twenty four. 

Troy hasn't asked and you haven't said. You've never had a birthday party, and it seems silly to expect one now. 

So you start your morning normally. Coffee, eggs. Most days you eat breakfast with everyone in the house. The scattering of seating has been replaced with a single long banquet table. It's cozy. 

Alicia sits across from you, beside Jake, like usual. Their relationship is taking a turn for the serious you think, given that the little smiles that they give each other now linger. Alicia's ploy for power has turned into a genuine connection. 

You're glad. Jake deserves that, she does too.

She and Troy even get along now. You've caught them having normal polite conversations more than once. Alicia has even admitted that he's funny.  

"What's the plans for today, Dixon?" Alicia asks. 

You take a sip of your coffee, and alot yourself a second cup for your birthday. "I wrote myself off duty today." The joys of writing the task list. 

Troy eats his eggs in silence, listening in. He's usually like that in the morning, contemplative. 

Alicia raises an eyebrow, "That's not like you." 

Your friends all seem in agreement with that fact, several of them looking at you for whatever reason you'll give. Now's your choice, tell them and face disappointment or keep it to yourself. 

You don't want to admit you've never had a birthday celebration. That the best gift you were ever given was for your sixteenth when Daryl took you out to Olive Garden. 

It remains the fanciest restaurant you've ever been in. 

Birthdays are for little kids, and you're all grown up now. You lie. "I haven't been sleeping well, just giving myself a day to recoup." 

You know Troy is suspicious without needing to look over at him. He's become an expert at reading your body language. He has over ten pages of his notebook dedicated to your posture and microexpressions. If he were anyone else it would be creepy as shit.

So you don't meet his eyes, because he knows how to scrutinize yours. You drink your coffee, everyone accepts your answer, and they go on with their breakfast. 

Everyone except for Troy, he's never been very good at letting things go that he feels he needs to know. It's a weakness of his, the desire to understand things. He calls you out in front of the whole table, "You're lying."

The glare you send him would be enough to get anyone else to back off. You're embarrassed, cheeks red, angry. But Troy doesn't back down, he returns your ire with his own intensity. Fire and water. Tipping, tipping to a boiling point. 

"Can I not have a day off, Mr. Otto?" You snap. 

His expression is slothful, he presses his chin down onto his hand and watches you. Eyes traveling to where your chest heaves and your eyes narrow. You're both glad and irritated by the fact he's not afraid. 

That he knows even when you're angry you'll never hurt him. 

"You'll come on my shift with me." He drawls. 

Jake is watching the two of you, curious. It's not often you disagree on anything, most days you're the type to finish each other's sentences. One single unit on a mission to keep the ranch safe. 

In comes the lawyer, "If Dixon's not feeling well she's entitled to a day off." 

"She's feeling fine." Troy replies shoving the rest of his food in his mouth, speaking with his mouth open. "She's deflecting."

You huff, "I wasn't aware we had a therapy appointment this morning. I'd have brought my feelings diary." 

It's a low blow, one you immediately regret. You're not averse to his journals and really you weren't even aiming toward them. But you see the flash of hurt before it vanishes behind a casual smile. "You've got one of those too huh?" 

Your anger fizzles out and you lean your shoulder against his. "That's not what I meant." 

He wraps his arm around you, "I know." 

"Sorry." You mutter, and press your head into the side of his jaw. 

Troy doesn't reply, but he does kiss the top of your head. "Tell me." 

"Any way I can convince you to let it go?" You try, because at the very least an attempt has to be made. 

He squeezes your side. "Not a chance." 

And you know he's telling the truth. If you don't tell him, he'll spend the rest of the day hyper-fixating on it. He'll be irritable and try to suss it out in every conversation. There is nothing he hates more than not knowing something. 

You bite the bullet, "I took it off because it's my birthday." You take your cup and raise it, "My two portions are my gift to myself. I just didn't feel like being covered in shark gunk today." 

The whole table is watching you, and you feel small under the stares. You feel like that little kid asking for a birthday party and being kicked and told to stop being ungrateful. 

It's Madison who offers, and you don't like her motherly bullshit. "We could plan something. You should have told us sooner." 

You look up at her, voice dripping with sarcasm, "Are you going to be my mommy now?" 

Madison's kindness disappears, which suits you just fine. Troy's free hand taps on your thigh under the table, and you hate that he still likes her. He's downright fond. 

Alicia has gotten a lot better at telling you when to shove it. In fact, she's developed a backbone. She's part of the militia now, trading spots with Nick. He's become a farmer. 

"Why didn't you want to tell us?" She gets right to the point. Clever, like Jake is.

You drink the rest of your coffee before it gets cold. "Cause I didn't want to. Jesus, is one of you going to arrest me or something." 

"We'd have planned something." Jake offers, "That's all." His voice is too kind, too Jake. You don't want to think about being disappointed by a brother. 

"Oh don't lie to me." You're pulling your walls around you. Defensiveness high, a sneer on your lips. 

Troy's hand on your waist tightens. "Has anyone ever even given you a birthday present?" 

You hate the way he can disarm you with a single sentence. Because maybe he doesn't know immediately, but it never takes long for him to needle it down to a single point. The point you don't want made, the point that cuts you open like a scalpel. 

"We got pasta once. All you can eat." And it sounds horrible when you say it out loud. That your entire childhood all you got was one day of an all you can eat pasta lunch. It wasn't even the dinner special.

But you remember how proud he'd been to take you. Like he'd discovered something far more special than a chain restaurant for the middle class. Like you were legends. Even though people looked at the two of you the whole time, especially when Daryl licked his fingers clean. 

"Look I don't need anyone's fucking pity, okay. It doesn't matter." You jerk back and leave the table, walking upstairs to your bedroom. Troy lets you go, but you know he'll follow. He always does. 

It's become cluttered with the two of you. You have a shelf full of books now, and clothes in the closet. The duvet is no longer blue, but green. 

You collapse onto the mattress and bury your head into your pillow. There's no more all you can eat pasta, there's no more Daryl. There's no more hope for birthday parties. 

Troy doesn't come. 

It makes you cry and you hate that it makes you cry. You're stubborn, you refuse to leave the room. You hunker down and read a bad romance about some rich bastard that falls in love with a normal girl. It's petty, you know it's petty, but you're allowed to be petty on your birthday. 

When there's a knock on the door hours later you don't answer it. You keep your eyes pinned to the page even though you've stopped reading. 

Troy enters and walks to the closet without a word. He gathers up a bundle of clothing and disappears from the room again. Not a word. This time you don't cry, but you're in a right nasty mood. 

When he returns you don't even look at him, you've gone so far as to put your back to the door. You feel the bed shift as he gets on it, but you're reading your book. Not paying attention to him at all, because you don't pander to pricks who ignore you on your birthday. 

You've regressed back to a pissed off fifteen year old looking for a fight. 

His arms wrap around your stomach and his chest presses against your back. You don't like it. You do not like it. Nope. Not at all. It's not comforting in the slightest. And he does not smell nice, not like the cologne he has on top of his dresser he doesn't wear but you've spritzed on your clothes before. 

You hate the way he rubs his cheek into the side of your head and hums into your ear, "Happy birthday." 

Your body is a traitor for melting back against him, and he's a criminal for the smile you feel him make. "Happy~ birthday." He says again. 

"Can we drop it please?" You sigh, closing your book after you dog-ear the corner. 

Troy presses a kiss into the side of your head. "No." He presses another kiss into the top of your ear. "You're going to be late for your own birthday party." 

"What?" 

"You heard me. Is that what you want to wear?" He asks, before pulling back. 

When you turn to look at him you're not expecting what you see. He's showered, brushed his hair into place. That's not terribly unusual. 

What is unusual is the button up, slacks, and suit jacket. The pants and jackets are a matching deep grey, and the shirt is white. You're a hundred percent sure with the tightness of them they belong to Jake. Likely his work clothes. 

You throw your head back and laugh. 

"What?" He looks down at himself, brow drawn in confusion. "I thought you'd like it." 

You subside your giggles to assuage his concern, "Who are you and what have you done with my cowboy?" 

He identifies your humor as nothing to worry about and leans in, hands tracing up your arms. "If you want me dirty, all you have to do is ask." 

Your bad move evaporates at the effort he's presented you with. If Troy is going to give you suit jackets and pin you to the mattress then you're good with that. Not quite all you can eat pasta, but it's something. "I thought I was going to be late." 

Troy gives a casual shrug and leans back, headed for the door, "It is your birthday, you can be late if you want. Come down when you're ready." 

You're standing to follow when Alicia enters the room. She's got a garbage bag in one hand and a look of pure determination. 

"I surrender." You throw up your hands, as she snaps the door open. 

"What's your favorite color?" 

You smile, taken back to a different conversation. "Blue." 

She surveys you, judging something, and dumps the bag on the bed. You're not expecting a pile of dresses. 

"I'm gonna stop you right there Alicia." You eye the pile. "I have never worn a dress in my life." Honestly, the world is lucky you shave your legs. 

Alicia ignores you and starts lying them out. "Troy is wearing a suit." 

"Hey, what Troy chooses to do in his spare time is his choice." 

She glares at you and gestures to the four different dresses she's got on your bed. 

"Where did you get these?" You ask, accepting that you're not getting out of this so easily.

"Grabbed them on a run awhile back." She explains, which doesn't really explain anything. Dresses aren't exactly high on the list of necessities. But you're plenty guilty of going shopping when on runs, so you let her have her dresses. 

Unfortunately for you, Alicia is about the same size. 

"I really haven't worn a dress before. Not since I was maybe six." You say touching one covered in rhinestones. It's too flashy, and itchy from the looks of it. You never were sold on the whole fashion is pain thing. 

The next is poofy, it reminds you of something a princess in a kid's show would wear. You pause on the blue one, it's made of some soft satin like material. But still reminds you a bit of a barbie dress. 

The one on the end however, you find yourself looking at. It's floor length, with a high thigh slit. There are little spaghetti straps and the cut is loose at the top. It sort of bunches and bundles up, you don't know what that's called. 

Alicia grins. "You won't need a bra with that one. I'd use a thong if you have one, otherwise, the lines might show."

"He's going to laugh at me." Like you laughed at him. 

"Are we thinking about the same Troy? The one who spends most of his days looking at you like you're a piece of his favorite candy." She crosses her arms. "Do you have any shoes?" 

You grin wryly at her. "I'll figure it out. But if anyone makes fun of me I'm going for blood." 

She leaves you to get ready. You already showered this morning while Troy caught up on his writing. So you're clean enough after a day in bed. The dress feels strange on your skin. Like one less layer than you're supposed to have. 

It fits well, tight in the right places, and loose where it should be. You don't have any good shoes for an occasion like this so you decide on black socks and the pair of combat boots you found last week. They're unworn, still shiny. 

You prefer your steel toe military issue ones for heading out so they've been untouched as a backup pair. 

It's a look. You hope it's a good look. You don't have any jewelry. Pulling out the stand-up mirror in the closet you pose in front of it, shifting back and forth. 

You're certainly a woman, and if you're being honest with yourself, it makes you feel pretty. Awkwardly turning you see that the back is high enough that only a single one of your scars is visible. One you can explain away. 

In this world, you doubt anyone will even ask. 

Before you lose your nerve you turn toward the door. There's music down the hall, your favorite of Troy's collection. You hum along to the lyrics as you walk down the stairs. 

And when you reach the bottom, it is only through years of experience that you don't break down right there. 

Because the room is fucking decorated. There are balloons, a happy birthday sign, and a cake. The floor is dusted with confetti and Troy is shuffling around the kitchen with Jake. Your brother is also wearing a suit, but his actually fits.

He doesn't know you've come down yet. But the rest of your party guests are here. They're all looking at you like you're a stranger. 

There's the Clarks of course, Alicia is giving you a thumbs up; Coop and Lea, Blake, Joe, and few others in the militia. They're all looking relatively put together and they smile at you. 

You survey the room again and get caught on the pile of presents over in the reading nook, wrapped in wrapping paper. Yep, you're fucked. The tears flood your eyes and you feel like an idiot as you try not to let them fall. 

Troy picks up on the shift in the room and glances toward the stairs. 

You were wrong. He doesn't laugh at you. Troy turns to stone, he hard stops, spatula in hand. His eyes go wide, lips parting and he scours you. 

This is a man who has seen you naked dozens of times by now. This is a man who has done things to you, you've never let anyone do to you. Yet in this, he is brought to speechlessness. 

He finds his voice, but all that comes out is a raspy little, "Hi." 

You laugh and the spell is broken. The world keeps spinning. You join them in the kitchen. But when you attempt to help they both shoo you away. 

"Dixon! Get out of the damn kitchen." Coop shouts from the table. 

You're ushered out with more shooing hands. You sit in your usual spot and notice the party plates and glasses. "Where did ya'll get all of this?" 

"Troy organized a run as soon as you were upstairs. We went out to the closest party supply store. Not exactly high on the grab list, everything was still there." Blake explains. "Oh, happy birthday." 

"Thanks." You whisper. 

"Told you he would like it." Alicia says smugly from across the table. You roll your eyes, because you don't know how to say you're overwhelmed. 

You're quiet as the table chats around you, playing the observer. They're not talking about anything important, mostly mundane conversation. Talk about the constant rain you've been getting. The two horses group C secured on a run yesterday. 

You're tuned in enough to Troy you know when he comes to stand behind you. He asks with all the pomp he can muster, "Red sauce or alfredo, ma'am?" 

Tilting your head up you look up at him in surprise. "Alfredo." 

He nods, and snatches your little paper plate and takes it off to the kitchen. When he returns your plate is packed to capacity with noodles coated in alfredo sauce. 

You're served first, and then the rest follow. Troy slides onto the bench beside you, red sauce on his. Jake comes to sit on your other side instead of beside Alicia and your heart swells. "Thank you." You whisper again, curling your fork in the noodles. 

Troy kisses the side of your head. "You're beautiful, absolutely beautiful." 

You're pretty sure you blush, and that makes him smile beside you. The table focuses on the luxury of pasta. You find yourself trying not to groan with each bite. 

Troy looks particularly pleased with himself as the plates are cleared up. 

"I can't believe you pulled all this off in a few hours." You say looking around again. 

He peacocks, "I'll have you know I consider myself quite capable." 

"Sure, when I think capable, I think machetes, not party planning." 

"I'm a man of many talents, vixen." He jerks his head up, clapping his hands. "Bring out the presents." 

You giggle because how could you not, this is something out of your little girl daydreams. 

They're all plopped onto the table in front of you, and when you reach for the first one nerves fill you. You've never opened a present before, let alone in front of a crowd. Troy's hand finds your thigh, sliding into the slit to grip your bare skin. 

It helps, it grounds you. The first is labelled from the militia in general, a joint gift Joe explains. Inside the small box is a pair of dog tags. Your name printed on them in bold lettering. 

Amused you drop the chain around your neck and now own a piece of jewelry. 

Alicia's gift turns out to be the dress you're wearing. Madison is smart, she doesn't get you anything, and Nick says you can call an IOU on a cigarette whenever you want. He's been slipping them to you when Troy isn't looking. 

Coop and Lea present you with a hand painted pistol grip for your favorite gun. She's painted a sunset on one side and the night sky on the other. "I can help you switch them out later." Coop offers. You nod, even though you've long learned how to do it yourself.

Jake's gift is a knife. It's not just any knife, but a sturdy butterfly blade. A cool black metal. You coo at it, feeling the weight in your hand. "I love it." 

He gives you a small smile. 

Troy looks at it, and reaches out and touches the metal. "You sure you want to give this to her, Jakey?" 

Jake nods, "Yes, I do." 

In response, Troy reaches around you to touch his brother's arm. 

And then there's Troy's gift. He glances up at Alicia, "I've gotten better at this." 

"We can all grow." Alicia teases. 

It's a small package, wrapped in shiny red paper. There's even a bow. You're careful as you unwrap it, revealing smooth leather. It smells fresh. 

You hold the journal in your hands and see your initials carved into the corner. When you flip open the cover there's a single thing written on the first page. 

You are my calling.

"I thought maybe you'd want one of your own." He says, and he's got this hesitant little smile that melts you into a puddle of affection. "I made it myself. We had some leftover leather from culling the cattle. Do you like it?" 

You react the same way he did, back when the two of you were walking in circles around each other. Learning. You kiss him. 

And you echo his words, "You have no idea how much it means to me." 

Chapter Text

A LITTLE OVER A YEAR LATER 

You only have eight months of coffee left. So every morning you take your time savoring every sip. Troy has gone cold turkey and is donating the rest of his portion to you. That's the only reason it isn't four months.  

You wish Jeremiah would have put more value on the precious bean juice. Troy enters the kitchen to you holding on to your cup like someone is going to take it. "I promise I'll pummel anyone who goes for your stash." 

That would certainly be a sight to see, you snort into your mug. "We going out again?" 

He nods rifling through the cabinets for whatever it is he's looking for. "Have to." Neither of you likes it, but there's been an influx. You've been forced to send three teams a day to look for the dead. You think they're coming up from Mexico, and worry about whatever is going on down there. Hopefully, it starts to abate soon. 

Bullets have been moved to human or emergency use. But there haven't been many. Even with the drought over, water is hard to find in these parts. People don't often stumble your way and when they do, the AR is a great inclinator to get lost. 

You don't take people in, you have enough to house already. The water isn't a concern because only forty-three of you are on the ranch. But if you brought in more, you may be back to rationing again. 

Troy says they should have prepared for the end like his family did. Some of the militia struggle to turn people away, but Troy can do it without blinking. You've watched him mow down people at the gate twice when they tried to break in. 

The ranch is secure, the militia loyal. You still have enough supplies in the panty to keep everyone alive for another seven years and that's without strict rationing. You're getting three meals a day. And that's not considering the farming and livestock projects you have going on. 

Nick is determined to domesticate the wild boar in the area, and so far he's doing pretty well. Soon you'll have a supply of fresh pork. 

Things are good. You can make this work. Unfortunately, you'll have to make it work without coffee soon. 

Troy finds the box of protein bars he was searching for and grabs one.  And then he twists around to press his mouth against yours, tongue sweeping across your lower lip. He sighs when he pulls away, "Only way I want to take my coffee." 

"Only way you will, I take no prisoners when it comes to my precious beans." You joke. 

He leans next to you, unwrapping his bar and shoving half of it in his mouth. You finish the last of your morning portion and wash the mug in the sink. 

You wish you'd known that you'd never enjoy the taste again. You'd have drank a whole pot.

In under fifteen you're both geared up and at the front gate. You've got your walkie ready to go, truck gassed up. It's set to be a standard deployment. 

"Dixon and I will run group A to the north, follow along the highway. Jake and Alicia will man group B and head out to the west, toward Phil's outpost. Coop, Blake you'll run group C to the east. If there's any groups you feel a group of five can't handle, log location, and avoid, we can go back out as a bigger sect later. Anything under fifteen you should be able to handle." 

He smacks the side of his truck before jumping into the driver's seat. You take passenger. With the sudden increase some people are on short-term deployment until it settles. So you've got Joe, Andy, and Nick in the back. 

You can tell he'd rather be taking care of his little pig friends, but it's mandatory for anyone with combat experience. Troy cranks up his music and you roll the window down. It's a hot day for March, enough with your fatigue jacket on you're comfortably enjoying the wind. 

It's pleasant out, partly cloudy. You're maybe six miles out from the ranch when you spot your first wandering group. You do a quick headcount, twenty one. It would be pushing it if you didn't have Troy, but when he stops playing and goes for impact he's incredible. 

He hits the brakes looking at the group and presses the stereo up louder as the sharks turn. You're almost positive he likes to pretend he's some badass in a film. You pull your axe free and come around the truck. 

The five of you leap into action. Over your time together you and Troy have learned each other's motions down to a science. You know when he's going to swing, when he'll duck. You know when he's playing and when he's serious. 

The constant waves have him irritated and that shows in the way he fights too. His kills are quick, precise. A man on a mission. When they've all dropped you drag the corpses off the road and leave them. 

You're a few feet from the vehicle when your walkie crackles. You catch a waver of Jake's voice in the static. You yank it off your belt, pressing it up by your mouth. "I didn't catch that, over." 

There's more static, and Jake again for a half second. You and Troy make your way back to the truck, and you hop into the bed so you can hoist up to stand on the cabin. "Repeat, over." 

Troy shuts off the music, and you all listen to see if it comes through. "Troy! How long? Do I cut it off?" Jake's voice is panicked and it has you all at attention. "Is it too late?" 

"Are you bit?" You ask, hand quivering as it holds the walkie. 

"Alicia. It's by her hand. I don't know - " 

Troy follows you up to the top of the truck and it creaks at the weight. He snatches the walkie, "Cut it off. We're on our way." 

He hands it back to you and the two of you scramble into the car and whip it around speeding off in their direction. 

You hear Madison's voice as you're cruising back toward their last know location. You forgot she was with Jake's group today. You can barely make out what she's saying through the white noise. "...group...toward the ranch...biggest...Alicia." 

Frustrated that the walkie isn't working you growl at it. "Repeat, over." 

The only thing you catch this time is, "...hoard." 

Your body goes flush with adrenaline. Troy presses harder on the gas, the engine grumbles at the sudden strain. "Get word back to the ranch." He directs taking an exit so hard Joe slides to the other side of the truck bed. Nick's eyes are wide in the back, trying to process that his sister may be dying. "Tell them to get everyone who can't fight in the pantry." 

When you don't immediately comply he reaches out and takes the walkie from you to do it himself. "Devin, report." 

The walkie seems to go back to the ranch better than wherever Jake is, because Devin comes in clear. "It's quiet over here, over." 

Troy looks relieved, if nothing's changed then that means there's a chance you can fix whatever this is. You take a long breath and roll up your window. You can fix this. Nothing has happened that you can't fix. 

"Get everyone who can't fight into the panty. Lock that shit down until told otherwise. Prepare for a hoard, over." 

Devin stumbles out a quick confirmation and is gone. Everyone sits in silence as Troy drives, white knuckling the wheel. No one was that far out into their patrols. So it doesn't take but twenty minutes to get there. 

With every second your horror grows. All you really manage is a choked out whisper, "Troy." 

"I see it." He sounds so much calmer than you feel. The others in the back are stuck in stunned silence. 

"How many?" You whisper, trying to quantify it.

When you look at him, you see him staring at the cloud of dust. His eyes are shining, and if you met him today, this is a man you would avoid. This is a man who you would shoot on sight. Because his wonder, his fascination is obvious. 

"It's Darwinian." He murmurs. 

"Troy!" You snap trying to redirect his focus, his awe. "We can discuss evolution later. How many do you think there are?" 

It breaks him from his reverie, and he jerks the truck to the side of the road next to Jake's jeep. "Hundreds." 

The five of you follow and find Alicia in the back seat. She's unconscious, and missing half her arm. Her skin is pale and clammy. Madison is in the seat with her, supporting her head. You know in your gut she isn't going to make it. 

You say nothing, you let them have their last moments of hope. Nick gets into the back seat with them. 

"Joe, drive the jeep back to the ranch." 

He doesn't argue with you, he gets in and they go. It's the only chance you can give her, because you hope you're wrong. Alicia doesn't deserve to die. She's your friend, she was bordering on becoming a member of your family. 

Troy's voice is harsh as he looks down at you, "You need to let it go, there's no room for grief." 

You look up at him, and stop the rebuttal before it slips out of you like a snake bite. Because he's right. There's nothing you can do for Alicia now. And if you do nothing, if you sit here and grieve you put the whole of the ranch at risk. 

So you bury it, shove it in a box, and promise you'll deal with it later. Just not right now. When you look back up at him he's nodding his approval. 

You also notice that he takes your hand as you walk toward Jake, and he squeezes a hair too tight. 

Jake has tear tracks on his dusty face, but otherwise, he'd focused on the herd in the valley. He barely looks at you, only keeps tracking. "Can you reach Cooper? My walkie is busted." 

Troy hands off the walkie to Andy and he sets off to try. 

"Give me a plan, Troy." Jake's voice sounds strained, desperate. Not one asks what happened to Alicia. There will be time for that later. 

So Troy plans, he pulls out his notebook and starts writing fast. He scribbles some sections out, circles some. In two minutes he's got it. "We need to redirect them up by sandman's pass. They can go in one of two directions. We get the truck down there and blare the stereo we should be able to lead them from the ranch." 

It works for you, anything to keep them from going toward home. "We need to hoof it." 

The group heads for the truck. You let Jake in the front and sit in the back. "Any word on Coop?" 

Andy shakes his head. "Can't get through. I'll keep trying." 

Troy guns it to the head of the hoard, looking for an area shallow enough he can get the truck down without fucking the front axle. Because without the truck it means trying to lead them on foot, which is a hell of a lot more dangerous. 

He finds a spot, "Hold on."

You latch to the side, wrapping one arm over to hold yourself in place as you descend. It's a bumpy ride but you make it to the front of the herd. They're maybe ten feet from the truck. 

All you can hear is the sound of them, groaning and snapping at you. But then Troy turns on the stereo and cranks it to max, and the bashing sounds of whatever weird CD he'd chosen today fill your head. 

It would be funny if you weren't so fucking scared. 

You've got one hand on your machete, ready to pull it out if they get too close. Troy is going slow, an absolute crawl, but he needs them stimulated and you trust him not to let them get too close. Every once in a while a shark reaches the truck bed and one of you put it down. 

Troy is doing it on purpose, because every infected dead is one less to set on the ranch if you fail. So you swing until your arms scream. You're coated in blood, and sore down to your bones. You've drank through your canteen and Troy gives you his. 

Jake starts trading out so one of you can take a break. 

You bring the machete down on another and scream in frustration. You figure the noise can't hurt, but poor Andy nearly jumps out of his skin. 

Troy is in the front, occasionally trying to get in contact with the walkie, but the thing's useless at this point. You have no updates from Coop or home. All you can do is kill. It takes hours. 

Your vision is flickering, and you feel on the edge of passing out. You don't know how many you've killed. Not enough, it never seems to be enough.

"The pass is up ahead." Troy shouts back and you almost cry in relief. Because if they head the right way Troy will speed up, he'll let you rest. And you desperately need rest. You need some sleep. 

You start to turn and laugh in relief as they follow. You've done it. They're following. 

You've got maybe a hundred through the left side of the pass. You're all smiling; you collapse into a sitting position as Troy starts to increase speed. 

And then a blast goes off close enough to you, the truck gets spattered with dirt. You reflexively cover your face with your arm, before looking to see what it was. The sharks are looking too because they start to turn toward the noise. 

"No, no, no, no." You whisper. They seem torn, distracted momentarily, but the truck is still making a bunch of noise. The sharks start to focus back on you and another blast goes off on the right side of the pass. 

Troy stops the truck. "Where the fuck is it coming from?" 

You grab the binoculars and scan the horizon. Just as you catch him, he fires another shot and you realize it's a fucking grenade launcher. Adjusting the focus you swear. 

Some of the sharks are still coming in your direction, but most are following the explosions. They're going in the wrong direction. The others get back to killing as they reach the truck bed. 

"Troy, get in the bed." 

He listens without hesitation, abandoning the wheel to crawl out the back window. You point in the direction of your saboteur. "We should have tracked that son of a bitch down." 

Troy grabs the M24 and Jake stands up. He doesn't ask for permission, he uses Jake's shoulder as a mount and lines up the shot. 

Crazy Dog manages to shoot off one more round, before Troy squeezes on the trigger. And in any other situation, you'd be extremely impressed by his aim. Today you don't have time. 

Most of the sharks have started to travel down the right side. Your efforts have taken out a small chunk, but there are at least three or four hundred more. 

You turn your attention back to an infected to your left and slam your knife into its eye. "Can we redirect them somewhere else?" 

Troy doesn't respond. 

You dare to break your focus to look at him and you know. The panic floods you as you kill another. You can barely keep your eyes open. "We can use the RVs to create a path. They may enter the ranch but we can outlast them in the pantry." 

Jake nods, "It's worth a shot." He heads for the driver's seat, yanking himself through the window. 

You pull Troy down as the truck begins to move and leave the hoard behind, attempting to beat them back to the ranch. 

He's got his eyes out back toward the dead. You crawl into his lap, straddling him, and take his face in your hands. He's got this blank look in his eyes, it's the closest you've seen to him going into shock. "Don't you give up on me, Troy Otto." 

His eyes focus on yours and they look so heartbreakingly defeated. "I'm so tired." 

Your grip on his jaw tightens. "I know. God I know. But we can fix this. You can't give up. I need you. I need you with me." 

You watch your words bring him back to the surface. You watch him find himself again, not the little kid who's been fighting to survive his whole life, but the man that believes in who he's become. He nods and you know he is with you. 

On the ride back he holds you as you sleep. 

You're still bone tired when you wake up at the ranch. Smacking your own cheeks to gain awareness, as Troy starts barking orders about RV placement. 

You do your job, and help move a few into place. Most of the ranch is already safely packed away in the pantry, but anyone who can fight is up and ready. Everyone is armed to the teeth, with handmade spears and melee weapons. 

The dust cloud signals the sharks are getting close, it won't be long now. There's not enough of you to make a real dent. Maybe if there were twenty of Troy you'd have a chance, but most of these people are like you. 

They learned how to kill after, not pre-apoc. You look at them, give your best expression of encouragement and ready the spear you have in your grip. Troy is on your right, and Jake is on your left. You hope that Coop and Blake are alright wherever they are. 

You hear it more than you see it, when the dead breach the gate. Before you can regret it, you rush to Troy and throw your arms around him. 

He holds you tight and kisses you. It's different than any kiss you've ever had, it's a little bit desperate and a little bit like a goodbye. 

"I love you." 

He grins at you, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "I love you too, vixen." 

The sharks hit the RVS, and they shake. You stand by Troy and watch, waiting to see if they'll hold. Maybe whatever gods are out there will be kind and this half-assed plan will actually work. 

"They're crawling under." Someone shouts and you ready your spear. You and Troy go to work, striking down any that pass. You're certain if you live to tomorrow you're not going to be able to move your arms. 

Soon it stops, you crouch down and see the bodies packed below. They've blocked themselves. This is going to work. You're going to redirect them. And then one of the RVs starts to rattle. It's the one that needs to support the most weight, the curve in your path. 

It shudders and one of the tires pops with a bang. The shift is all the sharks need and then the RV is tipping. You can only watch as it falls onto its side and gives the dead access through. 

You look at Troy, really look at him. He's beautiful, through the blood and dirt. Goddamn Ares looking back at you with those stormy eyes. You allow yourself a moment to be caught, pinned by his eyes. To be held in them. 

And then you charge into the hoard with him at your side. 

There are worse ways to die, than fighting beside the man you love to protect your people. 

You smash in a shark's head with your machete, kicking it off the blade. Troy is next to you, his own blade in hand. Without thinking about it, you end up back to back making sure nothing sneaks up on you. You're surrounded on all sides. 

It's a fight to survive. Every kill is one step closer to survival. It doesn't matter that you feel sore in your bones. You are not dying here. You will not die here. 

A hand latches onto the neckline of your jacket and yanks. You stumble to the side with a cry, and Troy is there ramming his knife into the shark's head before its teeth reach your neck. It was close enough you don't actually know if it bit you. 

Troy doesn't either. He yanks you upright, pressing you close to him. 

"Retreat! Retreat to the pantry." Jake's voice shouts over the din of chaos. 

You and Troy start moving back toward the bunker, fighting as you go. He pulls his pistol out and starts firing. He's got to pull his arm up and back to even reach some they're so close. 

Your rifle and pistol were out of bullets ages ago. You'd used them all in the truck. The pantry is in sight. You see Andy go down with a scream. Troy doesn't waste a bullet putting him down. 

He doesn't scream long.

Jake is fighting his way toward you. The sharks are close when you reach the door. Troy is partially dragging you at this point, one arm fastened around your waist. He gets through the archway and Jake pulls the door closed with a resounding bang. 

You go limp in Troy's grip, he sinks to the floor with you. His hand comes to your neck, wiping at the blood. His relief is palpable and you're not bitten. 

The three of you run through body checks. You're all going to be fine, at least physically, mentally you're fucked. If you live through this at least. You wrap your arms around Troy's neck and hold him. He holds you back, and you can feel him shaking. 

Jake interrupts you a minute later. "Something is blocking the fan." 

Troy's responding laugh is manic. "Fuck. Fuck." 

Jake crouches down beside the two of you, and you see his own exhaustion. His grief. When you turn your head to look into the pantry, you spot a single fabric-covered body and know it's Alicia. 

"I'm sorry." You whisper. 

Jake doesn't say anything back. He focuses on the vents, "We have maybe three hours." 

"We send a group of two into the vents, I shouldn't go." Troy admits, and you can tell that frustrates him. But he's tall, not good for the slim vent system. 

"I'll go." Jake says, and really he's a little big too but you know if Jake doesn't go Troy will try to. You don't volunteer, because there's too high a chance you'll pass out on the way. You've hit your limit. 

Troy looks into the pantry. "Take Madison. She's got more energy than a lot of us." 

Jake hesitates, and you try not to think about the corpse Madison is sitting by. 

"I don't care if she's grieving." Troy says, "Tell her she's still got one kid to save." 

He's not wrong, granted he rarely is. Troy's good at saying the things no one else wants to say. 

Jake goes to talk to Madison and all that's left is to wait. You curl between his legs, resting against him. He's propped against the wall, one hand rubbing circles into your stomach under your shirt. You can feel the fear in the air. 

An hour passes and you feel woozy. Troy notices it too. "Hey, hey, vixen." 

You barely manage to lift your head up to look at him. You're so exhausted. 

"I need you to stand up." He directs, and the anxiety makes his voice sound high pitched. 

You blink at him, not understanding. There's no reason to. You're safe down here, you can sleep. 

He pushes you up, and moves to stand. He's got a wobble to his steps and is blinking fast as he reaches down for you. 

You try and help him lift you, but you think he does most of the work. He directs you further into the pantry, and to the armory. He propels you inside and you stumble catching yourself on one of the counters. 

He's closing the door. Why is he closing the door? "Troy?" Your voice sounds far away, but it's your voice. Everything is so fuzzy, distorted. You really need some sleep. "What are you doing?" 

He pulls his armory key out of his pocket and tosses it onto the counter next to you. 

"Troy?" You walk toward the chainlink, resting your hands against it. "Why - what are you - ?" 

He's whispering, "When people start falling asleep, some are going to die. The infected won't be affected by the air." 

If the air doesn't turn on soon everyone in the pantry is going to die. Either from the oxygen or the dead in your own midst. 

Your brain finally catches up. "You can't be out there." 

He smiles at you through the fence. "I need more air than you do, darlin'." 

"No. No! You get your ass in here." You start to push against the gate he hasn't locked yet. But Troy is stronger than you. "Troy! Please, no, no, no. You can't stay out there." 

"I'm not leaving you behind by choice, Dixon." He snaps the lock into place with a resounding click. 

You spin for the key, grabbing onto it. "You're not doing this." 

He's still at the gate, though his breath is labored. "I need you to live." 

You freeze, because he could ask for anything. But he can't ask for this. You'll give him anything, but not this, never this. You unlock it, and press open the gate. 

He lets you drag him in and lock it again. And he watches you. And then he turns and pulls open one of the drawers grabbing something. You catch what it is. Zip ties. He latches one around his wrist and then makes a chain to one of the pipes in the corner and fastens himself to it. 

"What if I turn?" You ask. 

"Then I don't want to live without you." He replies. 

"That's not fair, why do I have to live without you? But you don't?" You say coming to sit next to him. 

He sighs at your stubbornness. "Please." He begs, "Please go sit away from me." 

"Wherever we're going, we're going together." And you mean it. You'll follow him into the dark. 

Troy accepts it, and cuts himself loose. Because you think, at least a small part of him wanted that. For the two of you to choose each other in the end. Because if you're going to be consumed, let it be the man who already owns you. 

He adds in a quiet, sad sort of way. "I saved two bullets." 

"We won't need them." You whisper and lean your head into his shoulder. 

Together, you sleep. 

- 

You slip back into consciousness gradually and realize you can breathe deeply again. The air is back on. Elated you turn to Troy and shake him. 

He doesn't move. 

"Troy." 

You shake him again. 

"Troy." It sounds squeaky when you say it. 

You shake him so violently, he bumps his head on the shelf. And then he groans, a low deep sound. 

"No. Please. No." 

He groans again, and then, "Vixen?" His eyes flutter open and you let out a cry, throwing yourself at him. He wraps an arm around you, "I got you." 

"I thought - for a second I thought you were gone." You gasp into his neck. 

He kisses your head. "I'm here." 

Snarling distracts you, and you both turn to see the dead eyes of one of your own looking back at you. 

"Shut it down." He mumbles, and you think he's talking to himself as he stands and pulls free his grimy knife. He puts her down through the chainlink and another takes her place. 

You scan for Jake in the crowd, but he must still be making his way back. You spot Nick after a minute, he's lying on top of one of the shelves looking at you, and you can see how afraid he is. It was smart to crawl up top. 

"We're going to get you out. Just stay there." You direct. 

Nick doesn't verbally respond but you think that might be a wise decision considering the walking dead that surround him. 

You move back over to Troy, where he's picking them off one at a time. You're about to help him when you spot her, and a sob bubbles out of you. 

Lea. Little small Lea. 

You should have brought her in here. You can't tell if the air or the dead got to her first, but you should have tried to do something. 

Troy's expression is shuttered, any emotion he has is smashed down inside him where he can't access it. You can practically hear him chanting it. Them or me. Them or me. Them or us. 

"I can do it." He says, and the way he has to bring his knife lower to account for her small height makes you sob again. You cover your face as he puts her to rest, and try to figure out what the hell you're going to tell Coop. 

If Coop is even alive out there. They'd have finished their patrol and headed back by now. 

Troy keeps killing sharks, the people he swore to protect. The people that came here because of his family. 

He doesn't rush killing them, he doesn't have to. Nick is in a secure location. You're stuck in the pantry anyway. Troy doesn't risk getting bitten in his exhausted state by rushing it. 

But even working slowly it comes to an end, and he's faced with the entire community he couldn't save. 

Nick is the only other survivor. 

You take Troy's hand as he unlocks the gate and has to use his foot to push it open because of the dead piled in the way. He takes a loop, scouring for others. And Nick pulls himself down from the shelf. 

The two of you aren't particularly close, but when he sees you he hugs you. He clings to you like a life raft and shakes. You rub his back, and keep your eyes on what Troy is doing. 

A few minutes later the vents creak and Madison drops down. She surveys the carnage, scanning until she sees Nick standing there. Madison pulls him into her arms and you're glad because Nick isn't someone you know how to comfort. 

A second later Jake follows and Troy hugs him before he has a chance to look, he crushes his brother's face into his shoulder. Jake struggles briefly before giving in and hugging him back. You wish you could hide this from him, but there's nothing to do. Eventually, Troy is forced to let go, and Jake is forced to look. 

Her manages to rush away from the bodies before he vomits. 

You're surprised you didn't do that earlier, but you're desperately trying to stay calm, and Jake is the weakest of the three of you. 

You open your mouth to say something, you haven't figured out what yet when there's an explosion severe enough the whole bunker shakes. A crack scatters across the ceiling and you look up at it. 

It's not a small one, it's wide enough concrete chunks fall to the ground. 

Troy jerks into action running for the duffle bags. "Gather anything you can, now!" 

Everyone forgets their grief. Troy gathers what's left of the armory, Jake hits the medical supplies, Nick packs MREs, Madison gets the backup water, and you go for anything you can fit in the bag. Anything could be useful, you don't know. 

In a few minutes, the crack starts to spiderweb. "We're out of time," Troy's voice commands the space and you fall to attention, let him guide you through this nightmare. "To the doors."

"But the dead - " Madison starts to say. 

He doesn't let her finish. "We stay, we get crushed." Your unit runs to the door, at the same time it's pulled open. 

Coop and Blake stand in the entryway. You're running up the stairs when Coop latches onto your arm. "Lea?" 

Troy says it so you don't have to, "She's gone." 

You see some of the light that you love about Cooper die with his sister, and then you're running. The duffle is heavy, but you don't stop. 

They've blown the oil reserves. And the sharks are approaching it like moths. But they miscalculated, it's been a dry week. 

You stop as a group and it dawns on you that your home is going to burn to the ground. The cabin is clear of the dead for now, even as the fire spreads. There's still time. You launch yourself toward it, and Troy is the one that grabs you. 

"Your journals." You gasp. 

"Leave them." He says, "We can't risk it." 

"But - but - " He takes your duffle from you, and you see the acceptance on his face. 

He points to his head. "They live in here. Your life is far more important to me than a few pieces of paper." 

You cast one last look at your home, the only home you've ever known, and you leave it to burn. 

Chapter Text

It had been your wish that you'd never need the SUV. But well you know what they say about wishes and horses. And you'd left your horses behind to run or die. 

Now you have to worry about fitting seven people in this thing. It's not until you pop open the back to try and shove the bags in that you remember. 

Nick remembers too. "Ain't that the stuff the Trimbols left with." 

Troy reaches for his knife and you all see it. 

They're all, minus Jake, looking at Troy now. So you get it over with, "I killed the Trimbols." 

This isn't the answer they're expecting as they jerk over to look at you instead. Time has made it an easier thing for you to stomach, it's more of a fact than a crime to you now. You've made your peace, accepted who you are and what you're capable of. 

"We went to talk with them and shit went south." You shrug like it doesn't affect you even though it does, at least a little, when you let yourself think about it as a crime. You sometimes have dreams of that sound Gretchen made when she died. "It wasn't in the cards, but shit happens. It doesn't matter anymore. If they'd stayed they'd have died too." 

It matters to Madison, because what you've said seems to cement something in her mind. "We're not going with you." She looks at her son and then back to you. "We're going south, back to a place we were before."

Troy is seeing in statistics now, you no longer have the safety of walls. No longer have the joy of your bed. He nods, "We'll pack a bag." He empties one of the duffles into the back seat and starts to fill it. Troy gives them water, two handguns, a weeks worth of food, and an axe. "For services rendered." 

Nick blinks at him, and you hope he keeps his mouth shut just this once, because Troy's patience is abysmal. You can see it in the hard lines of his shoulders and the way he thrusts out the bag. "Well don't sound sad to see us leave or anything." 

You sigh. Here we go. 

But Troy surprises you when he merely drops the bag at Madison's feet and turns away. "Good luck." 

She takes it, and slings it over her shoulder. Jake goes over to have a conversation with her, and you turn back to where Troy is hovering over your supplies. Taking inventory likely, planning in his head for what to do next. 

He's running on fumes. You all are. But there's a darkness over his shoulders, hovering around like a cancer, eating away at him. Something in him is breaking, broken, shattered. 

When you look back over your shoulder Madison and Nick are fading figures walking down the road. They only followed you this far for the supplies. Jake is standing alone, watching them. He'll need time to mourn. 

"We should find somewhere urban, to bunk down for the night." You suggest. "We need to sleep." 

He nods, and starts reorganizing the trunk to make sure you can fit everything. At least five people is a lot more convenient. 

You look up at Coop, and he's got his eyes to the asphalt. Blake is fidgety, and then you see it. The light sheen of sweat, the tremors, the way he keeps swallowing. The little noise of sadness that you make catches Troy's attention, and he follows your eyes. 

He shoves his hands in his pockets. "Where are you bit, Blake?" 

That attracts Jake's attention and he wanders back over to the group with his arms crossed around his torso like he's holding himself together. Coop's devastation grows, first his sister and now his best friend. 

Blake showcases his bite, and you want to scream. To rage against a world where this is okay, where you have to live with everyone dying around you. Before you have a chance to hug him, to tell him it's going to be alright, Troy acts. 

Don't think, act. He always follows his own rules. 

The shot makes you jump, and Blake's dead before he hits the ground. Your eyes burn with tears all over again. 

Troy however goes back to inventory maintenance, leaving Jake and Coop to stare at him in shock. It's Jake who speaks. "Why - why did you do that?" 

You already know the answer so you answer for him, "So he didn't have to look death in the eye." 

Jake deflates, and you all know that Troy made the right call. But he doesn't help matters when he chimes in, devoid of emotion, "Couldn't spare the gun." 

Space in the SUV no longer becomes a concern with four. Coop offers to drive, and he doesn't mention any desire to leave like the Clarks. He's the least exhausted out of all of you, so Troy lets him. 

You and Troy lean on each other as you sleep in the back seat and give Jake shotgun. When Coop wakes you the irony is stunning. This strip has a special place in your memory. 

It apparently does for Troy too because when he sees where you've ended up he actually smiles. You're glad to see it. He's the one that decides to set everyone up in the abandoned grocery store.

The shark he killed is still right outside the door. You find the spot right away, where you'd lain. Where you'd trusted two men you'd never met with your life. 

With all the drama of a showman Troy holds out his canteen and it makes things a little better. "You know I was willing to subject myself to a cavity search as long as you gave me some water." 

He doesn't laugh, but he smiles again. And you think, this at least you can fix. You couldn't save the ranch, but maybe you can save him. 

Your group goes to the back and sets up in the single lockable office. It doesn't matter that it's tile, at this point you'll sleep anywhere. Besides, Troy's always a willing pillow, so you curl up between his legs and use his thigh to rest your head. 

-

It's all a little too real in the morning. You feel better and worse. Your arms ache so badly, you leave them hanging like limp noodles at your sides. And there's no coffee, no eggs, no home. There's a protein bar and a sip of water. 

You miss it so much your chest aches. 

In the morning light you have the chance to take inventory on what little possessions you still own. You were lucky enough to be wearing your uniform. Its pockets have afforded you your most important possessions: your journal, a picture of Troy, a picture of the three of you, butterfly knife, and dogtags.

When you unbutton the top of your fatigue jacket you realize that you're wearing Troy's shirt, the very first one you stole. It had been a cool morning, and you'd wanted an extra layer. You reach out to touch it, and feel your throat swell up with emotion. You haven't lost it all. 

Troy is leaning up against the office wall, watching you. You look at Jake and Coop where they hover. "Can you give us a couple minutes?" 

They don't take any convincing at all, and honestly you think both of them want to be alone too. So they leave, and you scoot forward until you're between his legs, feet on either side of his hips. 

You touch his face, his hair, and run your thumb along his jaw. "You have to feel it." 

His brow twitches and it's the only sign of emotion at all. He's been a shell since he started killing the infected in the bunker. He can't stay like that. So you say it again. "You have to feel it, bright eyes." 

He turns to look at you, and you watch his barriers creak down and then they crack. One moment he's blankly staring at you, and the next he's got his arms around your shoulders, fisting the back of your jacket. 

And he's sobbing into your neck. He's falling apart at the seams and you're trying to hold him together as he collapses into stardust at your feet. 

Because he has failed. He has lost the only home he's ever really known. There is nothing left of his childhood but burning embers and a house that no longer stands. There is no going back, no salvaging. There is nothing to save. 

He clings to you with such desperation you start crying too. And you're a lovely mess pressed together in an empty office mourning a life you wanted for yourselves but could never have. Because somewhere along the way you thought, maybe you could stay there forever. 

It takes him a long time to calm down, and when he looks up face red, eyes swollen, snot dripping down his face you love him all the more. Because his tears are a genuine part of him. And you want him to feel, to be who he is without limitation. 

So you wipe his face, give him a tissue from the box that sat on the desk and stay. You don't try to stop the flow of sorrow, you let him cry. The same way he lets you. 

And when all is said and done, you both feel a little bit better. Not good, you're hell and gone from okay. But better. 

You comb your hand through his hair and kiss his forehead. "I am with you." 

He nods, and then he stands up, shakes his head, like that will ward the demons away and reaches for the door. When you find the other two it's clear this morning has been the time to cry. Both Jake and Coop have matching bloodshot eyes. 

You don't say anything about it. If there was ever a reason to cry this would be it. The death of Broke Jaw Ranch. 

"We need to decide where we're going." You say, because it's better to have some kind of plan. Better to have a task than to sit in an empty grocery store and turn to mummies of grief. 

"Pacific northwest is prepper central, we may find a camp up there." Jake offers. 

"Or get gunned down at the gates, if anyone's going to shoot us on sight it's other preppers." Troy rebuts. It's a fair point, one you didn't think of. 

Coop shrugs, "I don't have anything keeping me anywhere." Guilt eats at you, and you wish you'd been aware enough to try and save Lea. 

"Atlanta." You offer, and it's a selfish request. "My brothers they were headed to Atlanta when it hit. I know they're gone, but it's as good a place as any. If you guys agree?" 

Troy nods, "Atlanta it is." 

Chapter Text

The rumble of the M939 truck beneath him is familiar, it's comforting. The scent of burned exhaust and the feeling of his M4, only eighteen bullets left, is too. But the people around Troy are new. A means to an end. 

He and Glenn are on the same mission. 

In this they are partners, and this truck, these people are a resource Troy can't afford to lose. He has to find you. He can think of nothing else. 

Glenn where he rests across from Troy is also tracking the horizon. Abraham's music taste leaves something to be desired, but it's better than whatever Mexican shit his girl put on before. 

Troy adjusts his grip and fights the urge to tap his feet. Keep the blood flowing, keep on the move. It's been two days since you were separated. Two days since he knew you were safe and relatively healthy. Underweight now, since the ranch. 

Don't think about Broke Jaw. 

He can't think about it. All he can do is focus on one task at a time, find you, find Jake. Cooper is the lowest on his priority list, but he keeps an eye out. Looks at the sharks that fit the right build, and hopes he doesn't recognize the face looking back at him. 

Dead or alive, he'll find you. There was never any choice in the matter. 

"Your wife, what's she like?" Glenn asks. 

Troy doesn't correct him, you are his. The title behind that doesn't matter much: wife, girlfriend, partner. It's all the same. The rings are for you not for him, he knows where he belongs. "Stubborn." He's smiling before he even realizes it. "Beautiful, she's stunning and smart. She thinks of things I'd never think of, and funny. Shit, she makes me laugh." 

Glenn's mind drifts, and Troy doesn't doubt that he's also trying to picture his woman's face. Maggie. That was her name. A good one to remember he'll have more loyalty from Glenn than this group. 

Eugene cuts in, talking out the little window in the back. "How'd you and your player two meet?" 

Troy blinks at him, puts it together, and shakes his head. "Found her a few months in, couldn't shake her." 

"Maggie was like that for me." Glenn adds, "The moment I saw her I knew she was out of my league, but someone incredible." 

"I wouldn't describe Dixon like that, more like she's me. A different version, a different body, but still me. She told me once, that it was like calls to like." He shrugs, grinning at Eugene, "You tap a lot of ass, scientist?" 

The way Eugene goes red answers that question and Rosita in the front laughs. 

"I'll have you know that my party in the back has gotten me far." He shoots back. 

Troy leans his head against the truck, "I bet you've seen a whole two tits before." 

"Well hoss, we weren't all able to find our better half after the lights went out." He huffs. 

"I bet there's a nice girl out there still stuck in braces just waiting for that party, Geney." Troy replies. 

Before Eugene can come up with a scathing reply the truck's brakes squeak, and everything slows to a stop.  "Pile up. Stay put, Eugene." Abraham calls over his shoulder before stepping out of the driver's side. 

Troy shifts to stand, glancing around the side. Counting heads, six. Easy. He could do six in his sleep. He leaves the M4 slung over his shoulder and readies the fire poker he's commandeered as a melee weapon. 

Troy glances at Glenn, and the paleness of his skin. "Watch the scientist, we got this." 

Glenn takes the excuse and hangs out in the back as Troy jumps out the bed. He hits the drop with bent knees and leaps into action. He needs this, the whistle of metal as it slices through the air and buries itself in the infected closest to him. 

He yanks the poker back out and runs it through the eye of the woman approaching, eyes scanning her face. Unidentifiable, too rotten. Troy looks at every one of them just in case. 

"Oh, honey, look at you. You're a mess." Abraham croons from by the driver's door. 

Troy gets another, as Abraham pins her into the side of the truck. She gets stuck, and Troy watches as Abraham looks around for something to gank her with. He approaches and rams the poker through her ear. 

"Thanks." 

Troy nods and goes around the front to dispatch the last one, flicking the blood off his weapon with a satisfied sigh. Honestly, he could have used a dozen more, anything to get rid of the tension riding him. 

"I gotta admit, it is nice to have someone else at my back with a taste for it." Abraham comments coming to stand next to him. 

"Hm?" Troy hums, tilting his head back to savor the adrenaline before it vanishes again and he's back to the emptiness. 

"You like to fight. I like to fight. We'll get along just fine, and once we find your gal, we'll be high tailing it to DC." 

That was the deal, and Troy has no problem with it. If Eugene really can save the world, then he wants to be on that transport. You will agree too once you know. "Once we find Dixon and my brother." Troy reminds him, "Both of them." 

"Yea, yea. Help me move these cars." Troy sets to work, guiding cars back with Rosita steering until the road is clear again. He's not sure how he feels about her, but he'll keep his thoughts to himself. He's not about to lose all his advantages just because she's brown. 

Even if her music taste is trash. 

Five minutes later and he's back in the transit. They're not a bad group, honestly, Troy can see you and the others getting along well enough. You'll like Abraham, and if he hadn't known you for two years he'd be worried about that. 

But Troy knows you, and you are loyal. You would die for him, you were ready to lay down your life in the pantry. He trusts you. 

Glancing out the side, Troy surveys the trees. It's green here, a whole lot more so than where he grew up. The air is different too, wetter, there's a floral scent in the air. He likes it. It reminds him of hunting trips with Otto and Jake when he was a kid. 

The truck bumps over a set of train tracks and he catches something out of the corner of his eye. Pounding on the metal, he shifts to get a better look. "Stop the truck." 

Abraham clearly doesn't want to but he does, coming to a stop. "Glenn." Troy points, and there smeared across the concrete of a building, 'Glenn go to Terminus' with Maggie's name below it. 

The man makes a little noise of longing and jumps out running over to the sign. He touches it, rubbing his fingers together. "It's dry." 

Troy scans and notices a marker mounted on a stop sign. He crouches down before it, looking at the colored map. Tracks from all over the area, all leading to the same place. He considers what you would do if you found one. 

It's a lead. Jake would go, and Troy thinks you would too. Hesitantly maybe, but anything is better than nothing. If there are more signs, this can't be the only one, it's too well made. His hand comes out to touch the map, and it's shaking. Troy curls it into a fist and drops it. "It's a railway station." 

Glenn looks too, but he thinks the man probably doesn't read maps as well as he does, because he doesn't linger. Troy heads back to the truck, explaining their findings. "We go to Terminus, we find my people." 

Rosita looks approving, "They could have supplies, may even be able to recruit more people." 

It's all the convincing Abraham needs, and he starts planning for routes as Glenn pulls himself into the truck bed. If he doesn't sleep soon he's going to turn into a liability. Troy is low on supplies, but he has enough. He pulls a granola bar out of his pants pocket and tosses it into Glenn's lap. "Eat. Sleep. In that order." 

"I can't miss any signs." 

"I'll keep an eye, if you're half dead I don't want to have to carry you in all that riot gear." Troy responds, going back to looking for other guide marks. 

Glenn gives into the logic and eats. A few minutes later he's out like a light. 

Abraham drives, following the signs Maggie has left. She's written dozens, and Troy admires her dedication. Even as he wishes there would be some kind of sign from you. 

Everything is going well until the roadblock, that roadblock being a pitch-black tunnel. Glenn is still asleep, which is good, because this might be a delay he won't want to tolerate. 

Troy is more logical, the chances of you or Jake being in a car are slim. You'll be moving to the speed of a light jog at most. He'll likely be the first to reach the gates. Glenn doesn't tend to follow the same logic from what he's sussed out thus far. He's impulsive and stubborn to his own detriment it seems. Sort of like Jake. 

"Do we go through?" Troy asks. "We've got the headlights." 

"We don't know if it's clear and I don't like the idea of being boxed in if it's a dead end." Abraham explains, cutting the engine. The group listens, and the telltale signs of sharks echoes out. They could be a few feet in or at the very end, sound travels in tunnels and the darkness means no gauging how many until they're only a few feet away.

"So we go around." 

"I think that'll be best." The ginger nods, and backs up so he can take the road leading west. It'll burn gas, but it's safer than trying to go through. It adds to your trip by thirty, and Troy is glad Glenn didn't see the sign leading into the tunnel. 

Troy really didn't feel like knocking him unconscious. 

"So this girl of yours," Rosita starts, she's moved into the back through the window to get some air. "Dixon, she knows how to fight like you do?" 

Troy nods, "I'm the best in my group." He's alright with the arrogance that comes with that statement, because it's true. "But she's come a long way, I've taught her as much as I can." He reaches down and touches the top of his journal to remind himself it's there. He'll keep teaching you until you know everything he does. Anything for an advantage, anything to keep you alive. 

"She sounds sorta hot," Rosita teases and Troy glares. 

"She is." He says with an edge to his voice, "She's also mine." 

Rosita laughs, and holds up her hands. "No doubt about that. Besides I like those handlebars." She glances toward Abraham with a little smile. "It'll be nice to have a group with us, gives Eugene someone else to fucking talk to for five seconds." 

"I resent that." He calls from the front seat, and when Troy looks he's craning around to listen in. Lonely bastard. 

Troy drops his voice, "Really gotta get him some ass." 

She rests her arms on her knees and leans back. "The mullet isn't doing him any favors." 

"It's probably good that he's at least smart."

"Yeah, I'm lucky I got my GED back in the day." 

Troy shrugs, he doesn't know how he feels about the fact he finds that relatable. "I got pulled out when I was eleven." 

"Shit, what kinda trouble were you getting into?" 

His smile is wry, "I was making the wrong friends in class." 

"What gang kids or something?" 

Troy wonders if that was a concern for her. And if that's a race or location-based issue. He certainly didn't grow up with worries about gang violence, he'd have run the pack.  But he grew up in rural Cali, the closest thing he had to a gang in his area was a white supremacist biker gang off Highway 251. 

"Nah," Troy shakes his head. "We were close to the border. Lot of brown and black kids in my school." 

"So what you weren't playing nice with them?" 

"Opposite, I was too nice to them. Didn't line up with Big Otto's ideals. Didn't want me bringing colored kids back to the ranch on break. Wanted to chill with them, play video games, kid shit. It was making me weak, and he didn't want to see me end up a criminal like them." 

She's silent for a long moment and he waits for the rebuttal, the fuck you he expects after a statement like that. Instead, she's reflexive. "You stayed at your family's ranch after that?" 

"Yep, went through military level training. Otto Boot Camp, prepper drills. Everything and anything Teotwawki." 

"Teotwawki?" She raises an eyebrow and adjusts her cap to keep out the sun. 

"TE, the end of the world." He chuckles. "Otto thought it was going to be the fall of Democracy." Troy deepens his voice, mimicking his father, "You need to know how to protect what's yours from the urban hoards that will want to take it." 

"Sounds like a dick." 

If someone had said that to him pre-apoc he'd have decked them. Now, with Otto in the ground and you in his ear, it's easier to let go. "Dead don't talk." He says instead. "Suppose what he has to say doesn't matter anymore." 

"He die before or after?" 

Troy thinks back on that moment, the shift in your stance as you pulled the gun free. The way your mouth pressed into a thin line. The indignation that burned through you. Like some kind of guardian angel. 

"After." Troy says, and he misses you. "Dixon killed him." 

She's surprised by that answer, "And you're okay with that?" 

He nods, more to himself than anything. "She was protecting the ranch, protecting me. His last words were telling me and my brother to rot in hell. It was a clean shot, he didn't suffer." 

Abraham shouts back, "Wake Glenn." 

Troy reaches for his poker and Rosita her knife. She's not half bad in a fight, clearly trained by a lot of different sources given the way she moves. It's not annoying at least, fighting by her side. 

He shifts out, kicking Glenn in the leg as he lifts up to see what the problem is. They're slowing down as he spots them. A group of two fighting against the dead. Sundown has started to fall, but there's still enough light to fight by. To make out brown hair and white skin. 

Troy is out of the truck before they've fully stopped, hitting the ground hard enough he feels it vibrate up his legs. He can't tell from this distance but it could be you. 

He hits the crowd fast, not wasting fanfare as he brains the first one. The woman turns, and it isn't a face he recognizes. "Shit!" Troy twists running the poker through one of their eyes and spots the other stranger. 

He's an odd sight, in a wife beater, dripping with gore. But really it's his arm that catches Troy's eye. A metal contraption strapped up to his elbow with a blade attached to the end. 

He grins at Troy, before ramming the thing into one of the shark's heads with a laugh. Glenn and Rosita hit the fight a moment later and before long they're all dead. 

Troy reaches down to rub his weapon along the jeans of one of the dead to clean it. Let the others do the talking, he never considered himself to be very good at it. 

But the man has other plans, he crouches down beside Troy and spits on one of the corpses. "You a bunch of military?" 

Troy glances up, and he's struck for a moment by something about him. A familiarity that he can't place. The shape of his nose, and the tick of his jaw. "Nah, just Abraham." 

"You're wearing the look." He responds gesturing to the jacket. Outside of his journal, his jacket is the only thing Troy has left of his childhood. 

He chooses not to respond and it vexes the stranger. "Ah, how impolite." He sticks the bladed hand out like he's asking for a shake, and laughs. "I'm Merle." 

That catches Troy's attention. It's a reminder of you, a reminder that he doesn't need especially with a knife in his face while thinking about where he got this fucking jacket.

Don't think about Broke Jaw.  

He swallows down the insults that threaten to bubble out of him. "Troy Otto." 

He looks toward the woman, and sees her in Glenn's tight embrace. Maggie, it would seem. She's crying into his shoulder. And Troy misses you. He misses you so much his body feels like it's crawling away from his head.  

"Dixon." 

Troy whips his head around so fast he's sure he's about to get whiplash. "What did you say?" 

Merle gives him a not so friendly look, "You one of them retards?" 

"Fuck you. Why did you say Dixon?" Troy's raised voice has caught the attention of the others. 

Maggie's apparently stopped crying and focused on Troy. "Ignore him, he's an asshole." 

"I don't care," Troy snaps and reaches for the rifle resting against his side. He raises it and points it in Merle's face. "Start talking." 

The redneck throws up his hands, but it doesn't look all that innocent considering the knife arm he's got. "It's my last name, Merle Dixon. Ya' don't have last names where you're from, G.I. Joe?"

Troy's mind is reeling, because he can see you. He can hear you in the way Merle talks, in his drawl. You're even in his jokes, it's right up there with the kind of shit you'd say. 

Glenn rests a hand experimentally on Troy's shoulder. "Look he and Daryl can be a bit rough, but the more people we have the more likely we can find your wife." 

And that confirms it, one redneck with a trailer trash name is a coincidence. But brothers with the same name, that share features with you. That's a fact Troy can't ignore. 

"Oh yeah, it's definitely a girl that's got you pussy footing with that gun." Merle taunts and the whole group glares at him. Troy's finger moves off the trigger, he can't shoot the asshole. He owes him, at least a little. 

Even if he doesn't view Merle very highly, this man who didn't do enough. This man who let his little sister get molested and shoved his head up his own ass instead of handling it like a man. Troy considers hitting him, but they don't have the time. 

He drops the rifle and it swings back where he left it. 

"We should move out." 

Abraham's still sitting in the driver's seat as Troy walks back to the truck, hoisting himself into the back. "You good, Troy?" 

"Hell and gone from good." He replies irritated and sits back down next to his pack. 

"If Glenn can find his woman, then you can too." Abraham says, and Troy takes what little comfort he can from that statement as everyone else heads over. 

The back's got an extra two people, and Troy pointedly doesn't look at Glenn and Maggie. He can't take it. He wants that. He doesn't know how to be without his family. So he pulls out his journal and writes. 

He can feel Merle's eyes on him as he marks down everything that happened today and anything useful worth noting. Specifically defensible buildings and possible vehicles. 

"Thank you." Maggie says across from him. 

Troy doesn't look up, but he nods to tell her he heard her. 

"Glenn said you're looking for your wife? Are you looking for anyone else?" 

He closes his journal and shoves it back into his pocket. It's gotten so dark he can't really see the page anymore, the only light is the red glow from the truck lights. "My brother, Jake, and a friend of ours, Coop." 

"Cooper? Beard, short hair." 

She's got his attention now. "You seen him?" 

"Yeah, we split up. He's with another member of my group, Carol. They agreed to split because of Judith, she still needs formula. They're going to meet us at Terminus though." Maggie seems happy she can give him something like good news. "What's your wife's name?" 

Troy's eyes dart to Merle and he's still got a staring problem. He debates trying to keep it to himself but half the convoy already knows, it'll come out one way or another. So he gives in and says your name. 

Merle goes still, his brow pressing together. "That supposed to be some kind of joke?" 

Troy meets his animosity with his own, "We came all the way to goddamn Georgia to look for your stupid ass. Now look where we're at, I can't fucking find her! I shoulda told her you and Daryl were dead and stayed on the coast." 

"You're telling me you been with my kid sister the whole time?" Merle scoffs, like he both wants and doesn't want to believe it. "That she's your wife? Dixie Cup ain't the marrying type." 

"Oh what the fuck do you know about it?" Troy growls, "She's been with me, with my family. You and your useless brother left her in California, if I hadn't found her she'd have died in the first two months." 

"And what you rescued her out of the kindness of your goddamn heart?" If the truck wasn't moving Troy has a feeling that they'd be nose to nose. "You save my little sister to get a pity fuck? Look I get it she was a little tramp for a while there, it runs in the - "

Troy loses control. 

He snaps forward and grabs Merle by the shirt. His fist comes down hard into the bastard's face. But he's forced to dodge back when that knife arm comes his way. They're both on their feet, swaying with the truck. 

Abraham is shouting something, but Troy doesn't hear it. He is fixated, he is frenzied. The truck jerks to a stop and he stumbles to his knees. But that barely stops him before he's throwing himself at Merle again. 

He gets in a good punch to his stomach, and tries to pull off the prosthetic with his free hand. Merle's all talk, he fights like trailer trash. No real skill, only a desire to maim. Troy has both the skill and the desire. It makes him unstoppable. 

In the end, it takes Abraham, Rosita, and Glenn to heave him off. And Maggie is there with her hands on Merle's chest to keep him from charging while Troy is held back. 

The redneck spits a wad of blood onto the bed of the truck. "Dixie's fucking hero." 

Troy is chomping at the bit. "She came all this way to find you, you ungrateful fuck! How dare you. How dare you talk about her like that. Let me go. I'm gonna kill him." 

"Can't do that." Abraham says, "You two gotta shut this petty shit down." 

Shut it down. 

Shut it down. 

Troy squeezes his eyes shut and sorts through it. Merle is your brother, you want him in your life. He's a piece of work, but so was Jake. Troy still gave him a chance and he changed, got better. Giving you that chance is important, it's your right. 

He goes lax. 

"You run at him and I'm going to put you on your ass." Abraham warns and then he lets Troy go. As much as he wants to he doesn't rush him. Troy shakes out his hand, that'll bruise. 

He sits back down, clenching and unclenching his fist. Merle sits too, and Troy doesn't look at him. But the fucker is smart and keeps his mouth shut.

The truck starts moving again. "If we take shifts, we'll reach Terminus by morning." 

Chapter Text

Good news you're on the outskirts of Atlanta.

Bad news you are alone. You do not know where your family is.

The SUV died some fifty miles ago and your group had been forced on foot toward the city. You have a deep appreciation for good shoes. You were lucky enough to have your bags on you when the split happened, so at least you won't starve.

You've got food and water, an axe, knife, and pistol. But you have no way to get in contact with Troy. You don't even know if any of them are currently together or if you are all scattered in four entirely different directions.

The town you got split from is completely overwhelmed, no going back. You wander through a backwater neighborhood going house to house looking for a sign, a message maybe. It's dangerous, but you don't know what else to do.

You miss home.

The house you approach looks mostly untouched, but you're a shit tracker. You never had the patience for remembering all the signs. Out of the four of you, Coop is the best at it.

So you check it, just in case. You thump the handle of your axe against the door and listen. There's shuffling from inside. You tap again, but it goes quiet. Your body raises the alarm, "Troy?"

The voice that comes back isn't one you know. A man with a heavy accent, "No Troy here."

"I'm not looking for trouble. I got separated from my group." You explain, even as your hand gradually makes its way toward your gun. "Have you seen anyone in a military outfit? Or a white guy with short dark hair?"

Coop lost his jacket a while back, but you and Troy still wear yours. The fabric is thick, good for teeth and the blood washes off.

"Ain't seen no one like that."

You fight back a groan of frustration. "My name is Dixon, if someone asks for me, can you tell them I'm headed north? I'll be going now."

You start walking backward down the porch, ducking toward the treeline in case they open fire.

The front door opens and a kid fills the entryway. He's got a big ass hat on, "Hey wait."

"Carl!" A man shows up next, likely his father and they both look at you where you're crouched in the grass. He sighs and his face is beaten to shit. You don't want to meet the other guy. "We're not going to hurt you."

You don't trust anyone, so you stay crouched, hand on your gun.

"We should help her, dad." Carl looks back at the man, and it's a childish idea. One you can tell his father both hates and loves.

Another frame squeezes into sight. Her expression is colder, the most dangerous of the bunch, especially the way she's got a hand on a fucking sword at her back. She surveys you with casual eyes, and you don't know what she's thinking. Only that given her posture she probably knows how to use that thing.

You're pretty good at reading people most days, but not today apparently. Which makes sense because you're tired, you've barely slept. It's hard to sleep alone, you sleep in fits and starts. That and you're rationing more severely to be cautious.

"We're looking for people too, have you seen anyone?" The kid, Carl, asks.

You shift to stand, but keep watching their hands. "No. Haven't seen anyone new in a month, at least. It's hard to keep track."

Carl looks disappointed, and you get that feeling. His father takes over the conversation, going so far as to put his son somewhat behind him. "How many are you looking for?"

"Three." You're happy to give him information if it means they may actually have seen something helpful. "As I said, tall guy with light wavy hair, fatigue jacket and his brother, he's got short dark hair, was wearing a blue t-shirt last I saw him, and a bigger guy with a beard. Troy, Jake, and Cooper. What about you?"

It's the umber skinned woman who speaks, "We spread out when our camp fell. Dozens of people, some were on a prison bus."

"Blue bus?" You question.

She nods and you hate the hope you have to shatter. "Saw a bus on the road aways, there wasn't no one alive on it. A whole bunch of dead out the back like someone cleared it though."

They share a look, "You said your name was Dixon?"

You nod and give him your first name too. It's doubtful Troy will bring it up, but details can be important when you least expect it. "But people who tolerate me just call me Dixon."

They look at each other again and it makes you nervous. You don't like the silent part of the conversation they're leaving you out of. "I'm Rick Grimes, this is my son Carl."

"Michonne." Adds the woman, and they move out onto the front porch. You feel like this at least isn't going to end up in a showdown so you drop your hand off your gun, for now.

"If you're looking for each other I figure you don't have a camp?" Rick says, and you realize you're being interrogated. You get a better look at the kid's hat and shake your head with a smile. He's a damn cop.

"No, officer friendly, my home's gone."

He blinks at you and you swear that's recognition, which doesn't make any damn sense given you'd have remembered a man like Rick Grimes and his hat wearing kid.

"Where were you located?" His tone sounds conversational, you fight the urge to set your hand back on your gun. Normally you'd say your goodbyes and keep moving, but something in your gut tells you to stay. 

You know to trust your instincts. "Southern California."

"Long way from there." He says, adjusting his footing.

"I was born in Georgia. We decided to head this way to look for my brothers." You explain and glance around the treeline for any other members of Rick's group that may be hiding. He could be buying time for them to get here, but honestly, he's already at a steep advantage. 

"Maybe we've seen your brothers." He remarks, and you feel like this is the question he was originally aiming for. "What are they like?"

"My brothers are dead." You reply, "They were drifters. No goods, they probably got shot in the first week."

"Yet you came here looking for them anyway."

You grind your teeth, "Fine, Daryl and Merle. Think redneck trailer trash with bad tempers. Daryl wears a motorcycle vest with angel wings on the back, if you've seen one you've seen the other. Merle looks like he's three seconds from committing a hate crime."

Carl jerks his head up to look at his father. Yeah, that's recognition for sure.

You take a hesitant step forward. So far you hadn't dared consider you'd actually find them. "Have you - have you seen them?" You don't let yourself hope. The idea of your brothers is a pipe dream. One you talked about, but never truly considered as a reality. It was a location, a thing to do. A mission for Troy to focus on, instead of the ranch. You'd buried them in your head. 

Rick looks at his group again before finally he nods. "Daryl and Merle are a part of our group. They're two of the people we're looking for."

"What kinda weapon does Daryl use?" You ask, because you hadn't said before and you need to make sure they're not pulling one over on you.

Carl answers, "A crossbow."

You let out a gasping breath and bend forward into yourself. They're alive. They're close. There's a chance you'll see them again. The relief makes your legs tingle and go numb. Troy's journal said that's a warning sign of going into shock. 

'Shut it down' your inner Troy speaks to you. So you do, you compartmentalize. These are still strangers, maybe the start of a new group, but still strangers. Trust has to be earned, that's what keeps you safe.

"You got room for a plus one?" You ask.

Rick nods, gesturing toward the doorway, "Come on inside." 

It's hard to follow them in, because you don't know them. And trusting groups has always been a dangerous endeavor. At least it was in those first months. You can't really see Rick propositioning you in front of his kid though, doesn't seem the type. 

In truth, Miss Stabby makes you much more nervous. So you keep an eye on her as you enter the kitchen. You're desperate for any information you can get on your family. "Have they been with your group long?" 

"Since the start." Rick explains, "I wasn't there in the beginning, but they were part of my family's group."

You nod, leaning against the kitchen counter. "Do you have a meeting spot?" 

"No, we weren't expecting the attack on our camp," Michonne explains. "But we've been seeing signs for a community up just outside Atlanta, a train depot. We've seen a lot of signs, there's a good chance most of our community will have thought to go there. Your people might have too." 

It's a lead, and frankly, you'll take anything right about now. You let out a sigh and rub your face, "I think they'd follow the signs. At least Troy and Jake would." You hope at the very least they're together if not Troy is going to be a mess when you find him. 

Rick is watching you, surveying. Trying to figure out if you're a threat, you've sent that look at plenty of people. "You know how to use that thing?" He asks gesturing to your handgun. 

You pull it out and catch sight of the hand-painted grips. They're a little worn, smeared where your hands sweat the most. "Yeah, my boyfriend trained me. Relax, I've only got two bullets left, and they're reserved." 

"And he knew what he was doing?" Rick questions, as you slip it back into its holster. 

Carl asks as soon as Rick finishes his sentence, "Reserved for who?" 

"He's well trained." You say, before glancing at the kid. "For myself and Troy." 

They share a moment of silent understanding at that statement, and Rick's smart enough to not ask you to disarm. It's possible your brothers have bought you a sliver of trust from the cop. Funny to even think of them listening to a pig in the first place. 

"We'll rest here for the night and head out at first light." He explains, and you think he was the leader from wherever he came from. Gives orders like he's used to being listened to.

You agree only because your body is fighting against you. Pushing off the counter you head up the stairs and find a bedroom. There are two others, so you take this one for yourself dropping your bag by the bed. 

Looking toward the door you click the cheap lock and push a bookcase in front of the door. No one bothers you as you curl under a stranger's covers after giving them a good shake. When you fall asleep you manage to sleep until morning. 

-

Michonne and Carl are currently having a balancing competition. It's Carl that makes you have a little bit of faith that these people aren't dangerous to you. Dangerous in general, perhaps, but not dangerous to you. 

Rick is kind to his kid. You certainly didn't have a dad like that. 

There's some silly naive part of you that trusts a good dad. That and you like Carl, he's a sweet kid. Reminds you a bit of Lea. 

You smile as they compete and Rick smiles back at you. "He's a positive kid." You remark. 

"Wasn't always like that. It's been hard on him, been hard on everyone." Rick says, keeping an eye on the two. 

"Hell of a world to be a kid in." 

"Yeah, it is. We lost ... we lost his sister when our camp fell. It's good to see him smile." 

You don't offer condolences, because who are you to be arrogant enough to believe a sorry would fix anything. Instead you play along, jerking your hand up toward the woods. "Is that a unicorn?" 

Carl looks, losing his footing, and slips off the rail. Michonne crows out a victory and you laugh for the first time since you got separated from your family. They seem like good people. You're in desperate need of good people, of hope that the world isn't the monster, you've known it to be.

He groans as Michonne chooses her victory candy bar and shares it with him. You like her, you didn't expect to considering well skin is skin. But she's brave, intelligent from what you've gathered. Hard to think little of a woman who could cut you in half. 

Besides your 'don't trust anyone' mentality never really got you anywhere. Trusting strangers was how you found the ranch. How you built it into what it was. 

"What was your camp like?" Carl asks, and it's with such innocent curiosity you actually answer. 

"It was called Broke Jaw Ranch. This guy, Jeremiah Otto thought that democracy was going to end. So he got a whole bunch of like-minded paranoid families together for the end. Teotwawki. Built a nuclear bunker and filled it with enough supplies to last us ten years. I was dying when I came to the ranch, when Troy and Jake found me."

Your voice goes far away and you can picture it, the long grass fields. The scent of cedar in the cabin, the sheets on your skin, and Troy's smile in the morning light. Breakfasts, and milking the cows. Looking up at the stars together. How it felt like home. 

"It was unlike anywhere I ever visited. It was home, it meant something. The people meant something. We had walls, food, water, a few cattle, pigs, farm fields." You cross your arms in front of yourself. "A militia. I was one of the leaders with Troy and Jake. We kept people safe, until we couldn't anymore." 

Michonne's hesitant but she asks the question anyway, "How did it fall?" 

"We did something bad, to some people who didn't really deserve it. One of them got away, and he led a hoard, hundreds, to the ranch. We tried to wait them out in the pantry, that's what we called the bunker, but the air got shut off. People started falling asleep, and some died. Troy locked us in the armory before we got too oxygen deprived." You can hear it, the numb sort of horror in your voice. It's still fresh in your mind, a ghost you can't shake.

"When it came back on, everyone was dead or dead and moving." You choke back the tears and clear your throat. "Troy put them all down. It killed him. He'd been on the ranch since he was seven, full time since eleven. He swore to protect those people, had known most of them long before the end. Coop blew the oil reserves to try and lead the hoard away so we could get out, but he didn't think it through. The fire burned the whole ranch down, and the explosion collapsed the pantry. All of it, gone, in a matter of hours. I woke up thinking it was a normal day." 

They all stare at you in silence, before finally, she says. "We'll find them, those you got out with. Troy he's your...?" 

"Mine." You say with a little smile, "He's just mine. Jake's my brother, and Coop's my best friend. But Troy, he's everything to me." 

"Then we'll find him," Carl swears. 

"We will." You agree, because you have to. Not having him is unthinkable. 

Your little rag-tag team continues on for a while, and they tell you about the prison. They tell you about the Governor, and all they lost. The unfairness of the sudden attack, and really your stories aren't all that different. Tragedy, pain, and blood. 

They also tell you about your brothers. About Merle losing his hand, how Daryl and Rick are close. It's hard to picture, but it's nice to think they're making something more positive of themselves like you did.

The tracks don't lead through any towns, but you find a shitty blue SUV that's not going anywhere and decide to set up for the night. The longer you spend with them, the longer you're sure this is the right place to be. Your gut was right.

Rick and Michonne set up a fire, and Carl climbs into the front seat. It's been a long day walking and you're glad to have a place to sit down. You pull a ragged pack of cards from your bag and glance at him. "You know how to play war?" 

He nods and you prep, using the median. He wins and falls asleep with a victory smile. Rick casts you a grateful look from outside as he talks with Michonne. You let them have their privacy, you can't really make out anything they're saying, only the low murmur of conversation. 

It's easy to curl up in the shadowed back seat and fall asleep. The background noise is the best sound machine you could ask for. You awake at the click of something hitting the window. The fire is still going, so you can see the man outside, though he probably can't see you. 

Both because of the shadows and the fact he's looking at Carl in the front seat. Stranger, threat. His look rips through your body, with such disgust you shiver. You'll kill him, you'll kill him. Your only advantage is you don't think anyone sees you yet. 

"And shit I was thinking of turning in early on New Year's Eve." You don't recognize the voice. And from your still angle, you can't tell how many there are. Two for certain given the man talking, and the man at the window. 

It has to be more though because Rick and Michonne could take two. That means one with a gun to Rick, one on Michonne, and ugly in the window. Three minimum, but likely more. 

"Now who's going to count down the ball dropper with me, huh? Ten mississippi, nine mississippi, eight mississippi - " 

"Joe!" You go still. "Hold up." It can't be, it can't. You're a little girl crouched low in a locked bathroom listening to your big brother pick a fight to keep the attention off you. Small, defenseless, and terrified. You shove that feeling down, bottle it up and bury it with the rest.

"You're stopping me on eight, Daryl." But it is, that's your fucking big brother. 

"Jus' hold up." He says again, and you had no idea how much you missed his voice until you're presented with it after all this time. 

"This is the guy who killed Lue so we got nothing to talk about." Four, at least four of them. But now there are five of you. 

"The thing about nowadays is we got nothing but time. Say your piece, Daryl." 

You lean your head back against the seat and force yourself to focus. "These people, you're gonna let 'um go. These are good people."

"Now I think Lue would disagree with you on that. I'll of course have to speak for him 'cause your friend here strangled him in a bathroom." 

"You want blood. I get it. Take it from me, man. Come on." Daryl's voice is soft, and it sounds like your childhood. Soft words about starlight, and his thank you when you stitched angel wings to the back of his jacket. You wonder if he's still wearing it, or if he lost it like Coop lost his jacket. 

Your hand comes out to rest against the release on the door, waiting for the right moment. You think they still don't see you. It's the only advantage you have. Your pistol is in the front seat with Carl, you thought it would help him sleep. Stupid decision now. 

"This man killed our friend. You say he's good people. See now that right there is a lie. It's a lie!" The leader shouts, and your mind turns to white noise. 

You hear Daryl grunt in pain, hear Rick shout in distress. But you've stopped thinking, it's time to act. You yank down the handle and jump out of the car. You've still got your knife and it's tight in your fist. 

But you miscounted, not four, five. He hits you from the side before you even swing out, and you hit the ground with a yelp. They jerk you to your stomach and in seconds you're disarmed. 

Daryl is in front of you and you watch him curl into a ball, covering his head as one of them starts kicking him. He's that little boy again, hiding from the wrath of his father. The man who grabbed you pins your hands behind your back with something. A zip tie from the feel of it, and the fact he has them on hand fills your mouth with acidic saliva. 

The other door opens, and Carl is pulled from the car. 

"You leave him be!" Rick's voice is angrier than you've ever heard it. Threatening in a way that makes you have some semblance of hope of getting out of this. Troy isn't here to save you this time. It's down to you to protect, to be the soldier you've been trained to be. 

The man behind you presses his knee into your back, and you feel his breath on your neck. "Hey there, sweetheart." 

"Get fucked, you ugly bitch." You snarl back and try and buck him off. You'll be damned if you die with your face in the dirt and another man's hands on you. 

Your voice shakes Daryl and he tries to get up. He meets your eye and his go wide with recognition and rage. "Get the hell off her." He's not paying attention to the man behind him. He takes the opportunity to slam the butt of a gun into the back of Daryl's head and he flounders disorientedly forward. 

You're vaguely aware that Rick is saying something but you're too busy watching Daryl get kicked in the ribs as you struggle. "Fuck you. Pussy bitch. Afraid he'll whoop your ass if you let him up?" 

Though your brain tunes back in when the leader starts talking, "First we're going to beat Daryl to death, then we'll have your women, then the boy. Then I'm going to shoot you and we'll be square." 

You don't beg them to stop. You won't give them the goddamn satisfaction. "I'm going to kill you." You say instead, and it's a promise. Troy may not be here, but he doesn't have to be because he taught you how to destroy, to slaughter. 

"You're not going to - " A shot goes off and suddenly his weight falls onto your back. You jerk against it as another comes. A few more shots reverb through the forest, and you don't know what's happening as you try and press the weight off.

It's an awkward angle, and you don't have the core strength for it. You're stuck face in the dirt unable to see what's going on. "Daryl!"

Someone lifts the body off, and you roll. It's not Daryl, it's Jake. He's got blood on his face, but he looks completely fine. "Dixon." He pulls you to your feet and uses something to cut the tie. 

You turn and throw your arms around him. He hugs you back just as tight. "Are you okay?" You can hear the stress in his voice. Feel it in the way he holds you tight, that was too close.

There's a girl by him, a pretty blonde you don't recognize. 

"Better now that you're here, brother." 

You pull back and look for Daryl. He's examining you, arms limp at his side. And when he talks it's a croak of a word, "Hey." 

His voice spurs you forward and you launch yourself at him. He hugs you until it hurts, until his arms shake. "You're alive." He whispers, still clinging to you. 

You nod into his vest, he still has it. 

When you separate you see Rick coated in blood, and given the body bleeding out on the ground you put two and two together. No, you certainly didn't have a dad like that. Carl looks okay, shaken but uninjured outside of a few scrapes. Michonne is holding him. 

They're all dead. You rest your hands on your knees and breathe. 

"Jake this is - " You start. 

"Daryl, I know. I ran into him and Beth a day ago. We got split up by some of the infected. I'm glad I was able to track you all down." He scans the crowd and it kills you. Because if he's looking for Troy that means he's not here. 

"I don't know where he is." You whisper, but at least you found your brothers, two of the three at least. 

Jake wraps an arm around your shoulders, "We'll find him." 

Chapter Text

You and Jake sit in the front of the car while Michonne and Carl take the back. There's no catching up, you don't really speak at all. You take your pistol where it sits in the front and put it back in its holster. And Jake holds your hand while you sleep. 

The next morning you get out and go into the woods to do your business. On the way back you see Daryl and Rick talking. They're sitting close, whispering. You've never seen him like that with anyone but you. It's good, the idea that he's found someone outside of Merle to lean on. 

You love Merle, of course you do, but he's not an emotional support system. He's a pillar of destruction. He's a wildfire and Daryl is the forest. Soft and hard. Hot and cold. They stifle each other. 

Dragging your feet so they know you're coming, the group packs up. And you're walking again. You glance toward Jake and grin, "I never thought I'd have legs of steel as a kid. But damn I could crush a watermelon with these things." 

You're surprised when Beth laughs. You've got a new audience now. Daryl is walking on your right and Jake is on your left. 

"So you're uh in a relationship with Troy?" He questions and it's the most big brother thing he could have said. Jake apparently has mentioned the details of your small group. 

You smile at him, a wide happy thing, "Yeah." 

Daryl nods, adjusting the strap of his crossbow. "And ya' like him?" 

Your grin is teasing, "I love him." 

"Right, right. And he treats ya' right?" Daryl's hair hangs mostly in his eyes, but you can spot the concern anyway. 

Jake watches the exchange with unhidden amusement. 

"Better than anyone in the world ever has." You look down the tracks, Terminus isn't far now. "You'll see. He's a bit rough around the edges, but so are you so it should all work out in the end." 

-

Your hunch that Rick is the leader is only cemented when it comes to your approach to Terminus. He has the group scout along the fenceline for details about the community. Though you don't see a damn thing from your assigned spot. 

Not a single person comes or goes. 

And when it's time, he sets a duffle out and starts filling it with excess gear. You put your pistol and butterfly knife in, touching the painted grip fondly. You will come back for them. Jake puts in the AR, he already used most of its remaining bullets last night anyway. 

He was apparently the one that came out shooting and took out two of them. You're grateful that when it comes to threats at least he's got the skill to back up his plays. He's still an Otto at the end of the day. And he's protective as hell.

Your group goes in through a side gate. Rick fronting the move, with Michonne and Daryl covering him. It leaves you and Jake to follow, and Beth and Carl at the back. You cut across the pavement in quick formation.

You miss the militia. You miss having Troy right next to you, his rifle to his shoulder. The cool look in his eye when he clears a house. But at least Jake's presence helps, makes it feel a bit more like home. This group moves differently than the militia did, and you find yourself starting and stopping to find the correct pace. At least for now your drills are working against you, it's like you have two left feet.

There's a voice up ahead, and Rick is the first to stick his head around the corner. Whatever he sees seems to be safe enough. He lowers his gun, not the massive magnum he usually carries, he left that in the duffle. And then he relaxes his posture and steps into the room. 

Everyone follows his lead, shuffling in behind him. You line up in a neat line that makes you antsy. Jake doesn't like it either, because he shifts closer to you. 

Ever since the ranch he's been almost as defensive of you as Troy. It's cute. 

"Well, I bet Albert is on perimeter watch." The stranger, a leader given the way people are looking at him walks toward your group. "You here to rob us?" 

"No. We wanted to see you before you saw us." Rick explains, shifting forward to the front of the pack. Outing himself as the leader, though the way he talks would have probably done that anyway.

"Makes sense. Usually, we do this where the tracks meet." He outstretches his arms, but he doesn't have the showman's pose quite right. Troy does it better. You hope he's already here. "Welcome to Terminus. I'm Gareth. Looks like you been on the road for a good bit." 

You don't like the way he looks at you, like he's got something to prove. There's something about it that rubs you the wrong way, something off in his approach. But that doesn't mean the whole community is bad, it might just be him.

"We have." Rick nods and then he starts introductions, "I'm Rick, that's Daryl, Michonne, Dixon, Jake, Carl, and Beth."

Gareth responds with a little wave that makes you want to smack him in the face. Mr. Big Shot. "You're nervous. I get it we were all the same way. We came here for sanctuary. That what you here for?" 

"Yes." Rick's tone has gone neutral, he doesn't like the way Gareth has approached him either. 

"Good, you found it. Hey, Alex. This isn't as pretty as the front. We got nothing to hide, but the welcome wagon is a whole lot nicer. Alex will take ya', ask you a few questions. Uh, but first we need to see everyone's weapons. If you could just lay them down in front of you." 

You'd all expected this. That's what the duffle is for. So without much fanfare, Rick agrees. He starts first, shifting to one knee. And the rest of you fall in line. It's a little hard to handle, the idea of bending to a new leader. 

Rick has proven himself capable, but you've been spoiled following Troy for as long as you have. Taking orders from him feels natural, and maybe that's because you know in a way you're in control. If you don't like his call, you can input your own opinion. And you know for a fact that opinion will be respected. 

You don't have that kind of rapport with Rick, and you worry given your and Troy's ages that that may prove a challenge when the time comes. In this new group, there's a chance you won't lead at all. But for now, you allow it and kneel to remove your weapons. 

Given the duffle and your run of bad luck, you don't actually have much. You left your sentimental pieces in the duffle, because no one is going to use those but you. So you have your backup knife, and your axe. Jake lays out a P365 and two knives. 

You shift back to stand at the same time, at least that part of the drill is still useful. Jake knows how you move, and you know how Jake moves. One unit. Daryl is watching you, observing that fact. Trying to gauge if he's been replaced, like he replaced you.

There's some chatter as they frisk you, but they're polite about it. Most likely because of the looks your brothers give the poor bastard when he goes to touch you. 

"We're not those kinds of people, but we aren't stupid either." Gareth starts, "And you shouldn't be stupid enough to try anything stupid. As long as everyone is clear on that we shouldn't have any problems." 

You think Gareth doesn't fully grasp the reckoning that would befall him and his group should they try anything with yours. This group with two Dixons, a woman with a katana, and a man willing to rip out someone's throat with his teeth. 

To your surprise, they start handing back your weapons, and you smirk when Daryl snatches his crossbow before Alex can touch it. Still possessive of it, you guess. It makes you happy. 

"Follow me." 

You do, walking back down the hall you came through, to a new door. Daryl hovers in the front with Rick, "So how long's this place been here?" 

"Since almost the start," Alex explains as you walk out onto the asphalt. "When camps started to get overrun people started to find this place. Think it was instinct, ya know, follow the path. Some folks were headed to the coast, others out west, or up north but they all wound up here." 

The area you enter is clean, no trash scattered about. There's people sitting around and a laundry station to the side. It's all very Stepford. Almost too clean. 

There's a woman manning the grill, and she greets you. "Hi, heard you came in the back door. Smart. You'll fit right in here."

"Hey, Mary, will you fix each of these folks a plate for me?" Alex says. 

"Why do you do it, why do you let people in?" Michonne asks. You start to filter out, instead looking around. There's lots to learn about people by the way they live, the way they organize their belongings. Rick is doing it too. 

Mary starts filling plates, but she pauses to pull a notebook out of her pocket to write something down. Maybe inventory of what she's giving out. 

But you know that particular shade of brown. And when she flips it closed you spot the little TO carved in the corner of the cover. 

Your hand swings out and snatches it from her. It feels the same, it is the same. "Where did you get this?" 

But you don't get a response because Rick is moving too. He grabs at a pocket watch and pulled his gun on Alex. You shove the journal in your pocket and pull your own gun, moving shoulder to shoulder with Jake. Daryl slides in front of you, his crossbow at the ready. 

"Where the hell did you get this watch?" Rick hisses, and you know it's a setup because Mary is calm.  

She hasn't so much as twitched. "Where is he?" 

Alex starts placating, and he's not giving up shit. You don't even know if he knows. But Mary does. Jake's got his pistol in a firm grip, elbows bent scanning. He knows you can ask the questions. He focuses on the sniper. 

Jake is a good shot, better than most, especially if the target isn't moving. He can hit him from here. 

Rick keeps questioning Alex but it's not going anywhere. You keep your eyes on Mary and she watches you in return. Silent understanding eyes. She is a child of violence like you. Threats won't work on her, unless, there what's that? A flicker of uncertainty. 

"We got the riot gear off a dead cop." It's Gareth. "Found the poncho on a clothesline. 

There it is, a weakness. You smile. "Is he your son?" Her eyes widen, "They're both your sons, well lucky you. Two living sons in a time like this." You tilt your eyebrow up. "You tell me where my people are or one of your kids is going to bleed out in your arms, Mary." 

Her stare turns into something mean. "The one with the big blue eyes. Jacket just like yours." She questions. "He was hard to subdue, I've got to hand it to him. But guns are wonderful inventions aren't they?"

You go cold. "Is he dead?" 

Her smile is victorious and some part of you dies. You see Jake's hands start to shake as you drop your gun down to your side. Let them kill you. What does any of this matter if he's dead? Your hearing rings, and Daryl is pulling you back behind him again. You're sandwiched between your brothers, and you're crying. 

At least you think you are, you feel like you've taken a step out of your body. You've drifted up into the cold dark expanse of space and can no longer find the oxygen to breathe. Shots go off and Daryl moves. 

He throws his crossbow at Jake and then picks you up by your middle and tosses you over his shoulder. It's probably the right call, because all you do is hang there. You may as well be a corpse. All you'll have of Troy is a jacket and a fucking notebook. 

You couldn't fulfill his wish of writing the time of his death down. You weren't even with him. He died alone. You let him die alone. 

Daryl doesn't bother to grip you lightly, he's latched to the back of your legs holding you in place. Let him leave bruises, it doesn't matter. Jake is trailing behind, keeping you out of firing sight. You want to tell them to leave you, not to risk their lives for someone who's going to be nothing but a ghost. 

They cut through a building. There are names on the floor, candles too. A memorial. 

You could build a shrine for Troy and sacrifice yourself at his altar. 

The group exits and you come to a stop in a courtyard. You can't really see what's going on, nor does it matter. 

"Drop your weapons! Now." 

Are you still considered a weapon? Will Daryl drop you to the pavement? 

There's a pause where all you hear is your brother's angry breath. And then they start tossing their weapons to the concrete. Jake pulls yours free, and tosses them too. You are grateful they can't take the weapons that mean something to you. 

At least there's that.

Your shock abates, and you come back to yourself. You organize your thoughts, you bury it. "Put me down." 

Daryl listens, lowering you down to your feet. Your legs are shaking, a bit numb, but you manage to stand. Your life is forfeit, it means nothing to you now. But Daryl's life, Jake's life are important. You must protect them. 

Selfish to forget that even for a second. What would Troy think of you if you let Jake get mowed down while you weren't paying attention? You curl your hands into fists, digging your nails into your palms to use the pain to ground you.

"Ringleader, go to your left." It's Gareth again. You turn to meet his eyes, and you hope he can see that you're going to kill him. You're going to slice him open in front of mommy and see if he screams for her in the end. "The train car, go. You do what we say the boy goes with you, do anything else he dies and you end up in there anyway." 

Rick gives Carl a nod and complies walking to the train car. 

"Now the archer." Daryl casts you a look and follows. 

"Now the little blonde." Beth to your surprise glances at Jake before following. 

"The sharpshooter." Jake touches your back when he passes you. And his eyes stay on you even as he walks away, looking at your body language. Probably trying to figure out if you're going to bolt and get yourself killed.

"The samurai." Michonne seems happy to follow the others. "Stand at the door in that order." 

"My son!" Rick shouts, and you wonder if you're about to be the suicide note of this group. You'll do it in a heartbeat. 

"Go kid." Carl half jogs over to your lineup. "Ringleader, open the door and go in. Or the boy dies." 

You remain standing in the courtyard, still, calm. No reason to be worried when you have so little to lose. You're going to bury this place. You're going to drench it in blood. Your mourning is eclipsed by your wrath. 

All it takes is a few more moments and you're alone. Gareth steps down from his podium and points a gun at your face. You fight the urge to laugh at him, because his threat is pointless. 

"Walk." He gestures with his gun, and you start moving. One foot in front of the other. Your brothers aren't dying here. You won't have it. You won't allow it. 

Your chin is held high as you walk, "Do you love your mother?" 

Gareth presses the gun into your spine. "You don't know anything about it." 

Oh touched a nerve. You smile at the people you pass. They lead you back through the way you came, were corralled more like. They don't like that you smile. Good, let them be unnerved. "A bit of a mama's boy then. You just do what she tells you, or are you capable of independent thought?" 

"You have no idea what my family has been through." He presses the gun into your skin a little harder. Idiot. A sharp twist and you could disarm him. Always keep distance between you and your prey. 

"You'll have experienced all sorts of horrible things when I'm done with you." 

"Do not threaten my family." He hisses, but you're not intimidated it goads you on. 

You glance back at him, surveying him. "Seventy six minutes." 

"What?" 

"Given your height, BMI, age." Your smile is violent. "Seventy six minutes until you turn. Your momma will have seventy six minutes to hold your corpse before you start taking bites out of her. Don't worry, Gareth, I'll be sure to write it down." 

"There's something wrong with you." He shoves you through a doorway and you find yourself in an office. "Sit down." 

Mary is inside sitting behind the desk, and you know for sure she's the one in charge. 

"And everywhere Mary went the lambs were sure to go." You lean into the chair and cross your ankles. "But you're not kind are you?" 

She returns your animosity with cool collection, "Tell us about your group." 

You bare your teeth at her, "I have a better idea, tell me what you did to Troy, so I can better plan how to slaughter you." 

Chapter Text

Troy thinks he has a concussion. It's hard to garner in this dark box. Someone just came by to let them politely know that if anyone comes out when the door opens they'll be shot on sight. 

He sort of wants to test it. To see if the asshole on the roof is actually a good shot. All he needs is a weapon. He can kill with anything, but it's a lot faster with a firearm. 

The gunshots outside sound distant and echo-y in this damn container as the others shift to stand. They're likely putting more people in. And that's confirmed when the prick that screwed Troy over starts talking again, naming off his dumb titles. He'd been Poet, because of his journal, which they fucking took. 

It's the most important thing he owns. Your first gift to him, he lost the two spares when the ranch burned. 

Don't think about Broke Jaw. 

Troy's hands start to curl until he feels the ache in his fingers. They were dislocated and though he had Abraham snap them back into place, they hurt like a bitch. 

The door opens and he has to blink quickly to adjust. Troy doesn't recognize the first few, but then, he knows that frame. The slope of his shoulders, the hair at the back of his head that always stands straight up no matter how much gel he tries to tame it with. 

He jerks around Glenn and yanks his brother into his arms. Jake returns the embrace in a way he never has before, in desperation. His touch lingers, clinging to him. "Troy." They've never had a hug like this, and Troy knows something has gone wrong. Worse than being stuck in a train car. 

They pull back as others in the car start to greet each other. The second man who entered is watching close, surveying. Troy would bet anything this is Daryl. He is surprised however with how relieved Daryl looks to see him. 

"Where is she?" Troy starts rescanning the box looking for you. 

Jake touches his arm, "They told us you were dead. Dixon saw your journal at the front gate, it turned into a firefight thereafter. She thinks your dead, Troy." 

"I had to carry her," Daryl whispers. "She gave up." 

His heart is slamming into his ears. You're out there, without anyone. Alone, with these crazy bastards. Troy is faintly aware he already heard the click of the car being locked, but he rushes toward the door and tries to heave it open anyway. 

His hand screams against the tight grip. It rattles, but doesn't budge. Someone grabs him, pulls him back and he fights against it. You are out there. "Vixen!" 

It's the ringleader that grabs him and slams him into the metal frame with an arm to his chest. Jake is next to him, hands coming out to try to comfort, to stop whatever is about to happen. It doesn't matter, none of this matters until you are here with him. 

"You must be Troy. I'm Rick." His voice is gruff, "We need a plan, you need a good head on your shoulders. You're useless if you panic. I've been there, I know what that feels like. Take a breath." 

Troy sucks in air through his teeth, and leans his head back. "Get your fuckin' hands off me, Ricky." 

The man steps back, and watches, waits to see if Troy will go back to trying to rip the door open. He doesn't but only because he's right. Panicking won't help you, what you need is the heartless killer he can be. 

No one in Terminus is making it out alive. 

Jake hovers, and Troy is unmistakably glad he's alright. "You been with Dixon the whole time?" 

"No, I was alone. Met up with Daryl and Beth a day in. Dixon ended up with Rick's group. We found them in time." 

"In time for what?" He asks, turning his face toward his brother. He catches the flash of discomfort, "In time for what, Jake?" 

"A group was hunting them down. We showed up before anything could happen. They're all dead." Jake assuages, watching him cautiously. 

He needs to take several more long calming breaths to get his shit under control. Troy knows what Jake is insinuating. You're beautiful, even the nastiest bastards in the world know it too. He should have been there. He'll dig them up and kill them again later. He keeps breathing. "I need to find her." 

"Ya' will," Daryl assures, and Troy feels like he's being appraised for his worth. 

"So she is here?" Merle asks, but Troy ignores him. Listening to Merle is like shoving an ice pick in his eye. 

"We need to prepare," Rick says, and Troy doesn't like the idea of following orders from a man he doesn't know. Jake gives him a look until he agrees, if only for now. He'll follow Jakey's lead. "Search for anything that can be turned into a weapon." 

They set to work. Belt buckles turned shivs, shoe laces, anything, and everything. Troy finds a sliver of metal in the back corner and spends his time filing it down to a point sharp enough, in theory, it will slit a throat. 

"Alright, we got four of them pricks coming our way." Daryl alerts, and Troy moves to stand. His hand going tense around the metal; he nods to his brother to stay close. 

Rick shifts to the head of the group before Troy can, and a flash of annoyance snakes through him. "You all know what to do. Go for their eyes first, then their throats." 

"Put your backs to the walls at either end of the car. Now." 

Troy snorts, like he's going to listen to that guy. He tenses, watching the door until light abruptly cascades from above. He jerks his head up squinting, but the moment he hears the drop of metal on metal, he knows. 

He's got enough time to grab Jake by the sleeve and haul him away as Abraham shouts, "Move."

Positioning himself to shield his brother, whatever it is detonates. He holds his breath, fog bomb. Better than a grenade.

It turns into a flurry of limbs, and he's forced to take a breath when he starts swinging. Immediately the dizziness hits him, but he doesn't stop fighting even as people pull him out of the train car to his stomach. 

The light is blinding. He tries to find Jake, but only catches movement out of the corner of his eye. His brother's voice, "Leave hi- "

-

Troy comes to in a new location, with a pounding in his temper that makes him want to vomit. Definitely, a concussion now if it wasn't before. His vision swims until it's filled with nothing but the metallic shine of a basin. 

He groans, and realizes that his tongue isn't just heavy, there's a gag in his mouth. Jake slams into the metal next to him, and he meets his brother's eye. His gaze keeps drifting toward the sound in the corner, and when Troy follows it he understands. 

Not only are you missing, but you're also missing in a group of motherfucking cannibals. 

Someone restrains his ankles and he starts grunting out insults that don't make any sense through the fabric. No way is he dying like a stuck pig. No way is he letting his family die like that. 

Daryl ends up on his other side, and the redneck is struggling even more than Troy is. He gets it, he really does. Glenn is also lined up with a few strangers he doesn't recognize. All men. No sign of you. 

They've got knives and one of them has a bat. Troy has seen this trick before. Hell, he's participated in real life wack-a-mole. Hit to disorientate, then go for the kill. Normally he was fast enough not to need the bat. Rabbits and moles really aren't that quick. 

The man at the end goes first, a stranger. Troy and your group are farthest down the line. There's time for a plan. His hands and feet are tied, but Troy is never harmless. 

The next one goes, and he can feel the chemicals pumping through him. Making his stronger, making his mind clearer. Jake is to his left, he'll go before Troy will. He can see the fear in his brother's eyes, and he hates it. 

He's always hated seeing Jake afraid. 

He tries to say it without verbalizing it, 'I'll protect you, Jakey. I'll protect you.' Troy made a promise to himself to take care of Jake, to guard him against their father's blows. To be the center of attention, the focus of Big Otto's wrath so Jake wasn't. His big brother had always been so frightened of his drunk father.

The difference between the Jake he knew as a kid, versus the one here now is this Jake calms, his body relaxes, and that fear ebbs. He trusts Troy. That fact would make him emotional any other time, but right now he has to make good on that promise. So he plans. 

A third falls. The next one will be Glenn, then Jake, himself, Daryl, and Rick last. 

There has to be something. Anything. 

And then that bastard from before walks in, like this is another Tuesday. From Troy's understanding, he's the last person who's seen you. He jerks up and snarls through the gag. 

"Hey guys, what were your shot counts?" 

They respond. 

Troy starts speaking through the gag, but it comes out mumbled, "Where is she? What did you do to her?" 

It's barely distinguishable, but dickhead picks up on it and rolls his eyes. He reaches forward and yanks the cloth out of Troy's mouth. 

He doesn't waste time begging, or trying to talk his way out of this. Troy only knows how to negotiate with his hands. His fists. "Where is she?" 

The bastard actually laughs, leaning back. "You're the crazy one's boyfriend. She really is something isn't she?" He smiles, and Troy's bloodlust nearly consumes him. "Is it true it'll take me seventy six minutes to turn? She really seemed to think so." 

Troy looks at him, raises his chin. "Seventy two. Now where the hell is she?" 

"She's being processed." 

The Deja Vu is consuming. And he's in another place, back in California killing people in a bathroom. It's the closest he's ever come to feeling guilt for it. For how Madison must have felt. But that's the past, and there's no changing it. 

"Let me see her." 

Jake nods next to Troy, like that may help convince him. But he doesn't seem to agree. "You'll see each other wherever is it nutjob people like you go when you die." He reaches to shove the rag back in Troy's mouth, and barely avoids being bitten. 

He moves on to Rick, crouching down and Troy returns to planning. 

"I saw you go into the woods with a bag and come in without it. Had to pull my spotters back before we go look for it. What was in it? You hid it right, in case things went bad. Smart, but still we'll find it. It's too dangerous to go out right now." He reaches out and grabs Daryl forcing his head down toward the tip of a knife. "What was in it? I'm curious. It was a big bag."

Daryl struggles but he doesn't have much leverage and if he jerks too much he might take his own eye out. "Are you really going to make me do this?" 

If Troy throws himself back now, he might manage to gain a few feet. But then there's the concussion to think about, and the fact all he currently has as a weapon in his teeth. That and Jake is vulnerable. It's too risky, a last option. 

"Let me take you out there, I'll show you." Rick bargains and it's wise of him to try to buy for more time. Every second counts. 

"Not going to happen, but this might." He shifts the knife closer. 

"There's guns in it." Rick offers. "AK47, AR15, 44 Magnum, and a P226. Night scope, there's a compound bow and a machete with a red handle." Rick's head tilts like he's looking at a squealing rodent. "That's what I'm going to use to kill you." 

The P226 is your gun. His fingers burn from being pressed together so soon after being damaged, but that doesn't matter. Troy can agree with Rick's sentiment, at least your new group isn't a bunch of pansies. 

He re-gags Rick and shifts to stand. Troy watches his every move. So far he doesn't have a better plan than roll and pray. But he'll do whatever it takes, even if he takes that long knife through his middle to do it. 

Troy's been looking into that endless trench his whole life. One more day walking the edge won't kill him. He's like Nick, suicide proof. At least he hopes the bastard is out there alive and well, getting high on his own supply. 

Troy's waiting for the leader to leave so he can make a move when shots go off behind him. They're distant, outside the building. Probably a rifle, too loud to be a handgun. 

Jackass pulls out a walkie and starts talking into it, "Hey Chuck?" 

Another shot goes off, and Troy tries to get a better look around while they're distracted. But he's thrown off course when an explosion ricochets off the building and the whole ground shakes. 

Troy hits his side hard bumping into Jake until they're both on the floor, and he lies there safeguarding his brother with his body alone. 

But then he sees it, the wood in Rick's hand as he saws at the zip tie. If he gets free, he'll have a chance. Troy readies himself for action, to rush at one of them as needed. 

Jackass leaves them behind, and he waits, counting the seconds until Rick is free. He meets Troy's eye and gives the slightest nod of his head. 

The two cannibals start arguing and Troy schools his face with indifference, even though he wants to smile. Rick's tie snaps, and his muscles tense. 

In the end, he doesn't need Troy's help, he's a seasoned killer and Troy's respect for him grows. He frees Glenn and Daryl first, before getting Troy and Jake. 

He stands, pulling Jake to his feet as he rips his gag off, rolling his jaw. "I got you, Jakey. You good?" 

Jake nods, and Troy rushes over to the metal slabs. He finds a machete and takes it, handing Jake a knife similar to the ones he's used to handling. "We need to find Dixon." 

"We need to find everyone." Glenn replies, "They probably put her back with everyone else after they took us."

"Or they put her somewhere else." Troy says, and he hates that he doesn't have the slightest idea of where you'll be. He's barely seen the layout of this place, not enough to know all the possible spots. He's got a bare minimum idea of a couple exit points, useless if you're not with him. 

He's not leaving the depot without you. 

The group passes what Troy assumes must be the drying stage. Jake looks a little green, so he slaps him on the back to jar him out of it. 

"You see any of these people, you kill them. Don't hesitate, they won't." Rick guides. 

"Wasn't going to." Troy remarks wryly, as everyone moves toward the door. There's a few sharks outside surrounding one of the storage containers, clearly someone is in there. 

"If we run by they should be too distracted to notice us." 

Jake shakes his head. "Dixon might be in there." 

"We clear them." Troy doesn't wait, he ignores the way Rick hisses his name as he strides out toward the dead. It's easy with a group like this, four sharks are nothing. 

Jake pulls the container door open and a man comes flying out, grabbing hold of the front of his shirt. Troy doesn't think, he responds, his new knife slides into his skull, and he pulls Jake back. He uses only a second to look in the container for you, before taking off again. 

There's a group picking off the sharks with guns, he takes a calming breath, cooling the laugh that's bubbling up inside him. Now is not the time. 

One of them makes the foolish mistake of lagging behind and Troy is on him in a flash, knife through his throat. He pulls the body back, disarming him. 

He brings the rifle up to his shoulder and fires into the crowd, mowing down the others. Jake hauls out collecting the other weapons, and with every passing second Troy gets a little angrier, a little more dangerous. 

With Jake at his side and a rife in his hands, it almost feels like old times. 

With every few steps, Troy finds himself scanning around for any sign of you. There never is one, and all he can do is hope they're right and you're back on the train car with the others. 

It's the only lead, but if you're not there he'll go building to building until he finds you. He'll clear every last shark and person in this entire facility. 

Rick leads and Troy follows, the container is in sight. Daryl throws himself up the steps and begins pulling open the door as the others lay down cover fire. Troy focuses on counting his clip. He's got twelve rounds left in the handgun, more in the rifle. 

There's a flurry of activity as the others pour out, and he chances a look over his shoulder to look for you. Drifting from face to face. 

"No, no, no, no." He takes a step back into the crowd, "Has anyone seen Dixon?" You were supposed to be here. He turns to Rick, "Get your people out." 

"You go into that you're going to die." Rick says back, "Come with us, we'll regroup and find her." 

Troy shakes his head and Jake moves up to come with, "I'm not leaving her behind." 

Daryl and Merle look at him, and he watches it. Watches them pick sides. And Troy isn't all that surprised when they don't volunteer to go. But that's why you have him, you'll always be able to count on him. 

Jake too is ready to walk through a flaming encampment of sharks to do so. Troy is proud of him, proud of who he's become over the last year. A man who puts family first. "We'll meet you outside the walls, if you're willing to wait for us." Jake says, and raises his rifle back toward the crowd. 

Daryl nods, "We'll wait."

And then they go. 

But the Otto brothers don't run from the fire this time, they walk headfirst into it.  

Chapter Text

You're surrounded by the dead. They're pressed against the chain link that surrounds you, reaching to get in. They won't have you. 

You're not ready to die until they've all paid for what they've done. So you take one of the bones that rests on the blue tarped floor and snap it to a point. It's easy to kill the sharks through the fence, one at a time. Methodical. Like counting sheep. 

Someone will come by, stray too close and maybe they'll have the keys to this box. You have to be patient. To trust that if one of the termites isn't coming, then Jake will. 

So you kill, and you wait. And no one comes. There's smoke in the air, tickling your lungs. You're in a courtyard, safe from the fire but not the smoke. With every passing minute, it gets a little harder to take a full breath of air. 

You're pressed up against the fencing looking for the sight of anyone, when you see her. She's armed, but more importantly, she's carrying Daryl's crossbow. "Hey! You in the guts, you from the prison?" 

She turns, and you see from her startled expression that she likely is. She turns, wandering toward you, blending in. "Who are you?" 

At least she's talking to you, that's a start. "Dixon, I'm Daryl and Merle's sister. I traveled with Rick here, but shit's clearly fucked. No way I could convince you to let me out?" 

The stranger looks at you, scans your face. "Tell me something about Daryl." 

"Cautious, I like it." You give her your winning smile, the one people typically like you for. The militia loved you by the end. You miss having a group of trained soldiers at your back in every bad situation. You're forced to find a fact about your family, "Our ma burned our trailer down when I was a baby, they said she probably fell asleep with a smoke." 

That seems to be enough for her because she turns to the lock, and gestures you back as she lifts the gun. "I'm Carol." She says before pulling the trigger. The single shot draws the sharks, and the two of you dart off. 

"Give me the crossbow." You say, and sling it onto your back when she hands it over. The draw is too strong for you, it would take both feet and a good deal of struggling just to load it. But you can at least carry it, since she's carrying several things already. 

You end up back in the shrine room, with its sparkling candles and reminders of what they took. Your breath catches when you see her, rifle trained at you. "Disarm." 

Instead, you grin, "Did you forget, Mary? I'm going to kill you." Your vision is hazy, the bloodlust rushing up inside you. Troy used to describe it as tunnel vision, but you'd say it feels a bit more like drowning.

"Drop your weapons." She says again. 

You slip the crossbow to the floor only because right now it's useless. But you still have the bone you shoved in your back pocket. Shifting your hands up you wiggle your fingers at her. 

"We used to be a safe place." She says, and her eyes are wide with grief. "This used to be a good place, until people came and took it. But - but we got it back and - " 

You don't care about her sob story, she should have thought about that before she murdered your home. The only person that made you feel safe.

You jerk to the side, and rush her. She doesn't expect it, and you collide. Her rifle lets out a scatter of shots as you both hit the ground. You land on top of her with a grunt, the two of you wrestling over the weapon. Until Carol zips forward and rips it from the woman's hands, and you smile. Because you miss him. And this is the closest you'll ever be again. This monster will only ever die once. You yank the bone from your pocket and ram it into her chest with a squelch. 

The tears break free and you bring it down again - again - again - again. 

There are smears blood and tears on your face, and you are wailing. You don't know how many times you stab her, how many times that bone buries itself in her mutilated chest, but you don't stop. You've forgotten how.

"You bitch." You swing again. "You," Another. "Took," Another, "Everything," Another, "From," Another, "Me! " 

The door opens and you think Carol is taking off. You don't blame her. You're soaked in blood, it's in your hair coating you up to the elbows. Some piece of you, some vital part is gone. You're reduced to a beast of blood and vengeance. 

You run the bone down a final time, your whole body shaking. You didn't register when she stopped screaming, or even when she died. You've got time. It will take her at least thirty minutes to turn. 

Someone wraps their arms around your waist and pulls you up away from the corpse. Military sleeves, the familiar camo makes you fall apart all over again. And they hold you, and they feel like Troy. "I'm sorry." You gasp. "I'm so sorry." 

The grip tightens, "I'm here, darlin'." 

You freeze, and look up to see Jake standing in front of you. He's watching you, but his eyes keep slipping back to the woman on the floor. If Jake is in front of you, who's at your back but a specter?

He loosens his grip so you can turn, and you're met with blue eyes. Your favorite color. Living, bright eyes that pin your butterfly wings back in place. "Troy..." 

He smiles, touching your face. Never one bothered by the messiness of the fight. "We gotta get out of here, vixen, but afterward you can tell me how much you missed me." He winks and you're so relieved it feels unquantifiable. 

Troy is alive. 

He's here, he's joking with you. And you don't know whether to beat the holy hell out of him or collapse. 

He takes the choice away when he hands you a spare AR. It feels familiar under your hands, and although you, like he does, prefer an M4, it's close enough. 

"You're with Daryl's group?" Jake asks Carol and she nods. "They already left, we've got a meeting place lined up though if you're with us." 

Carol steps forward, "Let's go then." 

You spare one final look at the woman on the floor. Her blood has pooled around her, covering up the names of her precious dead. It's fitting. You are satisfied, for the moment, with this. Tempered by Troy at your side. Not so much beast, and now a woman again. 

He and Jake keep pace with you as you leave the room. It's easy to work your way out with four, especially because Troy seems to know which way to go. He's good like that, always has an exit plan. You've never seen him lost. "Which way, nature boy?" 

Troy shifts his rifle to the left and you follow him, picking off sharks if they get too close. It's not long before the fence is in sight, and he leads your group to a low zone that already has a tarp thrown over the barbed wire. 

He makes you go first, crouching down with cupped hands to boost you over. Once on the other side, the air is already a little clearer. You take a long deep breath and wait for the others. 

Once Carol clambers over she ditches the shark suit. You're about at bloody as she is, minus the guts. It's still drenching your face and hair, coating the front of your jacket and soaked deep in your jeans. 

Troy drops his rifle to his hip once you're in the woods, but he's still scanning with each step. You can see the tenseness in his shoulders, the way he hyper-focuses on every noise. It's suddenly a novelty to watch him. These movements you thought were gone forever. You're so damn busy looking at the back of his head you don't even notice you've arrived until Daryl rushes past you and grabs ahold of Carol. 

Interesting. 

You watch the interaction, the way they look at each other. Like family. A younger you would have been jealous of a sight like that, but now you're only happy for him. If he's picked someone over you, that's okay, you always expected to eventually be replaced anyway. 

It takes you a second to find him in the crowd, mostly because he's leaning against a tree away from the others. But he's looking right at you, arms crossed in front of his chest. 

Merle. 

This feels different than seeing Daryl again. Where Daryl you always considered loving, caring even, Merle has always been hard edges. They are a beautiful example of the fact you can come from the same house and turn into completely different people. Same enough to recognize, but different enough that it's like touching a thorned flower whenever you try to connect.

Your walk toward him is slow, and Troy gives you the space to go. That's generous where he's concerned. Your brothers have gained special privileges. 

Merle's sporting a nasty bruise against his cheekbone, and a split lip. It reminds you of your youth, watching him show up to cart Daryl off on one adventure or another. He's clean, you can tell by the clarity in his eyes. You're not sure if you've ever seen him clean before. But the apocalypse has a way of making you quit. "Hey."

His chin raises, but he doesn't immediately respond. You feel like you're seven again, hoping he'll make a better dad only to end up disappointed. "We thought you were dead and gone." 

"I thought the same about you." 

He surveys you, looking at the still wet blood. 

It's fresh, insane that you never knew there would be a difference before all this. It shines a little brighter, still rebelling against the oxygen. You look down at your crimson coated body. 

"So this world's made a killer out of you." He sniffs and then spits into the grass. "Didn't think you'd have it in you." 

You're reminded that the only reason he pulled you from school and took you on the road was due to base family loyalty. He didn't want to have to wait for you to age out, and it wasn't like you were learning anything anyway. You'd been happy to run, to leave your father behind. 

"They did a number on your face." You say attempting not to let the conversation die. No point in trying to convince him there was always a monster in you willing to kill. You've always been made of tougher things than Merle thought, the ranch coaxed it out of you. He doesn't see you that way, no one but Troy does. He sees that creature in you, and his own rises to love it. 

You're surprised by the flash of anger and the way he looks toward Troy, "G.I. Joe is responsible for my damn face. Kids got no control." 

The way Troy is watching Merle makes a lot more sense now, if he's already been riled to the point of a fight. You knew Merle would be a hard sell. Not being there when they were introduced didn't help things. But at least Daryl seems alright with them, he's talking with Jake and Carol. Friendly by comparison. 

"Shouldn't be no surprise I found a man that likes to fight." You remark, because that's better than saying he probably deserved it. 

Merle shrugs, "Ya' always knew how to pick 'um. We'll see if this one sticks around, none ever had the stomach for ya' before." 

You shove your hands in your pockets, and swallow. You feel small. Like with each second under your eldest brother's gaze you lose a couple of inches. There's no point in defending Troy. Merle has a talent for only listening to things he wants to hear. Any attempt at defense will only piss him off more. 

Daryl wanders over a minute later, and throws his arm around your shoulder. "Come on." He leads you off and you let him. He's good at reading the room, or forest in this case. You two end up coming to stand in front of Troy. "I ain't been officially introduced." 

Where Merle makes you feel small, Daryl makes you feel larger than life. You straighten your shoulders, "Daryl, this is Troy." You gesture for good measure between them and flounder on what to say. 

Troy, ranch raised, takes it from there. He sticks out his blood-stained hand, "Good to put a name to a face." 

Daryl shakes it and you're smiling so wide it hurts a little where it cracks your lips. "This one here only has nice things to say about ya', we'll see if she's right." He grows a bit more serious. "With you going an looking for her like that, I don't think we'll have a problem." 

There's something dangerous in Troy's face. He's got a bone to pick he's choosing not to act on. "It's good I won't need to teach you manners like your brother."

You shoot Troy a warning look and he settles. "What'd Merle say anyway, that made you hit him?"

Troy's jaw tightens as he thinks about whatever it was, "He asked me if I saved you in the beginning for a pity fuck and then referred to you in what I'd consider a disrespectful way." 

Daryl rubs his face with a sigh. 

You nod, "Tramp?" It won't be the first or the last time he'll have called you that. You're only half irritated because at the time it was true. 

"Yes." Troy confirms, glaring at your brother from across the crowd. 

You reach out and touch his arm, "Thanks for defending my honor, cowboy, but Merle says a lot of shit. If you hit him every time he says something stupid we'll be here all day." 

Daryl snorts at that and shakes his head in agreement. "He ain't ever learned how to be nice." 

Troy to your deep amusement raises an eyebrow at your brother, "Nobody taught me how to be nice either, but I manage just fine." 

You laugh and he delights in it. His eyes shine as he turns his focus toward you, his smile getting a little wider. 

"See I told you we'd find them," Glenn calls as he makes his way over. "Troy found me running solo." He explains, his hand in Maggies. They're a cute couple, and it makes you miss Alicia. 

"You rescue my man?" You tease. 

Glenn shakes his head, "Saved my ass, couple times honestly." He focuses on Troy, "I'm glad you found your wife." 

You blink, and then drag your eyes up to Troy's and prop up an eyebrow and a hand on your hip.

He has the good sense to shove his hands in his pockets and look bashful. "Didn't feel the need to correct him." 

"You can't go around claiming I'm your wife." You say, pressing your hand to your damp chest. "There's a process. You have to find a ring, you have to get down on one knee and ask. I have to pretend to think about it so I can see you sweat. There's no skipping to the good parts. I'm an honest woman, Mr. Otto." 

Your theatrics have gathered some attention from the others. Enough so Jake comes over, "Were you telling people Dixon's your wife?" 

Troy throws up his hands, "I never said she was. I just didn't tell them otherwise." He looks at you, eyes going wide and boyish. "Are you mad?" 

You bite your bottom lip in delight. "I'm bummed I missed our wedding is all." 

A few others that are listening laugh. No one seems to care all that much about the misinformation. Probably because even if you aren't married now, you will be. You always expected to end up an Otto eventually. 

You anticipate his embarrassment, the redness that rises up his face. What you don't expect is for him to reach into the internal pocket of his jacket and pull out a literal necklace of rings. There are at least twenty: silver, gold, and everything in between. 

Troy doesn't hesitate, he's not that kind of man. He drops down to both knees and looks up at you. You swear you see a thousand promises in those eyes of his. "Marry me?" He holds up the necklace of stolen jewelry, "I don't know anything about ring sizes. So I just butchered every shark I saw with a ring." 

And though you had told him not a moment before that you planned to make him sweat, you don't. You throw your arms around him and meet him on the ground, pressing your mouth against his ear. "Yes." 

He lifts you, strong legs carrying you both back to your feet. His laugh reminds you of soft mornings on the ranch, and coffee. 

When he sets you down the whole group has gathered. All soft smiles and well wishes. It's a far cry from the events of today, going from mourning to engaged. But you let yourself have this. You've earned this after all the things you've suffered. 

"You romantic bastard." You laugh, gripping his jaw with both hands to drag him down to your level. 

You hug Jake next and he laughs, even as you dirty the front of his shirt. "Do you know how hard it was to keep distracting you while he's chopping off infected fingers?" 

"You knew?!" 

Jake shrugs, but he looks pleased enough. Lighter than he has since the ranch fell. "Coop helped too. All those tracking lessons you weren't paying attention to. Distractions." 

You laugh, "The sudden bouts of I Spy. You conniving jackasses." 

Troy is still holding his collection in his hand when you turn back to him. He jingles it at you when he catches you looking and you head back over. 

In the end a good deal of them don't fit, but that's why he had a collection. You choose a plain gold band with the engraving, 'Until the end.' 

Once you've got your choice he pulls out an entirely different set of rings, less on this one. Only ten or so. "I thought you'd want to pick mine." 

You run your fingers over the pieces of metal, "You really were planning this weren't you."

His smile is gentle, "From the moment you gave me my journal. It's always going to be you." 

Chapter Text

The first thing you say to Cooper when you see him is selfishly, "Coop! I'm getting married!" 

He is both startled and cradling a baby, two things you didn't expect. You rush over to him holding out the ring like he's the closest you'll get to a gaggle of girlfriends that are going to go dress shopping with you. In this new world, you'd be lucky to keep anything white for longer than a few minutes. He's multitasking trying to hand Rick his child and look at your new token jewelry. The stray of his attention is comical. 

Troy's addition to it more so, "Not like any of us are surprised she said yes. She loves me~." 

Coop's eye roll is massive. "It takes a special woman to love you." 

"And doesn't he know it." You chime in, "I can't believe you didn't give me any hints. What kinda best friend leaves you in the dark?" 

He chuckles, before shrugging. "You telling me you didn't like the surprise?"

Your friendship with Coop has endeared him greatly to Troy, they get along without issue. Coop and Jake are about the only people Troy doesn't get territorial around. "Now that's beside the point." You retort, dropping your hand back down.

"Is it?" Coop jokes, glancing over your new group. "We staying with these people? They seem alright." 

You point to the two Dixons in the crowd. "Found my brothers." 

"Shit, you've got some good luck." 

"Yes, I do." You view your own luck a whole lot differently after today. There's a part of you that still feels stuck. Your world has changed, had been stripped of what mattered most even if it was only for a fraction of a moment. It has left you altered. So yeah, you're lucky. You've got your whole family standing before you. That's more than you ever thought. "But I figure we stay, see where they want to go." 

"We're going to DC." Troy offers, and it's so casual you don't know what to make of it. 

"You want to compound on that, bright eyes?" 

"Eugene here is going to save the world." It's Abraham who walks over. "The deal I made with your fiancee," He puts emphasis on the word, drawing it out, "Was we find your people, you join our mission to get him where he needs to go." 

You blink in Eugene's direction and try and comprehend what you've just been told. This mullet wearing nerd is the savior of the whole damn world. The man with the cure. He is the only way living on a quiet ranch with Troy will ever be a possibility. And you can picture it. The cabin you'll build together, the simplicity of a life well spent. Going into the city and out to eat. The movies and sleeping without a knife under your pillow. 

Marital bliss in the way the rest of the Dixon family always laughed at. Troy has made you want that, the suburban life. Even if that life is near impossible, the need to fight is too ingrained in you. Troy would never be happy without it. The two of you would end up joining some kind of world-rebuilding task force. But it is one hell of a thought, all of this being over. 

"Well, I'd hate to make Mr. Otto here look like a liar. We're in." You throw out your hand for Abraham to shake. 

"We'll be happy to have you." He glances at Coop while taking your hand, "Good to have people who know the what for." 

"You'll have fun seeing what we're capable of." You boast, and you mean it. The militia was something else, and it'll be nice to get some appreciation for that. 

He squeezes your hand before letting go and nodding, "Troy has proven capable; I think he might even like the crazies." 

Coop laughs, "Wait until we start running times. I've won a lot of money through bets." 

"Lost a lot of money too." You quip. 

"I still got time to make it back." 

"First things first, we find someplace to bunk up for the night. We are in need of a little r&r after that shit show." Abraham directs, and if he's been protecting the literal cure, you suppose you can follow his lead. Especially so considering Troy seems to like him. 

"Someplace by water would be great." You suggest. The blood has started to dry, and it feels strange on your skin. Like you're flaking all over the place. 

Abraham looks you over, and Troy shifts until he's pressed up against your back. "You want a sponge bath?" Troy jokes.

"Do I look like an old lady to you?" You crane your head back to look up at him. "Could use a dunk in a pond and for you to rock my world though." 

The ginger laughs, shaking his head as he walks off to gather the others. 

"You didn't even have to ask." Troy drawls, gripping your sides as he leans down to kiss you.

-

Rick decides the best place to hunker down is a school. It's decently defensible and apparently runs on well water. An unusual happenstance, but it is in an oddly rural area. You'll take what you can get. There's no heat but running water is still running water and it's summer so you're warm anyway. 

Given your current state, you get first dibs on the shower room. Troy joins you in the dank space. It's located in what's basically a basement locker room, but the thick walls and narrow windows make you feel secure. Kicking off your shoes and setting your journal into the corner where they won't get wet you step fully clothed into the stream. 

You spend your time using bar soap Troy found in a supply closet to try and get the blood off your jacket. The jeans you don't care about, blue has turned brown in certain spots. But the jacket means something to you. And you're lucky the fabric fights against stains, guess the military knew what they'd be using them for after all. In the end, though the color is dulled from when it was first given to you, it's still recognizable. 

You hand it over to Troy, and strip. Nothing but smooth skin and a set of dog tags. The water is chilly, coming from underground and you shiver. He appraises your form, dirty though it is, where you stand shivering. You're sure your taut nipples have absolutely nothing to do with his long stare. 

"Chilly, vixen?" He leans against the only door across from you, and you watch the way he strokes the handle of his pistol with his thumb as he plays audience of one. 

In response you, spread your legs a little wider and lean back to try and rinse out your hair. The water turns murky when it runs down your torso to the tiles below. "Not at all." 

He chuckles, and it's that sinful low basey chuckle that always finds its way right between your legs. 

It feels good to wash off. To take every reminder of your day and cram it away. You focus instead on the feeling of your new ring. It's a heavy piece of jewelry, enough so you can feel its weight. It's better to think of that, of Troy on his knees before you. The lit of his tone when the words marry me fell from his mouth like rose petals. 

"I'm thinking of hyphenating." You say, instead of voicing your fears. 

You have your eyes closed so you don't get a chance to see whatever expression he makes, but he readjusts his footing. "Otto-Dixon or Dixon-Otto?" 

Your lips curl into a smile. "Figure I already go by Dixon so Dixon-Otto." 

He takes long enough to respond you pull your head out of the water to look at him. He's staring at you, eyes so intense you forget where you are. He's using his thumb to twirl the ring around his finger. "I like that." 

"Something terribly possessive about a woman taking your name isn't there?" You joke, but you don't mind it. The idea of being held by him, by his name even when he's not there. Your family will make the Otto name something good, something important. Better than a paranoid coward who scrounged up enough money to buy a ranch on stolen land.

"I can think of more of me you can take than just my name." He responds, and you know it pains him to stay pressed up against that door. 

But no matter what you do or what you say, he'll stay right there. Because the lock on that door is busted, and moving means giving up his sentry. And Troy has never given up his sentry, not once. No matter if you shower together, or separately. 

The door stays locked, and he has a weapon in range. No lock, means no moving. But you got your nickname vixen for a reason. So if you drop the soap, and have to turn your back to him and bend down to get it, well then that's a shame. 

What isn't a shame however is the noise Troy makes from across the room when you do it. "You're a cruel woman." He remarks, and you hear his head thud back against the door. 

To illustrate his point your start by washing your feet, if only to stay bent over a minute longer. He sighs dramatically, "Vixen." 

You shift back to a standing position, "Something bothering you, Troy?" 

"Please don't say my name." It's a plea as he clings to his self control, because the two of you are magnets. Always pulling each other in, always hoping to connect. Repelling all others if only so you only belong to each other. 

You look over your shoulder at him, mischief evident, "Troy~"

He bounces the back of his head off the door a few times, not hard but not light either. "You're going to be the death of me." 

"I can see the headlines now. Man in Georgia Drops Dead from Blue Balls."

He laughs, "I hope someone told you blue balls were a myth." 

You nod giggling, "I had a guy try that on me once, and I said I'd give him black and blue balls if he complained one more time." 

"Did you?" He asks, wincing at the thought.

You stick your tongue between your teeth and playfully bite down on it. "Fist to the groin." 

"Glad that wasn't me." He snorts. 

"Oh don't you worry Mr. Otto I'll always kiss it better." 

"Prefer you suck them better, but I'll take what I can get." He replies and his eyes are dark. 

You finish your teasing, and step out of the stream, shutting the water off. You're as clean as you're going to get, but you miss baths. You'd kill for a few minutes in a hot tub. 

There's a towel waiting for you, and a gym uniform. Black Mulberry High sweatpants and t-shirt. You lost your bag at Terminus. You're lucky you had the important stuff on your person. 

He surveys your uniform, knowing you're going commando beneath it while your stuff dries. "Cute." 

"Oh, high school girls do it for you?" You joke, "Should I braid some pigtails in?"

He snorts as you pull your boots on and he puts your journal in one of his pockets. His military pants are ratty at this point, but he likes the pockets. "Considering I never went there's a certain mystery to it." 

"Yea, well me neither. We can pretend to be high schoolers and bone in a classroom later." 

His grin says that your joke is likely to become a reality. 

"Kinky bastard." You mutter as the two of you step into the hall, "You three should shower." It's an arrangement you've made before, so when you step out and gesture Coop and Jake in they go without a word. There are six shower heads in there anyway. 

They make quick work of it while you lean against the door in the hallway, and when they exit they're all damp and in school uniforms. It makes you laugh. "What we playing boys?" 

"Jake was all everything." Troy jokes, "But I bet I'd have kicked ass at wrestling." 

There's a few others in the hall waiting for the showers. You can't help teasing them, "There's just something so manly about rolling around with other men in spandex." 

Behind you Maggie and Carol laugh, even Michonne is smiling. You're happy there will be more people around to appreciate your perfect sense of humor. You turn to wiggle your eyebrows at them. "Ya'll ladies want to shower? I can guard the door for you?" 

It isn't until after you say it that you realize that this may be something specific to you. That your trauma is the reason you insist on guarding people while they're vulnerable. An embarrassed blush lights up your face, "Shit, uh, I'm sure you'll be fine." You step away from the door for good measure, and cram your hands in your sweatpants pockets. 

But Carol is the one that sees, and you understand why Daryl likes her. She's one of you. Because she nods with that look in her eyes, "We'd appreciate that." Husband likely, maybe her father, explains the cropped hair.

So you stand in front of the door while Jake and Coop go off to find a place to set up shop. And Troy stands with you, this little smile on his face. "What?" You question. 

"I'm proud of you." He says, and it sparks through you like lightning. "Of who you've become. I get to watch that. To know you through that, it's beautiful." 

You swallow down your emotions, because a statement like that is everything to you. "Stop it, you're going to make me cry." 

Troy doesn't stop, not the kind of man that ever stops. "I'll be so damn lucky to marry you." 

If you weren't on watch you'd kiss him. Instead, you take his hand in yours and stand together in comfortable silence. Troy is good with silence, he always understands what you're trying to say without saying it. 

-

Your group looks absolutely ridiculous, all sitting around a fire in a gymnasium. It's extra comical for men like Abraham, who are far too big for teenage uniforms. But you've all lost your supplies, all your clothes. Michonne has nothing but a rigged sheath. 

Rick states the obvious, "We'll need to resupply." 

"Find ourselves a nice ride." Abraham adds. 

"Weapons too." Troy states, he doesn't like how little your group has. It irks him to no end, having so little ammo. But he's spoiled, he's always irritated by a lack of bullets, gun nut that he is. 

You focus your attention toward Eugene. "So what caused it?" You ask, unable to stop yourself. You're stunned Troy hasn't been pelting the man with questions for days. All the things you could learn, the knowledge to be gained.

He's not disinterested that's clear enough because his hand has come to rest on top of the journal you returned to him, even as he observes the other conversations happening. It's a bit bloodier than it was before, but you got it back to him just the same.

Eugene glances at you and shrugs, "Classified."

"Oh, come on." You whine, "I thought scientists loved to make us little people feel small with their knowledge. Hit me with it, party animal."

He smiles, pleased enough by the attention. "As highly enjoyable as it would be to showcase my superior level of intelligence, it is still classified information."

That's his first mistake. You read him, see the way he looks away, and pick up on what it is. Anxiety. That question makes him anxious. You dismiss it as social ineptitude and let it go. Or at least you try to, but there's something nibbling at the back of your mind, telling you he's a liar. "Alright, big brain, keep your secrets." You shrug at Troy, and he shrugs back. His hand falls away from his journal. 

You shift back to the main conversation Jake is running, "With as many of us as there are, doing a few runs should be easy enough. This is a small town, we go out in groups of three or four. Abraham and his group can stay here where it's safest." The ginger nods his approval. "We can search this whole town in a day or two, gather up whatever there is left to find. 

"I like it." Rick agrees. "Carl, you'll stay here with Judith." He looks at his son, expecting him to argue, but instead he nods his agreement. The near loss of his sister has made him malleable to the idea of protecting her. He's a good kid, you like him. You find yourself staring at Michonne as she holds Judith. 

The little one is docile enough, amused but the way Michonne subconsciously bounces her. The woman catches your eye and smiles, "You want to hold her?"

Do you? You don't entirely know for sure, but your hands are reaching out anyway. It takes all of three seconds before you have a toddler in your grip. She's old enough that you don't need to chant, support the head, to yourself. But at the same time, you've never held one before. 

You pull her into your chest, grateful that you're sitting, and press a supportive hand to her back. She looks up at you, big innocent brown eyes. You suck in a breath and half rock her, half hug her. That little part of you that lost this, that mourned the family you'll never have resurfaces like a tidal wave. "Oh look at you." The words come out in a fierce pained whisper. "Oh, look at you." 

Troy's hand comes to slip under the back of your shirt, pressing against your skin. Comforting you, because though the two of you have never talked about it, he knows. He knows that this is something that hurts you. Not something that needs words. 

"Shit." Merle jokes from across the fire. "Surprised you're not knocked up yet. Ma had me when she was sixteen." 

The off-hand comment rips into you like a knife. You don't look up at him, but you hold Judith a little closer. 

Michonne is watching you carefully, a sad sort of familiarity. "Did you lose them?" 

"Yes." You say, because it's true. "In a way, yes." Your chance was stolen from you. 

Troy's hand presses a little harder and he leans in to kiss the side of your head. 

"That's a good thing, babies in this world, they ain't gonna make it," Merle says, and Daryl slaps his arm. Hard enough that you can clearly hear it from across the circle.

Rick glares and you pass Judith back to Michonne. Afraid if you hold her any longer you won't know how to let her go again. You're busy picturing big baby blues, and soft curls. Chubby fingers and a toothless smile that somehow still looks like their fathers. A baby that won't exist. 

And for the first time, you actually want that. You want a family, you want a baby. And that hurts, it hurts like nothing you know how to handle. "I can't have children." You tell Michonne, because she seems to understand. You need someone to understand how badly that hurts. 

"Because of all this?" She asks softly, and you're aware the group is subtly listening in. 

"No." Your voice cracks, "No, I had to have surgery when I was younger." It had been the first time you'd had insurance. You'd figured it all out alone; it had been covered by the state. The surgery hadn't cost a thing monetarily, but it had cost you far more. 

Your brothers left you in Michigan living out of a motel. The recovery had been hell. You'd been pretty worried you would develop an addiction to painkillers from it, Oxy. You'd used Merle's hook-up long after the prescription had run out. Sometimes you still think about it, want it. 

The scar blends in with your stretchmarks, the only one who knows it exists is Troy. He's kissed that one pure too. 

Daryl is watching you, his gaze blazing even through the hair that falls in front of his face. "Why?" 

You look up at him, and the choice opens itself up in front of you. Because his tone is desperate, he already knows, even if he doesn't want to know. You could lie to him, ease his conscious. But there's a beast inside you, there's been a beast inside you since you were eleven. 

Your father created it. 

And that beast is angry with your brothers. Because they're older, they were supposed to be wiser. And yet they did nothing, no one saved you. Merle rescued you out of happenstance. So that beast looks at Daryl and speaks, "Internal trauma." 

You confirm his fear, and he knows you don't mean the beatings. He lurches to his feet and is out of the room before anyone responds. And the looks you get, that telltale pity. The looks of confusion, not understanding. 

The kid doesn't get it, you're glad he doesn't get it. But everyone else is looking at you. Michonne touches your arm from where she's sitting next to you. "You can hold Jude whenever you want, everyone does. Swear she never touches the ground." 

Merle ruins it. He's good at ruining things, and Daryl isn't there to stop him this time. "None of us were strangers to the belt." He scoffs. 

Troy jerks his head up and looks at Merle; there is the promise of retribution if he doesn't stop speaking. Jake looks just as ready, and you think with how close they've become that Jake will hold him down when Troy beats him. Shit, Coop might help too. 

But you don't want to see your brother bleed. So you sigh, "You're right. I'm not looking for pity." 

"Sure you ain't with that tearful confession of yours, Dixie?" 

"Shut up." Troy snaps and he means it. 

"You always did like the attention." 

"Shut up! Shut up!" Troy says again a little louder. 

You wish it could be funny, because of the clothing and the location of this argument, but it doesn't feel funny. It feels pathetic, because your brother doesn't understand and because you are a mess. 

"Oh calm down, lover boy. Getting beat by your old man don't make you special." Merle cackles, and you're surprised he can sound like that sober. "Bet your daddy probably beat you too, huh?" 

Troy is staring at him, his whole body coiled up. There's a tension in the air, the same kind that always fills a room before a fight breaks out. The rolling tension before a storm. Troy makes a beautiful storm. "My father was a piece of shit. I get that now, but he wasn't what yours was." 

"Troy." You say softly, because soon you won't be able to reach him. He'll be lost in defending your good name. He doesn't respond and you know he's too far gone to hear you now. He's already standing on the field of battle.

"Oh yea, what makes my pa so special?" Merle's mocking seems to bother the whole group. 

Enough so Rick gives Judith to Carl and sends him off to the corner of the room. Still in sight, but far enough away that if something happens they're not caught in the middle of it. 

Jake stands up, comes up between you and Troy, and sinks down into a crouch behind you. 

Merle watches it all with growing forceful amusement. "I have to ask," He looks at you and your heart breaks a little. You wish he learned how to love instead of destroy. But fires only know how to burn. "Do you double team the brothers? Or is it all three?" 

"Knock it off." Rick commands, standing up. And you can see the cop trying to mediate. 

You don't rise to the bait, you never have. Merle doesn't make you angry, but the same can't be said for Troy, because he's on his feet. "Your father was a goddamn pedophile." He snarls, with all the venom of a man who loves you. "And you are an asshole. You want to talk shit, then we can go toe to toe again. I would have turned you inside out the first time, but I don't think anyone is going to be stopping me this time. So go ahead and defend that piece of shit. Defend the fact I have to guard the door when she showers. That she still has fucking nightmares." 

Considering the rest of the group hasn't so much as started to rise, leads you to believe he's right. They're fully ready to watch Troy beat his ass. 

But Merle is caught on that first line. "What are you insinuating, G.I. Joe? That he was - that he was - what the fuck ya' saying?" He turns to you now, and some of his fight leaves him. "What's he saying?" 

Your smile is sad, "It don't matter what he's saying. He's dead. It's over, it's done. Let it be done. Troy, sit down." 

Troy ignores you, he's all fired up. "She was eleven, and where the fuck were you, huh? Where were you? You know why she goes by Dixon right, because she shares her mother's name. Because he liked to pretend she was the same - " 

"Troy, sit down!" You snarl, shame creeping through your body. You don't need the whole group to know all your embarrassing shortcomings. 

But Troy learned long ago never to be afraid of you. It means your leash with him is long and hard to control. "Did you stop him from putting it on tape? Showing it to his disgusting ass friends." 

You stand, grab Troy's shoulder and shove as hard as you can until he stumbles into a sitting position. You hover over him, chest heaving with all the emotions you don't want to think about. "Enough." You swallow. "That's my goddamn business. Not yours, not anyone else's." 

Troy realizes what he's done, and leaves the frantic rage. Regret seeps back in, he addresses the room like it'll fix it. "My old man liked to tape beating the shit out of me. Not that mine were worse, but..."He looks up at you. "I'm sorry."  

Merle blinks at you, one long blink as he tries to digest all of it. That you got far more than the belt, then like his brother he runs. Not a word, not an apology, nothing but cowardice.

It hurts.

You rub your face as Rick sits back down, and the group falls into an uncomfortable silence. "We're going to bed." You say, "I need some privacy." You jerk your head toward Troy, "Come."

He wordlessly follows you out of the gymnasium and you walk up the side stairs to a wrestling room that's tucked close to the gym but far enough you'll truly be alone. The room is a good choice, because the entire space is covered in structured foam. Much more comfortable than the gym floor.

You sit down against the wall, and sigh. "I didn't want to have that conversation, Troy. I didn't want people to know." You're not really mad at him, but you're frustrated all the same. 

He sits beside you, resting his arms on his knees. "I really am sorry. I just - I can't stomach someone speaking to you that way." 

"I know." You whisper. "Today has been a lot." 

Today Troy died, was revived, proposed, and your brothers now know about your past. Your whole damn group knows now. It's not exactly something you're proud of. 

"I've never held a toddler before." You admit. 

He shifts a little closer until you're shoulder to shoulder. "Neither have I." 

Troy is the only one you can tell this to, so you whisper, "Can you keep a secret?" 

"Apparently it's debatable if I can." He replies wryly, clearly frustrated by his own failings.

You look at him, and even in the moonlight, he can likely see the tears in your eyes. "I want to have your babies." 

He wraps his arm around your shoulders and kisses your head. "I know." 

Troy doesn't try to talk you down or give empty statements of consolation. He leaves it for the fact it is. You want a family with him and you cannot have it. "I would give that to you if I could. Even if I don't think I'd be very good at it." 

"No?" You never doubted his role as a father, you're surprised to hear he views it differently. 

Troy squeezes your shoulder. "You're supposed to love your children more than your partner, I know that. I needed that. I don't think I'm capable of loving anyone more than I love you. That and I don't have much experience with kids. My patience is fragile on my good days." 

"It's a melancholy thought." You say leaning against him. "I thought you were dead today." As much as you don't want this conversation it needs to happen. Avoiding it won't do either of you any good. 

"Daryl told me." He explains. "He said you just gave up." 

You're not proud of how you reacted, forgetting about your family like you did. "You're the reason I fight." 

"When it came to the pantry, to the end of the ranch." His voice sounds pained. "Dying with me I get. But if you're out here, I need you to try and live. Don't throw it all away to follow me. You're not a coward, you've never been a coward." 

"It wasn't cowardice." You say, "I love you more than I love my life." 

His eyes go far away like you've reminded him of something. "I asked Madison that question, 'You love his life more than yours?' I - you feel that for me?" 

The awe in his question captures your attention, because some days he still doesn't know how to believe you love him. No matter how many times you say it, no matter what you do. A little part of him wonders. Evaluates everything. 

"I don't think there's a life for me without you in it, Troy. We're in this together, even if that togetherness means dying." Meaning that isn't hard. You know this is what your therapist would call unhealthy codependency, she didn't have the apocalypse to consider in. 

"I've never seen you kill someone like that." He's not disgusted, it sounds neutral, unbothered. Maybe even a little curious.

"I wanted to do worse, but I didn't have the time." While sitting in that cage you'd thought up all sorts of nasty things to do to the termites. If they come after you, there might still be a chance. Part of you hopes they do. 

"If I'd been where you were," Troy says, "I would have too. Did you really calculate the leader's turn time?" 

"Yeah." 

"You were over by four minutes." He explains, "You probably didn't calculate the age right, that's the hardest part if you don't know for certain." 

"That's why you're the expert." You tease. "But, Troy...?"

"Yeah, beautiful?" 

"Don't die, please." You plead, and run your hands over your face so you don't end up almost crying again. 

"I'll say it as many times as you need, I'm not leaving you behind." He shifts until he's half leaned in front of you. And when he kisses you it's a soft gentle thing. "Come here." He pulls you into him, until the two of you are laid out on the ground. 

Troy kisses you again, his tongue tracing your bottom lip. So you bite his and he hums his approval as he rolls, drifting between your legs. It's such a natural position after so long. Your body rushes with warmth, and it pools in your abdomen until it washes everything else away. 

The both of you are wearing so little to begin with it's easy to strip it away, piling it to the side. He cups your face, his other trailing a featherlight touch down your side. Troy has long learned how to make you dance. He proves it time and time again. There's no prelude, no slow start. Your body always wants him, and you were never much for foreplay anyway. It's easy for him to glide inside of you, to kiss along your jaw. 

You sigh, trying not to make any noise. His rhythm is slow, you'd damn near call it romantic as he rocks into you. These slow deep thrusts that make you want to bend your back. So you do, pressing yourself closer, and he knows what you need, because he changes his grip and curls in until he's got both arms around your torso. Flushing you flat against him. And you allow yourself to be consumed as he breathes in your ear, and you squeeze your eyes shut to savor it. 

You're crying and you didn't want to cry. He doesn't stop. He knows the difference; he knows you down to your fucking atoms. And it is liberating to be so cherished. 

To have a man kiss away your tears while still inside you. To know that you are loved despite your weaknesses. And you are weak where Troy is concerned, absolutely delicate. 

Troy takes his time, he doesn't rush. You sink into it, following the ebb and flow of sensation and emotion. He knows when you shift from endeared to needy, and he pulls you up until you're both sitting and he's so deep inside you, you ache. You wrap your arms around his neck, foreheads pressed together. He keeps his eyes open when he peaks, even though they flutter, and he gasps a tad too loud. You kiss his nose, and dampen your fingers. 

It's always so easy to follow, as he rests. He loves watching you, loves seeing that moment when you tilt your head back and your mouth falls open. He's told you plenty of times before. He's even written it down. 

When he's done with you, you barely have the energy to pull back on your clothes. But he makes sure you have an arm to use as pillow, the best kind, before you're asleep. 

Chapter Text

No one addresses the night before, and you're alright with that. In truth you're glad that they've accepted your plus four so readily. 

Rick sets you up in groups, and separates you from Cooper and Jake. You get it, because you all need to learn how to become a team, but he knows well enough not to separate you and Troy. You two are paired up with Maggie and Glenn. 

It's a good assignment, you don't mind it. Your group is tasked to hit up a commercial district to the east. You've been given a list of sizes and needs to replenish the group. Your goal: clothing and backpacks. Anything else is a bonus. 

You like the idea of going on a run. It feels normal, and you need normal. So you suit up with your now dried clothes, and strap your pistol to your belt. You're short a good melee weapon, but that won't be hard to find. For now, your knife will do. 

Troy has his new rifle, but he lost his other weapons in Terminus. You're glad he wasn't particularly sentimental toward any of them. He can use just about anything effectively. You set out on foot, it'll be about three miles there, and that same hike back. 

In theory, you're also looking for vehicles, but those are getting harder and harder to find each day. 

So it's likely going to be a pain in the ass all in all. You miss when you had a truck, and could enjoy the wind on your face and listen to Troy's music. There's a certain fondness you now entertain for his specific tastes. 

Never thought the sound of shredding electric guitar and too many drums would make you smile. As time passes, you're left with more things to miss. 

The streets are quiet, there are few sharks around, or as Rick's group calls them walkers. You think your name is better, but at least it's sort of creative. If you ignore the thick foliage on the sides it almost looks like one of the strips you'd raid back in California. 

"Do you think Eugene is telling the truth?" It's a question you can't help but voice, because you worry. It's such a coincidence, a rare scientist in the middle of Georgia. You like Eugene, he's funny in a sort of odd way, and clearly smart, but he's also a coward. 

And if there's anything you know about cowards, it's that they lie. 

"I think so." Glenn says, "It's gotta be worth the chance. Even if he is lying, which I don't think he is, DC has to be safer right? It's the capital." 

Maggie takes a little longer to voice her opinion, "I don't know, I grew up on a farm. Science isn't exactly my strong suit." 

You glance at Troy and he's contemplative. "He's lying about something, but his signals are all over the place. It could be social insecurity, or something else. He feels guilty, a lot of guilt." 

"How can you be sure?" Glenn asks. 

"I'm good at reading people. It's a talent you pick up when you're - when you're me." He rubs at the back of his head as you approach a clothing store. Troy knocks his boot into the door a couple of times and you all pause in silence listening for the telltale shuffle.

He does it again, harder. Nothing. Troy tries the handle and it opens without resistance. The store has been ransacked before, but there's still plenty left. You only need so many clothes when you're on the run. 

"Bags first." You say following behind Troy. You find three backpacks and a duffle. You'll need more for the whole group, but this is a start. 

Following the list you've been given you each pack a minimum of one outfit for everyone. There's enough around if you're not picky with what they look like, but you find yourself trying to match styles. 

You wander around looking for new clothes for yourself. A pair of jeans is easy enough, they're a little big, but that's usually the case when you pick men's pants. They tend to be thicker and you can't beat the pockets. 

You pull a button up from the rack and frown, it reminds you of Troy's shirt. The one you lost in your bag. His favorite shirt. 

He reaches for it, snagging it out of your hand before he's pushing it into his bag. "I'll take that." 

"I was looking at that." You pout, going back to the rack. 

"I know, but you can't steal it later if it belongs to you first." He quips.

-

Everyone is grateful when your group returns with fresh clothes. It's not as much as you wish you could have brought, but like you thought, there were no vehicles to find. You've been contemplative all day in regard to Eugene. 

If he's lying you need to know. You're not carting Troy all the way to DC if he's just a coward looking for protection. It takes some finagling, but Abraham has become less suspicious of the group. By midafternoon you find your opportunity. 

"I need your help." You whisper to Troy. 

He straightens, schooling his face into indifference as he leans into you to listen. It's crazy how he knows to make it look natural. "Orders?" 

"Distract Abraham and Rosita, I need to talk to Eugene alone." 

He nods, "Yes, ma'am." And then he's on his feet walking toward Abraham and his woman, "Have we done an inventory of our weapons, yet? I think it'd be good to get a bullet count."

You slip after the scientist as soon as they're distracted. He's made his way toward the showers, and you manage to slide inside before he's got his pants off. 

Eugene startles, looking at you with wide eyes. "Shouldn't go off alone." You say, "Considering your brain's so valuable." 

He gives you an uncomfortable smile. "Right, uh, can you uh wait outside the room instead?" 

You smile at him, and it makes him more uncomfortable. "I've actually been meaning to get you alone." 

Eugene goes red in the face, "But, you and - and Troy have made it pretty exceptionally clear that - "

"If I wanted that, my top would already be off." You say before he can struggle along any further. 

He looks a mixture of disappointed and relieved. You do like him - not like that - but this is business. This is your family's safety. "I need to ask you a question, Eugene." Your expression descends into something more serious as you lean against the door. 

Your hand falls to the handle of your pistol and you ease it free of its holster. His eyes dart to it and when he stumbles back you know you'll get the truth of it out of him, cowards are fickle like that. "I like you, you're sweet. But if you lie to me I'm going to shoot you. It's not going to kill you, but it's going to fucking hurt." 

You have no plans on shooting Eugene, you only have two bullets and they don't belong to him. But you will stab him, if you have to. The gun just sounds more intimidating. "Are you a scientist?" 

He looks at you and his whole body is shaking, he's a leaf in a windstorm. His low lip trembles and tears flood his eyes, and it's so utterly pathetic you almost feel bad. You ask again, "Do you actually have a cure Eugene? If you don't I won't be mad, but I need to know if I'm risking my family for nothing."

He breaks into bubbling waterworks. He's still shirtless, shivering. "No. No, I'm not a scientist. I don't know the cure, I don't even know if there is one. I just - I just didn't want to die. He was going to leave me there, and I needed a reason, a good one." 

You give him a sad sort of smile, "Some people are cowards, but that doesn't have to be you. Put your shirt on." 

He seems surprised you haven't shot him point blank, but he does what you ask. Probably because if he's going to die he doesn't want to do it shirtless in a school shower room. 

"We're going to go out there and you're going to tell everyone you lied. If you don't I'm going to kill you, because I will not have my people led on a goose-chase. And if I kill you Eugene, that means Troy is going to have to kill Abraham, and he likes Abraham. And if Troy kills Abraham, then that means we'll have to kill Rosita too. So everyone you know dies or you tell the truth. Do you understand?" 

You've still got your pistol aimed at him while you wait for his answer. 

He nods, "Alright, boss lady, you win." 

"That's what I like to hear, let's go." You step away from the door and usher him through. You've got a pistol pressed up against his spine, no need to follow closeness rules with Eugene. If he does a sweep for your gun he's going to lose. 

He's not that brave or stupid, so he walks. His taller frame blends you in until it looks casual. When you walk back into the gymnasium, Troy has his rifle slung at his side. It looks relaxed, but you know how easy it would be for him to draw it up. 

Jake is watching you, he sees the gun first and he begins prepping for a firefight. He tosses a quick hand gesture toward Coop and then he's silently readying himself too. You are forever grateful for Troy's drills, and the excessive safety words and gestures you all know. 

They come in handy when you least expect it. You're almost at the group now, so you give him one more tap on the back with your gun. 

"Excuse me, everyone." He clears his throat, "I - I have an announcement to make." 

Abraham is watching you, but he's also watching Eugene. The poor bastard is sweating profusely. "I lied." You gotta give it to him, he went right for it. You carefully holster your pistol, hoping no one else saw it and step away from Eugene. 

"The hell you talking about?" Abraham questions. 

"About the cure, about Washington." He's looking at his feet now. "I'm not a scientist. I was a science teacher. I - I knew you were going to leave me behind, so I uh, I fibbed." 

Abraham's face turns red. And he stares at Eugene, long and hard. You think there's a chance he always suspected he was lying, but never wanted to believe it. Because if Eugene is a liar, then he has no purpose. You know how having no purpose can wear you down. Can see the way it's killing Troy, every day you're away from the ranch.

"There's no cure?" Rosita asks, and she's shellshocked. Her voice is a whisper of disbelief. "What the hell did our people die for?" 

Eugene begins crying in earnest now, covering his face as he sniffles. You walk over to Jake and Coop and sigh. "I have an idea, but it's not a pleasant one." 

Jake looks at you, while still keeping an eye on the group. "What are you thinking?" 

You swallow, "I think we should take them home." 

You catch his full attention. "To the ranch?" 

The idea makes your stomach hurt, the idea of seeing what's left. "We don't know how bad the fire got. Maybe the ranch is fine, the hoard would have moved on by now."

"It's gone." Coop says, and he sounds so sad when he says it. 

"With help, we may be able to salvage the pantry, there's years worth of supplies. Maybe the walls are gone, but we closed the pantry doors before we left. If it didn't collapse, and even if it did we might be able to get some or most of it." 

Jake glances toward Troy, who's surveying the drama. Abraham has Eugene by the front of the shirt, and he's screaming in his face. All rage and disappointment. "I don't know if it's a good idea to take Troy back." 

You know that probably better than Jake does. He hasn't read Troy's journal, hasn't seen the six pages scrawled with nothing but 'don't think about Broke Jaw'. 

"If it keeps him alive," You say, "Then I'll hurt him to do it." 

Jake looks at his brother again for longer this time. "Alright." 

"So I can bury her." Coop agrees too, and that's all you need. 

When you turn around Eugene's face is bleeding, and Abraham is on the side of the room speaking with Rosita. She's doing her best to comfort him, and you're glad she's there at least. That's something for him to fight for. 

You approach Rick directly, "A word, sheriff?" 

He nods, and steps to do rounds with you. As soon as you're alone you pose your idea. Break down what is in the pantry, and the possibility that the ranch still stands. It's a long trip, but you hope the years worth of supplies make it worth it to him. 

You end it with as big a push for his help as you can, "If it's the four of us we can't go back, but with everyone, it could be a home." 

"I'll talk to my people about it, we'll take a vote." 

You nod, because that's a start, one you can work with. 

You don't expect what he says next, "I'm sorry about what happened during your childhood."

"We all have our scars to bear." You reply, looking toward the sunset. 

"Merle shouldn't have spoken to you like that." 

"That why you chopped off his hand?" You ask, and you want the story to that. You've only figured out bits and pieces from offhanded comments. 

Rick blinks at you, "Eh, you heard about that? I cuffed him to a rooftop because he started beating on one of our group for being black. We ended up losing the key and left him behind, he sawed off his own hand to save himself. Tough son of a bitch." 

"He is that." You remark quietly. "Don't worry, officer friendly, we don't have beef. Merle brings a lot of shit on to himself that no one could save him from." 

He nods and you turn your rounds back to return to the gym. You make it some ten steps before Rick and you react at the same time. This world has made you sensitive to that sixth sense. 

In tandem you both drop into crouches, hiding below the window line. "Did you see someone?" You whisper, sliding close to him. 

He gives a minuscule nod and his hand comes to rest on his gun. It's a pain in the ass, but you army crawl back toward the gym. It's better than taking a bullet from a sniper. Reaching the gym door, Rick quickly opens the door and you both crawl inside. 

You're breathing heavy, and Troy sees you on your knees just inside the room. He's on his feet and across the gym in seconds, crouching down. "Are you okay?" 

You touch his arm, "I'm okay. Someone's outside." 

He reaches for his rifle, and signals Jake and Coop. They raise and come to you. 

Abraham is close on their heels, "You want to fill the class in?" 

"We got people outside." You say, "How many did you see Rick?" 

"Just three, but there could be more." 

"Were they from Terminus?" Abraham asks. There are no windows in the gym, except the ones along the top of the walls, a good ten feet at least. Not useful for a surprise attack. It's a defensible position. 

"I don't know." Rick says, eyes tracking where his family is.

You look at Troy, this is where he specializes. He knows that look, and rises to the occasion. This is his area, where he thrives. 

"The wrestling room has windows that will give a good vantage. If they move toward the school I may be able to pick them off. It's spotty in the dark, and with an AK, but better than sitting around. Coop, pick someone to take hall watch with you, not Jake. Need someone who knows the signals in each area. Keep low to the ground and listen for anyone who enters the building. Signal cardinal if they do."

He turns to you, "You'll come up in the wrestling room with me. We send Beth, Carl, Judith, and Eugene down to the shower room until it's clear. The rest prep for a fight, make sure all bags are packed. If we need to leave, we take the southbound door, it's open. We set up rendevous at the 7/11 two miles from here. Keep traveling north, but keep off the road and you'll reach it." 

The others have all gathered at this point, listening in. They look at Rick next and he shrugs with a wry smile, "Do what the man said." 

You missed that tone, the shift from soldier to commander. It's the sexiest shit and he knows it too, because after he's done he winks. You should never have told him you liked it when he winks. Now he does it all the time, and it never fails to make you smile. 

Coop points at Daryl and they slip out into the hall for surveillance. 

Troy waves you to follow up to the wrestling room and you go without hesitation. There's something calming in following Troy's directive, giving yourself over to what he tells you to do. Makes you understand why he likes orders, why he complies with them.

Because when you do your brain stops overthinking, it goes silent. You should give that to him more, you know his mental health has been declining since the ranch. Sure, you're making it, taking one day at a time. 

But it's a rare day that you actually see Troy sleep. If you stir in the night it's to find him awake with his eyes pinned to the ceiling. Or standing watch, or writing. You haven't seen him touch his journal since Terminus, and you don't even know why. 

There's been so much to do, you can't catch your breath. Instead of spending the night resting, you'll end up taking shifts and being on guard. It's frustrating, and you want to stop. You want it all to stop for a little while so you can feel put together again. 

But you've never felt that way. You're starting to understand that maybe it doesn't get better, maybe the fighting you've been doing your whole life is all you'll be able to afford. Maybe peace is a lie people were selling that never existed in the first place. 

Troy glances at you, before setting up a roost to keep watch out of. He scans the treeline with a single-minded focus. 

You sit in silence, and it makes your ears ring. He doesn't want you in the window line, so you're just sitting there staring at a wall. "Why haven't you written in your journal?" 

Unlike usual his focus doesn't shift to you. He keeps his eyes out the window, "No one, except for you, has ever written in my journal before. I - I don't want to touch it. It makes me uncontrollably angry, and I can't lose it right now." 

It was foolish for you not to think of that, to forget that that bitch had been using it. You reach forward and pull his journal out of his pocket. In the low light, you can make out the words. You go page to page skimming, you're so familiar with his handwriting at this point it's glaringly obvious when you find the stolen pages. 

Carefully you rip each one of them out, crinkling them into your fist. You check all the blank pages too, until you're sure that it's clean. You slide it back into his pocket without a word. 

"Thank you." 

You smile, and you're glad at least that's fixable. "See anything?" 

"Not yet." He murmurs. 

"Troy, " You pause because you don't know how to tell him. "I think we're going back to the ranch." 

He doesn't look at you, but his entire body turns to stone. All of it except for his hands, which clench around the rifle. "What do you mean?" 

"I was talking with Rick about a plan, since DC isn't an objective anymore. With a larger group, we may be able to get to what's in the pantry. We don't know what the ranch looks like." 

"The only thing in the pantry is bodies, Dixon. There's nothing to go back to." He sounds infuriated when he says it, but you know it's directed at himself, at the world for being so cruel. 

"I want to go home." You say, and it's a terrible thing to ask of him. Especially when you know he'll give it to you. Troy denies you nothing, and even this he won't deny. 

You're waiting for his response when he jerks to the side, lining up a shot and fires through the open window. The shot rings back through the room, before being absorbed by the foam. Retaliation shots are fired and he ducks, bending himself over you as the glass shatters down around you. 

"Did you get one?"

"Yes." He's still pressed over your head. You can see his pulse beating hard along the artery of his neck, he's got the rifle in one hand. "They're from Terminus." 

"Then we'll kill them." It's a promise, that bloodlust you thought had had its fill returns. 

Troy nods, and dares to stick his head up for a flash to see anything. He ducks back down and when he does you hear the shrill tone of a cardinal. They're in the building. 

You both head back down the stairs, Troy taking front with his rifle. You behind with your pistol, though you don't plan on using it unless you absolutely have no other choice. The others are all on their feet, scanning. Coop and Daryl are back behind the doors. 

Troy slides up along the wall. "We let them in." He whispers and points to the darkened corner under the room you were just in. 

Rick nods, and everyone starts moving into hidden defensible positions. You're hugged up behind a pillar, and Troy is out of sight in front of you. From your hiding spot, you can't see anyone else, all you can do is wait. 

It feels like a round of hide and seek gone bad. You press your head back against the bricks and slow your breathing. It feels like you wait forever for the doors to open, but they do open and Gareth strolls in, "I know you're in here." 

No one responds, and you count the shadows. There are only four of them. 

"I saw what you did to my mother. Which one of you monsters was it?" He calls, and you know his grief is running the show. What happened to Mary was worse than being bitten or shot. She suffered. You are glad she suffered. 

You smile, and know that he is right. There is a monster inside of you. You're glad it's there. "You should have heard her scream, Gareth, it was beautiful." 

You can feel Troy's anxiety even though you can't see him. His plan has been ruined, you weren't supposed to speak. But you can't help yourself. His almost death is too close, too immediate. "God, I was covered in her blood. Took forever to wash off."

His footsteps are fast approaching you, and you ready your knife in your hand. 

Troy jerks his rifle around the corner and opens fire. They scatter and you take that chance to tackle Gareth to the ground, knife pressing into his throat. Someone kicks his gun away, and more shots follow. 

His little army turns into a one man show in seconds. "What a leader you are, leading your men to die for revenge." 

"You killed my mother, my brother!" He spits, glaring at you. But that's all he can do, because if he moves that knife will digger further into his throat. 

"Finish it." Rick says over your shoulder. 

"You hear that Gareth, he wants me to show you mercy." 

He's not entirely afraid yet, more so resigned when he looks up at you. "But you're not the type, right? You're the butcher, not the cattle. So just do whatever it is you're going to do." 

"You were going to kill everyone I care about, you were going to fucking eat my family." You shake your head. "Not a sentence I ever thought I was going to have to say. So I guess, you'll need to admit to yourself you're willing to beg for your life. Scream like the cattle, Gareth." 

"I won't beg you. I'm never going to beg again." He says, and you know that's a lie. Everyone begs in the end, under the right pressure. 

You can feel Troy's eyes on you, so you look up and meet them. And he sees it, 'this is what I will become for you'. 

The idea entered your head while picking off the sharks when Terminus fell, and it wouldn't leave. It riggled around in your mind like a parasite. It's near compulsory that you have to act out the fantasy. "Troy, you might want to look away." 

That's the only warning you give before you pull the spoon you have in your pocket, collected for this very moment, and jam it into Gareth's eye socket. He screams, hands coming to grab at your arms. But they're pulled aside, pinned to the floor. You look up and find Troy standing on each of his wrists. 

He's all violence, as he looks cooly down. "Shit, I have to say I feel your pain, jackass." 

You're just about to move on to step two when the shot goes out. Gareth dies with a spoon sticking out of his face, and you're furious. 

You jerk your head up and stare at Glenn as he says, "That's not who we are." 

"That's who I am." You snarl back raising yourself to your feet, "He needed to pay." 

"And he did." Glenn gestures down at the bodies. "They're all dead." 

"It's not enough." You shake your head. "It wasn't enough." 

It's Daryl who approaches you, who doesn't say anything. He yanks you into his chest and hugs you. And if he'd have done that when you were fifteen, you'd have loved him for it. But it's starting to feel like too little too late. 

You push him back and get in his face. "The fuck you know about it." 

"Calm down, killer." Merle drawls and it's too much. It's all too much. 

You combust. Your fist goes right for Daryl and it's Jake who grabs your arm before it can connect and pulls you away. 

"That won't make you feel better. I promise, Troy and I have tried that method. All it leaves is bruises." He holds on to your wrist, sending a warning look your way. And it's so much more brotherly than what your two jackass brothers could put together. 

"It's not fair." You whisper, and he hugs you. This time you let yourself be held. 

"I know." Jake replies, "But life never is." 

Chapter Text

When Rick casts the vote everyone agrees that the ranch is a worthy option. Especially since Abraham managed to fix up an old school bus out back. A fantastic option for a group your size. Plus, it'll be your first time on a school bus. 

Troy is quiet. He's the most conflicted about going back. You were sure for a second there that he was going to vote on not going. But you asked and so he agreed. Even if the way he had agreed was hesitant at best, even if he had to hide the way his hands shook by shoving them under his thighs. 

You hope there's a ranch to go back to, but none of you really know for certain. Bags loaded in the back, the rest of the group comes on board your new ride. 

As you enter you picture what it would have been like to go to high school. You sit down in the second row and snag the window seat. Troy squeezes in next to you, and you take his hand in yours. 

He's not angry with you, you can tell that much. But he's not doing well. You hope he'll finally start writing again. "Imagine the two of us going to high school together." You tease. 

The idea of it seems to distract him a little, because he finds his smile. Especially when Jake sits in the seat behind you and slaps the seat a bunch with the palms of his hands before sticking his finger in his brother's ear. 

Troy swings around to look at him and Jake laughs, "I'm giving you the high school experience." He taps the seat again and then starts banging into the back with his knees, shoving the two of your forward. 

You laugh. Troy does too, though it's a little more reserved. You bump into his shoulder, "We'd have been a sight, the girl from the wrong side of the tracks and the rich quiet kid." 

"We weren't that well off," Troy says, and you snort. 

"I'm sorry, some of us stole potato chips so we didn't starve, money bags." 

"I'd have paid for your school lunches." He quips and you go along with it. Anything is better than this solace of his. You long for his teasing smirks and smartass commentary, the way he's always trying to make you laugh and always watching to see if you do.

"My hero. Saved by stale pizza and nachos." You think about it and groan, "God, I miss nachos." 

Beth where she sits across from you groans too, "Don't talk about that. My stomach can't take it." 

Together you mourn the loss of cheap melty cheese. Cows or no cows, you'll never experience that again. "Would you have carried my backpack for me?" You ask, leaning against his shoulder as the bus starts to move with a dry squeal. But it starts to pick up speed and you huff a breath of relief.

"To every class, even if it made me late to mine." Troy replies, looking over your head out the window.

"What a romantic." Jake jokes, leaning against the seat so he's in the midst of your conversation. You're grateful for his help. He knows just as well as you that Troy isn't doing well, and you two do great work as a team. It doesn't even matter if Troy realizes what you're trying to accomplish. Knowing the two of you are working together to help him would only make him happier anyway. 

It's about a thirty hour drive without having to scrounge for gas, but if the bus survives you should be home within the week. 

The first day goes without a problem. Abraham drives until nightfall and you all bunker down for the night. It's not the most comfortable sleeping arrangement but you've had worse. The next morning you scrounge for gas and food. It repeats like that across the country. Someone drives, then you find gas, and food. Daryl and Merle hunt while people look for resources. You eat a lot of rabbit. 

Nothing goes wrong. You think fate wants you back at the ranch. Your luck finally holds. You get that breath of fresh air. 

It takes a week and a half until you start recognizing road signs. When you pass a sign for Uncle Jim's Bar and Grill a wave of anxiety envelopes you. Jake has to take over directions, because your words are disappearing by the second. 

Troy is worse, he's gone pale. 

He's been writing in his notebook for hours, scrunched up against the window, with his knee up so you can't read over his shoulder like you usually do. It's not like him to hide his journal from you. 

You can't actually think of an instance in which he has. Jake is concerned too. 

Half the bus is watching your group, keeping you in the corner of their eye. "How close we cooking?" Abraham asks. 

You have to swallow before you can speak, "Twenty minutes, the road will be on the right. It's dirt, but we can point it out." 

The final segment of the ride is made almost entirely in silence. Coop is the one that points out the road, and the bus slopes down into it. A little further once you're over the hill and you'll see what's left. 

You're all looking out the window, counting the seconds. You breach the hill, and Troy lets out a strangled breath. It's a charred wasteland. There's still a few infected in the fields, but the fuel station is gone. 

The RVs are all charred and burnt in their line up. The fences were fodder for the fire, the irony that the most put together building is the adobe isn't lost on you. The cabin is a half burnt candle, only a few of the structural beams remain. 

You have to fight the tears. This is your home, and it's no longer anything. There is nothing to rebuild and they all see that. The ground is ruined. "The pantry is fire resistant. There may still be supplies. Stop the bus here." 

Abraham hits the brakes just outside of where the gate used to be, now there's just a piece of metal in the specks of grass that still remain. 

"We should go on foot, there's too much wreckage to risk the tires." You say. 

When you turn to Troy he's not expressing any emotion at all, like flipping a light switch. Anything he could be feeling is gone. Replaced by a shell awaiting direction. "Wait on the bus, Troy." 

He looks up at you and stands. "No." He's the first to walk down the steps into the dirt. 

Jake is quick to follow. You let some of the others get off before you join them. It's painful to see the ranch this way, you want to picture it the way it was. With the cattle, and scattered RVs. Joking around in the house and playing cards. 

Troy is already walking toward the pantry and the rest of the group is rushing to catch up. He slips between two melted RVs and comes to stand in front of the doors. He pulls one open, then the other, and just stops. 

He stands there, looking down into the darkness. His hands curled into fists, but his posture stick straight. 

No one says anything. You all watch as he looks into that chasm, and you know he is picturing a different void that calls to him. 

His hand is on his pistol, resting there. Unmoving, uncompromising.

You speak and it catches a good amount of horrified attention. "I still have two bullets, if you're thinking of checking out." 

He finally looks back over his shoulder at you, and there's an innocent sort of hopelessness in his eyes. "We could do it together." 

"Or we could live. You don't have to go down there." You offer, "All we have to do is carry stuff out. You don't need to be there for that." 

"Everything I did was in service of this place." He looks at his boots. "Everything." 

"You've paid your due." You walk up to him and hold his arms, "You don't have to do this. Go back to the bus, or see if there's anything in the adobe." 

"It has to be me." Troy pulls back from you, and then he starts down the steps. 

"Everyone wait here. Jake, you understand more about the structure. I need you to see if it's secure." You look at Coop. "Stay here, please." 

He nods. And so you go down, pulling out your flashlight. Jake has one too, but Troy walks directly into the dark. You realize why when he starts turning on the backup lanterns. You're not surprised he can find them without looking. 

The more he turns on, the more it illuminates the bodies. You've been gone months and they show the signs. This world has conditioned you to not panic at the smell of rot, but it soaks into the air. It's worse when you know why, who is rotting. You know the name of every single corpse. 

"It's secure, as long as we try and avoid touching the walls and especially the ceiling." He shines his light up at the crack. "We should be able to take everything." 

You nod, and glance at Troy where he stands in the center of the pantry. He's not moving, only scanning the room. Picturing it before and after. 

You wish you could comfort him but every second in the pantry is a risk, and you have a job to do. It's an important job. Acting as a ranch leader means you have the pantries contents memorized, not nearly to the degree Troy does, but well enough you can find where you need to go in the dark. 

Most of the corpses surround the armory, so you don't have to watch each step, but you do anyway. You find the excess blankets and walk toward the cage. Lying out the white sheet, you lock your jaw and carefully extract Lea from the pile. 

She is more bone than a person now, but you find her by her clothes. You fight the urge to vomit as you shift her corpse onto the blanket, because it's soft to the touch. Your fingers sink into her in places. You let out a gag, and apologize to her in your head. 

Jake hovers looking down at his feet. "I need another blanket." You want something clean to present Coop, at least as much as you can. 

He rushes to gather one, and you see Troy has moved, covering the other bodies with more white sheets. 

You get her wrapped, and lift the body. It weighs so little, it's jarring. Jake grabs two shovels and follows you up. You have to blink to adjust to the light as you walk toward the exit. Each of your footfalls feels heavy. 

Coop sees you on the second step, and his head falls. He's desperately trying not to cry, teeth gnashed together as he comes forward to meet you. Carefully the two of you work together to shift his sister into his arms. 

Jake comes to stand beside him. "Do you - do you want to put her by my mother?" 

Your friend nods, but he doesn't say anything. Jake turns to follow him up the hill when Troy walks up, a bundle of his own cradled to his chest. It kills you how gentle he is, the respect he gives her for his brother's sake and his own, "Jakey." 

Jake turns and freezes. Beth steps forward and takes the shovels from him as he meets Troy in the doorway. It's soft the way they transfer her between them, fragile. Troy reaches out to adjust the top of the sheets, so her head rests against Jake's shoulders. 

He doesn't fight the tears like Coop did, he lets them roll down his cheeks. "Hey, Licia, baby." He whispers to her as he passes you, trailing after Cooper. Beth follows with the shovels. 

Everyone is looking at you, everyone except for Troy who has already returned to the bunker. 

You have a job to do. Shut it down, compartmentalize. Facing the crowd you straighten your posture to something more confident. You feel your brothers watching you. "The bunker is stable for now, as long as we're careful. A group of three will go down, and five will stay out to start bringing things back to the bus. There's a lot down there, so we'll be cramming the bus to capacity." 

You focus on Abraham since he seems to be your driver. "There's an outpost to the west that has some backup supplies. There's a good chance the fire didn't go out that far. There's fuel and two trucks, if they're still there. Maggie, up the hill, where the adobe is there's a water pump. Give it a few shots and see if we can access the well. Rosita, you're in charge of killing sharks. We're going to gather attention. I'll get you a machete. There's a chance that the pantry will collapse, so I'm only taking volunteers." 

Daryl, Carol, and Rick end up being the three you take. While you're talking Troy carries up another wrapped body and goes back down again. You think he's going to bring every last one of them up. 

"That was Lea?" Carol asks as you decend. 

All you manage is a soft, "Yeah. We'll go all the way back and work our way out." You can see Rick looking at the shelves, and it's clearly a whole lot more than he was expecting. "You thought I was exageratting, sheriff?" 

"A little." He admits. They all look at the corpses Troy is organizing in silence. You keep focused and get to work. 

No one really talks while you start carrying things out. One box or bag at a time. It will take hours with the three of you but it's important not to have too many people in here. 

Troy works alone, and you let him. As much as you want to help, getting these supplies out is the most important thing. But not enough that you'll make him stop. He keeps working, methodical. 

It's hard to feel like the mission is a success when presented with your biggest failure, but these supplies will keep you alive for a very long time. It's late into the afternoon by the time you finish, your arms ache. You are so tired. 

Maggie has filled up the water reserves, because the well does, as luck would have it, still work. 

Jake and Coop have both finished their graves and moved to help Troy dig the long trench he plans to make into a mass grave. 

"We can camp here for the night." Abraham offers, "Head out in the morning." 

"Alright." You say, and you can hear the exhaustion in your voice. Michonne touches your arm and goes off after Rick. When you look toward what's left of your ranch, you notice Daryl, Maggie, and Glenn have joined in digging. 

You don't think your arms could handle digging, so instead you crest up the hill following the driveway to the front of the house. There's no door, only the ghost of where it used to be. You walk through, and look around the bones of your home. The second story is gone, your room is nothing but air. Large items like the bathtubs have fallen onto what remains of the foundation. The kitchen is a few melted appliances. You walk through standing where your bedroom would have been. 

Troy's weapons are a ruined pile of liquified metal and plastic. A few blades are technically still salvageable but their handles are gone. His journals did not survive. You find one single page left half charred from his childhood. 

You remember this one, it's from his early teen years. He was likely thirteen or so. Carefully you press it between the pages of your own journal and scan the rest of the area for more. You find nothing. 

Overwhelmed you sit, looking through a gap in one of the walls. And it looks the same, long grass fields and a falling sun. You sniffle, eyes burning. You didn't realize how much you wanted the ranch to still be standing until you were amongst the corpse of what you'd built. 

"I ain't gonna apologize." Merle says. You didn't even hear him with your faraway thoughts. He wanders over and kicks a piece of charred wood to the side so he can sit too. Pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket he lights it, and hands it to you. You're more than happy to take it. "But," He pauses, "It ain't gonna happen to you again." 

It is as close as Merle will come to saying sorry for the trauma you've experienced. You're surprised by how little that means to you. "Good talk." You pat his arm and stand, cigarette still poised between your teeth. 

"Hey," He calls out after you, "Dixie Cup, I'm trying to have a fuckin' heart to heart here." 

You look over at him, and smile. It's a sad, tired beast of a smile. "Should have tried sooner." Today was not the day for him to try and make a change. You feel rubbed raw, like an open wound bleeding onto the charred earth. 

They're filling in the dirt by the time you walk back down the hill. Merle doesn't follow, he's never had that kind of determination. 

You flick the cigarette away before Troy spots it, not that he won't smell it on you. Taste the tar in your mouth. But you hide the evidence regardless. 

Troy is coated with sweat as he packs down the dirt. You grab a shovel and help finish even though your arms are on fire. It's not as bad as it was that final day. 

And you owe them this for failing. So you bury your dead, and you prep your goodbyes. You don't realize something is off until you look at him, but you see it. See it in the slope of his shoulders, in the bleakness that coats him. Troy is breaking. 

You've never seen him like this before, with one foot in the grave. He starts bringing the shovel down against the pile to flatten the dirt, harder than he needs to. It borders on aggressive and the others move away from him and his flailing motions. 

Jake shares a long look with you. You approach first, carefully taking the shovel from him. "It's done, you did it." 

His chest is heaving, pupils dilated to pinpricks. If you didn't know him, you'd think he was high on something. But he's not high, he's terrified. 

You go in to hug him, arms outstretched and he wheels back. "No." He turns and rushes back toward the pantry. 

Before you can reach him he yanks both the doors closed and you hear the sound of the doors locking from the inside. You hit the doors leaning against them. "Troy! Troy, it's not safe." 

He doesn't respond but a moment later there's a crash. "Troy!" 

Jake rushes over, trying to pull one of the doors up. "Shit. Troy, open the door." 

There's more clattering, the sound of a shelf knocking into another one. And then he screams, it's abhorrent. You feel like you were kicked in the chest, because that's not a man afraid. That's not the sound he makes if he gets hurt, or startled. 

That's a sound you've never heard. That's the sound of a man losing all he is, to all he has done. 

You and Jake try and open both doors together, but the lock was made to keep people out. It's meant to be a doomsday shelter. "Troy." You speak into the crack and hope he can hear you. 

Others have gathered at the commotion. You're panicked, if he hits the wrong spot he may have the entire roof come down on him. 

"Come out, please come out." You keep trying to open the door, while the chaos inside continues. He keeps screaming, until it turns to him talking to himself, but you can't make it out. And if you can't hear him, then he can't hear you. 

Michonne arrives with a crowbar, and Jake pulls it from her, jamming it between the doors. He doesn't bother calling out to Troy, he focuses on the door. The muscles of his arms straining against it. 

"Why is he doing that?" Carl asks, and it's an innocent question. The kind of question a child asks. 

Rick answers because you're far too busy. "He feels guilty, for what happened to his people." 

You and Jake are working together to bend the door, when his talking stops. He goes silent. That scares you far more than his anger. 

"Troy." Your voice is soft, it can't penetrate the door. "Don't." 

There's a part of you that knows, knows it in your chest. You should never have brought him back here. 

You hear the shot through the door, that at least you can hear clearly. 

"Oh." You say, stumbling away. 

You should never have come home. 

Turning to Jake you smile at him, and he's crying again. Because Troy has spent his whole life looking into the end. Wanting. Wanting. Wanting. 

A child of violence who's never been afraid to die, but always terrified to fail. 

Jake doesn't stop you when you reach down toward your pistol. "I've got two, if you want it. Bye, Jakey." You say, and pull it up to the side of your head. Your finger is tightening down on the trigger, Rick is reaching toward you. 

The door opens. Troy sees you, and throws himself forward. Daryl is next to you. When did he get next to you? He yanks your wrist back and the shot goes off into the air. You smell the gunpowder. Your ears ring. 

You're frozen, gun still pointed in the air, everyone is standing in stunned shock. Troy reaches you, collapsing to his knees. He presses his forehead into your legs and sobs. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm not - I'm not - I'm here. I'm here." 

You sink down so you can wrap your arms around each other. Jake curls himself around you both. 

"It's not your fault." You tell him, over and over. "It's not your fault." 

Jake says it too, and you hope he hears you. 

The rest of the group leaves you to have your privacy, but you know they'll be watching your group closely in the coming weeks. No one is angry, but you've made them nervous. You've proven how possible it is to give in. 

To decide on the flip of a dime to end your life. 

Daryl is the only one who stays, sitting a few feet away. He doesn't say anything, but he hovers. 

You don't focus on him. Troy needs you, and you'll be damned if you're not willing to slice yourself apart if it makes him feel okay again. 

Chapter Text

When dawn comes you are both regretful to leave and desperate to. You've not dared to leave Troy's sight, and not that he knows it but you and Jake took shifts watching him through the night. 

Your stomach is in knots. You haven't been able to eat and you slept for an hour, maybe less. 

You must show it because when he does wake from a deep slumber, Troy's immediately scanning your face. He sweeps over the rest of you for signs of distress before locking back on the bags under your eyes. "Did you sleep?" 

"Yeah." You lie and give him a faint smile. Your bags were packed hours ago, because you really hadn't slept. He sees the packs and doesn't admit that he knows you're lying. 

Instead, he rises and gathers them up, walking toward the bus. You'd slept on the ground, a good deal of your time was spent looking up at the sky while using his leg as a pillow. The land may be burnt but the stars are the same. 

"Let's go." He says and walks toward the bus. You spend a little longer standing there. Jake and Coop are both up in the graveyard saying their final goodbyes. Though you know Jake slept up there. You don't think any of you will be coming back. 

Tilting your head up you feel the wind in your hair, the start of sunlight on your face. You imagine it a final time. The rolling hills, music drifting down from the house. People chatting in the mess tent, the sound of a truck starting up in the distance. Those nights you slept in the back of a pickup. 

Popcorn, coffee. Troy putting on his uniform and tying your shoes. The way the light filtered in through your bedroom window. Troy supine against the mattress as you ride him. Or scribbling in his journal in the middle of the night. Jake making eggs, the cluck of the chickens. Learning how to milk a cow. Laughing at Blake's bad jokes.

You are sick of crying, but you give it one last go. It is selfish to mourn the ranch over the people, but you'll miss this place most of all. This place where you felt safe for the first time. 

When you look toward the bus, Troy is standing by the door watching. The wind tousles his hair, and you see how dulled his jacket has become. You've gathered up the rest of the uniforms, it's in a bag you marked with your name. No one needs those but the two of you, maybe Coop if he wants one. 

He looks different, older. The youthful glow that you had seen looking around the grocery store shelving is replaced by a man that has tasted regret. But you can fix that. 

Each step feels a little lighter. Home is where your family is. You'll find a new place to make safe, you'll build something together. 

TWO WEEKS LATER

It is Eugene's tentative idea to go to the coast. Talk of resources and possible communities. The ocean is an excellent resource, overfishing is now a thing of the past. So you go to the coast, drifting up past San Diego. You end up in a smaller town seventy miles up, and that's where you find her. 

Nestled in a docking bay, sitting amongst bombed wrecks is a solitary ship. She is grounded along the bank, unable to pull out to sea but secure. 

Eugene apparently knows a bit about ships, and says that there are often water filtration systems on cruiseliners this size. It's considered a cruise ship, but small. Not the mega cruises you used to read about. He says it likely only has thirty to forty rooms. It's perfect, defensible. 

Close enough to the city for scavenging, but small enough to manage with a group your size. There's only a single door that leads into the lower deck. 

And there scrawled across the side in yellow cheerful paint the name: HONEYWELL. 

"I gotta be honest that boat sure does look like a nice place to settle down roots. You think you can make the filtration system work, Eugene?" Abraham asks. 

Their relationship is strained, but they've tentatively been talking. Eugene nods, "I do believe I could extrapolate the right information for such a task." 

"It could work." You say looking at Rick. He nods his agreement. When you turn to Troy he's already scouting the surrounding area with his eyes. 

He's desperate for any kind of task to keep busy. Anything that means you don't have the opportunity to talk about your feelings. He's been avoiding it, as soon as you open your mouth to talk he finds any excuse to make you stop. 

You've got to give it to him, he's been plenty creative. He'll bring Jake into the conversation, make an excuse to leave, pretend to fall asleep, and on the two separate occasions you were both alone he put something in your mouth. 

You gave in because at least when he's got his head tilted back, hands fisting your hair, groaning he's content. 

But he won't be able to avoid it forever and he knows that. You both do, that's why you don't push when you could. You'll wait him out, you're stubborn like that. For now he can focus on this. Let him have something he can succeed in. 

"We'll need to clear it." You say. 

Michonne nods, "Might be empty." 

"Might be full." Rosita says. 

"Might be half full or half empty." You joke, and Jake chuckles. 

"Wise ass." Glenn mumbles, "I can get in, scope it out." 

You scan the area and find two shopping carts along the parking lot where people must have left their cars. "Bet the halls are pretty narrow." You point to the shopping carts. "We could clear in manually." 

"Won't help if there's people on board." Rick counters. 

"I don't think there's any living on board." You say. There are no signs of people anywhere. The coasts were the first to fall, it means far more dead than living. Which is good, because dead are easy in comparison. 

"I agree." Troy points along the deckline. "No signs of anything but whatever was left there. No clotheslines, or farming. Anyone who was on board is either dead or gone." 

"So we go in through the door with the shopping carts, that sounds risky." Rick says. 

You look at your group. "Send Michonne in front with her sword. You're forgetting that we're all quite good at killing the dead. We split into groups of two. No team building, we pick who we work with best. We could get it cleared in a few hours. Throw the dead over the side, the tide will carry them out. Or we cart them off to burn later." 

Troy looks excited by the opportunity. It's been weeks since you got to go off against a large group. He's already touching his machete, longing for the simplicity of killing. 

"Alright, but we fall back to the entrance if it goes bad." Rick turns to Carl. "You and Jude are going to stay on the bus." 

"I'll stay with them." Eugene offers and you look at him. 

"Remember what I said about cowards, big brain. One of these days you're going to have to get brave." You tell him. 

He swallows, and you can see the fear that creeps over him. "I do believe I would be a liability."

"You think." Rosita scoffs. 

Troy shifts from foot to foot and steps out of your hiding place to start walking through the parking lot. If there were people inside they'd be pulling guns now, and you know that's why he started walking before you followed. His actions are risky, bordering on suicidal. 

He absolutely needs to talk about it. 

You trail after him and Jake and Coop follow. Everyone finds their buddy as you walk toward the door. No carts, they'll just get in the way. Rosita picks the lock instead of breaking in, and the floor you enter on is dim but not unlit. A good scrub on the windows and it'll be brighter. 

Pulling the axe you have out of your belt, you ready yourself at Troy's side.  You split into two groups and start toward clearing one level at a time. 

There are few sharks here as you go room to room, Troy clears with the same movements you've always known him to do. Hard turns, and scanning eyes, he's sunk into that half military crouch that you love. 

By the time you're done with your side there's only four sharks to dispose of, but you'll get those afterward. You move up to the next floor, the cabin level. There's only one long hall and door upon door. Each set of two takes a door. You're cautious going one at a time. 

This is where you find the majority of the dead. You and Troy clear ten sharks, but in total there are nearly thirty. It doesn't take you long to start seeing similarities. The evidence is clear enough that these guys drank the Kool-Aid. Jonestown style. 

Tourists turned suicide pact. 

It reminds you of what you'd almost done less than two weeks ago. It reminds Troy too because he keeps looking at you. The higher levels only have two of the dead. These people killed themselves quickly after it all started from the looks of it. You don't blame them, this world isn't for everyone. 

Better to go out with a nice drink and a sight of the sea. By the end of the day Honeywell is cleared of the dead. You throw the bodies into the sea. 

Eugene is tasked with getting the filtration system up and running. If he doesn't manage this you worry about his future in your group of killers. Everyone minus Judith has killed the dead at the very least. 

Beth walks over to you and she's got a pep in her step. "Come on!" 

"What are we doing?" You ask glancing at where Troy is leaning nearby. Now that the killing has ended he's diverted his attention to the off-green carpeting. 

"Everyone is picking rooms. We're drawing numbers for the four biggest." She explains and you laugh as you follow her to the cabin floor. Troy trails behind with his hands shoved into his pockets. 

He's fallen completely silent, immune to the jovial enthusiasm Beth puts out, or your own attempt to smile. Tonight he's not going to be able to avoid it. Even if you have to pin him down and make him speak. But first you have to find out what room it will be in. 

There's an excited energy in the air, as you enter. The entire group is gathered. Rick is amused, glancing around. He holds up a cup. "I got papers in here, one through sixteen. You draw a number, one gets to choose first, and so forth." 

You grin at Troy and his lip twists up just barely at the amusement he must see in your eyes. It's nice to have something so simple to be excited about. This will be the place you get to call home. When the cup gets to you, you dig into it and pull your number free looking at it. Three. You've got third pick. Which means you're guaranteed a suite. You already know which one you want. 

Troy pulls sixteen and shakes his head with a sigh. You bump your shoulder into his. "Good thing we're roomies." He rolls his eyes. 

Beth ends up being the first to choose and she picks one of the smaller suits on the far side of the room. Abraham and Rosita get second pick and choose suite one. 

Rick turns to you, and you grin. "Suite two." You point at Abraham and Rosita and wiggle your eyebrows. "If you hear anything, no you didn't." 

Abraham laughs, and you know it's a perfect fit. It takes all of your patience to wait until everyone else gets their lots, but when it's time you latch on to Troy's hand and drag him toward the door. 

Earlier Rosita found the crew's keys so you'll even be able to lock your doors as you come and go, like tiny little seaside apartments. 

You push open your door and walk him inside with a grin, "Welcome home!" 

Releasing his hand you stroll further into the space. It's a good size, and comes with your very own balcony outlooking toward the rest of the docks. There's two chairs and a small table out there. The bed is king sized, given you're in a suite. 

You whistle, spinning in a circle. There's a closet, a built in desk and bookcase. Plus you have your own bathroom. You're not sure if Eugene will be able to rig it where you can get water, but it's still a private place to be. Better than the forest. The whole ship is themed to look like a vintage liner. 

White, light blue, and yellow. You like it. "This is my first boat." You say, looking at him. 

He doesn't say anything and you think he knows that he can't run anymore. The acceptance has started to creep in. 

You approach, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. "You ready, cowboy?" 

Troy runs his tongue along his teeth, and nods. 

"You once asked me to never shut you out. I need you to do the same with me, okay." You ask. 

He's thinking hard about what he wants to say, and you give him time. He collapses into a sitting position on the bed sending up a puff of dust. "I - I am a failure." 

You want to tell him he's wrong, that he hasn't failed. That he's capable of anything and everything, that it wasn't on him. But you don't, because if you interrupt him he may not start again. 

"Broke Jaw was my one responsibility, for almost my whole life. It was everything. I helped dad carry fucking buckets. I built that damn bunkhouse. He told me over and over that it was my job to protect it. That the lives of those on the ranch were more important than my own. That a soldier has to be willing to die for their land, their rights, their country. That's what an American does." He runs a frustrated hand through his hair and gets up to start pacing. 

"'You're an Otto, Troy. No one else is going to do what needs to be done. Those damn Indians will keep fighting for it, but they're weak. You can't be weak.'" He starts scripting and you know this is what he needed. He only goes off like that when he's falling. Troy jerks to look at you, "But I was weak. You made me weak. I focused on you, I let myself be happy and everyone died. I can't love you and be strong at the same time." 

Your shoulders fall. The blame shifting inward toward you, resting down on your back. 

"I decide I'm going to marry you and then we get separated. Everyone almost dies again. I propose and the ranch is gone. This is all on me." His hands fist his hair as he sinks onto the bed again, like he can't decide where to put himself. "It's all my fault." 

"Bright eyes, every bad thing that happens isn't because you want to be happy." You step toward him. "Thinking like that is arrogance. What happens to us does not get affected by how you feel." 

"Doesn't it? Doesn't it?" He looks up at you and there are tears on his cheeks. "I can't. I can't be with you and keep you alive." 

"Yes, you can." You choke, because he can't mean what you think he means. That's not how this ends. That's not fair. "I would rather die with you than live without you." 

"I've made up my mind." He stands and you don't know when he pulled off his ring. But it's there balanced on his journal, resting on the bed. Like an insult, like a broken promise. "You can keep them. I don't - I'm not going to write anymore." 

You don't even move to stop him. You're still trying to catch up on what any of that meant, that Troy is leaving. That his abandoning you; he's leaving you behind.

This was never one of your fears. 

You never doubted his loyalty, his faith in you. You never worried about other women, or the idea that he'd want to go. You got caught up in the magic of it. You are blindsided. Stunned. 

Devastated.  

You never thought Troy would be a coward. 

You leave the journal on the bed, but add your ring to the mix and walk out onto the balcony. It's almost dark, but the sunset is pretty. At least it would be if you could bring yourself to enjoy it. 

Part of you registers that this is the part where you break down, where you cry. But you've already cried so much. There comes a time when the tears run out, and you've hit that limit. 

But that doesn't mean you don't feel it. The numb pain in your chest, and a certain recklessness. The desire to fuck up your entire life because something needs to burn. You wonder if this is how Merle always feels, and that's why he acts the way he does. 

You could seek one of them out for comfort, but they were never good at stuff like that. You could go to Jake, but he's not your brother anymore. Not in the same way, now it feels like a burden. Coop has enough on his plate. 

So you go to an old friend. A friend you almost forgot the name and voice of. A friend you haven't entertained since before all this. Your friend: Oxy. 

The medbay had been well stocked, you'd snatched them for Troy just in case he accidentally got himself hurt. Now they have a new purpose. 

You take your normal dose with the lack of hesitation addiction causes. At first, it helps the ache that clings to your body, and you feel yourself relax. You wander out of your room, leaving your militia jacket and dogtags behind. No reminders for now. 

Today you are a Dixon. You are back to where you started. 

You end up on the deck, wandering to the end. The sun has nearly dipped entirely below the sea, only a sliver of light is left ricocheting over the water. Letting yourself go limp you feel sluggish, a little slow as you press your hands to the railing. 

"We're warming something to eat." Jake says coming to walk up behind you. 

You glance at him, and it kills you because he starts looking around for Troy. "He's not up here." You say and turn back to watch the light fade some more. 

"You want to grab him when you come down." He asks, like you know. Because of course on any normal day you would know. 

You shake your head. "I don't know where he is." 

Jake comes to stand beside you, following your eyes. You wonder if he knows you're riding a high, though it feels more like a dip. 

"You alright?" He asks, and presses his arm against yours. 

"No." 

He looks at you, tracing your face with the little remaining light. "Thinking about the ranch?" 

You wish it was as simple as thinking about the ranch. It makes you laugh, and it comes out dry. You might be able to get away with another pill, your tolerance is long built to opiates. Maybe that will take the edge off even more. 

"No." 

He nudges you. "You going to give me something better than a no? Want me to track down my little brother?" 

"No, I don't that will do any good." You look out at the sea, and the idea comes to you. Why stay? Why stay to be disappointed by everyone who was supposed to love you? "I think I'm going to head out on my own tomorrow, Jakey." 

His head snaps toward you, "What?" 

"I'm tired." You slump against the railing. "I'm so sick of people disappointing me." 

"What happened?" He touches your wrist, and you wish he wouldn't sound so concerned. Then you wouldn't have to feel guilty tomorrow for taking off. 

You can survive on your own, you've done it before. You're capable of the savagery necessary for such a task. 

"He - Troy - " You don't want to say his name, "He's called it quits." 

"What Honeywell?" He asks, "Shit, if he hates the idea of living on a ship so much the four of us will go. We can build something our - "

"He left me, Jake." 

His voice cuts off at a hard stop and he just stares at you. Like Jake can't imagine that situation coming to pass, but you didn't see it coming either. "I don't understand." 

"What is there not to understand?" You snap, even though you have no reason to be angry with Jake. "He left his fucking ring and journal and told me I make him weak. He left me behind. I don't want to stay here. I don't want to sit in everything I can't have. I'm not a masochist." 

"No." Jake responds, "No, he's not - I will not let him do this. He's done plenty of dumb shit in his life, but this - no absolutely not." He turns and heads back the way he came, and you let him go. Once he's gone you take another pill. It's not until he's gone a minute that you realize Jake is not going to talk to Troy. 

They only know how to argue one way. And it's with hands and blood. "Fuck." 

You turn to defend the man that's abandoned you, because how could you not? Loving Troy Otto never made you weak. 

Chapter Text

He's got an open can of carrots in front of him, it's warmed. There is even salt. Troy doesn't touch it, he's not hungry. 

The rest of the group is a positive ray of fucking sunshine. He is a storm cloud seconds from wishing he could be the one struck by lightning. He can't tell if this is a mistake. He doesn't feel stronger. He feels weaker than he's ever been. 

And he knows he's hurt you. Troy knows he's cut you deep and left you alone to pick up your own pieces, just like he promised he'd never do.

Everyone leaves him alone, no one even sits by him. But Coop is glancing at him, every few seconds he look over again. Troy wants to tell him to fuck off, but he doesn't. He keeps looking at his can, carrots are your favorite. Normally he trades with you for whatever you're stuck with. 

It's funny how the only person he wants around to help him grieve is the person he is grieving for. 

He's about to give up on pretending to eat and go pick one of the empty rooms left over. Somewhere far from your own room, close to the exit in case there's a fight. But then Jake comes flying down the stairs. 

He takes one look at Troy, and Troy knows you have told him. He's furious, Troy can't remember the last time he saw Jake make that face. Maybe when he found out their dad had lied about killing Walker's father. But that seems less than this. 

This looks like a different kind of betrayal. 

Troy readies himself for it, as Jake cuts across the room and grabs him by the front of the shirt. He forgot how strong his brother could be when he wants to be. He barely registers that he's on his back, that Jake is crouched above him, hands tight against his collar. The pain against his shoulders is welcome. 

Jake snarls at him, "I never pegged you for a complete fucking idiot." 

Several of the others are on their feet. Rick steps forward. "Break it up you two." 

Jake doesn't even look at him, "This is family business stay the hell out of it." 

Rick shifts closer anyway and Coop is beside them, defending. Troy thinks he doesn't entirely know who to side with, and on any other day that would make him laugh. He doesn't laugh this time.

"You bitch and moan growing up about wanting someone to love you. And then what you get cold feet and just decimate her. What are you going to do tho fix this? What are you going to do? What are you going to do, huh?" Jake shakes him for good measure, and the back of Troy's head bounces off the floor. 

Troy watches Jake, the tightness in his jaw and he says something he doesn't want to say. It's a cruel thing to say, a nasty thing. But Troy is adept at the obscene. "You should do it, Jakey." 

"Do what?" 

"Be with her." Troy says, even as the idea fills him with nausea. "Remember after the Trimbols, you helped then. We share a few personality traits." He laughs, "Shit, pretty sure your cock is about the same -" 

Jake punches him, hard enough his vision shutters. He hits him again, and Troy thinks one more and he'll lose a tooth. 

Troy closes his eyes and allows it, because this he can accept. This is easy. His mind is silent in the face of pain. 

The hit doesn't come and when he opens his eyes there you are, standing over him. Protecting him. You've got your arms up, in a pose he knows he taught you. It hurts far worse than Jake's knuckles into his skin. 

How did he think he could survive without you? He was so so stupid. It's been less than an hour and he's already falling apart.

"Leave him alone." 

Jake runs a hand over his face in frustration. "Why? Jesus, Dixon, he left you and you're defending him." 

There's a murmur through the room at that. And Troy feels the eyes on him. He doesn't defend himself. There's nothing to defend. He fucked up, he made the mistake. Now he has to live with it.

Daryl shifts forward, and he's the only one not looking at Troy. He's looking at you, concern evident in his gaze. "What did you take?" 

Troy looks up at you, at the fatigue that coats you. There's a sort of sheen to your eyes that he doesn't know. Daryl is right. You're on something, your eyes are dilated, hands shaking. 

"What Merle's the only one allowed to get high around here?" You snap, "He made his choice." Your voice cracks and Troy's heart feels like it's being squeezed. "But if any of you touch him." You point at them threateningly. 

"Let them." He says, still below you. 

You look down and your face both falls and hardens. "You want to be punished so bad, you could have just asked. I know all your fucking secrets. I'm sure I could find you a broom closet. Lock you in and let you scream it out. Give me a few cigarettes and you can be my personal ashtray. You think your old man had a monopoly on child abuse. I can think of all sorts of ways to fucking hurt you right about now." 

He doesn't reply, your comments don't even bother him. Not really, because you are right. That is exactly what he deserves. A nice quiet box sounds good, peaceful. 

You glare down at him and keep talking, "Look I get tha - " You drop, and Coop is the one that keeps you from falling on top of Troy. 

He pulls you up in his arms and jealousy rears through him like fire. He pulls himself up to his feet. "Give her to me." 

Cooper looks at him, and shakes his head, "I think you've done enough, Troy." 

He's forced to trail after the group as you're brought to medical. Everyone ignores him. Merle goes so far as to shove past him. Ironic that he's pretending to care about you now. 

Daryl leans over you, Carol hovering beside him. He pulls up your eyelid. It makes Troy twitchy. This wasn't what he wanted. He'll grovel when you're awake, do whatever you want him to do. 

He'll leave the ship, or spend the rest of his life as your servant. He'll do anything you want, even as he's forced to accept you'll never want him again. Maybe you will end up with Jake, and he'll be forced to watch that unfold. 

That would be a fitting punishment, watching you fall in love with someone better. He wants to write you a letter, but he doesn't even have that anymore. Doesn't deserve it. His mother was right, he does destroy everything he touches.

"Merle, go see if you can find out what she took." Daryl directs digging into your pockets. There's nothing to find. 

Your older brother actually listens and heads toward the door. Troy speaks when he's halfway through the archway. "Painkillers." 

They turn to look at Troy and he expounds, "She got stuck on painkillers and morphine after her surgery. Oxycodone I think." 

Merle leaves, and Daryl nods like that makes sense. 

Carol ushers the bulk of the group out of the room, until it's just Daryl, her, Jake, Coop, and Troy. She turns toward him, judgement evident. "I'm not sure if you should be here." 

Troy sneers, "I know more about her than all of you." 

"Didn't stop you from breaking her heart." Cooper reprimands and Troy considers hitting him. 

He fights with his eyes instead. "Get fucked." 

"You behave, or I'll have you thrown out." Carol commands and Troy settles, because he is not leaving you. Even if you hate him, even if you never want to see him again. He is not leaving you in the hands of strangers or your failure brothers. 

Merle returns a few minutes later wiggling a bottle, "Jackass was right, Oxy." 

Daryl keeps you on your side, hovering nearby. "Nodded off." He reaches down and pulls your boots off. "Don't look like she's ODing, probably thought she could take her old limit. Body's a lot different than it used to be." 

Jake asks what Troy wants desperately to ask, "Will she be okay?" 

He doesn't breathe as he waits for an answer, "Yeah, she'll be fine." He looks at Carol, and then the bottle Merle is holding. "Should lock it all up though, she's always been hit hard by things." 

"Sensitive." Merle agrees, he holds the bottle up and looks through the orange plastic. 

Daryl snatches it out of his hand and walks over to the metal cabinet. Carol locks it all in with a key she'll keep on her, and he relaxes a little. You will be okay. He didn't kill you. 

"You proud of yourself?" Jake challenges, ready for a fight all over again. The Otto family temper.  

Troy rears back, offended. "I didn't want this." 

"Are you sure? Thought you could just drop off your ring with a quick goodbye and leave her alone. Because the two of you cope so well. You could have at least told me, so I could be there for her when you jumped fuckin' ship." 

"I know it's my fault, alright." Troy crosses his arms over his chest. "I'll do whatever she wants." 

"That's not good enough." Jake throws up his hands, and Troy understands his frustration. He's angry with himself too. Everyone seems pissed at him, and he gets that. 

"I was saving her, Jake." 

Jake freezes and then he smiles, and it's Jeremiah's smile. Sometimes he looks so much like a young version of their father Troy doesn't know what to do with it. "Like you saved the Clarks? Walker didn't kill Travis, you know. He got bitten in the pit. I kept that little fact to myself because I knew Madison would try to kill you." 

He didn't know that. He's been trying not to think about the parallels of Terminus and the fuel depot, in the people he had killed only because of the color of their skin. Using his father's racism as an excuse. The fact that he got Travis killed bothers him, but there's no changing it. 

Madison isn't even here. She's not here to be disappointed. 

"He got clipped by a shot, he'd have died anyway." He defends, even though none of this matters. That was two years ago. A thousand years ago with how time travels now. 

Jake steps toward him, and Troy thinks he'll hit him again. He's ready for it this time, he wants a fight. "You ruin - " 

"Troy." You say, and it's mumbled. Your eyes drift open, looking around the room in confusion. "Where am I?" 

He throws himself forward, kneeling beside the bed. "Hey, hey, hey, hey. How do you feel?" 

Daryl grunts in annoyance, but says nothing. He can shove his disapproval up his own ass. 

You blearily blink, "Forgot that Oxy makes me tired." You rub at your face, and then he watches as it comes back to you. You remember what he has done. The softness that he so craves disappears behind a blank mask. "I'm good. Don't feel like you need to be here. I already told Jake." 

"I know you told him." He gestures up to what's no doubt his swollen jaw. 

Jake shifts and Troy can feel him over his shoulder. "I don't think it's a good idea." 

You look past Troy, and that possible future yawns before him once again. Jake was always so smart, so good. Attractive, everything man. He could pick up your pieces. 

"I don't really care if it's a good idea." You reply, and blink up at Jake. It feels like you're staring past him, like he's some phantom you can't stand to look at. 

Jake nods, "Shit, alright. That's that then." 

He turns to leave and you call after him. "No goodbye?" 

His brother smiles, shaking his head. "I'm going with you. I need to make sure my bag is packed." 

Troy looks between the two of you and the panic grows. Not only will he lose you, but his whole family will be gone. He's destroying his chance with Jake too. "You can't leave." 

You look at him, and it's sad. "You can't stop me." 

"I'll go." He says, and he's willing to beg. "I'll leave - I'll leave right now. Don't leave somewhere safe because you hate me. I'll go and you'll - you'll never see me again." 

You let out a bitter laugh and turn to lie on your back. 

"Should stay on your side," Daryl mutters but that's all he says. 

You ignore him and direct your eyes toward the ceiling. "I'm not leaving because I hate you. I'm leaving because I love you so much I can't handle the idea of being in that room without you. Or doing this, fighting so hard, for what? I'm better on my own." 

Once he'd shared that same sentiment with you. But it had never been true. Troy was horrible on his own, he'd always been horrible on his own. That's why he clung to his parents or Jake or Mike. Being alone was his least favorite thing in the world. 

Loneliness was the one thing he felt would drive him mad. 

And you two are the same, which means that same fear exists in you. "No, you're not." He whispers. "You hate being alone." 

You smile, and your face reddens as you fight back tears. "That's alright. I'm still good at it." 

"I'll go." He says again, because he doesn't want you out fighting the world. 

If he needs to go be tested in the wastelands, he'll fight to the death clearing this whole damn city. He'll defend you from afar, kill every single person or shark that he comes across. He'll clear. 

You shift, "You'll stay. I will go. Jake isn't coming." 

"Do ya' want me to come?" Daryl asks and Troy knows well enough he wants you to say no. And he hates him for it. 

You know it too, because you look even sadder. "No, that's alright." 

Daryl nods, "You can come back, whenever ya' want." 

Troy looks at you, "Everyone get out." 

Carol is the only one who listens to him. Everyone else stays right where they are. Troy stands hands curling into fists. "Get out!" 

Merle leans against the wall like he's making himself comfortable. Coop is the only one shifting from foot to foot. Daryl hasn't so much as twitched. 

"Can you give us a minute?" You ask, and they all bend. It's aggravating, but he's still gotten what he wanted. He needs you alone. 

Troy turns his attention toward you, and you wait. God, you're so good. Patient with him even when you should be screaming. "Please, don't take any more pills."

You glance toward the locked cabinet and shrug, "Seemed like a good idea at the time." 

"Why?" He asks as he dreads the answer. 

"Oxy makes me numb. That's why I liked it before. No pain, not physical, not mental. It's simple. I needed that, you - I didn't expect that. I expected you to be upset, angry. I didn't think that you'd not want me anymore." 

"Vixen," The name makes you wince, and he's never regretted anything more in his life, "I will always want you." 

"I don't need pity." You mutter, moving to sit up. His hands outstretch to help in case you slump over again, but you don't. 

"It's not pity, it's the truth. All I want is to protect you. Making sure you are alive, it's the most important thing in the world to me. I would do anything to protect you, no matter how perverse. I love you, all I want is you safe." 

"You promised you wouldn't leave me behind." You whisper, curling your arms around your legs. 

"I know." He gasps, "I thought - I thought you'd be safer without me." 

"The only time I feel safe is with you, how the hell is you leaving going to make me safer?" You shake your head, covering your face with your hands. And you speak though it's muffled, "I thought you were always going to be there." 

Troy is on the edge of hysteria. "I will be. I will always be there for you. No matter what happens, no matter how much time passes. I will always be there for you. I know I can't fix this, I know I ruined it. But I'll do whatever you need, be whatever you need. I will live for you, even if I can't have you. Tell me what you need, and it's yours."

When you look at him, he knows you're going to send him away. You're going to tell him you don't want him, that it will be easy to fall out of love. He's finally given you a reason to give up on him. 

But then you say, "Stay." 

And that one word sounds like the forgiveness he doesn't deserve. 

You reach out and tangle your hands in his hair pulling him closer until he has to crawl onto the mattress with you. You fall onto your back dragging him with and cry into his neck. "Please don't leave me." 

He clings to you. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." Troy whispers into your hair. 

"Promise me." You demand, hands tightening in his hair like he'll want to go. He doesn't. 

"I promise." He vows and means it. He'll never make such a foolish mistake again. It was wrong to think he was more powerful without you. "I'm not stronger." He says, "It didn't make me stronger, I was so stupid." 

Your crying stills, and you start to calm down. There's a deadly insistence in your tone when you whisper into his ear, "If you try to do that again I'll kill us both." 

He nods, and pulls backward enough to rest his forehead against yours. "How do you feel?" 

"Other than exhausted?" You say dryly, "Not too bad. I'm still a bit high, but I've built up a good resistance over the years. I don't think I'll nod again if you're worried about it." 

Troy is pressed in close to you, sharing your breath. He can't take his eyes off you. Afraid you'll disappear. 

Jake drawls from the doorway with all the enthusiasm of a man that does not appreciate getting whiplash, "Are we still leaving?" 

You look at him, and smile. "No." 

He rubs his face in exasperation. "If we could not do that again. Jesus Christ." 

"Sorry, Jakey." Troy grins at him and gets a glare in response. 

"Don't Jakey me, she might forgive you easy, but I'm still pissed." He says, "Just try not to fuck it up." 

Troy understands. He wants Jake to stay angry, he wants him to be the kind of man that protects you when he fails to. 

His brother leaves without another word, saying something to Coop as he goes. 

"What you said earlier, to Jake." You say, and he's met with your indignant anger. "I didn't like that, Troy." 

"Which part?" He asks because he genuinely doesn't know. 

You glare at him, "Shall I go see if you're right? See if Jake really knows how to use it. I mean if you're about the same size, it comes down to skill, doesn't it?" 

He presses you into the bed without meaning to. "No." 

You raise your eyebrow. "Then leave comments like that unsaid. There are better ways to get into a fight. We're not exactly short on enemies." 

"Point taken," He grumbles and tries to shake the thought out of his head. Jake has a whole lot more experience than he does. But Troy has you memorized, he knows everything you like. And he's got a nagging need to prove it. 

But he hasn't earned that. 

"Can I leave medical, doc?" You ask sarcastically, and he has to agree. He wouldn't want to stay in this white walled prison either.

So he shifts away and helps you to your feet. "Where would you like to go?" He's tentative to ask. It feels like being back at square one, not knowing if you want him to come into the bunkhouse or leave. 

"Back to the room." You say, brows furrowing. The two of you don't speak as you make your way there. It's two flights down to return to the room. 

Troy follows you, matching steps until you both arrive at suite two. Outside the door is a little sitting area, it reminds him of a smoking lounge. Though he doubts they let you smoke on this venture. Abraham and Rosita are sitting at the table playing checkers. 

They look up at you, and Abraham raises an eyebrow. "Are we back in paradise?" 

You don't reply, only open the door and walk in. Troy shakes his head frantically and follows. 

"Vixen." He asks, and it eats at him. "Are we good?" 

You look at him, "Are we? I thought I was getting married a few hours ago." 

That's a fair thing to say. It's on him to try and fix this, and he doesn't even know if he can. All he knows is that you don't hate him, that you're willing to suffer through his desire to make it right. 

So he does the only thing he can think to do. He drops to his knees, a position he knows you love. He submits, "I - I deserve your anger." 

"You do." You agree, coming to stand in front of him. Your hand comes to tilt his chin up, "I meant it, you can't ever do that to me again." 

He nods, "I won't." 

You step back leaning against the bed, and reach behind you. You have your ring between two fingers. 

He watches transfixed as you twist the metal around, before you slide it back in place. Troy lets out a breath of relief. 

You turn again and toss his journal on to the floor in front of him. "Put it in your pocket." 

He complies, sliding it back where it belongs. It had felt strange without it pressed against his thigh. He'd been keeping a journal on him since he was eleven, shoved in his waistband or his pocket.

When you step toward him, his breath speeds up in trepidation. "Hand." 

He offers it and you push his ring back onto his hand. It feels good to see it back where it should be, even though he's still getting used to the feel of it. "Thank you." 

You look down at him, stroking his cheek. "How's your head?" 

"Jake doesn't hit that hard." He says even though it aches. 

"That's not what I mean. How do you feel?" 

Ah, so that's what you want. "Afraid." He admits, because he has to tell you the truth. "I'm scared I ruin everything. I'm angry with myself for not being better. Everything is loud. It's hard to figure out what to do, what I can do to make it up to you. I'm not good at this." 

You nod, "I have an idea." 

"Anything." Troy agrees readily. He'll do whatever you need, anything if it means you won't leave. 

You smile at him, "This has actually been on my mind for a while, but the opportunity for its execution has been tricky." 

He listens not sure what you mean. 

You shift a little closer and take his face in your hands, until he's forced to gaze up at you. His hands come to wrap around your wrists. And you smile at him, this soft gentle smile. It sinks into his bones and he thinks maybe it will be alright. 

"You only have to do one thing." 

He doesn't ask, he waits for you to tell him. No matter what it is he'll do it. 

You trace your thumbs up and down. "Follow orders." 

Troy sighs, "Yes, ma'am." 

Stepping back you lean back on the bed, and grin at him. He catches the flirtatious edge to it. It helps. "Oh yeah, I am just the right amount of still drugged for this. You're beautiful." 

His lip quirks up but he says nothing. If you want him to speak, you'll ask. At least that's what he's assuming, it seems a safe bet. This is new territory. A territory he's be lying if he said he'd never thought of before. Troy has in fact thought about this very scenario far more often than you likely realize. 

"Jacket off." You direct, and he picks up on your giddiness. It's not the stern orders he's pictured in his head, but it's endearing all the same. But he does as directed slipping off his jacket, folding it before setting it onto the carpet next to him. 

The two of you haven't had a chance to wash up, but it doesn't matter all that much. 

"Shirt too." Your giddiness fades a little, falling into the scene. 

He pulls the shirt over his head and folds that too, adding it to the stack. Troy is pleased with the way your eyes survey him. He always loves that look, that want. Troy loves the idea that just looking at him can make your eyes darken. 

He knows he's far from ugly, but you make him feel special. 

When you approach he's desperate for your touch, for a reminder that the two of you are singing the same song and dance. He misses you. 

You run a hand through his hair mussing the strands, it feels good enough his eyes drift closed at the sensation. When you stop it's to shed your own layers. You pull your shirt off, then your bra. And gesture toward the fastening button of your jeans. 

He takes the silent order and reaches for them, unbuttoning it and pulling down the zipper. "All the way." You murmur. He pulls them down your perfect legs until they get caught on your boots. "Untie them." 

Troy reaches for the laces, starting with your left before easing the boot off your foot and then the other. He gets your jeans off after that until there's nothing but a slim piece of fabric covering your skin. He wants to take that off too, but he waits. 

His fingers twitch when you don't instantly give the order, but he lets out a long breath and relaxes his muscles. With every passing second he grows more impatient for direction, but you say nothing. You only watch him silently, a little knowing look on your face. 

His pants are growing increasingly more uncomfortable, tight where they shouldn't be. The irritation only grows, but he waits. "You're doing so good." The praise helps, he looks up to meet your eyes and smiles. 

You smile back, and he thinks you like whatever it was he just did. Because you reach out to touch his face again, grabbing your thumb over his bottom lip. "Did you lock the door?" 

"Always." He whispers. 

"Good." You let go of his face and he wants to chase your hand. "We'll be busy awhile. Stay here." 

And then to his dismay you walk away, closing the bathroom door behind you. He is left on his knees, hard and wanting, alone. And this is his punishment. He is happy to be punished. Waiting he can do. 

To pass the time he counts the seconds, and makes it eight minutes and forty-seven seconds before you return. When you return you're not wearing anything and you've washed up. You've got a rag in your hand, it dangles there between your lithe fingers. 

"Stand up, bright eyes." 

He does, and it feels good to stretch his aching legs. The sight of you, refreshes his desire and he's hard again before you even cross the room. 

You bring the rag to his neck, and he relaxes as you clean the little remnants of your fight today off his skin. Flipping the washcloth onto your shoulder you reach forward for the button of his pants and he has to fight back a groan at the release of pressure. 

You chuckle, "Don't hold back those pretty noises on my behalf." 

He nods, and it's a good thing too because your hand slips down and grips him and he would have been unable to anyway. It's been months since you two have had the chance to actually take your time. It's been fast quickies on runs and you on your knees, his hand down the front of your jeans. 

Nothing like this. Nothing like the way you lazily pump him now. Troy has always liked taking his time, enjoying every drawn out second of it. He forces his arms to stay lax at his sides, even as he wants to grab you. He gives you the control he promised. 

You do that thing you do when you're confident. Your legs spread, chin raising. Your eyes sparkle. He loves that look. It means trouble in every way he likes it, until you stop. 

You step away, and he lets out a little whimper of dismay before he can stop himself. Your smile grows, and you walk out onto the fucking balcony. It's a private balcony, two thick walls on either side, but he still feels like you're exposed. 

The jealousy floods him until he almost takes a step. He shuts it down just in time and stays where he is, but that gets harder. Because you lean against the rail, curving your back and the moonlight highlights your skin. 

He realizes when he pulls his eyes away from your flaunting ass, that you're smoking. He hates when you smoke, but you're pushing him. This is a punishment. You are reminding him of that with each drag, that he has hurt you. So he does nothing. He waits as you take your sweet time finishing the cigarette before flicking it into the water below. 

You meet his eyes when you turn and he wants to move. He wants to touch you, he wants to taste the skin of your thighs. Externally, he doesn't even twitch this time. 

You reenter the room, and pull a bottle of water from your bag, bending to get it. Vixen. You break the seal and set it on the end table beside the bed. And then you start shaking out the sheets. He's forced to stand there as you take them out one at a time to the balcony to shake. 

It's such a mundane task, but somehow you make it look sexual. He is ruined. Troy aches. He wonders if you are waiting for him to beg, because he's willing to beg if that's what it takes. 

When you reenter he starts, "Vixen, please can I -" 

You cross the room in a flash and press your finger against his lips, it's the only spot you've touched him in at least ten minutes. "Hush." You tsk and he's reprimanded to silence. You did not want him to beg. 

Without another word you go back to your task and remake the bed. You take your time smoothing out each layer of the white bedding. At least he can watch you, he never takes his eyes away. Every movement, every bend, every shift. 

You crawl onto the bed and lie in the center, the duvet swallows you a little as you sigh. "Am I pretty, Troy?" 

"Beautiful." He gasps out. "Absolutely beautiful." 

You smile, turning toward him. "I'm glad you think so." 

He doesn't think he's supposed to say anything to that so he remains silent. You roll off the bed and approach him again, sinking to your knees before him. 

Troy grits his teeth and stays still. Instead of doing what he wants, you reach for his boots and go through the process of removing them. At least it's a step in the right direction. 

You look up at him through your lashes, and he sucks on his tongue to fight the urge to speak again. You stand back up and retreat, and his head feels light with headiness. 

"Strip." You command and wait. Your eyes trace him as he pulls his pants down, folds them, and then his briefs and socks. It feels even stranger to stand at the ready naked. At attention in more ways than one, but he can't make the joke even if you'd laugh. 

You approach, standing so close he can feel your body heat, but not quite touching. His body hums with energy. 

Your breath dusts over his face, and he wants to kiss you. Wants to taste, and test and tease. You reach out and trail your hands down his sides and he shivers. He's ticklish, and you know it. One of those secrets only you are privy to. 

You take his hands and lead him toward the bed, he follows. He would follow anywhere. "Lie down." You direct, before shifting back to give him the space to do so. Troy does, reclining onto the bedding. It's comfortable. 

It's a damn nice bed. Far better than being on the road. You follow and straddle him. His length is slid up between your legs, and he throbs. His teeth gnash together as his head presses into the pillow. 

"You're being so patient." You lean down over him, and he sighs as you kiss along his chest. Soft slow kisses, that he'd normally find sweet. He's so desperate for you all he wants is more. "My cowboy." 

You drag your nails down the front of him next, just on the edge of pain and he hisses. You smile at that, and he's forced to wait, fingers gripping the sheets for your next move. God, he hopes you make it soon. And then you do. 

He recognizes the motions from the times he's ended up here before. The apprehension fills him until he fills you. Troy moans, and he can't bring himself to be embarrassed by it. You are perfect, warm and tight and so flawless to him. 

It never gets old. He'll never get sick of this. 

You press your palms against his chest and ride him. And he is both desperate to keep his eyes open to watch you and too lost in pleasure to manage it. He finds himself lifting and dropping his hands before they can touch you. 

You've got your head tilted back, breathing heavy. "Control my pace."

That's all he needs, his hands snap to your hips and he guides you into a rhythm that ruins you both. You pause only to shove your fingers into his mouth, pressing down on the back of his tongue until he gags on them. 

You like this, because you do it again, eyes alight with interest. But then your hand is between your legs and he's slowing his pace. Troy knows how you like it, what makes you come the fastest. 

He'll prove he's the best lover, the only one you need. He holds that steady beat until you mewl, and he feels you pulse around him. He can't speak, but he smiles, pausing so you can catch your breath. 

You look at him, still catching your breath and relinquish the control. "Your move, cowboy." 

Troy doesn't wait he flips you onto your back, hands coming under your knees to press your legs apart. He leans down, and his pace goes from gentle to rough with a hitch of his breath. "Mine." He says, and he means it. 

"Yours." You nod, and he chases his high. You've made him wait too long, he needs it. 

It doesn't take long, a few more hard thrusts and he bends forward, pressing his face into your neck. His hips stutter out of pace, and he moans again. He barely registers when he hits that release, mostly because his vision goes hazy and he squeezes his eyes shut. 

Your hands are in his hair as he drifts back down. Troy kisses your salty neck and smiles. "I need you." 

You stroke your fingers down his back. "Good. Be a terrible shame if it was one-sided." 

Chapter Text

SIX YEARS LATER

Troy has the balcony door pulled all the way open by the time you wake. He's always up earlier than you. You accepted long ago that he rises with the sun. You rise wishing coffee still existed. 

Both of these facts amuse your husband. 

He's in a pair of shorts, doing pushups in the morning light. You yawn, stretching as you watch him. You can confidently say he's maintained his figure. Shapely arms and a smooth stomach. You can still picture him as the youthful goof you met years ago. 

Not that he's not still youthful, he's not old. God, he's far too pretty for that. But you like his smile lines, you like that they exist. 

He notices your staring, and his lip quirks up into that cocky grin. You love that too. You love him. It's a good way to start the day. 

"No breakfast in bed?" You drawl, sitting up. His shirt hangs off one of your shoulders, as you rub the sleep out of your eyes. 

He chuckles and does another set, you don't mind the silence with a view like that. "You want me to go steal you some eggs?" 

You flop back onto the bed, kicking the blanket down to the end of the bed. It's setting up to be hot summer, it's already warm in your cabin. The sun reflects off the green walls, across the filled bookcase. Troy added a sixth journal to the collection just last week. Someday he'll take up the whole top shelf. You've got a box full of them hidden away in storage, ready to be filled in. That bookstore didn't know what hit it. 

Your own single journal sits proudly with his own. He'd been so pleased to put it up there. You find him reading it almost as much as you read his own. 

"I wouldn't say no to being pampered." You tease. 

He finishes his routine and strolls back into the room, propping the bathroom door open. You bite your bottom lip as he passes and he chuckles again. He diverts his path and approaches you, hands coming to your face. "Good morning." 

You lean up to kiss him and he runs his thumb along your cheek before letting go. "We'll get breakfast after I wash up." 

Troy is shameless, and leaves the door open as always while he showers. You enjoy your show. The only thing that keeps you from joining him is the knowledge that after a workout he takes cold showers. And that is not how you want to start your morning. 

While he cleans up you don't bother. You're on garden duty today, and you're going to be caked in dirt anyways. Pulling open the closet door you grab a pair of jean shorts and a tank top. It clings to your torso, and a bit of your bra ends up peeking over the top.

It's just the type of thing Troy secretly likes. You're a one man whore and proud of it. 

He steps out of the shower and you toss his towel over his head, coming up to you can rub your fingers into his damp hair. It's getting long again, you'll need to cut it soon. He smiles at you as the towel presses down on the ends of his hair. 

"You look pretty today." He compliments, and you wink at him. The compliments have only grown over time, he's come into his affection. No longer worried or embarrassed by reprimand, he's touchy and kind. At least to those he likes. 

You've also seen Troy pull a man's intestines free all while laughing. Granted, the dick deserved it. 

He dresses, pulling on jeans and a plain grey v-neck t-shirt. "You're on garden today?" He asks. 

Nodding you follow him out of the bedroom and catch Morgan in the hall. He nods at you, "We still on for tonight?" 

You shoot him a thumbs up, "Won't miss it." Around six months ago you finally decided to take Morgan up on the lessons he offers everyone. You and a few others meet three times a week to flip sticks around. You're actually getting pretty good at it.

Like attack yoga. Troy thinks you look sexy when you do it, so it's a win all around. You're not sold on Morgan's man of peace thing, but the staff training is fun. 

Most everyone is already awake, so there's a soft chatter flooding the dining hall when you walk up the stairs. Sarah and Wendell are on serving duty, but last time you asked for extra eggs he rolled for your toes. 

You like them. You get along with both like bread and butter. And it entertains Troy to no end, especially when she thought Merle's nickname for you was clever. The name Dixie has expanded. But you got him back when you suggested she call Troy, Toto off of his last name. 

"Trixie!" She greets and you snort at her mesh of your names. 

"What do you have to torture me with today?" You ask. 

Wendell hands you a tray. Eggs and potatoes. Not the worst. Better than when the chickens are feeling spiteful and it's just beans. You hate bean days. 

"Thanks, Wendy." You tease taking the tray as he grabs the next one for Troy. 

The two of you walk toward your usual table. It's all full up minus your seats. Coop and his three munchkins: Annie, Dylan, and Max. Plus Jake and Beth. 

You sit next to Coop and grin. "I was real worried it was a bean day." 

Annie groans at that shaking her head. They grew like weeds, one minute a bunch of ramshackle kids now to little mini adults. Annie will be nineteen soon. 

"Are you in garden with me?" You ask. 

She shakes her head, "No, Carl and I are mucking later today." 

"Carl and you." You whisper conspiratorially and laugh when she gets red. 

Coop grumbles, and takes a sip of his water. 

"And how are you doing, sweetheart?" You direct at Beth. 

She looks miserable, and Jake looks tired. You fight the urge to laugh, and feel Troy's hand on your thigh in warning. Beth takes one long look at her tray and sighs. 

"It's the eggs." Jake explains and runs a hand over his face. 

You watch Troy give his brother a consoling look. "You made this decision, by choice, Jakey." He says, "Two more months." 

You watch the poor blonde take a bite of her eggs and gag. She's going through it and you're glad at least you'll never have to do that. You wish that Troy's curls were from his father's side so there would be hope at seeing them, but no such luck. 

Little babies that look like Troy only live in your thoughts. "If you don't decide on a name for me to call them soon, I'm going to scream." 

"Been thinking about Annette." Beth says pushing the tray away. "If it's a girl, for mom. Like Maggie did." 

"What about a boy?" Troy asks and you're glad he's taking his role as uncle seriously. He'd been stunned when Jake had first told him their intentions. But the idea is growing on him, even if he's definitely going to be terrified to hold a baby. 

"Shawn maybe, or Trace. We haven't decided." Jake says eating the rest of his food like he's afraid Beth is going to push his tray away too. 

Troy's brow furrows, "Shawn's your brother right Bethy?" 

"Mhm." She hums, as Maggie drops off a granola bar. They share a pregnancy sucks moment, and Jake reaches to open the bar for her before she even tries. It's cute, their wedding was the second one you'd ever been to, right after your own. 

"Why Trace?" Troy questions and you fight back a smile. Jake has been bouncing names off of him for weeks, and this is the first one he hasn't heard. But you know all about it because Jake came to you. 

You certainly couldn't have two Troys running around. So you'd suggested Trayce with a y, and he'd changed it to Trace. But it's a way to name the kid after someone living without the junior. Jake pretends his name isn't Jeremiah and didn't want his son to suffer the same fate. 

Leaning up you whisper in Troy's ear, "We thought Troy Junior was lame, so I suggested Trace." 

Troy's eyes go wide as he looks at Jake. "Really?" 

Jake shrugs, "I wouldn't be here without you. You're a pillar of this community, and you're my brother. I know you're going to protect the kid with your life if necessary." 

Troy peacocks, straightening his shoulders. "Well it's up to you, but that's - damn." 

"I'll translate that to a thank you." You say lightly, finishing your glass of water and bite down your eggs. 

The rest of breakfast is filled with chit-chat. "Alright, I'm off to fight the radishes." 

Troy kisses you before you stand. "I'll be out of HW." 

"Bullets?" You ask. 

He nods, "We're short on handgun ammo, I want to get our stock back up." 

Eugene setting up a facility across the dock that could literally refill shells has been a godsend. It's the only reason you still have ammunition at all. Though nearly everyone on board is now a decent bowman. Easiest way to pick off the walkers when they're drawn to the ship. 

"Kick some ass." You say, and he heads off same time you do. You'd replaced be safe with kick some ass a few years ago and it stuck. Safe isn't possible anymore, but you know he can be deadly. 

The sun is coming down hot when you walk out onto the deck. You spot Carl in the thick of it, though minus his normal accessory. "You're not on garden today. Where's your hat?" You ask, crouching down next to him. How there are weeds in a repurposed swimming pool you don't know, but you hate them. 

"Jude." He says in way of explanation, though he's not annoyed. He's not the kind of brother to pretend he's annoyed by his kid sister. He glances at you and you get a view of the handpainted eyepatch he wears. 

RJ made it for him in arts and crafts. "Little thief." You tease, and work next to him. "So you still thinking about it?" 

He doesn't answer at first, working on pulling a few more pesky weeds. "Yeah. I came up here because I wanted to talk to you." 

You don't ask him to expand, you wait. He'll talk. He always does. "You really think I could be good at it?" 

You give him a look. "A good writer? I know you can write Carl. I want to read your book, you just have to actually create the damn thing. You've talked to Geney?" 

"Yeah, but I don't want to write sci-fi." 

"Writing is still writing, you just have to do it. Why don't I take over avenging these root vegetables and you go become the next Stephen King." 

"You really think so?" He asks glancing back toward the stairwell. 

Instead of answering you shove his shoulder and make a shooing motion. It's not like there's much to do today anyway, once you're done here you'll be free. And Troy won't be back until dark, he never is when he enters the factory. He likes making bullets. Pretty sure he'd do it for days if you have the supplies for it. 

A figure sinks down to their knees next you, blue paisley gardening gloves at the ready. You glance up and spot Mel and grin, looking at his blue floral button up. "Did you get the shirt to match the gloves or the gloves to match the shirt?" 

He beams back at you, with all that enthusiasm that usually coats him. He never fails to make you laugh, you don't know many people like that. "Matching set." 

You still can't for the life of you figure out why Troy can't stand him. He's got an impeccable fashion sense, and a great sense of humor. He and Charlie were alone when they arrived, both of them malnourished. 

You're glad you found them on a run and brought them back. You'd consider Mel to be one of your closest friends. Coop has his hands full with the kids, not so much time for jokes and cards anymore in the last few years. But Mel always seems to make time to see you. 

"You skipping duties to weed with me?" You ask with a laugh, reaching by him to grab one he missed. 

"It's my off day." He explains, shifting to the side to work on a new section. It goes a whole lot faster with two, and with the sun on your neck you don't mind the help. "Charlie's asked me to please stop hovering in the library, so I thought I'd find my favorite Dixon." 

"The best Dixon you mean." You joke. 

"Well you're certainly nicer looking than Merle." He replies and winks at you for good measure. You roll your eyes. 

"That doesn't take much." 

The two of you work in companionable silence until the entire field is picked through. You stand, stretching your arms over your head. You can feel the breeze along your back where your tank top has ridden up. 

It feels good, so you yank it up a little further and sigh. "It's going to be so hot this year." 

Mel comes to stand next to you, eyes scanning along your frame. "Otto busy today?" 

You nod, "Making bullets, doubt he'll come back until sundown." And only because there's a curfew. He's going to miss angry yoga, pity. Sex after one of your training sessions is the best way to stretch. 

"Looks like I got you all to myself then." He jokes, "Want to head down to the Klub, you still owe me that game of Scrabble?"

John absolutely wrecked house against you, June, and Mel the other night. You'd told him you'd help him practice so you actually stand a chance next time. Though so far few people have actually been able to beat Dorie. Much to his own delight.  

Jake and Michonne do well and you think it's those big fancy high educations. You and Mel don't have those. He's a farm kid, grew up picking apples and buying overpriced cowboy boots to match his fashion sense. 

"One of these days you're going to have to let me know where this stash of fabulous shirts comes from. I haven't seen that one before." You tease, gesturing him back down into the lower levels. Scrabble will probably never be something you're particularly good at but at least Mel will give you a fighting chance.

Though you're starting to think he's letting you win sometimes. Troy never lets you win anything. He's a firm believer in winning through skill, and if you don't have it then you don't get to win. But there's plenty you can do that Troy can't. 

That's why he's your other half, to fill in those missing pieces. 

"Do you want one?" He offers, "You can take a look at my collection." 

They are fun prints, but you think if you walked around with one of Mel's shirts Troy might throw him overboard. "Nah, you rock them better. But if you see anything in bright ass yellow while you're out, I've always wanted to look like a highlighter."

Mel spreads his hands like a camera, "I'm seeing it now, traffic cone orange. Stripes, flare." 

You snort out a laugh and do a pose propping your hands on your hips. Then spread your arms toward your sides and waddle like a traffic cone. 

The two of you laugh as you walk into the lounge. It's not really for adults only, but given you have the playroom the kids don't spend much time in here. Besides the teens have stolen a small room next to the playroom for their own anyway. 

It leaves this space for things like Scrabble and the liquor cart. You don't drink, haven't in years. All it took was waking up to remember the look on Troy's face when he caught you with a bottle in hand. This deep unnatural terror that hung in his eyes. That had been sobering enough. 

The quick buzz wasn't worth putting him under that kind of stress. 

Mel however doesn't require such restrictions, so he grabs himself a beer and sits at the table while you get the gameboard. "Are we allowing house rules?" 

You grin and start grabbing your pieces. "You trying to cheat and use names again?" 

"I know a lot of names." He laughs, "But, do I know how to spell quail, no." 

"That the best q word you could come up with?"

He brings the bottle to his mouth and drinks, "Oh yeah, honey, what q words can you think of?" 

You wiggle your eyebrows, "Question." 

"Brilliant as you are, that's eight letters." He shoots back leaning toward you. "Have a beer with me." He cajoles pointing at the cart.

You shake your head, too late to start back up now. "Quickly." You say instead. 

Mel huffs an amused breath, "Quickly help yourself to a beer. Come on, I hate drinking alone."

"When a lady says no, in my experience, that does usually mean no." Abraham drawls as he steps from his room. Rosita must have just done his hair, because it's cropped short again. 

If Mel is your best friend, then Abraham is Troy's. Those two are a walking wrecking ball at all times. Two grenades in a shoe box. "Is your girl taking hair appointments?" 

Rosita opens the door. "Depends on who's asking."

"Troy's hair gets any longer I'm going to have to start moaning Mrs. Otto." 

Mel loses his smile and goes back to shuffling his pieces around the board. Unfortunately, Mel doesn't like Troy either. At least Abraham likes you just fine. 

The other woman laughs, glancing down at the Scrabble board. "I'll do it if you let me win." She says inviting herself to the game. Abraham accepts the silent invitation too, and you swear Troy has something to do with it. 

He's particularly anal about not allowing Mel alone around you. Which you would get if Mel was hitting on you, which he isn't. But Abraham is a wingman through and through, so now you've got a full set of four. 

"Squeeze has a q and a z." You say, "I know how to spell that." 

Mel rolls his eyes and finishes his beer. He returns with a glass of Tennessee finest a moment later. 

You lose, quite spectacularly, because let's be honest you really don't know all that many words with a q in them. And you failed English twice. 

The amount of misspelled words in your journal would probably be embarrassing if you didn't trust Troy so deeply. If there's anything he won't do it's make fun of you. He'll tease, and prod. But when it comes to actual insults they don't exist. 

Troy is kind, and so even though he spells better, he never corrects you. Even if you mix up quiet and quite all the time. You also thought anchovies were artichokes but he at least told you that. 

After Morgan's lessons, which Mel also participates in as well as Sarah, Carol, and Max, you return to the lounge. It's a little group, but you have fun. Sometimes Morgan even lets you play the smooth jazz CD you have. It always makes everyone laugh. 

You, Mel, and Charlie are currently partaking in a riveting game of Clue. Charlie almost always wins. He's got his go to jacket on, the one that makes him look like he owns the ship. And he's a bit drunk from the whiskey he's returned to. 

Mel is what you'd call an introspective drinker. When he gets really sauced he starts asking big why questions. Like why do the walkers not rot? Why is the sky blue? Where did all the zoo animals go? Why do you like Troy? It's kinda funny. 

You can see him gearing up for one of those big questions. Charlie does too because she smiles before he even asks, "Do you ever get tired of it?" 

Raising an eyebrow at him you take your turn. Charlie is the only one actually playing correctly. Mel is drunk, and you're bored. "Tired of what?" 

"Being alone." He whispers and Charlie starts packing up the board. 

In less than a minute she's out the door away from her surrogate father's drunken questions. You get it, Melvin is a rambler. But you like talking, so you lean back in your chair. "I don't much get lonely." You have Troy, and your family. 

There's always Jake to bother, or Coop. Helping with the kids, or Mel to talk to. Life is good, better like you wanted it to be. Honeywell is home. 

Mel sighs and takes another long sip. It's not your place to tell him to slow down, so you don't. "I do. I'm lonely all the time. I'm on a literal ship of people but I've never felt so alone. Charlie doesn't need me anymore, Ennis is gone. He's been gone. I've been here two years and that feeling gets worse every day." 

"You're not alone." You try to console him, because you know what that emptiness is like. It was your whole childhood. You didn't have a brother close to your age to play with. Hell, you barely have brothers now. 

Daryl may as well call himself a Grimes, and Merle well he doesn't much know how to change. You're glad they're here. You're happy to occasionally go on runs with them or talk. But you don't play board games as a family. 

You don't do much of anything with them. If Daryl is a Grimes then you're an Otto through and through. Jake never made you feel picked over like that. 

"Charlie might be an adult now, but she still loves you. You raised her, Mel. That don't go away. And you're my best friend if that means anything." You add and smile at him, "Sorry I won't drink with you. I don't want to upset Troy." 

Mel's expression sours, "No of course not, never want to step on Otto's feelings." 

"I've been told I'm dangerously sensitive," Troy says behind you, and you tilt your head back to grin at him. 

"My bullet maker, did you make enough ammo to arm an army?"

He smiles at you, approaching where you sit. "Not enough for that." Troy leans down and presses his lips to yours. When you open your eyes, Mel has finished his glass and stood. 

"Night." He leaves without another word. 

Troy watches him go with a frown. "Do you really want to drink?" He asks cautiously, turning to eye the cart warily. 

You twist to stand and come to hug him. "Nah, I'm high on life. Besides I can think of other ways to get that same rush." 

"So can I, vixen, so can I."  

Chapter Text

He's holding out your jacket and you groan. "No~ please have mercy." 

Troy says nothing, just keeps holding the jacket out for you to take. It is ungodly hot for so early in the morning and he wants you in fatigues. 

His is already on, buttoned up to his collar where the rest hangs open. "Don't be difficult." 

You grumble some more but take it, sliding it up your arms. He starts fastening the buttons. "I'm going to sweat to death. Forget the sharks, I'm going to pass out and die." 

"It's not hot enough for that." He says, like the drill instructor he is. When it comes to safety Troy will ignore your complaints like they aren't even being spoken. You have to wear the jacket, its fabric is good for the biters. 

But you don't want to. It's southern California for god's sake. You're willing to risk it all for a little air. 

You open your mouth to try and convince him, but stop when he raises an eyebrow in challenge. You know damn well he will leave your ass here if you refuse to wear it. 

"You suck." You give in and head for the door. 

"That's your specialty, beautiful." He opens the door for you and you head up for your weapons and then down again to the run room. 

You look down at your painted grips, Carl wasn't the only one that got presents. The ones Lea made you gave to Coop years ago. He's got them displayed in his room. 

Your gun is now the proud owner of pine tree grips. Grabbing your run bag you lean down to make sure your laces are properly tied. Even if you're forced to wear your jacket, you're still glad to get out. 

It's been about a week since you went and did rounds. The entire town is basically wiped clean at this point, but it's good to check for anything unusual. It's two man groups, with walkies. Standard procedure. 

For you and Troy it's a date day. A chance to go off and goof around, kill some sharks. Be alone. You love being alone, no walls, just the two of you. That's what you miss most about the ranch. The big open fields. It feels more like a fuzzy dream now. You miss the idea of it more than the thing itself. 

"Ready to get this show on the road." 

It took a while for you to stop feeling silly, riding around with an AR on a bicycle in your fatigues. But Troy looks just as ridiculous and that helps. You only have two horses, and they're tired from carting bodies yesterday. 

Besides you're not going more than a few miles out. So you take your little red bike. 

The neighborhoods are empty, you've cleared and done blockades all over this area. Everything is an organized maze you have memorized. It's built to subtly get in people's way, to direct them away from HW. 

It's a clever design, one that came from the minds of many of your community. Getting it all set up took forever, but it's worth it because it's worked. You haven't had a living walk up in years. And if you did, well you make your own bullets. 

"Are we taking Jefferson?" You ask. 

Troy nods, you go for a while longer until you hear it. The sound is so familiar at this point, the moaning of the dead. It doesn't phase you, instead, it's exciting. "We got some." You cheer, turning your bike toward the sound and slam the brake. "Ah, shit." 

It's a small hoard, maybe forty or so. Nothing to be worried about, but more than you feel comfortable taking on your own. You start walking the bike backward away from them as you pull out the walkie. "Trixie calling in, over." 

Wendell answers right away, "What fun are you having?" 

"At least forty heads between Jefferson and Wails. How do you want us to proceed, over?" You keep walking your bike backward. Troy is next to you, doing the same. They're a slow moving bunch and you've still got at least twenty feet between them and you. Not a big deal. 

"Keep them in sights," Wendell directs, "Calvary is on its way." 

You turn around to give yourself a bit more distance and see them. "Troy!" 

There's a group standing down the road. When you jerk toward Troy he's not looking at them he's raising his rifle toward you. Pain explodes against the back of your head. 

-

When you wake it's to a thudding pang in your temple. Did you fall off your bike? No. You try to move and can't. Your eyes go wide as you try to look down but there's something holding your forehead in place. 

Even after all these years you still know the smell of a hospital. Troy wouldn't do this, not even as a joke. That's not his sense of humor. He'd been raising his gun. 

Wherever you are someone took you here. You try to calm your breathing. Smelling the roses, blowing out the candles. You count between your breaths to keep the panic at bay. You've been in worse, you'll get out of this. 

You'll kill whoever took you and find your way back home. Troy has taught you all sorts of things about telling direction and figuring out where you are. But you're likely still in the city. You have a good deal of it memorized. 

It's frightening not being able to move your head, you can't scan for threats. There will be little to no warning. You have to take another minute to calm your breathing again. 

You're in the middle of counting when a voice speaks. "Are you having trouble breathing?" 

There is someone in here with you, and if you didn't hear them at all that means they've been here the whole time. He's been watching you. 

You're not proud of the little squeak of surprise that escapes. "Who are you? What do you want?" What stereotypical questions to ask, you're not in a movie. It doesn't matter. He's going to die one way or another. 

A door opens and there's quick steps, a shuffle. The sound of a fist hitting flesh. "Troy?" You call and pray you hear his familiar drawl.  

The fight continues, something hits the floor and then there's a man leaning over you. Not one you recognize. He's got blood on the side of his face. Shaggy blonde hair and big hazel eyes. "Are you alright?" He asks, reaching first for the strap by your head. 

Once that's done you're able to look down at yourself and see the other straps that hold you in place. "Did they bring in the man that was with me? Do you know if he's here?" 

The stranger moved to the shoulder strap. "No, they didn't bring anyone else. I thought - I thought you were someone else." 

He goes for the wrist one, and you feel the tension radiating through your body. The need to run. As soon as it's free you start on your other wrist with your freed hand. It's only a few more seconds before you're entirely able to move again. 

You sit up and drop down from the gurney. "Are there more?" 

The man nods, the blood is still seeping from the gash in his head, dripping down into his eye. He's calm though and that makes you trust him a little more. Not some coward in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

This is a man with a plan. "Who are you looking for?" 

"My wife." He replies. "I've been looking for her for a long time." 

You can appreciate a man looking for his wife. Troy is out there somewhere doing the same thing. You don't even entertain the thought that he's dead. He's not. He can't be. He's out there trying to find you. 

This isn't the first, second, or even third time you've been separated. It's the seventh and he always finds you, or you find him. 

Looking around for a weapon you take the pistol the man on the floor is holding. He's unconscious, but you can't risk shooting him. Easier to leave him for now. You keep the gun though, and follow your new acquaintance out into the hallway. "Do you know where you're going?" You whisper. 

He nods pointing towards the left when you reach a fork in the hall. You turn and the face that greets you is not one you saw coming. "Nick?" You whisper. He's leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette. 

He looks at you in surprise, "Dixon?" He turns then to the man with you and frowns. "You can't fucking be here, man." 

"You used to run with these people?" You ask, suspicion growing. You're in a field of strangers, you haven't seen Nick in years. And he never much liked you. If he's here that means Madison is here, and you do not need them on Honeywell. 

"Tommy." He offers his name like that's supposed to answer your question, "We need to go." 

You're in agreement on that at least. You look back at Nick, at the machete hanging on his belt. "You going to let us go, Nicky?" 

He eyes you, "One time. That's all you get." 

You'll take it. You and Tommy dash past him and hit a stairwell going down. There aren't any sharks, but at least there are windows so it's not pitch black in here. 

Tommy throws himself through a side door and you're out of the hospital. "We run past the fence." 

You nod, stealing yourself for the scattering of shots that may possibly hit you. You're halfway across the parking lot when they scatter past your feet. "Fuck." Reflexively your hands come up to cover your head as you run toward the nearest building. 

Tommy has a hand on your back leading you. He pushes you to the left and down, behind a concrete median and you're sure he just saved your life. He's leaning over you, protecting you from the spray of rock. 

"I didn't get your name." He says with a laugh. 

It's a hell of a greeting, "Dixon Otto." You supply, you stopped giving people your first name after you got married. It's not like the legality matters anymore. 

"You got a home to go back to Miss Otto?" He asks, as you crouch down along the median toward better cover. 

"Mrs. Otto." You correct, and hear Troy's little chuckle in the back of your head. 

"Ah, seeing the ring now." You make it to a building and take off again further into the neighborhoods. You're on the outskirts of town, but it's still your town. You'll be able to find your way back with little difficulty. 

The two of you rush the next few blocks in silence, but it doesn't seem like whoever took you is coming after you. You duck into an abandoned shoe store, and go to the back to catch your breath. You're desperate for some water, but you'll just have to suck it up. 

They took your pack, they took your gun. "Son of a bitch." 

"What?" He asks, as he sits on the ground behind the counter. 

"I lost my damn gun." You follow his lead and sit too. "I just got that thing customized."

He leans his head back and you get a good look at him. He's older than you, maybe early forties, handsome in a straight-laced sort of way. The kind of guy you would have hooked up with before Troy. 

Pretty, but forgettable. 

"I didn't ask before, are you hurt? I'm a doctor." 

You blink at him, now that's something you don't hear often. "A real doctor?" 

He chuckles, "Yep, don't have to worry about the school loans anymore." 

"So you were with that group before? You and your wife. what's her name?" You question, a doctor would be a valuable resource in this world. June is good, but she's not a doctor. And Carol can only learn so much from June. 

"Raina." He says the name softly, almost reverently. And you know whoever this Raina woman is she got her hooks deep in him. "She looks a whole lot like you. Enough through the binoculars, I thought she was you." 

"Afraid I haven't met anyone named Raina." You admit, and wish you could give him better news. 

He gives you a long look, and you're trapped in it. Like a beetle in a jar, running out of oxygen. You've never experienced anything close to Troy's stare before until this very moment. 

"I'm not going to find her." 

"You will." You say encouragingly. 

Tommy looks away from you, "She's been dead a long time."

"But you said you were - "

"Looking for her?" He smiles, "Yes, I'm literally chasing a ghost. When I saw you, I don't know what I thought. But it really is uncanny." 

It's a little weird, but if it gains you a doctor, you'll put up with weird. "What kind of doctor were you?" 

"I was an obstetrician." 

"Dumb that down for me." You say, glancing around the counter for any signs of movement. You're still alone. 

"I'm a baby doctor." He says with a chuckle. "I've done hundreds of births." 

You whip your head around to look at him and you think of Beth. Though Maggie and Michonne did alright, it would be invaluable to have him there. "You got a place to call home, doc?" 

He shakes his head. "No. I just keep moving." 

"Do you want one?" You offer, looking at him. 

"A place to call home?" He traps you with that stare again, and you feel drawn into his pull. You know him, in some innate way. A familiarity, an understanding. You can't put your finger on why. "I'd like that." 

You shift to stand and hold your hand out to him. "Then welcome to Honeywell." 

He takes it, and the two of you creep back onto the street. It's all back to being quiet again. You've lost your talkie, but it's only maybe six or seven miles to home. You spend your walk telling him about it. About your community, your rules, and who you are. 

Tommy listens with rapt fascination. "I didn't know there were any places like that left." 

"You're not the first one to say that." You joke. "You'll get your own room and everything." 

"Sounds like a dream." He jokes, but then she comes into sight. It's not a huge liner, but the Honeywell sign is large, and vibrant. "I'll be goddamned. I really thought you were pulling my leg for a minute there." 

You're walking through the parking lot toward the door when it opens and Jake comes running out. He collides with you, arms around your neck. You laugh, hugging him back. "You alright, Jakey?" 

"We thought you were dead, Dixon." 

You hug him back. "Troy?" 

"He's in medical." Jake explains. "He almost died." He pulls back to keep explaining, "He got shot in the leg, he barely avoided the dead." 

Your breath hitches. "He's okay? He's not bitten?" 

"No, no. Just the bullet." He looks up and seems to spot Tommy for the first time. He yanks his gun free and sticks it in Tommy's face. "And who the hell are you?" 

Tommy to your surprise doesn't so much as flinch, he stares down the barrel of the gun like a goddamn expert. 

"Tommy." You push the gun down. "He saved me, twice actually. There's a group in the hospital up by route five. He smuggled me out." 

Jake relaxes, holstering the weapon. "Thank you. " 

"Not only that." You grin, "Tommy here is a fucking baby doctor. Like worked in the hospital popping out babies every day, baby doctor." 

Any hostility Jake is still clinging to leaves him and he smiles. "Alright, well uh come in." The two of you go through the door and Jake locks up behind you, speaking into his walkie. "Dixon is back." 

Several voices come through signaling their return. Looks like they had a search party out looking for you. 

"I'll settle him in, go see Troy." Jake gives you a long look and you realize just how frantic Troy must be. He's been shot, he lost you. Half the ship thinks you're dead. You nod and take off toward the stairs. 

You don't stop until someone grabs you. Turning toward them you realize it's Mel. He pulls you into his chest, hugging you. And it would be sweet, if you didn't have somewhere you had to be right now. "I'm good, Mel. I'm alright, but I need to go see Troy." 

His grip tightens for a moment before he lets go. "You're sure you're okay?" 

You nod, giving him a good squeeze before stepping back. "I'm good. I'll fill you in on everything later, I promise." 

You don't let anyone else stop you on the way, you half run to the door, and burst through. The strong scent of antiseptic and bleach hit your nose. 

Troy is propped up in one of the beds, a blanket thrown over his lap. He snaps to look at you as soon as you're through the door. And then he's moving. He throws the blanket off, and stands. And then half drags, hops, stumbles his way toward you. His thigh is wrapped with white bandages. 

He curls his arms around you, and buries his face in your hair. His breath is coming out too fast. "I'm sorry. I should have - I wasn't. Are you okay?" 

You press your face into his shirt. "You're hurt worse than I am." 

"I'd get shot a dozen times if it kept you safe." He says, "What happened?" 

Leaning up to press a kiss against his throat and he sighs. Now it's been eight times you've been separated and found each other. "Some group living in the hospital took me. Strapped me down to a gurney. I don't know what they were going to do." Your breath shakes. "This guy, Tommy, he used to run with them but left. He thought I was someone else and saved me." 

Troy holds you tighter. "I'll kill them. I'm going to go there and kill every last one of those pricks." 

June enters the room, and throws up her hands. "Would you sit down?" 

You pull back, and help him walk back over to the bed. Needing the help clearly frustrates him, but because it's you he'll accept it. He was probably a complete nuisance without you though. Once he's back in and got his leg elevated, he relaxes some. 

He doesn't let go of your hand, as June pushes a chair over to you. "I'll go get the others." 

You lean your head against his shoulder and breathe. "Are you alright?" 

His hand tightens in yours, "They took you, right in front of me and there was nothing I could do. I failed. I failed you." 

"No, you didn't. You stayed alive, I need you alive." You kiss his shoulder. "I got back to you. I will always come back to you." 

He turns to say something when the door opens. Jake and Tommy step inside and Troy goes stiff. "Who the fuck is that?" Like minded brothers it would seem.

You bump your shoulder against his and send him a long look. "Remember how I said someone saved me? This is Tommy." You gesture toward him. "He's a baby doctor." 

Troy surveys him, brow coming together. "We met before?" 

Tommy walks further into the room, and starts looking around. You don't blame him, you've created a nice little setup for yourself. "Afraid not, Troy." He hums, walking toward the medicine cabinet, looking through the glass at your stock. 

Your husband watches him with a single-minded focus. It's been years now since you took anyone new in. Better to keep your community small, than risk overshooting and putting everyone in danger. That had been one hell of a debate for a while, but eventually Rick had come around. 

Luckily Abraham had agreed with Troy in regard to the size of your community. That was two leaders against one. Made things a lot easier. Made Rick agree to the hard decisions even as he lost the stomach for them. 

"I'm impressed by your stock. I've never seen a community with so much. Well organized too." He compliments, glancing in your direction. He doesn't look much like a doctor right now in jeans and a button up, but who are you to judge. 

"You seen a lot of communities?" Troy questions. You squeeze his hand to stand down, but he's too riled up. 

Tommy turns his attention back around, facing them. His smile is carefree, unbothered by the obvious hostility. "That's what I do. I go to communities, treat their wounded and move on again. But Dixon here caught me right in the mood to finally settle down." 

You smile at him, wanting him to feel welcome. "Guess I'm lucky." 

He looks at you, really looks at you. And it feels like you're the only people in the room, like he doesn't see anyone but you. Fixated focus. "You are. I'm glad I found you." 

You feel Troy stiffen, but you don't look at him. You're too busy with hazel eyes. You don't know how to describe it, like being a rabbit. Like being prey. You realize finally what it is about Tommy you're familiar with, you're scared of him. He looks at you like your father looked at you.

"I appreciate you looking after my wife." You note the emphasis he puts on the marital term. He's jealous. Frustrated with the fact that someone else found you, someone else saved you. 

Tommy as you've started to notice doesn't seem to register when someone is close to threatening him. That or he doesn't care. He seems fearless. "I'm happy to do it, whenever necessary." He glances down at Troy's leg. "Since it looks like you'll be bedridden for a bit." 

If Troy didn't like him before it's got nothing against the animosity that follows. "I could protect her fucking paralyzed." 

You snort. "Alright hotshot. Start taking lessons from Wendy, we'll cruise into battle." 

Your joke seems to break the two men out of their pissing contest. Troy turns a more positive attitude toward you. "We just gotta keep truckin'." 

You laugh, shaking your head. But any quip you could have made is put on pause when Abraham and Rick arrive. Abraham takes one look at Troy and whistles. "Got you good, didn't they." 

"I took two of them out," Troy replies raising his chin. 

"Of course you did, killer." He glances at you, "Alright, Dixon?" 

"So far nothing has topped the cannibals." You remark with an easy smile. 

They pull up chairs and you run them through a play by play of what happened. But you leave Nick out of it. Troy doesn't need to know. He doesn't need to know Madison is in that building or it may change the play entirely. 

You never were happy with his relationship with her. It reeked of one-sided manipulation. But he liked her, more than he should have. You won't risk mentioning it. 

Maybe you'll mention it to Rosita in private, so they can keep an eye out. You know the woman well enough to know that she'll start shooting random blonde women on sight. Bless her, she's a good wingman. 

Once you're done with your story, which really isn't all that interesting given how little you saw, the others share a look. "We should do surveillance." Troy suggests, "The more we know about these fuckers the better." 

"It's risky." Rick starts, but Troy doesn't let him get far. 

"They took Dixon!" He glares, "They're lucky I can't walk or I'd already be at their door." 

You squeeze his hand harder this time. "Down, cowboy. Rushing in is too risky." 

"She's right." Abraham agrees. "Not that I don't love to see you in action. But going kamikaze isn't going to help anybody." 

"You should try to talk to them," Tommy suggests and it's like everyone in the room remembers he's there. You didn't forget. He was staring at you the whole time. You remind yourself, baby doctor, Beth. Baby doctor, Beth. 

Rick seems to consider it, but you don't think men who shoot and kidnap first are the kind of people worth talking to. 

"I say we start the whole building on fire." Troy snaps. "We already cleared it of anything useful." 

"I understand that you're frustrated." Rick peacekeeps. "But making enemies, it could come back to bite us." 

"They should have thought of that before they kidnapped my wife and shot me, Ricky." 

"He's got a point. They clearly aren't looking for a pow-pow session. They ambushed us on a run. Left Troy to die." Abraham says. "Those aren't peace talking kind of actions." 

"We could put people at risk." You add. "By going there. They have guns, they shot at me when I was leaving. If we white flag it at the gate, they might just let loose. I don't know about you but that's not how I'm keen to go." 

You've got very little desire to talk to the people who strapped you to a goddamn table. There's no telling what they were going to do, and it scares you because they could have done anything. Those straps meant you were powerless. 

It's been a long time since you felt powerless. You shiver, and Troy lets go of your hand so he can wrap his arm around your waist instead. His thumb rubs against your jacket, up and down. Slow even, I'm here, I am with you, motions. 

"We'll bring together the whole community and vote," Rick says, and you can at least agree with that.

Soon after they clear off and it's the three of you again. You, Troy, and Tommy. You really want him to tell him to please stop staring at you. But you don't, because Beth. You have a responsibility to your family, he's got a staring problem, so what? The man is going to make sure your sister gets through her pregnancy alive. And you're sure this little one won't be the last for Honeywell. 

June stops in to unlock the cabinet and show Tommy around a bit more. You're not really paying attention, you're exhausted. You did a lot more than you planned to, and to be honest, you're glad you wore the jacket. 

"Mind if I take a look at that leg?" Tommy asks, rolling over the metal cart. 

"Please." You say before Troy can be stubborn and refuse. You give him a long look when he opens his mouth to do so anyway. Your sternness makes him settle with a huff. 

Oh, the power of a woman. You smirk. He grumbles some more. 

Tommy pulls off the dressings and goes through the whole cleaning process again. Troy recognizes all of that so he lets it happen with a clenched jaw, he's terrible at letting people know he's in pain and today is no different. 

He grits his teeth and bares it, until Tommy has a syringe. "What is that?" He questions, narrowing his eyes. 

The doctor smiles at him. "It's to help fight infection." 

"Why hasn't June used it before then?" 

"Is June a doctor?" He asks, and the answer is obvious. "I spent ten years in medical school. Have no fear, it won't kill you." 

"Let him." You whisper and kiss his cheek as Tommy does the injection. 

"Are you pregnant?" He asks, and it's such an out of nowhere question. Nothing to do with him rewrapping Troy's leg. 

"Excuse me?" Troy is the one that answers, hackles raised. 

Tommy arches an eyebrow and looks at you. "When I mentioned my career you were particularly excited. I thought perhaps you were expecting." 

"Oh." You say, and it hurts a little. "No - no, not me, my sister." 

"Ah, no plans for little ones then?" He remarks so casually, it makes you want to get up and walk away. Because this has never been a casual conversation for you. 

Troy shifts so he's more sitting up than reclining, "You interrogate everyone, or is Vixen special?" 

"I think she's very special." Tommy responds, and it's the way he says it. Like he knows it, like he knows you. "Do you not believe you're special, Raina?" 

The name hits you like a bolt of lightning. This guy is off his fucking rocker. 

Troy looks at you, then at Tommy and reaches for his knife. But his knife isn't there. He must have lost it on the road or it's been put away somewhere. 

You swallow. "You didn't leave your group did you?" Shifting to stand, you glance around for anything that can be used as a weapon. There's an IV stand, bulky but it will have to do. 

He smiles at you, and then glances at Troy. 

"What did you give him?" You whisper, panic creeping into your voice. You'd been the one to let him get injected. "What did you give him!?" 

Troy is half sitting, half slumped over. He's already delirious but still conscious. He's trying to keep his eyes on the two of you, but they keep drifting to the side. And when he tries to rise he ends up crashing to the floor. 

You go towards him, ignoring the threat all together when Tommy grabs you. His arms snap around your torso, around your arms. He's smart and stays out of the way when you try to headbutt him. 

But you hear him clearly enough while you struggle. He's stronger than you expected, all muscle under that loose shirt. "Let me reintroduce myself," He murmurs, and you hate the affectionate tone in his voice even as he holds you down. "My name is Thomas Carr. I quite hate the shortener Tommy, so let's keep it Thomas alright, love." 

"Fuck you, Tommy. What did you give him?" You snarl. "Abraham!" You shout and he snaps his hand over your mouth. 

"Did you know they make walls thicker in medical bays, especially on cruise liners? It's not cheery to hear someone screaming in pain on vacation." He chuckles, "I could let you keep shouting, but I really would hate to draw unwanted attention, just in case." 

Your eyes are pinned on Troy, as he tries to crawl toward you. He can't seem to talk, but he's mouthing something. 

"Please, please tell me what you gave him." 

"That's better, you're a good girl, Raina. But I did mean what I said, he'll live. Probably." 

You jerk against his hold again, "What do you want?" The panic is crawling up your legs, your whole body is shaking. He's not letting go. You don't know how to break the hold. Troy has stopped crawling. You can't tell if he's unconscious or not. "Troy!" 

He doesn't look up, he needs to look up. You need him to look up! 

"I want you to understand." Thomas breathes. "Raina was married when we first met too, she came to see things my way in the end. That I was the better option. You will too. Whether that's of your own volition or not we will see. I will make you see. You will suffer, this place will suffer until you understand." 

When you think your panic cannot grow any further it does, because Troy is fine one moment and seizing the next. You know what a seizure looks like, you've seen Merle seize more than once. 

"Let me go, please let me go." You strain against his grip. "I need to help him." 

"Look at that." He whispers and it's so satisfied you want to kill him. You are going to kill him, but you have to help Troy first. He rolls on his back and you scream against his palm. 

No, no, no, no. You are not going to stand here while your husband, the light of your entire life chokes to death. 

But it seems Thomas wants you to do just that, because he's not letting you go. He keeps talking like it's not even happening at all. "You are so breathtaking, scream again." 

You do, not because he asked but because someone needs to hear you. Not like this, not like this.

The door opens, "Hey I - " You see Mel out of the corner of your eye. 

He's casual, wearing the same floral print as before. But then he takes in Thomas, how you're being held. He doesn't even look at Troy. 

His hand snaps to the gun that hangs on his thigh and pulls it free. Calm as can be, you forgot that Mel was out there a long time. That he's seen his share of scraps and fights. 

"You best let her go." 

Thomas laughs and his grip tightens. You're looking at Troy, looking at Mel. You think you might be crying, but that could be the terror. "Mel, help him." 

He looks away from you to Troy on the floor. But he doesn't move toward him, he keeps his gun trained on Thomas. "June!" The door open means the sound travels, someone will come. "I said let her go." 

"I shouldn't be surprised, you've always been so stunning. Two men on your heels. Look at that, look at his eyes. He's so worried for you. Do you think he loves you too, Raina? But not as much as I do." 

Mel doesn't remark, he fires a warning shot into one of the cabinets. The sound echoes loudly enough that your ears ring. If his shout didn't get attention that would. You attempt to wiggle yourself free again. 

"You'll see." Thomas said, pressing his mouth into your ear. "You will see. I am the only answer."

He lets you go, and you throw yourself toward Troy. You push him onto his side, and he spits up what he was choking on. He's still seizing. You try to remember the steps you're supposed to take. 

There's a scuffle, another shot. You glance up long enough to see both men are gone. But Carl is in the doorway, "Get June!" 

He darts off and all you can do is wait. 

Chapter Text

Jake arrives with June. His eyes go wide, taking in the sight before he hits his knees by Troy's head, trying to support his neck. June is barking orders, others are there. All you do is hold him so he doesn't flip on his back, it's all you can remember. 

"I - I don't know what he gave him. It was an injection." You gasp out. Troy's name follows like a prayer, over and over like he can hear you. You don't think he can hear much of anything right now. 

The seizing abates, and you let out a noise of relief. He's going to be okay. 

"He's not breathing," June says, and your heart drops. 

"What? What do you mean? What does that mean?" 

"I need to start compressions. Dixon, move." June directs. 

You don't move, your brain is still trying to register what not breathing means. Because not breathing means -- dead. And Troy can't be dead. Killed by some stranger you insisted he trust. 

This wasn't supposed to ever happen again. 

Jake is there, he shoves you out of the way. You land on your shoulder, dazed. He's got Troy on his back, palms to his chest. You didn't know he knew CPR. 

"Come on, Troy. Come on." He mumbles, "Come on, little brother. Come on." 

Someone pulls you from the floor, back into their arms. It's Daryl. He's got you tight against his chest, grounding you. But you can't take your eyes off of your husband's body. Is that what he is now, a sack of flesh? 

Your eyes go to the clock. 

                 1727 

Your hands are shaking as you reach out and pull his journal from his pocket. You flip to the next free page, and write.

Daryl watches you, but doesn't say anything. You explain it anyway, "I made him a promise, once, a long time ago. He needed it to be written down. He needs his death to mean something." 

"He's not fucking dead." Jake snarls at you. 

"John, the defibrillator." June orders, and there are so many people in this room. So many people looking at the tragedy of your life. 

You thought knowing he was gone hurt. But seeing it happen is like watching a nightmare. 

Jake stops to rip open Troy's shirt, and you're grateful he's not wearing his jacket. He loves that thing, has repaired so many holes in it. Even though he has others he still clings to the one he wore when you were at Broke Jaw. He's got a list stitched into it with every name you've ever lost. 

Mel comes rushing back into the room out of breath. "He's gone." There's a nasty cut along his throat, and he's got a hand pressed to it. But he ignores Carol as she approaches. 

His focus is on you. Mel drops down next to you, cupping the side of your face so you look at him. "Oh, honey." 

Daryl lets go so Mel can shove your face into his shirt. The tulip print won't survive the bloodstains. You sob as he holds you. "You don't gotta watch this." He whispers. 

There's more talking, June is using the shock pads. Mel won't let you look, and part of you is grateful. Because you can imagine the way his torso jolts. She does it again. 

And then you hear her say, "I can only do it one more time, if it doesn't work." She leaves the sentence unfinished. If it doesn't work then Troy is gone. 

You need to watch, you owe him that. Mel is hesitant to let you go, but he does, his hand pressed to your back. 

June presses the paddles down again. 

Jake is on his knees, white-knuckling his pants. You're glad Beth isn't here, that Maggie is likely keeping her away. 

Troy is still, motionless. Gone. Gone. Gone. 

June frowns, and there are tears in her eyes as she reaches for the knife on her belt. 

"No!" You lurch forward throwing yourself over him. "No! I need to time it. I have to time it. I'll do it - I'll do it. Don't touch him." 

If you weren't pressed up against his chest maybe you wouldn't have felt it, the shift. The exhale of breath. 

You jerk your head to look at him, and then he gasps. Lets out a wet cough and stays unconscious. "Troy." You touch his face. "Troy?" 

June presses her fingers to his neck and laughs. "We need to get him back in bed." 

You flounder backward out of their way so he can be lifted. You're smiling and crying both, your whole body a mess of emotions. Lifting your head up toward the metal above you say, "Thank you." Because it's a goddamn miracle. 

Daryl holds the journal out to you, with that little smile of his. You take it, scribble down what you need to, and snap it shut again, holding it to your chest. 

You find Mel where he's sitting, he looks ragged. His hand is still pressed to his neck. He's watching you, worried. Crawling back over to him, Carol hands you a bandage. "Since he's apparently too busy for me." She remarks. 

You smile at him. "Thank you." 

Mel brightens at the genuine joy in your voice, "Are you hurt?" 

Rolling your eyes you pull his hand away to get a better look at the cut. He'll be alright, neck wounds tend to bleed. Some rest and food and he'll recover. You carefully apply the bandage and the gauze to stop the bleeding and touch his shoulder. 

"Really, thank you." You say again, because if he hadn't come when he did you might both have died. 

Mel shrugs, and winces when it irritates his neck. "I take care of my own." 

You squeeze his shoulder and hug him. He returns the gesture with strong arms and everything feels a bit more surmountable. 

-

You awaken to a hand in your hair. It rips you from your dream and back to the present. You're curled over Troy's waist, neck kinked from the awkward angle. Sleeping in a chair is never fun. But there's a hand in your hair, scratching at your scalp. 

He's awake, glancing down at you without needing to move with how elevated they already have him. He keeps playing with your hair, twirling a strand around his finger. You don't dare move in case this is a dream too. 

It likely isn't because he looks like hell, pale as a ghost. His eyes are sunken, lips chapped. 

"You're beautiful," Troy says and your heart flutters. You are back in your butterfly case. 

"I love you." You whisper, because if anything he needs to know that. 

His lip quirks up in a smile. "I love you too. I always did like watching you sleep." 

Your smile widens, "I do too." 

You realize he's got his journal in his other hand, held up in the morning light. You've slept through the night. Leave it to him to rise early even after dying. 

"You wrote it down." He remarks, and that's fascination in his eyes as he looks at the page. "I wonder if I would have been right." 

"I'm glad I don't know." You say sitting up, "I don't care if you're right or wrong. I need you alive." 

"I'm not leaving you behind." He says, and god it's like you're still hearing it for the first time. Like you're that woman in his arms, thinking you were going to die. Holding onto a stranger, looking at the stars in the back of a pickup on the way to a new place that would change everything. 

He's said it so many times. 

But you can't believe him, because things like this always happen. Death seems like your neighbor, breathing on the back of your neck. 

"I hear we have Melvin's heroics to thank for my only half dying." He sounds spiteful when he says it, like it pains him. "He saved you." 

You lean in, shifting onto the bed with him. He carefully moves over to give you more room. "Stop that." Normally you let it roll off your shoulders. They don't like each other, you get it. But this is different. "He saved you, cut him some fucking slack." 

Troy hums. "It wasn't me he was worried about." 

"Why does it matter?" You snap. "He helped, would you have rather that prick dragged me off." 

"No." Troy is quick to say, with all the venom of being unable to accept an idea like that. "I'm going to kill him for what he's done to you. I'm going to kill every last person he's ever met." He lets out a grunt of frustration. "As soon as I can walk." 

"Which will be a bit." June remarks from the doorway. "I'm afraid any plans of retribution will have to wait. Your body needs rest, and I know you're going to push yourself too hard." She turns to you. "He listens to you. Keep him in bed as much as possible. Several weeks at least. You can move up to your room, but in bed unless it's short walks to the cabin bathroom." 

She points at his bandage. "Give it another few days before you shower. You can wash without the bandage. The burns on your chest shouldn't cause much trouble, but I can give a salve if they irritate you." 

"Burns?" You ask. 

"Only minor, from the defibrillator. They'll heal up quickly. John's going to help you get him downstairs." She says and you're glad June at least can be calm about this. 

"Thank you." You tell her, you're about ready to thank everyone on board. 

She gives you a little smile. "Of course, don't hesitate to get me if you need anything. You know where my room is." 

You nod, and then John is there wheelchair at the ready. Troy glares at it. "You can't be serious." 

John rolls it forward, "Serious as a salmon swimming upstream." 

"Don't argue. Get in the chair." You order and he relaxes. 

"Okay." It takes a little finagling, but you get him into it. 

John rolls him out of medical toward the stairs. Troy sighs as he's rolled over toward the ramp built for Wendell. It's easy enough to get him down and toward your room. You open up the first door and usher them into the lounge. 

It's empty for now, so you're not interrupted as you unlock your door. "Home sweet home. I can take it from here, Nemo." 

John looks at the two of you, "Are ya' sure? I don't mind sticking around and - " 

"I think we could use the privacy. It's been a tough day." 

He nods and tips his hat. "You just come get us if you need anything. Room nine." 

"I know where your room is." You say, giving him an amused look. "We're alright." 

He tips his hat again and you know he doesn't want to leave as he walks backward toward the door. "Alright, well I just - "

"I'm going to roll this thing into your ankles," Troy remarks dryly. 

John finally leaves and you roll him over to the bed. "Maybe I should have had him stay to help you in bed." 

Troy snorts. "How weak do you think I am, vixen?" He stands mostly to prove his point and pulls himself onto the mattress. Though the way his face screws up in pain is notable. "Shit, I feel like I was rammed by a bull." 

You get him a bottle of water and set it on the side table, before scrounging up a can of olives for him to eat. Really you're desperate to do anything at all. Anything that could be considered useful to him. Olives in one hand, fork in the other you turn to him. 

And burst into tears. 

The grief comes from nowhere and everywhere. It consumes you. 

Troy lets out a little noise of surprise. "Vixen." His voice is soft and gentle. "Come here, beautiful." 

All you can think about is Jake leaning over him, begging him not to die. Your hand scribbling the time down. Seventeen twenty seven. You had his death timed. 

Luckily the olives are still sealed when you drop them to the floor, the fork following. They land with a faint thud on the carpet. Your hands come to cover your face, trying to hold yourself together. 

"Darlin'." Troy tries again and you only move because otherwise he will, and he's supposed to stay in bed. It's important that he stays in bed.

You approach the edge and he grabs your arm, pulling you toward him. His grip isn't as strong as it normally is, but you go anyway. You are a puppet in which Troy holds the strings. He's always been so good at making you dance. 

Once on the bed he presses your face into the crook of his neck and wraps his arms around you. He's silent, other than the soft way he whispers, "I'm right here. I'm right here." 

You can't bring yourself to stop, and you know this will haunt your dreams. This will haunt your thoughts. This will haunt you.

"I couldn't do anything." You choke out against the smooth skin of his neck. "I couldn't save you, Jake had to push me out of the way. I didn't - all I could - Troy. I can't - I can't do that again." 

"I've been lucky." He whispers, and his grip tightens. "I've never thought you were dead. Lost, taken, yes. But not dead. I've never had to do that. I can't imagine it." He kisses the side of your head, and his lips linger against your hair. "I'm sorry you've had to do that twice. I'll be stronger. I'll work harder." 

"I should never have brought him back here. I shouldn't have trusted him. I just kept thinking about Beth even though something in me knew he was wrong." You try to justify it, but it's not justifiable. You were a fool, and Troy almost paid for that mistake with his life. 

"It's alright. We've brought people in before." He consoles. "You couldn't have known." 

You shake your head, pressing your forehead against him. "Stupid. It was stupid." 

"You thought he saved you." 

"I should have known it was too easy." You spit, and think of Nick. Lying piece of shit. He could have warned you, done something to stop this. If you see him again, it's on sight. No loyalty, no nostalgia. 

Broke Jaw is dead, Nick Clark will join it. 

Your cries turn into hiccups, and then fade until all you're left with is snot and regret. Troy wordlessly hands you a tissue. 

"You know." He remarks, "There wasn't a light, no life before my eyes." 

"Was there anything?" You ask, because who isn't at least a little curious about the after? If it will be better than the struggle you live in now. 

"I just remember being calm." He says, and looks out the window. Wistful. "Calmer than I have ever been. Peace. I didn't know what that felt like until now. If I didn't have you..." 

"You would chase it." You say for him, because you think you know that feeling he speaks of. An end, no more fighting, no one else to hurt you. The promise of peace. 

The comforting arms of the darkness to welcome you home. 

You've reached for those hands. They were the only comfort you found as a child. The whispers of the end, of peace. Of death. 

"If you go, we go together." You say, as you both had already agreed. You'd proven that with the pantry incident, you still have nightmares of that too. "But we have shit to do first." 

"I never told you about the pantry." He admits. You were apparently on the same line of thought. "About that shot." 

"Do you want to tell me now?" 

Troy nods, and presses his cheek against the top of your head. "I kept that bullet for you." His voice is so quiet you can barely hear it. "But I knew if I kept it in the chamber a moment longer I would use it on myself. I felt so guilty. I was angry, and disappointed. I knew that I was broken, sick. I didn't want to curse anyone else, but that was your fucking bullet. Because nothing was ever going to take you from me, not even the infection.

"I fired into the ceiling and prayed it would crash down around me. I let god decide, even though I've never really believed in him. It's what Americans are supposed to do, what my father believed. It seemed fitting to bury me in the place they forgot me. But then I remembered you, and the way you look at me. Like I'm worth something. Like I'm irreplaceable. 

"I knew that if I killed myself you would spend the rest of your life looking for something that you might not be able to find. And I knew - I know, that no one will ever love you the way I love you. And giving up meant taking that away from you. So I came out, and Jesus I was almost too late. But I guess what I'm trying to get at here, vixen, is that I'm glad I did. 

"If I died today. Heh, I suppose I did. But if I die, if I'm bones and ash, I need you to know something. I need you to know that I never regretted a second of it. Living with you, that loving you has been the best part of my life. You are my calling, the thing I have always searched for. And if I get another fifty fucking years with you and die as an old man in bed I'll take it. And if I go down in a wave of bullets protecting you tomorrow, I'll be grateful for every second I got to be loved by you." 

You press a kiss into his neck and another. There's nothing you can say that's going to hit like that. Troy has always had a way with words, the kind of way poets do. You're just a trailer trash kid, trying to remember how to spell loyalty. 

"I can't wait to see you with grey hair and dentures." You say instead, because you do want that. You want to spend every day with him for the rest of his life. You want to be there when he is old and grey, telling kids stories about your life together. 

He chuckles, "And I look forward to watching your tits droop." 

You laugh. God, and what it is to know he is still here to make you laugh. "Nonsense, I'll be perky forever."

Pulling back so you can look at him, you have to fight the urge to crawl into his lap. It's a pose you normally enjoy, his large form curling around you, but he's got a bullet hole in his leg. Your weight on it will not help his recovery time. 

So you try to get comfortable sitting in front of him, his hand in yours. His knuckles are rough when you trace your fingers over them. He smiles at you, and it's tired. His eyes are starting to droop, every blink lasts a little longer. 

"Lie down." 

"Nuh." He refuses. "I'm good. You need me." 

"I'll always need you, but I also need you to sleep." You shift to your side of the bed and hit the light. "Lie down." 

He gives in and moves downward on the mattress, and seems content when you curl into his side. "Say it again, say that you need me." 

"I need you." You reply, letting out a sigh. "Now sleep, you stubborn man." 

"I need you too." 

Chapter Text

Honeywell is on lockdown. Someone slipping into your midst has shaken the entire community. Only some of them were there to see what happened directly, but everyone is well informed. 

Troy is kept entertained by a slew of visitors that come to bother him. Wendell in particular, considering his duties are limited has made it his personal mission to make sure Troy is entertained. You're grateful for it, because you're busy. 

You're planning the move on the hospital, making sure defenses are in place, and prepping everyone for a fight. You're certain you've slept less than six hours the last three days. Troy sleeps more than he normally does, usually past dawn. 

But he's stubborn, when he wakes he insists on doing low-impact workouts. You found him doing bicep curls with weights last night. Because his 'arms aren't injured'. June has said as long as he's not trying to walk around often it will be alright. 

Whatever drug Thomas used doesn't appear to have done long term damage. It's three days since everything happened that you get the first package. It arrives suddenly at your front door. An unassuming cardboard shoebox. 

It's got your name written on the top, your full name. You never gave him your first name. Some of the community don't even know it. It's not a name you like repeated. 

You don't even know how he got the information. It makes you nervous. 

Merle is also suspicious as the two of you stand at the doorway looking at it. He was apparently present for Troy's death, though you hadn't been looking at anyone else. He's been hovering. You'll find him often in the room you are in for no particular reason. 

You think it's sweet that he's trying. 

"Should we open it?" You ask. 

Merle scowls, "We don't need anything that bitch has. I say we start it on fire." 

"Could be a bomb, fire might not be a good idea." 

He shrugs, reaching down with his knife hand to flip the lid. You let out a breath when it's revealed it's not in fact a bomb. It's a bunch of dried rose petals and a letter. 

You crouch down, looking at it. The desire to kill him grows. You take Merle's suggestion and run your lighter upon it. The petals burn. 

-

Troy is reading a book about modern day serial killers. He's having a good time with it. Taking notes with one hand, holding the book with his other. "What are you writing down?" You ask curiously. 

He flips the page. "Common traits between them. Looking for connections." 

"Connections with what?" You muse, not looking up from your own project. A map of the city. Possible ambush spots. 

Troy looks over at you. "Me." 

"You think you got the makings of a serial killer, bright eyes?" It's just the kind of weird angle he would take. 

He shrugs. "That's why I'm taking notes. I was never much of a bed wetter, but I did skin a lot of rabbits. Grew out of it though, and didn't really move to anything bigger. Skinned a cow alive once, but it was dying anyway. I was curious if the leather would turn out different -- it didn't, by the way." 

"You're not a psychopath." You say with amusement, just the idea is funny to you. Though you're a little glad you weren't around for the cow skinning. 

"You sound certain." He hums, writing something else down. 

"I am. Psychos don't have loving relationships. They're typically narcissists, which you aren't. You take care of me and Jake. A serial killer wouldn't do that. Plus they usually have an MO, a fixation on something." You explain, though you don't claim to be an expert on the subject. 

His smile is teasing. "I'm obsessed with you. That's a fixation." 

"Sure, but that's flattering. Do you have any deep-seated desires to murder specific types of people?" 

"People who have hurt you." He replies, scowling. 

"That's being human, not a serial killer. Wanting to protect your own is normal. You're an empath, not a sociopath, it's pretty much the polar opposite." 

"They share more traits than you'd think." He says, moving to the next page of his book. His brow furrows. He forgets his journal pulling the book closer. "Question for you, vixen?" 

"Shoot." You circle a problematic section on your map. 

"Did Tommy give you his full name?" He squints at the page, flipping through a few until returning to the one he's on. 

"He did." You reply, not exactly enjoying the memory recall. "Thomas Carr, why?" 

Troy looks up at you, "You're sure that's what he said." 

"Yep." You abandon your map giving him your full attention. "Why?" 

He rubs his face and flips the book around to showcase the picture of one of the killers in his book. You recognize him right away, given the shiny full color page inserts. That's him alright. 

"That's why I recognized him," Troy explains. "He got arrested maybe a year before everything went to shit. He's the fucking Canaloupe Killer."

A big enough name that you recognize it. He'd been all over the news, but likely especially for Troy given he was primarily targeting people in California. Merle had made fun of the name. 

But the reason he had the title wasn't so funny. "You think he wants to do that to me." You ask, fear making your body tense up. 

"I won't let him." Troy says, "Never. You can't leave Honeywell until this is taken care of Dixon. That's an order." 

"Been a long time since you gave me an order." You tease, but you're in agreement. You remember what he did to his victims. Cutting them open, stuffing them with fruit. Making them false pregnant shrines to his dead wife. 

"You are going to listen to this one." He demands, and you can't remember the last time he sounded so stern. 

You look up at him and nod, "Yes, sir." 

He flips to a new page in his journal and starts taking down notes on everything he can in regard to Thomas Carr. You come to the bed to read over his shoulder, the more you know the better. 

You leave Troy in the room to tell everyone on the ship who it is you are dealing with. The only people you don't tell are Beth and the kids. Mostly because she's so far along and you hate to stress her about something like this. 

Jake will know how to tell her if he thinks it's a good idea. 

You knock on Mel's door, and he looks rough when he answers it. He was drinking last night, you can still smell it on his breath as he steps to the side to welcome you into his room. He has one of the smaller suites, this one is a double. 

His bed is shoved into the corner of the room to make more space. He's got a desk brought in, and his own liquor cart. You worry about how much he drinks. 

He closes the door behind you and runs a hand through his hair. Today is a giraffe print and you smile at it. "Representing the giraffes I see." You tease. 

He looks down at his shirt and shrugs, "Yeah, guess so. I just grabbed something." 

"Are you good?" You ask, because he looks spent. You didn't think yesterday would affect him all that much compared to some of the others. It's not like Troy and he are close. 

Mel nods, moving to sit on the edge of his bed. "I'm tired is all. Kept watch last night."

"Did you do shift rotation?" 

"No, I stayed up all night." He replies, and you understand why he looks so rundown. His bandage needs changed. You're surprised Charlie hasn't insisted on doing it. 

"Where's Charlie?" You ask, walking toward the fresh bandages waiting on the end table. 

He watches you, seeing what you are doing, and unbuttons another button of his shirt. "Has a bit of a thing going on with Max from my understanding." His smile is a mixture of amused and lonely. 

You were lucky to find Troy so soon after it all went to hell. You can't image how lonely it would have to be to do all of this without a partner. You wish there was someone on board you could suggest for Mel, but the most eligible partner is Sarah. You can't see the two of them having much in common. 

"Anything I can do?" You ask, as you cut the old bandage free. It already looks better, it's not actively bleeding. You apply the ointment June supplied and he snaps his teeth together. 

When he looks up at you it reminds you a bit of Troy, and you can't put your finger on why. Maybe the affection in his gaze, or the tortured longing that reminds you of first meeting him. "Nothing I can ask for." 

You nod, he'll ask if he needs something. You can't baby him. So instead you tell him about Thomas and everything you know about him. By the time you're done, you have his neck rewrapped. 

Mel looks even more exhausted. "Troy is right, you shouldn't leave Honeywell. Nothing - I can't - you need to stay safe." He stands, rebuttoning his shirt. "I never want to see you cry like that again." He says a little quieter, and you think maybe you weren't supposed to hear. "No matter what it costs me." 

You leave him there staring at his liquor cart to spread the word. 

-

There's another box at the door. Jim spots it when he's carrying stuff around for the next beer batch. 

You find yourself standing in the doorway, looking down at it. This one is bigger. A larger cardboard box. 

You use a machete to flip the flaps open so you can look inside. Nausea rolls inside of you. Daryl leans with you, it feels like you have a constant companion with you. No matter where you go someone tends to be in the same room.

For now, it's Daryl, earlier it was Carl. 

"Sick fuck." He mutters, and sprays the box with lighter fluid that really shouldn't be wasted on this. The match is tossed next and you stand there as the stuffed animals go up in flames. "We're going to kill this guy. He ain't gonna get to you again. I owe you that."

"You don't owe me anything," You say softly. You made your piece with your childhood at least the best you could. There wasn't anything left to repay. You couldn't hold on to that shit forever, but your brothers can't seem to let it go.

And maybe that's what happens when you find good people to love you. It makes it a little easier to make peace with your demons. Troy has saved you in every way someone can save someone. He's the reason you don't think about your father often anymore. 

He's the reason you feel safe showering in your bedroom, which he to this day stays with you for. Mostly he just stays in the bedroom now, but he never leaves. He is your safety. 

Daryl deserves someone who makes him feel safe. You wish the two of you were close enough that you could tell him that. You close the door as the box burns and return to grab dinner from mess. Troy is on bedrest, which means breakfast, lunch, and dinner in bed. 

You're just trying to keep his spirits up. Everyone is stressed. 

You barge into your bedroom with two trays in hand and a smile. "Delivery!" 

He looks up at you from his book, he's been reading a lot. Really all there is to do around here. It's a good thing he's always considered himself a reader. "Where's your apron?" 

You grin, pivoting on foot to give him a spin. "You'd like that wouldn't you, me in nothing but an apron delivering you food." 

He takes his tray, setting it in his lap as you crawl in next to him. It's some of what's left of the pantry, MRE portions. Mac n cheese. It amazes you that this stuff is still good at all. Though your crackers are horribly stale. 

"I will admit, the thought does hold a certain appeal." He remarks with an easy smile. You think he's calmed a bit now that he knows you're keeping your word and not so much as stepping off the ship. 

You don't like being stuck in one place on principle. So it's a good thing that Honeywell is your home, and that Troy too is unable to leave. You're pretending it's a vacation and not a serial killer off to murder you. All about perspective. Life has become so strange. 

"You're on bedrest, that includes your hips." You give him a look. 

His smile is light. "I didn't get shot in the hip." 

"No weight on your thighs, Otto." 

He schemes, and you flush with want, because you miss him. You long for the connection that would affirm he is there with you. "I think I could figure something out." He playfully points to his face, circling his finger and then sticks out his tongue. 

"Eat your noodles." You reply, but he sees your interest. Even at the boyish invitation. 

And he smirks, that little confident smirk he always gets. But he complies and starts eating, you feel his eyes on you. And there feels like a promise there, and you need that. Need the distraction, the reminder. Him. You need him. 

You eat a little quicker than you need to, but he takes his time. Each bite is deliberate, slightly amused. He reads his book while he eats, and you're left there watching him. Wanting him. And he knows it too, and so he makes you wait. 

Like all the times in the past you've made him wait. Troy needs moments like that too when the control is out of his hands, and you're tossing your will at him. You think he may finally be ready at last, to give up the guise when someone pounds on your door. 

It's Abraham, the tone of a military man. "Carr and his group are here." 

That has a way of dropping a bucket of ice water over your head. You're on your feet, grabbing your weapons. Troy stands and you shake your head. "No. Sit this one out." 

His brows furrow. "No." 

You open the door. "Tell him to sit the fuck down, Abraham."

"Your old lady is right, Troy. You're a liability." 

That seems to work better than anything you could have said, because he's right. Troy puts you at risk by being there. He lets out a noise of frustration and sits back down. "Watch her. Please just watch her." 

"Ain't gonna leave my sight." He promises and you leave Troy in your bedroom as you go up to the deck. Abraham fills you in as you take the stairs. "He just walked right across the parking lot, calm as a cucumber. They're well armed though." 

"I really wish we still had grenades." You spit as you breach the top and see a good portion of the group already gathered. Everyone else is armed too, waiting. 

Rick glances at you, and you see how tired he is of fighting. But they will fight, all of them if it comes to it. 

You shift to the railing, raising your rifle as you do. He's there in the front. He straightens when you come into sight, and you know he was waiting for you. With the distance, you have to shout, but you prefer that. 

Rick calls down, "What do you want?" 

Thomas spreads his arms, "I want her to see." 

"What does that mean?" Abraham shouts back and you can see the tension in his jaw. He doesn't like this one bit, but neither do you. 

"Raina, talk to me." He shouts back, ignoring the question. 

"My name is Dixon." You reply, not that the crazy bastard is likely to listen to you. 

He doesn't seem to like that response much. He drops his arms and steps a little closer, you can make out Nick on one side and a stranger on the other. 

Mel approaches your left, takes one look over the railing, and freezes. "What is it?" You whisper. 

"Nick." He says back, and when you look at him his eyes are blazing. "That's the son of a bitch that killed my brother." 

You blink at him in surprise. "Alright, we're gonna talk about that in a minute." 

"Nothing to talk about, he's dead." He raises his rifle and you have to push it down. 

"Wait." You step closer to him. "I get it, trust me I really get it. But we need to wait for the right opportunity. We're not prepped for an all out firefight right now. He'll die, I promise, he'll die. Just not right this second." 

Mel squeezes his eyes shut, trying to level himself. But it's Charlie that does it, her hand on his arm. "We don't want anyone else to get hurt." 

He always listens to Charlie, his shoulders fall and he nods, stepping back. "Go back down, Charlie. It's not safe up here." 

She's hesitant, but she does. Mel stays at your back, protective of you like many of the others are. 

Thomas can't hear what any of you are saying, but he waits until you're looking at him again to speak. "Come with me now, and these people can live out their pointless lives." 

"I'll give you a counteroffer, Tommy. You leave us the hell alone or you and your whole cult die." You shout back. 

"Thomas. Call me Thomas." 

You scowl at him and you know it's not wise, but you've never really considered yourself that, "Go fuck yourself, Tommy." 

"You will see." He replies, ignoring your insult. "And when you do, you know where I'll be." They retreat and you're left with a wave of angry adrenaline you don't know what to do with. 

Your group watches them retreat in silence, confused and worried. But you're a hardy group, you've been through worse. You're not going to run scared. 

Rick glances at you, "We're going to have to put them down."

"No shit, sheriff." You slap his back. "They'll all bleed, we'll meet tomorrow. Nothing we can do tonight, other than what we've been doing." 

You point to Mel, "We're going to talk in the morning. Go sleep, Mel, you need it. I don't want anything to happen to you because you're being reckless." 

He nods his assent and follows you down to the cabins, walking into his own as you cut through the lounge to get to yours. 

Troy is sitting in bed when you get back, eyes pinned to the door. He's got the balcony door wide open, likely in an effort to hear what was going on. His eyes scan over you as soon as you enter and he loses some of his tension when you look normal. 

"We're going to meet in the morning about it." You say, sitting on the bed. 

He scoots over to you, kissing your shoulder. "I hate this."

You agree, "I know, but you'll heal. We'll be back to bothering people as Trixie in no time." 

Troy breathes into your hair, and you can practically hear the anger in each exhale. "I'm going to kill him. I'm not just going to kill him, I'm going to skin him alive and find out if he sounds like a rabbit." 

You smile, and maybe that means you're not normal. Maybe you're sick. You don't mind. 

Instead, you let his words of violence lull you into peace. He spits several more insults, following down a path of rage and vengeance. And when he is done, you kiss him. You taste the hate on his lips and to you it is love. 

He cups your cheek humming his approval, but you don't let the desire pull you in. You need to rest, he needs to rest more. 

There will be time. There will be time. 

Chapter Text

You jerk awake to a heavy knock on the door. "Dixon?" As much as you love your brother you really don't want to see him at three in the morning.

You groan and rub your hands against your eyes, slapping your cheeks to wake yourself. Troy is awake too, but he's still lying down as you pull your feet to the floor. 

All it takes is a quick glance to see his frustration. He knows he cannot follow you. You kiss him, long and hard before walking to the door. His shirt is long enough that it covers you as you crack it open. "Yeah?" 

It's the middle of the night, and Jake is clearly as tired as you are. But he's fully dressed and armed. "There's a hoard at our front door." 

You nod, "Meet you on the ground floor." Snapping the door closed you turn to Troy and sigh. 

He is sitting up, reaching for the wheelchair he has on loan. He drops himself into it and you throw him a shirt. Troy is still wearing his sweatpants, but he doesn't care. "I can still shoot." He explains, and you nod. 

Troy is one of the best shots on Honeywell. You don't mind him on the deck laying down cover fire. That's what the bullets you make are for. 

He looks at you, "Wear your jacket." 

You nod, and pull the thick material on buttoning it on the go. You don't have the time for anything else, this needs to be resolved. 

You trust Troy to make it up to the deck without you. You're in the armory strapping yourself down with weapons, several of the others are doing the same. You spot Mel he looks even more rundown than the others. 

You approach and touch his shoulder. He turns and smiles at you, "Hey." 

"Go to the deck." You order not bothering to waste time on sugar-coating it. "You're exhausted, get yourself a rifle, fire to the side away from us." 

"I'm not that tired." He defends. 

Your hand on his shoulder tightens. "That's an order." You don't pull rank often, but you do it when necessary. Besides, if you hadn't someone else would have. You're Troy's second, if he's out of commission you hold his weight as a leader. 

He sighs, before caving. "Alright." 

You've got several backup knives, a machete, axe, and your new pistol on your person as you head down to the stables where everyone is gathered. Everyone is fighting fatigue already, but the dead are pounding on the hull. 

If they continue they may draw more. It needs to be done. Luckily you do drills, there's already a plan in place. You don't need to waste time discussing strategies. 

You're all already partnered. Normally you're partnered with Troy, and Jake is with Beth. So it means the two of you are put together. That works for you, you find him in the group and nod. He sends a smile back, and you check his equipment. 

He checks yours and then everyone preps by the door. Abraham and Merle take front in riot gear, shields at the ready to push the dead away from the door. 

It's been months since you've seen a hoard of this size. You already hear the rifles from the rooftop and know they're working on it. The silencers will keep the sound from traveling too far. 

"Three, two, one." The door opens and you push forward, spreading out into a triangle as soon as you're through the door. You and Jake go to the left. 

The sound has become so familiar to you. The low groan of the dead all around. There's more than you originally thought, but you're no stranger to this. It feels good to jam your axe through the skull of the walker in front of you. Jake keeps close to your side, he's using a long thin blade, jabbing it through eyes. There's already blood flecked across his face. 

But he's angry too. You pull your axe back and the shark drops before you can hit it. Troy. You don't need to turn to know it's him. Few of the others would risk a shot like that. 

You smile and fight hard, grunting as another one drops. At least in this, you can be successful. There's no complications, nothing you don't know how to handle. 

Everyone keeps in two long lines. Charlie stays at the door, under strict order to close it if any of the dead break through. She knows to abandon you, to protect them from getting in before saving anyone. 

Everyone out here knows that, had consented to it. 

You snarl, burying the axe in another skull, but it gets stuck and when the body falls forward you're pulled with it. Another shark falls from Troy's sharpshooting before it can reach for you. Jake grabs you by the back of your jacket and jerks you to your feet. 

"Thanks." You say, abandoning the axe. You pull out your machete and use that instead. It works pretty much the same way. You glance over at Sarah next to you. She's using a machete of her own and grins. 

"Rather be making beer." She says downing one. 

You laugh, thrusting the blade forward into the mouth of one of the dead. "What, machete got your tongue?" You joke, twisting the blade to thrust it up into its brain. 

Jake laughs. 

"Breach!" Carol shouts from the other side. Your structure is lost in a matter of seconds; you turn toward Jake to go back to back like you're supposed to but he's already been sucked into the crowd. 

"Shit." You kick out at one of the dead, pressing toward the hull to get your back to something. Another shark drops and you know Troy is trying to cover you, but he's going to be hard-pressed when your head is getting lost in the mix of it. 

You keep your breath even, making sure you don't panic. Swinging the blade around across the face of one, you shoulder another to keep it away. You just need to get to the hull, you can't tell where Jake is. 

You don't call for him, that kind of distraction could kill him. You're perfectly capable of handling yourself. At least Charlie has closed the door. 

The hull is only ten or so feet away, but it's slow going. One dead at a time. Something wraps around your middle, and you try to drop into a crouch. That always seems to work on walkers, they never expect you to go down. 

Instead, the grip tightens, and your arms are suddenly pinned to your sides. It's a mimic of a position you found yourself in recently. It freezes you up for a second too long. "Hello, Raina." 

You can't see him, and you don't fully understand why the dead aren't attacking, until you realize the eyes surrounding you aren't glazed over. Masks. They're wearing the dead, walking among them. 

"Let me go." You grunt struggling against him, but just like before you're unable to get free. 

"Do you see?" He whispers and you don't like the intimacy of his tone, of his grip. 

You try and headbutt him. He avoids it. "You don't see yet, but you will." His grip becomes painfully tight, and a whimper escapes you before you trap it between your teeth. "I will kill them all, every single person on this vessel. I will make you watch them all die. This doesn't stop until you see, only you." 

You're about to tell him where to shove it when pain lights up the side of your neck. You cry out, and one of the men in front of you drops dead. 

Troy has found you in the crowd. Thomas knows it too because he snarls in your ear and lets go. By the time you're able to twist to find him, he's lost in the crowd. 

Jake is there a moment later. He glances at you and his eyes freeze on your neck. You don't fully understand the look that passes over his face, before the two of you return to the fray. He keeps his back pressed firmly against you. 

You're grateful for it. With every kill, the hoard gets a little smaller. Troy can guard better too, with the more obvious blip that the two of you are. Soon the group is able to pull back into formation, and from there, the battle is won. 

There's a pile of corpses surrounding you. Clean up is going to be an absolute bitch, but at least the cleaning can wait until the morning. You sigh, grinning at Jake. Dawn is just starting to light over the ocean. "Hell of a way to start a day." 

He blinks at you and you catch that look again, "What is it?" You ask, "Are you okay? Are you bitten?" 

His response is sad, "No." Jake pulls you into a hug, "You are." 

"What?" Your voice cracks on the word. That's not right, you would have felt it. You pull away to look down, to try and take inventory. Your pants are grimy. but you don't see any rips. 

"Your neck." He explains, and you realize what the sharp pain was. That sick fuck bit you. 

You bring your hand up to the area that stings and it comes away tacky with fresh blood. "It's not what you think." You explain, stepping closer to him. "Thomas was here, he grabbed me in the fight. They were wearing the dead, I don't know how or what it does but the sharks seemed to ignore them. He bit me. I'm not infected."

Jake shifts closer, lowering his voice. "No one is going to throw you out of Honeywell, Dixon. I would never let them do that. We need to get you to Troy. Give you as much time as possible." 

"I'm not lying Jake, I promise." 

His look is pitying and you want to snap at him. You know how this looks, but you'll prove yourself right. You're not infected. No fever will come, you're going to be fine. 

But a little part of you wonders if you were bitten at a different time, or if you imagined it altogether. But he spoke. You're not prone to hallucinations. You're not infected. You are not infected. 

This is what he wants, to have you question your sanity. To turn everyone against you. You pull your collar up and shoot Jake a look, "Between us." 

It's too late, Daryl was listening. He reaches forward and pulls your collar down. And everyone is looking at you. Grief. You recognize it now after a moment of reflection. They are grieving you. 

"I'm not infected." You whisper, because they need to believe you. No one does. 

Daryl touches your arm, "I - I'm here if ya' want to talk." 

You pull away from him, "I don't need to talk, I'm fine." 

Jake leaves you and disappears inside, you don't know what he's going to do. Seek comfort in his wife, go to Troy, get a glass of water. You follow ignoring the stares from the others, the goodbyes on their lips. 

When you reach the top deck you're able to see Jake moving in front of you. He's striding toward Troy, purpose in every step. You want to scream, 'don't tell him'. You say nothing. 

You're just out of sight, along the wall but close enough to listen in. It feels selfish to separate yourself from this. But you don't know, do you, now you're doubting everything. You are standing on a shifting surface, walking on water waiting to be dragged under. 

"Get up," Jake says and he sounds like Jeremiah, the same harsh tone. An order that must be followed. 

Troy moves on reflex rising from the chair. His eyes are wide with surprise at the tone, at what he recognizes in it. 

Jake grabs him, wraps his arms around his brother, and holds him. 

Troy returns the hug with the enthusiasm of a man who has always been physically affectionate but deprived of it. "What is it?" Troy asks, and his voice sounds tentative. Like he might not want the answer at all. 

"I'm sorry." Jake chokes out, and it sounds so guilty. "I broke my promise, I failed. I'm so sorry." 

Troy doesn't say anything, he's still holding on to Jake. His hand on the back of his brother's head. "You're bitten." He says and you want to cry. 

Jake laughs and it sounds garbled by grief. "No." 

You have a front row seat to watching Troy's acceptance shift to disbelief. "No, no, no, no."

"We got separated, not for long. I should have stayed closer - I should have - "

"Where is she?" Troy gasps, and you've never heard him sound like that. 

You round the corner so you're in his sight, the blood along your neck is too. There's no point in hiding it now. And you wish you could say for sure that you're not infected. But you can't, you don't know. 

So instead you stand there. 

Troy limps over to you, pulls the collar down a little more to look at it. He blinks at you, once, twice. And then without a word, he walks away. 

You stare at Jake, and he stares at you. Neither of you knows what to do. 

Mel comes up to you out of nowhere, but you think that's mostly because of your own shock. He takes one look at your neck and his face falls, eyes flooding with tears. 

You touch his arm and he hugs you. 

It's simple, it feels good to be held. So you stay there and let him mourn you before you are dead. And when he begins to cry you stroke his back with a bloodstained palm. It's Charlie that takes him, that leads him off. 

You don't speak, you turn to find Troy. You know where he is. The walk to your room is slow, simple, familiar. When you open the door and lock it behind you, all of the clothing is already on the floor. It's scattered across the room on broken hangers. 

Discarded. 

A second later you hear the muffled sound of him screaming into his hands. It's still loud, it still fills the room. 

With slow steps, you approach the built-in wardrobe and slide it open enough for you to crawl inside. It's barely big enough for two, but with you in his lap, there's enough. His leg doesn't seem so important anymore. 

As soon as you're inside he clings to you, and you push the door closed with your boot. This time he screams into your bloody shoulder. 

You let him. You let him sob, heavy gasping wet sobs. Resting your forehead against his, you wait. If you're infected soon you won't be here to help him grieve. 

You'll give him as much time as you can. "I love you." You whisper. 

He doesn't say it back, he's too busy trying to catch his breath. The sound of it fills the closet, reverberating it back. You hate that sound. 

"I know you aren't going to believe me." You say, because you have to try to convince him, to convince yourself. "But I don't think I was bitten by a shark. Thomas was in the crowd, he grabbed me, tried to convince me to see again. I think he was the one that bit me, and if that's the case then I'm not infected." 

Troy's grip tightens. "Is this what it felt like to watch me die?" 

He can't see your sad smile in the dark. "Yes." 

His crying starts up again, and you spend another few minutes comforting him through it. It's hot in here, your skin is coated in sweat. Or is that the fever? How much time do you have left? 

You ignore it and keep laying with him. You're drifting in and out of sleep, tired from the lack of respite and the fighting. He doesn't try to keep you awake, but he does hold you. You're drifting between dream and reality when you say, "I don't regret anything either." 

He kisses the top of your head, and pulls open the door. The air is cold as it ghosts over you, and you shiver. It's awkward climbing out of the tight space, and your muscles complain as you stretch. 

You don't bother to tell him not to walk, he's not going to listen now. There's no order, nothing you could say that would change his mind. 

"Let me clean that." He murmurs reaching for the medkit you keep. Troy pulls you into the bathroom, and you dutifully strip. 

It's deja vu the way he steps into the shower with you fully clothed. A lifetime ago, you had once done the same thing. This time there is a bite to find. He methodically cleans the blood off of you, and towels you off. 

He's dripping water all over the place and you worry he might be in shock. When you're dry he presses a bandage over the bite marks and you pull his own clothing off and dry him too. 

Neither of you bothers to dress again as you go to bed. It doesn't matter that the sun has risen, you crawl in between the sheets. He presses a hand to your forehead checking for a fever. His brow furrows, and you don't ask if you have one. 

You don't want to know, you want to keep pretending this isn't happening. You feel normal, a regular sort of soreness and fatigue. Nothing seems altered or wrong, but then again everyone carries the virus. You all turn. 

It's already long been inside you, dormant for years. Maybe you won't feel it yet. You drift into sleep and awake several times throughout the morning. Once, to Troy getting dressed. Twice, to him accepting several drugs from June. Thrice, to the closet door opening and closing. 

When you wake back up he's sitting on the edge of the bed watching you. "I'm not dead yet. Please don't look at me like that." You can't take the sorrow in his eyes, like you're already gone. "I'm still here, let me be here." 

He nods, and the expression clears. It is replaced by the facade of a soldier, he's masking it all away. His grin is easy, practiced as he leans forward and kisses your brow. "What do you want to do today?" 

You're aware you could ask for just about anything. "I really want a cup of coffee." 

His lips purse into a thin line. "What else?" 

"Distract me. I don't want to think about it." 

"I can do that." He stands, and you give yourself time to appreciate how perfect he looks in the bright light of the sun. This might be the last time you see him standing in the daylight. 

You watch him, and for the first time feel the tears burn along your eyes. They don't fall, because you don't want to waste time with something as pointless as crying. You will cry in hell. 

Troy will meet you there someday, and maybe that will be the heaven you find. 

"You are so beautiful." You whisper, looking at him. Heartbreakingly sad as he is. "When I met you I was so relieved to see someone, you could have been anyone. You saved me that day, and you saved me every day after." 

"I would take it from you if I could." He replies, and you hold out your arms for him. 

He approaches wrapping you in a hug, pressing himself as close as he can get. "You know what I want." You muse, a smile curling on your face. 

"Anything." 

"One of Merle's poppers." He pulls back to look at your amused smile, and for a second he matches it. Why not spend the rest of your life high and happy? Better than wasting away. 

He kisses your cheek. "I'll be right back." 

Troy is out of the room before you have a chance to get dressed and follow. You wander out to the balcony with a sheet trailing behind you, too lazy to dress, and enjoy the warm air. 

He's returned in less than five. "I've got a couple of options." He stands by your side, leaning against the railing with you. He starts with a pack of cigarettes. 

You're amused as he pulls one free, pressing it between his lips. You watch him struggle to light it, and hand it over. To your surprise, he pulls another and lights that one too. 

When he inhales he coughs and you smile. "Terrible time to start such a nasty habit." 

"Tastes like shit." He remarks dryly and you chuckle. 

"I never smoked much for the flavor."

"Clearly." The two of you smoke in companionable silence, it gets a little easier for him with each drag. You're grateful he won't be able to chain smoke, there's just not enough to go around. 

"So what other goodies have I been granted on death row?" You muse. 

His expression shutters and he's forced to pull the grief back in trying to hide it from you. Troy reaches into his pocket and pulls out a bottle of oxy shaking it. You take it, nodding. He also pulls free a quick squeeze bottle of morphine. And last a little bottle. 

You grin, "Would you look at that." You take the energy drink and hold it up. "I do believe you promised to take care of me." 

"Do you remember everything I say?" 

You laugh, and press your shoulder to his. "You'd be amazed at all I remember about you. You're not the only one who observes, bright eyes." 

"So what will it be?" He asks and you know there will be no concern about what you take. He'll go find you heroin if you ask for it. 

You pull the plastic off the top of the popper, and snap open the lid. It's still good, liquid inside. You don't hesitate you toss it back. 

Experience teaches you to drop the sheet and reach for him. The high doesn't last long, only a few minutes. You press him back into the lounge chair you have on the balcony. 

He grunts when he lands in it, and reaches for the button of his cargo pants without being asked. The effects hit and you sigh. 

You can hear your heart in your ears, but that doesn't matter because your body has gone warm and tingly. 

He drags his eyes down you, and you see his surprise at the way your body has responded to the high. Troy reaches forward and runs his hand between your legs. "Shit, vixen." 

You laugh and straddle him. "Oh, trust me you're going to love this." 

This is already better, already different. No more thinking, you act. You're so fucking wet already and so familiar with him it's easy to shift your hips and find him inside you. "Oh." 

Your memory of this is hazy at best, but it certainly never felt like this. It feels sublime. You lean forward and kiss him, biting his bottom lip as you roll your hips. His hands come to your hips to guide you and you moan. 

He swallows the noise and you think in hindsight outside might not have been the best choice. He knows it too because his eyes sparkle and when you pull back his hand covers your mouth. 

You feel like a live wire as he thrusts upward, and so deliciously home. He's everything. You mumble your pleasure into his palm, and he grins up at you. And you miss him already. 

His pace is faster than it usually is, more punishing. You don't mind, you need it. The mind-numbing pleasure of it. He needs it too, because you can barely string words together. He's the only thing on your mind, the only thing you need. 

You're close already, you don't even need a hand between your legs. The friction from the angle is enough. He spots it before you do and presses his hand a little harder against your mouth and you mewl. 

The way it comes out muffled makes the ecstasy all the higher. 

He seems to agree, because his eyes are dark. The hand he still has on your hip tightens. "You're so so so so so beautiful." He says, staccato with his pace. 

You drag your tongue across his palm in thanks and he laughs. It's a terribly carefree laugh all things considered. You want to hear it again, and again. You don't want him to lose that laugh. 

His pace doesn't so much as slow, you think he might be ready to test how many times he can make you come before you drift down from your high. You're already more sensitive, but no less wanting. You still long for more. 

You find yourself pressing down when he pushes up and it's so good. "Jesus." He mutters biting back a groan and you find yourself doing the opposite of what he's doing. Your hand comes forward thumb tracing his bottom lip, before it slips in his mouth pressing down on his tongue so his mouth opens. 

"Vixen." His words are slightly distorted from the way you're holding his mouth open, but you know he's trying to warn you that you'll be overheard. 

You press your thumb down against his tongue harder. And he groans, and it's loud and you feel it in your chest. You come again, tilting your head back as you keen against his palm. Even today he won't share that with anyone. 

Troy ignores his leg injury and ends up picking you up. His jaw grits in concentration, likely straining muscles he shouldn't be as he carries you inside. 

You're deposited quite roughly on the bed as he snaps the door shut. "Feet on the floor, darlin'." Oh you love this side of him, this dominant man who wants to look after your needs. He's put his own pleasure on the back burner. 

The high is starting to fade a little, but you don't mind because he still feels amazing as he runs himself along the length of you. Slick from your own desire already. You press your face into the mattress and sigh. 

He rests a hand on your back running along your spine before he presses inside you again. And from this angle, you are even fuller than before. "Troy." You gasp and he hums his approval, snapping his hips forward. "Am I - am I hurting you?" You gasp out, even though you don't want to stop. 

"Hush, beautiful." He directs and he leans down to kiss the back of your neck. He's started to slow down, and you think you catch some of his grief in it. 

You're proven right when he kisses your spine again and feel little droplets of water on your back. He lets out a shuddering breath and you start moving back against him. 

His breath hitches in pleasure instead and that's what you wanted. "There, there, there." You direct, and he obliges. His thrusts fall out of rhythm and you smile as he comes, mumbling your name with a soft moan. 

He's always so pretty when he crashes into it. You regret a little not being able to watch it. Troy pulls away and you twist sitting on the bed to wrap him in a hug. He hugs you back, tight to his still clothed chest. 

"I'm here." You console, running a hand through his hair. "I'm right here." 

He nods and tightens his grip. When he pulls away he winces. You scour him and see the blood leaking through his pants. He's bled through his bandage. "You shouldn't have lifted me." 

He rolls his eyes. "Bullshit, I've always been able to lift you. Nothing is stopping me from doing that, from giving you what you need. It's blood and pain. That's the easy stuff." 

"Let me rewrap it." You ask, and he knows you're going to worry about it if you don't so he complies. 

It's irritated but it doesn't look like anything serious. You rewrap it and it's good to go again. Though he really shouldn't be walking around. He's ignoring the wheelchair and the crutch. Stubborn man. 

He cups your cheek, smiling at you. "Gotta say, I think I like poppers." 

You grin at him. "I should probably eat something." Food will keep your crash from hitting you so hard. 

He nods, and redresses. "What do you want?" 

You don't make a last meal joke, because he already looks frazzled. "I don't know, can we go to the pantry and look?" 

"Not wearing that." He says lightly looking at your naked frame, at the mess between your thighs. Jesus, you're sure you've never been so wet in your life. 

"Like a slip and slide down there." You joke and he rubs his face in amusement, trying to hide his smile behind his hand. 

He looks at the pile on the floor and frowns. "I can clean that up." 

"Leave it." You remark picking up items from the pile. It's a waste of time is left unspoken. But he doesn't argue, despite being the somewhat neat freak that he is. 

Wandering into the bathroom you clean yourself up and look in the mirror. You find yourself looking for signs of the infection. The bleary eyes, pale face, fever. But you don't feel dizzy, or hot. You're cheeks are flushed but that's not exactly unusual given what you just did. 

Maybe you were right, maybe it was Thomas. You exit the bathroom, reaching for the underwear you left on the bed. "Troy?" 

"What do you need?" 

You smile at that, always so eager to please. "I meant what I said before, about Thomas being out there." 

He grows serious, and you can see his doubt clear as day. 

"He was there, they were wearing masks that made the walkers ignore them. He grabbed me from behind like he did before. He spoke to me. When we were talking I felt a pain in my neck. I really do think I might not be infected. I don't know for sure, maybe I'm crazy. Maybe my brain is trying to save me from the truth, but I don't know." 

You look down at the floor. "Maybe I just don't want to say goodbye. But I don't look infected. Do I have a fever?" 

Troy watches you and you can see the way his eyes flick across your face. He brings a hand up to your face, to your forehead. "I can't tell." 

"You know more about this than anyone." You say, and it sounds desperate. "Do I look infected?" 

He presses a finger under your chin, tilting your head from side to side. "It would have been at least an hour ago. It takes three or four before the eyes start showing signs. They'll start to redden and milk over in the corners, by twelve hours in your vision will be impaired. The fever should start soon, though, but you're flushed." 

Troy's gone into scientist mode, he reaches for your bandage and pulls it away. He looks at the wound again, even goes so far as to smell it. "Your veins aren't reddening. They should start to change color as soon as you're bitten, they'll grow darker and darker as time passes, but right now they're normal." 

You see it then, the first flash of hope. You've proven one of Troy's facts false, and that helps. "Let's eat, and stop by to see June after. She can take my temperature." 

He nods, "Alright, but just in case you can still eat whatever you want." 

Troy is a sweetheart and slaughters a chicken for you. In less than an hour, your family is enjoying the spoils of seasoned chicken. They've pulled out all the stops. For now, you don't try to convince them that you're going to be alright.

Instead, you sit at a table with Troy, Jake, Beth, Coop, Mel, Daryl, and Merle. The people you are closest to. There's a somber edge to the air, but it's still good to be around family. It's not often you all eat together.

You'll enjoy the privileges you can, while you can. Just in case. Troy holds your hand as you enjoy your two legs. Those special privileges.

Merle grins at you. "I hope you enjoyed that popper, it was my last one."

You grin back, and glance at Troy. He smirks down at his plate and Cooper laughs.

"I appreciate your noble sacrifice." You remark taking a bite of your chicken. It's such a luxury. You make a happy little noise as you eat more.

Jake is watching you, and you cut off his apology before he can voice it. "Not on you, Jakey." You set down your meal and look at him. "It is not on you. Do not do that to yourself."

Beth nods leaning against her husband. "She's right, Jake. You couldn't have changed anything."

He disagrees but you hope that if enough people remind him he'll be alright. Though maybe you'll be there to remind him. "Cheers to the cook," You shout.

Sarah and Wendell wander over to your table. "Glad you like the bird." Sarah gives you a soft look, and touches your shoulder. This is her subtle goodbye, but that's all she'll subject you with. Sarah mourns in silence.

"Wish we could have deep fried it." Wendell jokes, and you grin at him.

"That sounds so good." You say regretfully. "I miss fast food. French fries."

The whole table nods in agreement, this is an easy thing to agree on. You're sure the entirety of Honeywell would kill for some french fries. But you don't have a fryer and oil is more importantly used in other things.

Not even dying can get you fries.

Troy squeezes your hand, and you go back to eating. You can feel him watching you, and when he leans in to kiss your forehead you know it's not affection but his attempt to check your temperature. He leans forward to look in your eyes and that hope you saw before grows.

He resumes his normal posture but whispers in your ear. "No signs. You feel cool to me."

You finish your meal, and hope he's right. Everyone makes sure to include you in the conversation, and dinner lasts longer than it usually does. Everyone lingers, others stop by. It makes you feel loved, even if this is the end you will be remembered.

It feels good to know that.

You glance at Daryl and smile. "We made it didn't we."

He looks at you in confusion, "Whatcha mean?"

"To something better."

He nods, "Yea, we did."

And that's enough for you. You don't want to go, you don't want to die. But if this is your end, at least you made it somewhere better. To somewhere you are loved and cherished. To a place, you will be remembered for creating.

You raise your water in a mock toast. "To Honeywell."

Troy raises his glass, "To Dixon."

The crowd responds, "To Dixon."

You beam at them, and salute. Soon after the two of you make excuses and head down to medical. June isn't inside but Carol is.

"Can we check her temperature?" Troy asks.

She looks at you and nods. "Of course."

You sit on one of the beds and sarcastically kick your feet. "If I do good, do I get a sticker?"

Carol shakes her head with a smile, "I'm all out."

"What kind of institution doesn't have stickers?" You joke, glancing at Troy. "I want to speak with management."

"I am the manager," Troy responds dryly, not missing a beat.

You look at him as Carol brings over the thermometer holding it out for you. "What is management going to do about this issue? I want recompense." You tap the button and shove it under your tongue.

He smirks, "Would you consider my handprint on your ass close enough to a sticker?"

Carol barks out a surprised laugh, and you have to grit your teeth around the plastic so you don't laugh too and ruin the reading. But your shoulders are shaking as you hold it back. It beeps and you pull it back and let the laugh free.

You read the screen: 97.8

Turning it around and you show it to Troy. "Take it again."

You do, you take your temperature three more times. It never exceeds ninety-eight.

"Have you ever known the fever to take so long to start?" He asks Carol.

She shakes her head. "Fever is always the first symptom." Without asking she touches your forehead and you flinch. "Sorry. You don't feel warm to me. Can I see the bite?"

You nod, and Troy reaches forward to pull the bandage up. They both stare down at it, and you feel a little like a slide under a microscope. He picks up on your discomfort and presses the bandage back in place.

"I've never seen anything like it." Carol admits, "It looks clean."

"Necrosis would have set in by now. Dixon said she thought it was a person who bit her not one of the dead." Troy says, and he's starting to believe you. He can't not yet, but in a few days, he will.

You'll have to wait it out together. 

Chapter Text

Two days pass, and there's still no sign of infection. 

Troy gets a little calmer with every passing hour. He's still constantly checking you for a fever, looking at the sheen of your eyes and monitoring your bite. But every time it doesn't match what he knows as a fact, it helps. 

You think by tomorrow the entirety of Honeywell will believe that you're not infected. 

You're glad for it, because the grief only got more frustrating the longer you kept feeling normal. Now you are only angry. No that doesn't really cover it, you're furious. 

Thomas is behind the pain Troy has been put through both physically and mentally. He needs to pay. 

You've been planning with Troy's help. He's more than happy to help prepare for the hospital's destruction. He's as angry as you are, just as hungry for revenge. 

This isn't a threat you can tolerate much longer. You are constantly looking over your shoulder, paranoid that he'll leave another box. You have a sneaking suspicion that Thomas was the one to lead the hoard to your front door. 

You're sick of fighting off fear, of pushing it down into that bottle inside yourself. Troy is stretched thin, exhausted down to his bones. He's pushing himself too hard too quickly. You can't convince him to slow down. 

Jake is the same. He's got his fingers in ten pies. He's helping plan, making sure you're good, checking on Beth, and prepping equipment. You're pretty sure he's barely slept. And you know he still feels guilty, he looks at your bandage as much as Troy does. 

You're grateful that Troy wasn't out there. If he had been, he'd damn himself worse than Jake. Troy lives with enough guilt as it is, he's always quick to pile the blame on his shoulder. You don't want your death wearing him down into the grave. 

You will not be what kills him. 

It's close to sundown when Jake knocks on your door. You don't like the deja vu that curls through you. When neither of you run to the door he knocks again, "There's another one." 

You didn't need him to say it for you to know. Sighing you stand and walk toward the wardrobe. Troy put it back together when you were asleep last night. 

"You can't go back out there." He says, and there's so much fear in that sentence it chokes you. 

When you turn to look at him, his eyes are blazing with intensity. With a need to convince you to stay, all the while knowing he will not be able to. 

"I have to." You respond, "Cover me from the deck." You pull your jacket on and meet Jake at the door. If you wait he might very well be able to convince you. That tone is something you don't want to ever hear from, and if he begs, you'll give in. 

So you don't give him a chance. 

Jake follows on your heels. "You should go up to the deck." 

You cast him a look as you purposefully start taking the stairs down. "I'm not infected." 

"Dixon, please." 

Whipping around you glare at him. "I am not infected." You point your finger into his chest. "Trust me, Jake. Trust me." 

He frowns but gives a consenting nod and the two of you suit up. It's exactly like last time, though this time Merle insists on fighting on your other side. 

If it makes him feel better, it doesn't matter. You know how to fight with each and every one of them. 

"There were humans in the crowd before." You say to the group, and their disbelief fires you up. "Look just be careful, believe me or don't. Just keep it in mind." 

Merle gives you a little smile. "Sure, Dixie Cup." You know from his tone that he's going to blatantly ignore you. 

When you exit, the hoard is close to the same size as it was a few days prior. You grit your teeth in frustration and set up a line of defense. Jake on one side, Merle on the other. 

Your eldest brother takes a certain amount of joy in killing with his knife arm. He's gotten proficient at it. Learned to lead walkers to bite it if needed, he's a talented killer. 

But so are you. You don't feel sick, you feel good. You've got energy to spare and kill with abandon. Things are going better than they were the first time.

Your group holds the line. Troy picks them off from above. It takes less than an hour. 

Two more hours to prep the bodies into carts that you'll dispose of later. 

You meet Troy back in your bedroom with a yawn. He scours you, showers, and checks you for bites. You're clean minus the mark on your neck. Still no fever. 

He kisses you, long and hard. 

You smile into his mouth. "It's going to work out." 

"It will, because you're here." He replies and kisses you again. Troy leads you back toward the bed, and you're happy to give in to it. To enjoy his company and sleep, but then there's a knock on the door. 

You groan, pulling on your robe and crack it open. "I'm starting to resent your lovely face, brother." You tease, "What is it?" 

Jake frowns, "I don't understand where the hell they're coming from." 

You blink at him, he can't be serious. "We've cleared most of the city." You look back toward Troy and he's getting dressed. 

"They're being led here." He says, "They have to be." 

You nod your agreement. "Give me a minute to dress." 

You and Troy prep in silence. He's seething angry, you can feel it from across the room. "He's trying to wear us down." 

"It's working." You say quietly.  

Troy's hands curl into fists and he's got his arm half-cocked to slam into the wall when he stops himself. "Fuck." 

"I know." You hold out your hand and he takes it. "Watch my back, cowboy." The two of you part on the stairway and you meet everyone back at the bottom level again. No one looks thrilled to be doing this again. 

Everyone is tired. 

Merle stations himself on your side with Jake again, Daryl as his partner. 

You return to positions and do it again. Everyone is moving a little slower, a little easier to push back. Your triangle perimeter is mostly an awkward oblong oval now. It's risky being out here in this condition. 

Twice you save Jake's ass. You glance at him, "Go inside." 

"No." He slides his knife into a shark's skull and yanks it back out. 

"You fuck up again I'll push you through that damn door." You snap, swinging your axe forward. 

Jake grunts in response and you fall silent again. Troy is still sniping them when they get too close. Not bothering to waste bullets on ones you are already swinging for. Every once in and while you hear the shot and see the drop. 

There are others using bows too and that keeps you from getting overwhelmed. A lot of the kids are good shots. Troy has trained Wendy to be one hell of a shot too. When he'd mentioned the idea he'd said something along the lines of 'if the Marines wouldn't train you I'll teach you better than they ever could'. 

You're all managing well enough when suddenly another crowd of walkers enter the parking lot and you're back to the number you started with. "Son of a bitch." You snarl, spearing one through the eye. 

Your hands ache from the pressure of holding and jerking the weapon around. Merle kicks one of the dead back into the crowd with a frustrated shout. But that's the thing, your group is irritated not disheartened. 

You are all confident in your ability. But soon Troy will be out of bullets. You only have so many shells to refill. He'll have plenty to do in the days to come, a good task considering his current injury. 

His shots start to come less frequent, and you know he's switched to damage control. Picking off walkers that break the line. 

It leaves more work for those on the ground level but there's nothing to do about it. Your body is going to hurt tomorrow, you know that for fact. Your neck burns every time you are forced to stretch the irritated skin. 

You lose your axe in a crowd and switch to a hunting knife. The sound of John's pistols goes off and you jerk around to look for him. June is on her back in a crowd of downed walkers and you're grateful for his quick aim. 

She gets pulled back into the safety of the fold. 

You turn back to your own targets and one goes down right in front of you. Too close for Troy's comfort apparently. 

Merle shifts closer, slicing through another walker encroaching. He steps into the crowd a bit to do it, and you shift forward to guard him. It leaves Daryl and Jake a little further back. It breaks protocol. 

The line shifts, and that's all it takes for you to be surrounded. You press back toward the others, and Merle follows. Blood spatters the side of your face from his most recent kill. Until your brain catches up. 

Warm. The blood is warm. You turn, and everything clicks into focus. 

An arrow sticks out of the stranger's eye, one of Daryl's bolts. He lets go of the blade he was holding, and sharks begin to descend on him. 

You reach out and grab Merle's hand, pulling with all your weight. Daryl is there, grabbing his other arm. 

He stumbles, shambling forward, and hits the ground inside the perimeter. Daryl turns back to hold the line as you crouch down. 

"June!" You shout, but you know. It's obvious. 

The handle is pressed all the way to his spine, the machete sticking out the front of his chest. 

You told them. You told them there were people in the crowd. 

Merle didn't listen. He never listens. 

Your hands hover, and June doesn't come. She knows not to. No one is supposed to break the line, no matter what. Those injured fall back to Honeywell. Those who can't be saved, can't be saved. 

These rules are in place for a reason. But you don't return to your position, because your big brother isn't going to die alone. 

He clutches your hand in his, but doesn't talk. There's blood dripping from his mouth. His lips open gasping for breath and he's suffering. You steady your grip on your knife and know what to do. 

You lift the blade, readying yourself. You hesitate. 

You hear the pop of Troy's rifle and Merle goes still. He does it so you don't have to. You look up at him, but he's too far away to see. 

You take a breath, if you panic you die. Do not think, act. Shut that shit down. 

You turn and throw yourself back into the line, the rage replacing your fatigue. There are two other humans in the crowd. The others learn their lesson and look for them. 

When you're done you don't bother prepping the corpses. There may be more waves coming, you need to sleep while you can. All you do is clear the perimeter space, and leave the rest. 

Daryl and Rick go to carry Merle inside. "Wait." You say, and grab ahold of the machete, pulling it out with a wet squelch. 

You flick the blood off the blade out of reflex and see it. There written along the metal, 'do you see?'. You scan the parking lot, though you can't see far given its night. The only thing lighting the area up is the torches you keep for nighttime fights like this. 

You pull your own blade free and replace it with this one. Because you are starting to see, to see the violence you are capable of. Because the things you want to do to Thomas are unlike what you've ever wanted to do to anyone. 

When you return to Honeywell there is a sheet draped over your brother. Rick is with Daryl, arm around his shoulders. He has the comfort he needs, Rick is better at shit like that than you'll ever be. 

You meet Troy on the cabin floor as he's making his way to you. He's expecting you to be worse off than you are, you can see his confusion when he spots you. 

But you're not crying. You're beyond crying. You're bordering on wrath so deep it is unrecognizable. You walk without a word and strip off your bloody clothes again. Your shower is nothing more than stepping in to rinse the blood off before getting back out again. 

Troy is in the doorway, watching you. Waiting. He's waiting for the tears, for the grief. 

"Thank you." You say instead, "For - " 

"Anytime." He responds before you can directly state it. 

You nod, and step onto the balcony to smoke a cigarette. He lets you, even though you're no longer dying. 

Jake stops by while you're out there, and you hear their mumbled conversation through the glass. It's too little too late for regret when Merle is concerned. He is your brother, and now he is your dead brother. 

He is your dead brother. 

You drop your head looking down into the sea. It moves as it always does, the sea does not mourn Merle Dixon. An asshole from bumfuck, Georgia. 

With a sigh, you flick the burning cigarette into the water far below. 

And then you look up at the stars, it's a clear night. The stars shine brightly down for you. "Bye, big brother." 

One of the stars winks back, at least you pretend it does. And that has to be enough. 

-

Three more waves and Thomas must have run out of dead to throw at you. You haven't slept properly in days. Every step is a burden. You sleep like a rock at every given opportunity despite the hour. 

Everyone believes you about your bite now. No one survives this long without symptoms. You were either bitten by Thomas or immune. And no one is immune. 

You keep the machete despite multiple people trying to convince you to get rid of it. When things slow down you find yourself looking at it, asking yourself that question. Do you see? 

All you see is red. The blood from your family, the anger. Troy dying on the floor, Merle bleeding out in silence. 

So no you don't see, not whatever thing he wants you to see. 

You head back to your room to take another nap, Troy is making bullets. When you enter, you freeze. The balcony door is open, which isn't a big deal except Troy is very particular about it. 

He never leaves it open if he's not in the room, because then it could rain or whatever. He gives you so much shit when you forget to close it that it's become habit for you too. "Troy?" You ask, stepping further inside. 

The bathroom door is open, empty. There's no clothing on the floor but you push the wardrobe door open, nothing. You're about to dismiss it as the two of you being exhausted when you see it. The duvet is wrinkled. 

Not the sharp military lines Troy does every morning. You pull them back and they're tacky, heavier than they should be. You yank hard.

Blood. Your mattress is soaked in it. You smell it then, and curse the nose blindness that stopped you from noticing right away. 

There's a letter too, damp on the bottom from the blood. You snatch it off the sheets. 

You are not looking. I will take as many as is required to make you understand. All of them will die in your arms, one by one. 

None of them are good enough to be protected by you. There is only one place you belong, Raina, and that is by my side. 

Come home, before you have to live with all of their deaths on your conscience. 

Thomas

You take a long breath, and drop the paper to the floor. Yanking the machete from your belt you sling it forward with both hands into the mattress. 

You shout out your frustration and bring it down again, and again. The mattress shreds beneath the sharpened blade, but that doesn't matter. It's useless now anyway. 

Someone enters the room, summoned by your shouting. But they don't attempt to stop you as you hack at it. You're gasping for breath when you're done and look over your shoulder to see Mel in the doorway. 

"Bad day?" He jokes as you drop the machete to the carpet. 

"It's been a bad fucking week." You spit out. 

He steps into the room and touches your shoulder. "We'll get those bastards. Both of them." 

You remember Nick, and remember you promised to talk about it. You'd completely forgotten in the chaos that has followed. "Help me with this?" You gesture to the mattress. 

Mel nods, and you start by gathering up the blankets. You toss them in the bathroom, so they can't stain the carpet. 

"We need to be careful, I don't understand how he got in here in the first place. Everyone needs to lock their doors, use a bar so they can't be picked." 

"I don't have a balcony," He states, as he helps you shift the mattress off the bed. It sort of bends in on itself from your assault, but that'll make it easier for what you plan to do anyway. 

"So you know Nick?" You ask, looking toward the balcony. 

He scoffs. "Yes. You do too I take it?" 

"The Clarks lived on the ranch pretty much the whole time I was there. I have a particular dislike for their mother." 

"Their?" He questions, scooting the mattress toward the door. 

You think of Alicia, soft and brave. Too weak for this world in the first place. "Alicia, she didn't make it off the ranch. Her and Jake...she was good. Good doesn't make it in this world, not goodness like that. Too selfless." 

The two of you manage to get the mattress onto the balcony with a little elbow grease. "We're going to toss it over." Let the ocean have it. You both bend down, crouching to grab the bottom and force it over the side. 

You watch as the ocean catches it. The bed you sanctified your marriage in. 

"Once I kill Nick they'll all be dead." Mel says. 

"Madison is dead?" You question, walking back into the bedroom. You close the door and lock it with the bar you don't typically use unless you're feeling paranoid. 

Mel's eyes are dark when you look up, remembering a different time in his life. "Been dead awhile. Charlie shot her." 

You are more relieved than you should be at that news. "Good. That's good. Troy, he was close with Madison. But she wasn't good for him." 

Mel scoffs, "She wasn't much good for anyone. Got her whole community killed. Should have gotten with the program." 

"But Nick killed Ennis?" You ask, trying to figure out the tale without having to ask him to relive it. You have a feeling this is the story that makes him drink. 

Mel nods, "Charlie was with him. I was somewhere else scavenging. I'm still glad we had a rendezvous set up, otherwise, I may never have seen her again. Nick apparently came out of nowhere, followed the car probably. Ennis loved that stupid car. But it wasn't exactly subtle. They fought, he threw my brother on a rack of deer antlers."

He rubs at his face and the bright floral of his shirt doesn't match his morose expression. "Charlie saw the whole thing, went at Nick with her gun but Madison got in the way. Got herself shot. Charlie ran to the meet up spot. When I went there, Ennis had turned. Suppose it was fitting Madison was his first meal. I put him down." 

"I'm sorry." You say, and he nods. 

"I'm sorry about Merle." 

You swallow down that kernel of grief you won't let yourself feel. "Suppose you understand exactly what this feels like." 

"I do." He comes forward and hugs you. You let him. He's been doing a lot of that lately, touching. Starved for it. There was a time you were too. 

After a moment you step back and tap his arm. "Help me replace the mattress?" 

"You'll have to use two fulls." He explains as you head for one of the spare rooms. It takes a little while to get the other two mattresses in the room, but Maggie spots you and helps. 

They fit well enough on the bedframe, though you're a little irritated by the middle section. After this is settled, maybe you could get another mattress from somewhere else. You let Maggie know to get the balconies locked down and start putting on the sheets. 

Mel takes one side and you do the other. It's not perfect like when Troy does it, but he's got some weird hidden sheet folding talent no one else possesses. "Thanks, Mel. I appreciate it." 

"I'm really glad you're not bit." He says, and you grin at him. 

"I ain't getting taken out by some nasty walker." It really hadn't been high on your fear list in years. The walkers are predictable, easy to understand. There are far bigger risks out there than them a good deal of the time. 

"Do you - " He pauses, looking at the carpet. "Do you really love Troy?" 

You both know the answer to that question. He was there, holding you while your husband died. You are two parts of a two piece puzzle. "More than anything." 

He nods, and he looks so sad. Lonely again. "I'm glad." 

"You'll find someone," You comfort. "There's someone out there that is going to look so good in your clothes. Especially the flamingo shirt, god that thing is my favorite." 

He laughs, and shakes his head. "I'll talk to you later, Dixon." He pauses in the doorway, lingering. "I love you." 

Mel leaves before you respond. 

-

"Why is one of Melvin's shirts on our doorknob?" Troy asks as he walks into the bedroom. He's holding the flamingo shirt in his hand. 

You blink at it. 

"Fuck." You're out of bed, snatching the shirt from him as you haul down the hallway. Charlie is already knocking on his door. 

You don't wait, you yank the door open. He's not inside, which honestly is a bit of a relief because you weren't sure if you were going to find him dead inside. Mel is smart, he'd never do something that would put Charlie in danger. 

If he was going to kill himself he'd make sure there was no coming back. You didn't want to see that, nor Charlie. What you do find however is his room cleaned out. His weapons and most of his clothes are gone. 

Charlie stares, eyes caught on a book on his bedside table. It's blue, beat to shit. The Little Prince. 

"What is it?" You ask, as her eyes fill with tears. 

"He's going after Nick." She whispers, and you groan. Of course he is, and he doesn't think he's coming back from it. 

You snatch the shirt from Troy, clinging to it as you return to your bedroom. Tossing it into one of the drawers you start pacing. Troy watches you pace, closing the door behind him. He doesn't seem all that bothered by hearing Nick's name, but then again there are a lot of Nicks in the world and you made sure not to tell him.

"Tell me what you're thinking." 

When you look up at him your eyes are burning. "We have to help him." 

Troy frowns and you know he already knew you were going to say that. "If he wants to go off on his own it's his right to do that." 

"He'll die." You whisper. 

Troy looks at you, "Do you love him?" 

The question throws you off kilter. You've already been asked this question once before today. "Why are you asking me that?" 

Your husband doesn't respond, he waits. You hate it when he does that, silent contemplative patience. He'll do it all day if you let him, constantly watching you. 

Insults bubble up inside you, because you have been through enough this week. "Are you honestly questioning my fidelity right now?" 

"No, I'm asking if you love him." Troy responds easily, but his shoulders are growing tense. Now he's thinking about it, calculating where you've been. 

"Oh fuck you." You snap, and launch a pillow at him. Part of you wants to hit him with something a lot harder than a bag of feathers. 

He waits. 

Your anger grows. "No really, Troy, fuck you." 

He wants to fight, you can see it in his eyes. He wants your anger. He wants your violence, and you can't figure out why. But you sure as fuck are ready to give it to him with questions like that. 

"It can be arranged." And his voice is cold, taunting. 

Your hands curl into fists. "I'll have you know, jackass, the only person I've fucked in eight goddamn years is you." 

He smiles, that wide angry smile of his, "Oh I know. I'd know the moment anyone else ever touched you." 

"Then why ask?" You snarl, and advance on him, looking him in the eye. You're shorter so you have to look up, but you'd like to think you're at least somewhat intimidating. You're not to Troy, he's immune. 

"I never asked if he was boning you, darlin'." He leans down and it feels mocking. "Trust me, if anyone else had the privilege all three of us would be dead." 

You press your hands to his chest. "Is that what you want, Troy? You want to hurt something, looking for a reason. You want me to say yes, give you an excuse to haul ass after him and what? Is it Mike all over again? Will you make me kill Charlie to save you?" 

"You would, wouldn't you?" He whispers and there it is, what he wants. Your loyalty. Your need. 

You meet his derangement with your own, "I'd slaughter the entirety of Honeywell for you. I'd go room to room, shoot on sight. I'd put a bullet between Daryl's goddamn eyes. Stop asking me things you already know the answer to." 

"Remember that feeling, vixen. That need to prove yourself, that fire in your veins. Remember it, and use it to keep yourself alive. We are not giving up, and you are not going after him." 

"You can't stop me." You hiss. 

Troy smiles, "You want to find out?" 

You can't leave Mel out there alone. You can't picture Charlie alone without him. You don't think, you act. 

Your fist slams hard into the bandage on his thigh. He grunts and his leg buckles on impact. You shove him out of the way and bolt down the hall. 

Several people jerk to look at you, but you don't stop. Their alarm means Troy is hot on your tail. You skid around the corner and practically throw yourself down the stairs. 

"What the hell is going on?" Rosita shouts as you nearly collide with her at the bottom. 

"Dixon!" Troy shouts and it sends chills down your spine. He sounds dangerous, and you shouldn't be attracted to that sound. But the two of you aren't new to this game, even if it means something else this time. 

You don't bother to respond you keep running ducking through the stable. There's others following Troy, likely in confusion. You're a few seconds from the exit when he finally catches up. 

He doesn't bother with a hold, Troy throws you over his shoulder. Your forehead smacks into his back. "Put me the fuck down." 

"No." He says, "You're not going." 

You curl your fists and hit at his back like a child. You spot Jake when you look up and you can't tell if he is amused or alarmed. "Last chance." You warn. 

Troy laughs, it's his fighting laugh. 

You shift your weight so you're a little further down his back and smack your fist between his legs. 

He grunts, and stumbles. Reflexively letting go of your legs to reach for his crotch. You hit the ground in a puff of breath and rip open the door. 

You spot him right away, blood leaking down his side as he stumbles for the door. "Shit, Mel!" You throw yourself out of the opening, and kill the shark that was on his heels. 

He sends you a relieved look, hand pressed to his side and you lead him back toward Honeywell. Luckily you've already gathered up a crowd and June is rushing to the scene. 

"Get him a chair." She shouts over her shoulder, and within seconds Mel has been deposited into one of the spare wheelchairs. 

Jake speaks, "I'll keep Charlie upstairs." 

He's wearing his polka dot shirt, it's your second favorite and you think maybe Mel knew that. It's not the same color, soaked in blood as it is. But he's sure to be a fright for the poor girl if she sees him as he is now. 

"Oh fuck, that hurts." He groans. You hover by his shoulder, and he seems flattered by your concern. 

"What the hell happened?" Troy snaps out, not feeling nearly so sentimental. 

Mel sends him a look saying that though he's been stabbed, he really doesn't appreciate the attitude. "Got shot, what the fuck it look like, I went dancing?" He snarls and grits his teeth as June bends down to look at it. 

"Is this what you fucking wanted?" You throw at Troy, adrenaline making you snappy, and he wheels back in hurt. "Are you happy now?" 

"Hey." Daryl's voice catches you off guard and you look up at him. "Stop that, ain't Troy's fault neither. Ya' can't love everyone better, it ain't on you to save them." 

"This is because of me." You gasp and look at the blood on your hands and then to Mel.  "It's all on me." 

Mel is conscious enough to disagree with you, but all you get is a harsh shake of his head before he's wheeled away to medical. 

Troy doesn't wait for your permission this time. He yanks you into his arms and presses your head into his chest. "Don't say that."

You don't know how not to. It's so obvious.

"I think I'm starting to see, Troy. I think I'm starting to see."

His grip on you tightens, until he's pressing you hard against him. "No. Never. Grant didn't even say it was Tommy. Coulda been something else, someone new."

"I don't want anyone else to die for me."

Daryl is still there, hovering. "You ain't giving yourself up for us. We're going to kill this piece of shit."

You look at him. "How many will die to do it?"

"As many as it takes." Troy replies, and you know that he views your life as more important than any of the others.

But you don't agree with that. You're not more valuable, worth more than anyone here. "That's not - it can't be like that."

"You're not giving up."

"I'm not trying to." You push him away so you can look at him. "But I can't just sit here while everyone dies. You died, Troy. Merle is dead!" You gesture in the direction your bleeding best friend was taken. "My family isn't a long list. Who am I if I let you all die for me? I'm not that kind of a coward. I'm not Jeremiah willing to let everyone die to keep myself alive."

"You're right." Troy grabs your arms and shakes. "You aren't my father. You're better, but I don't want you to die!"

"It can't be up to you."

"What happened to going together?" He asks, and you see his desperation. His grip on you is harsh, bordering on pain. "We're supposed to die together."

"I think that might be a pipe dream to make us feel better, bright eyes." You think you'll have bruises when he lets go.

"No. No, I refuse to believe that."

"I will not sit on the sidelines while I watch everything I've built burn." You whisper, hands coming out to rest on his sides. "Don't make me watch that."

"What makes ya' think he'll stop?" Daryl adds, and you know he's on Troy's side. You can't blame him either, he watched Merle die recently enough you can practically still feel the blood on your face. Or maybe that's Mels'.

There's a good point behind his question, because you don't really know for sure that he will. Maybe Thomas will make you watch at his side as he attacks Honeywell. Maybe you'll be audience to the destruction of your home.

Troy sees your doubt and latches onto it. "He's right. The bastard can't be trusted to keep his word. If you go, nothing would change, except for your life. We do what we planned, we attack the hospital. He dies, and then no one else does. We've all fought before. We can do this."

You nod, and agree. At least for now. But that doubt itches at you, tingling in the back of your head.

For now, you'll avoid meeting Charlie's eye.

When the time comes you'll kill Nick and Thomas both. You're holding them equally responsible for all of this.

-

"Why does our bed feel different?" Troy asks, pressing down on it in confusion.

You realize he doesn't even know about your mattress. "Thomas had someone sneak in while we were out and pour blood in it."

"What?" He stares at you, glancing around the room. He notes the bar in the sliding doorway and the bloody sheets you had forgotten about.

"Mel," You say and swallow the guilt back down. "He helped me get some mattresses from the empty rooms."

Troy rubs his face with both hands and reaches for the first aid fit. You realize with, more guilt like you didn't have enough, that his leg is bleeding again. "I'm sorry."

He looks up at you and grins. "Don't be. I like to see my training pay off. I taught you well."

You come to sit beside him reaching for the clean bandages so you can do it for him. It will at least help you feel a little better about it.

Troy lets you, and you're grateful he is so forgiving. You wouldn't blame him for being furious. All he was trying to do was protect you.

He adds as you coat the wound with a bandage. "I can't believe you punched me in the dick."

You giggle before you can help yourself. "It worked, didn't it? Besides I pulled the punch."

He blinks at you. "You pulled that punch, Jesus?"

You laugh again. "Trust me, if I hadn't you'd have been on the ground for a couple minutes at least. I tapped you."

"Please never tap me again."

You smile at him and kiss his cheek. "Poor, sweet Troy. Tell me is it your balls that hurt or your pride?" You finish the wrapping and pin it in place.

"Who said it can't be both?" He muses, and wraps his arm around your waist.

"If I blow you will it feel better?" You tease.

Troy squeezes your side. "I dunno, but it'd be a start." 

Chapter Text

He wakes up to an empty bed, which in and of itself is unusual. You are a late sleeper, your mornings are spent hiding from the sun by shoving your face into the pillow. He loves waking up to your unruly hair and curled-up frame. 

Instead, he opens his eyes to cool sheets. Troy casts a glance over at the bathroom door, but it's open. He rolls on his back and looks out toward the balcony, that too is unoccupied. 

Something icy finds its way into his chest, something fragile and sharp. You are not here. Troy has a feeling as he gets out of bed and grabs a pair of pants that you will not be in Honeywell. 

He dresses quickly, all signs of sleep forgotten in the first rays of the day. Troy almost always rises with the sun, a habit he started when he was fourteen that is so ingrained by now it's always the case. He couldn't sleep in if he tried.

His search starts by doing inventory of the room, looking for anything to symbolize that you are gone. Your bag is still here, but your belt and machete are gone. That doesn't mean you're not in HW though, everyone is walking around armed these days. 

Your pistol is gone too. Also normal. Your jacket is still in the wardrobe, which he likes. Maybe he's wrong, maybe Melvin's injury has made it hard to sleep. You might be visiting the sissy in medical. 

He steps out of the room and finds the lounge empty. Moving to the hall, Troy spots John headed for the stairs. John is also the kind of man that rises with the sun. 

"Hey, Dorie." He calls, moving to a jog to rush over to him. "You seen Dixon?" 

"Nah, can't say I have. You need help finding here?" He offers, and Troy nods. John's always willing to help, even if it is first thing in the morning. 

"Check the deck." He directs and then heads down toward the bottom level. You're not in any of the rooms down there, and as much as he wishes he did he doesn't have the entire run room supplies memorized right now. 

There's been too much fluctuation with the recent waves of dead. Lost weapons, and new ones alike. Troy can't tell if you've taken anything. The horse you favor is still here, he runs his hand along her neck and tries to keep calm. 

There are still other places to look. It's a big ship. 

He heads back up and goes into dining. You're not eating, and there's no one even in there. Too early for breakfast. 

Troy pops his head into the kitchen and Sarah looks over at him. "What can I do for you, Toto?" 

"Seen my wife?" He asks, scanning the room. 

"Nope, just been me in here this morning." She replies, going back to chopping up carrots. 

He leaves without a word and checks the pantry, empty. Cutting across the floor he enters the armory and the only one in there is Morgan. He's doing his stick-spinning ritual along the wide open space. 

Troy doesn't bother to ask, he heads for the next floor. June is alone in medical for inventory, outside of a still asleep Melvin and Charlie. You're not in any of the storage rooms. 

John steps out of the playroom when Troy starts getting close. "Ain't in any of these, not the deck. What's going on?" 

The only other places to check are individual rooms. Troy pulls his keys and heads back down without answering. John follows.

He starts with all of the empty rooms, and Ranger Dorie without being asked starts knocking on doors. With every no, with every empty room, his anxiety grows. He leaves Jake for last, because if you're anywhere you're there. And Troy needs you to be in that room. 

Because if you're not with his brother, you're not on the ship. And if you're not on the ship, you're headed to the hospital or already there. 

He takes a quick breath through his nose and knocks. John hangs back, watching in silence. 

Some shuffling follows his knock and Jake pulls open the door, peeking through the crack in it with a yawn. He was asleep. 

Troy squeezes his eyes shut, to stop the onslaught of panic. When he opens them again Jake is a little more awake than before. 

"She's gone." 

Jake nods, "Two minutes." 

Stepping back he hovers in the hall as John comes toward him. "Ya' think she went to the hospital, to give herself up?" 

Troy's throat burns with anxiety, each breath a little harder to take. "Yes." 

His brother exits his bedroom fully dressed and Troy is so grateful he is here. He could live in a world where the old Jake was gone, the version of his brother that never came around. But that man died on Broke Jaw land.

Instead, he is met with the cool focus of a sibling that will walk into battle at his side. To protect a member of their family that Troy himself has chosen. "Alright, let's get a plan into place." Jake looks at John, "Round up Rick and Abraham." 

John sets off without complaint and Jake grabs his wrist and pulls Troy toward the stairs. He's thankful for that too, having his big brother to guide him. 

He should never have gotten into that wardrobe, now whenever his heart rate gets elevated, or he starts to become upset that's where he wants to go. Troy longs for the simplicity of the dark small silence. 

It doesn't matter what he wants, though because he needs to be here in the present. He needs to protect you, even if you are stubbornly making his job difficult by trying to be a damn hero. 

He wishes he could be angry. He's not, how could he be angry at you for being brave? You are trying to help, trying to save everyone even if it kills you. Troy could never be angry for that, frustrated absolutely. Scared, most definitely. Not angry though. 

Somewhere in the first few weeks of meeting you, he forgot how to be angry at you. 

When they arrive Jake unfurls the map on the side of the table. It scopes the entire city. It had been Abraham's idea to raid town hall. 

It meant blueprints not only for the street view, but also the hospital. It was a community hospital, not privately owned. They've got maps of every single floor. 

Proper prior planning, and all that, Big Otto would be proud. Maybe. Fuck him. 

Troy bends over the table and starts mapping paths. They're at a massive disadvantage in regards to intelligence. CK likely knows everyone in Honeywell, or at least a good idea. He'd been in their walls, had seen medical, looked at what medications they had. 

He could have a group as small as ten as big as fifty, and there's no way to tell. There hasn't been an opportunity to do surveillance. In truth, his leg hurts standing here, let alone trekking across the city. But he doesn't care, he can walk. 

If he can walk, he can get there. He will find you. He'll fucking crawl if need be.

"Did she leave a note?" Jake asks before anyone else can filter into the room. 

"No," Troy says, tracing a street with his finger, trying to figure out the most effective way to get a group there. 

Jake touches his shoulder, "That's good." 

"How is that good?" He snaps but doesn't shake off the touch. 

"It means it's not a suicide note. It means she plans to come back, if she went to lay herself at his feet she'd have left a note. No note means she's going to try and kill the SOB in his sleep." Jake explains. Lawyer brain. 

Troy never thought of it like that, but it makes sense. Going assassin certainly fits you better than morbid sacrifice. 

You get angry like him, minus the blacking out. You're going for vengeance. 

"Little lady run off to commit arson or?" Abraham asks as he saunters into the room. Rosita is at his side, looking much more worried than her ginger counterpart. 

Jake answers so he doesn't have to, "We don't know, just know she isn't here. No note, nothing unusual." 

"Sliding door was still barred from the inside." Troy adds, "She didn't go out that way." There's no way he slept through her being kidnapped, if she went it was somewhat willingly.  

"Then we move the plan up, go out there and raise hell," Rosita says, and Troy agrees with her. He's found over the years that he and Rosita agree on damn near everything. 

"I've been planning." He offers, because it's basically the only thing he's thought about in days. "I just need the men to do it." 

- 

It takes four hours that Troy does not have to get everyone on board with his plan. Only to be told that this works best during the day and that they should wait until tomorrow morning. 

On anything else he would agree, but this is different. You are there with them, and Troy doesn't know what you are going through. Every minute, every goddamn second is one you spend in danger. 

Jake sees his intentions. "You cannot go alone." He reaches out a hand but doesn't touch him. Probably knows that he's getting punchy. "You go alone, you're going to die and that won't fix anything." 

It wouldn't be so aggravating if Jake was wrong, but his brother is only using facts today. He can barely run. 

Jake redirects him, "We need bullets." He addresses the room. "Anyone who isn't going tomorrow works on production through the night, they'll take shifts. Don't need my gun blowing up my hand. Set them up, Troy." 

He sounds like their father again, and Troy wonders if he sees it. If he sees dad every time he looks in the mirror. Troy is perfectly aware he looks far more like Tracy, but Jake looks like their father. Same nose, same jaw. 

Their tones are even starting to match up. Only a select few on HW even know his name isn't actually Jake. 

When he was a kid, a really young one, he used to call him Junior to get a rise out of him. It always worked, he always hated it. As a kid he didn't get it, he thought Otto was impressive. A good person to want to be compared to. 

He was wrong in the end. Jake had seen that far earlier than Troy ever did. It had taken your arrival for Troy to understand that his life had been a tragedy. That normal parents didn't do the things his parents did. 

Normal parents didn't lock you in rooms, or choke you, or throw you down a flight of stairs and make you lie about it. 

He was the man he was, the good man he was, because of you. Not because of Tracy, and not because of Big Otto. You made him good, and he thinks sometimes that if you hadn't he'd have done something horrible. 

Troy still might if you don't come home. 

Jake walks him out to the factory and lingers there for a good hour helping with production. 

Neither of them talks outside of asking for one thing or another, pass me that tool, do you need more of this? 

But eventually, Jake stands, touches his shoulder again, and says, "We'll get her home." 

Troy reaches up to touch his brother's hand. "Thanks, Jakey." 

"Get me, okay, if you need me. Don't go off half-cocked. Promise." 

"I promise," Troy swears, tossing another finished bullet into the bucket. 

"Do you mean it?" Jake asks, hand tightening. 

Troy nods, reaching for the next shell. "I always mean it, Jake." 

- 

Charlie has been hovering, and he worries she's going to fixate her desire for another parent on him, now that Melvin is going all Rambo. Troy knows well enough that he would be a terrible father. Melvin has the stomach for it, is probably pretty good at it. 

Troy is not, but she hovers anyway. 

He doesn't bother with empty apologies or platitudes. In fact, he doesn't remark on the near demise of her chosen father at all. She's well aware he will heal, no point in trudging it back up. 

And maybe that right there is why she lingers. He is the only one who won't treat her like a child, because she's not. Charlie was an adult years ago, and from the stories he's heard an adult long before legal age was required. 

They'd never needed her particular infiltrator talents, but Troy would have happily used them in the right situation. 

"What's that?" She asks as they dip out of the factory. He needs to find some sleep, or risk being compromised. 

There's a single shark headed up by the liner, white t-shirt coated in blood. Troy looks around, hand falling on his knife for signs of any others. No more hoards, not since you left. 

One isn't all that unusual. "I'll clear it." He remarks and eases the blade out. 

It's dark, hard to see from a distance but the closer he gets the more familiar the figure. It's not you, he knows you. Male, six foot or so, light brown hair. He squints, Nick fucking Clark. 

He speeds up his pace and catches the walker before it even turns shoving the blade up into the back of the neck. Blood is still bright. 

The corpse drops and Charlie gasps. It's Nick alright, throat split, but more importantly, is the message written on his shirt. 

I see. 

He doesn't waste any time, he starts checking the body. Lifting up the shirt, pushing his hands into his jeans pockets. He finds it shoved and folded in the waistband of the man's boxers. Clever girl. 

Troy doesn't bother to consider Nick's death one way or another. He never thought he'd see him again. For a moment he considers Madison, if she is out there in Tommy's weird little cult. Troy can't imagine it, a woman like her bending to some crazy serial killer. 

So if Nick is here, then Madison is long gone from California or dead. It doesn't matter. None of Broke Jaw matters anymore, you are the only thing he needs to focus on. If Madison shows up, he'll give her a place to stay. If she's part of Tommy's cult, then he'll make it quick. It's the only mercy he has time for. 

"Get inside." He directs, and they both walk into the bottom floor. Troy goes right for the closest light. 

She hovers with him, big wide eyes. But he's not blind, Troy sees the satisfaction in them. Charlie is glad he is dead. 

The front of the note adds to that. One sentence, he flips it around so she can read it. 'I did it for Mel, but I hope it helps Charlie feel safer too.'

She nods, "It does." 

He opens it up, surveying the list. Headcount, weapons estimates, the floor she's on. It's everything he was missing. Troy grins, "Looks like we got ourselves the prettiest mole in the world." 

Chapter Text

The first thing Thomas asks you is the same damn question he has constantly been asking you, "Do you see?" 

You look at him, at the casual button up and trousers he wears. He looks like he just got off shift. Looks like the kind of guy who grabs an expensive vintage beer or some shit and calls it quality, like it makes a lick of difference. You suppose Jim would be disappointed in you for saying that. Drunk was always drunk to you, but you have a mission. So you nod, "I do." 

Thomas smiles, this bright cheerful thing like he is not carrion in waiting. You smile back, make it soft and gentle. It is the smile you only gave your father, in hopes he thought you a target too small to damage permanently. 

You hope that Thomas will think the same of you and it will be easier to slit his throat. You're not averse to ripping it out with your teeth. 

He leads you through the plain walls of the hospital and you follow, unarmed. They were smart enough to take your weapons. It will take time to get the right opportunity. You will take as much of it as you need. 

Troy's plan wasn't ready yet, you have days before he comes. Days to do what needs to be done, to make sure no one else dies for you. Days to avenge what you have already lost to this killer's schemes. 

You can do this. 

He leads you into an office and you follow like you are one of his flock. You will bend the knee, do whatever it takes to prove you are one of them. 

Anything to kill him, to kill Nick. 

But you keep that desire away from your features, buried deep inside you. Your body stays lax, expression approachable. A woman of subservience, you have practice. 

Though Troy has buried that little girl, he pulled her out of you and beat her into the ground with endless love. He would never let you be that person again, that stranger that was never you in the first place. 

She is not you, but she is here now. 

Little Dixon, refusing to be called by your first name because you share it with your mother. Little Dixon whose father whispered that name in your ear. 

Today, you are Raina. 

Today you will be anyone he wants you to be, do anything that is required of you. And Troy, well, he promised to never judge you for anything you do to survive. You'll hold him to it. 

"Please sit." Thomas says gesturing to one of the chairs in the room. 

You do, crossing your ankles like a good girl. Normally you're more a spread the knees type of woman, but you bet on Raina being dainty. Weak. 

He surveys you, tracing his eyes down your dirty clothing. "Did you have trouble getting here?" 

"Some." You admit, your arrival to the hospital had been rushed and not what you'd ever refer to as graceful. 

He nods, "So what was it?"

"I don't follow." You say carefully, not wanting to say the wrong thing. You're stacking a deck of cards and they are precarious at best. 

"What made you see? I will admit I was very surprised Troy survived. It should have killed him." He says it so casually like Troy's death wouldn't shake the very world to its foundation. 

He is looking for a reaction, you don't give him one. Instead you swallow down the vitriol you want to spew and make conversation, "He did die, for a minute or two. We have a defibrillator on board." 

Thomas makes a hum of interest and brings his hand up to rub his chin. "Lucky duck that one. So what it that? Or was it Merle, he was your eldest brother was he not?" 

You need to swallow again. "He is, death doesn't change that." 

"Right, of course, my condolences truly." He smiles, and holds out a hand for you. You're close enough to take it if you choose over the surface of the desk that separates you. 

Oh, how you forgot who this little girl was. The kind that let killers hurt you. With no degree of small effort you place your hand in his, surprised at the smoothness. You are used to thick calluses and years of hard work. 

Doctors apparently have soft hands, guarded by gloves from the blood they shed. Or at least that is the case for this one. 

"Mel then, or was it Melrose, Mellith? I can't recall." It feels like he is smashing his foot into your toes. 

And this time a flinch escapes before you can stop it. He could have died, he came so close. "Melvin." You whisper, "His name is Melvin Grant." 

"Was, dear. His name was Melvin Grant." Thomas drawls and you see the monster there living inside him. 

You know all about monsters. 

"Yes." You say, and suddenly this doesn't feel so easy anymore. He thinks Mel is dead, you won't correct him. You'll play along, "Yes, it was Mel that did it." 

Thomas nods, "What do you see, Raina?" 

Here's the test, and all you can do is guess. Because what you see is that he needs to be buried six feet under. That is not what he wants you to see. So instead you do your best estimate and pray it's the right thing to say. 

"There are some people in this world that are the predator and there are some that are the prey. You are either the butcher, or the cattle." You look at him, and remember what it was like to kill the last person you thought murdered your husband. "You are the butcher." 

He leans forward, grip tightening on your hand. His eyes shine alight with interest, "Go on." 

"I am not a sheep." 

Before he can reply the door opens and you jerk around to look at it, but manage to leave your hand where it is. Nick stands in the doorway, looking at the two of you. 

This is the first time you get a good look at him. He like all of you is a little older, he's got frown lines. His skin is pale, he's not healthy like you are. 

He looks at you and you return it. "Hi, Nicky." 

He shifts his head a little but doesn't remark. You forgot how hard it is to read him, like looking at a flat emotionless wall. He keeps it all buried inside, trapped in cages the drugs have built for him. 

"You sound like Troy." He remarks, and you recall the way Nick always seemed interested in whatever Troy was doing. Fascinated. Once upon a time he wanted a seat at your table almost as terribly as he wanted his next fix. 

It was you who kept him out, while his sister was invited in. Madison snuck by at Troy's behest, but Nick, oh you made sure he stayed out of your house. He was too volatile. 

You want to say, 'obviously, he's my husband' but that would not help with your current plan, nor the fact your hand is in someone elses. The warmth feels foreign with every second your grip lingers there. 

Instead of saying what you want to say you say instead, "I heard about your mom, what a shame. All that skill only to be shot by a kid." 

His expression twists and all his numbness comes crashing down. He does what you want him to do, he lunges for you. 

Thomas is out of his chair with a hand around Nick's throat and all you had to do was sit there. You smile at him from behind Thomas, huff a silent laugh. 

"Nick, I had thought better of your control. Are you nothing more than a rabid pet willing to bite its master?" Thomas's voice finally reflects a little of what you know him to be -- a creature of malice. 

Nick looks at Thomas and you see it, how easily it must have been for Nick to bend the knee with his family dead around him. The sole survivor. The last man standing. All that survivor's guilt and no desire to lead. 

He is the kind of person that makes a cult what it is. 

"No one talks about my mom." Nick says, and it's reverent. He has glorified her and you are so damn happy she is dead. Because Troy could have very nearly ended up the same way. 

"You want to be a mommy's boy, Nick? Or was your mother too cruel for that?" You goad, and he doesn't get the joke. You do. You never could shake that conversation from your head. 

You wrote down a few of the things Madison had said, if only to someday throw them back at her. You never got the chance, but you're getting one now. 

"Enough, Raina." Thomas instructs and you obediently snap your mouth closed. 

Nick is turning a bit blue, but he doesn't even try to fight the hold. Thomas releases him and he lets out a gasp for air. 

You shoot him one final look before schooling your expression as Thomas turns. You hope Nick understood what it meant, you hope he identified it as 'you will be the one to die first'. 

Granted if Thomas takes that pleasure you won't cry about it.  

"I was not aware the two of you knew each other so well." Thomas remarks, and watches you. 

"We go way back." You say casually, adjusting like you're getting comfortable in your chair. You're not comfortable at all actually. "He lived on my family's ranch for awhile." 

"Your family?" Nick questions with a laugh. 

Your pride tilts your chin up before you can help yourself. "Yes."

"You screw Troy enough he just lets you claim the ranch." Nick spits back, and oh you want to hurt him. 

"Pussy can buy you all sorts of things, Nicky. I'm sure you've done your share of unmentionables for a taste of the good stuff." 

Thomas watches the two of you and he's shifted into an audience member instead of a participant. 

"Do you even understand what Mel and the vultures did?" He demands entirely shifting the direction. 

You stand, fists curling. "Say his name again." 

"Mel." 

"Careful, Nicky." You whisper and you're inches from him. 

Thomas is in the corner of your eye, and he's fascinated. This is out of character for the Raina he's picturing in his head, but he likes it. Because this world is different, in theory she would be to. He wants you to be like him, to want him. 

There's a tiny part of you that would never say it, but he reminds you of Troy. A different Troy, from a different life. But there are similarities nonetheless. It was part of the reason you trusted him in the first place. 

"You know I was lucky." Nick says, and he's whispering too. "Thomas let me be the one to do it. Got to watch him stumble away as he bled to death. Made sure he'd go right up to the door." 

There's nothing strong enough in you to hide how that makes you feel. You snap forward and punch him in the jaw. He wheels backward and it gives you the chance to hit him again. 

You've done so many combat drills these moves are baked inside of you. He doesn't stand a chance, Nick still fights like a drug kid. All flailing limbs, and desperation. It's the same thing that got Merle killed. It will be what kills Nick. 

Your knuckles split as you hit him again and you hear the sound of his nose breaking. He tries to back up but you swing your leg around and knock his knees in. 

Thomas stops you, a firm hand on your wrist as it's pulled back. "Raina." It's a clear warning, an askance for obedience. 

You obey, even though you don't want to. And you think he likes that you do despite clearly disagreeing with the order. 

Nick looks up at you, face and nose bleeding. "I always knew you were a bitch." 

Thomas drops your wrist, and knees Nick in the chest. He bends awkwardly backward before falling to his side with a wheeze. "Go." 

You watch him leave, hunched over and injured. 

"You are right, Raina." Thomas says, stepping closer to you, hand on the square of your back. "You will never be a sheep again."

-

There's blood everywhere, dripping down the tiles, all over you. Nick is laid out on a metal slab, and you watch as the blood drips. 

One droplet of red at a time onto the tile. It is by far the worst thing you have done, carving him up. Too deliberate to be only rage guiding you. Your hands are shaking, but you do your best to hide it. 

He deserved it, you tell yourself again and again at the sight of all that blood.

You're lucky Thomas is so lax with his control over you. He showed you around the compound, trusted you to do headcounts, to track weapons. Easy. 

The journal page is on him, ready for delivery. Thomas liked your idea of sending Nick back, of writing your message. He thinks it's poetic. You think he is a fool in love with a dead woman, but advantages are advantages. 

You think maybe after all of this is said and done you may be haunted by this. For tying someone you knew down, for looking in his eyes as you dragged the scalpel across his throat. 

You loved his sister once, a long time ago. She will no longer be lonely, but she also most certainly won't want anything to do with you. Not that you two are going to the same place. 

Light sunshine and fluffy clouds are not in your future. 

Now that you think about it, Alicia is probably quite lonely up there by herself. 

If your calculations are right, and you are sure they are he'll be awake in another four minutes. Thomas was down right fascinated when you told him you could predict turn times. He's waiting with you, following along on his watch to see if you are right. 

You know you're right, because you know how old Nick is and it's the only factor you usually get wrong. 

It's not down to the second, but Nick opens his eyes at the right time and you smile. You've still got it. 

Or Troy does at least, it's his equation. 

"Remarkable." Thomas whispers looking at you, "On the minute." 

You hold on to that enthusiasm and point it at him, it's as genuine as you can get. "It comes in handy every now and again." 

"You can do it for any of them?" He asks, and he looks ready to start asking for volunteers. 

The resemblance to Troy is uncanny, and it sends a spark of nerves down your spine. It makes you think, makes you reflect on who you are. Would you have seen Thomas's way if you didn't have Troy? Would you have longed for the safety of his bloodied hands? 

The answer is a cruel and honest one, yes. You are attracted to killers, to the kind of man who marks in his journal if he is a sociopath. Troy's violence comforts you, and you think Thomas would have comforted you. 

There is safety in aggression. 

It makes it a little easier to pretend. This is a different Troy, a different man but some of the same foundations. 

"What was your childhood like?" You ask, as the two of you make your way to a new room. You don't ask to clean the blood off, there will be more soon enough. 

He delights in your interest; he has a hand on your back again. Thomas likes touching you. It reminds you that you hate being touched by people who aren't in your circle. It hasn't been an issue in years. Troy is practically a walking personal space bubble. Might as well go around shouting wide berth at anyone who gets too close. 

You fight the urge to grin at the image and focus on what Thomas is saying instead. "My father was a mortician, my mother a housewife. He thought I'd take on the family business, but I was much more interested in life than death." 

It seems the right place to nod so you do. 

"My father, he was his own man. A man's man if you will. Stern and serious, no feelings involved in the raising process. My mother well I don't know if you knew this but certain things used in the mortuary practice are quite addictive."

"She was an addict." You surmise and he hums a yes. 

"Died when I was little, and my father raised me after that. Very strict. I ran as soon as I was eighteen, my grades and poverty standing got me grants to go to school. I made it in the end. When I was getting my bachelor's I met you, well Raina." He looks at you, and if you didn't know everything he'd done he'd look like a lovesick man. 

Sick is about the only part that actually applies. Delusional. 

He stops in front of one of the many patient rooms and gestures you inside. "I look forward to meeting you again." He says, and it's sweet. Except it's not and you want to snap his neck. 

You give him your victim's smile.

"This is where we part for the night, my dear." He presses his hand to the door. "In time, we'll share  a room but I think it best to take things slow. Court if you will. Consider Nick my first gift to you." 

"I appreciate it." You say, and you mean it. Killing Nick was important to you. 

"Rest, Raina. Tomorrow is a bright new day." He closes the door and it locks from the outside. 

And you are alone. 

-

All things considered, you sleep decently enough on the cot. Part of you considered not sleeping at all, but you trusted at the very least Thomas wants you all to himself. And he wants your eyes on him if he's going to pull something.

He wants your devotion, he won't get that if you're passed out from exhaustion. 

So you slept all the way until the light of the morning floods the window waking you up. You've got the thin blanket thrown over you. 

"Sleep well?" 

You jerk toward the sound and see Thomas leaned against the door watching you. Well you should have counted on that, but all things considered he could have done worse. 

"I - not too bad." You want to ask him how long he's been standing there watching you like a freak, but you resist the urge. Barely. 

Today your only goal is to find and secure a weapon. Tomorrow hopefully you'll get the chance to use it. You're a little mad you never bothered to learn how to pick a lock, it's starting to feel like a glaring oversight now. 

"So what's on the schedule today, doc?" You try for a teasing tone, test the waters.

His answering smile says you're headed in the right direction. "I'm glad you're so cheery this morning, it is rather refreshing I must admit. Though I wish we could go back to the days of your pancakes." 

"Shame they don't put those in a can." You joke, and shift to your feet. You're still fully clothed, your arms are coated in flaky dried blood. He doesn't seem bothered by that in the slightest. 

"It is isn't it, but I did manage to secure breakfast regardless. Will you come and eat with me?" He offers his hand, and you take it. The whole pretend he's Troy thing is working quite well in your favor. Even if it scares you how easy it is to see the similarities. 

The two of you walk into a cafeteria, and you see at least ten others milling about. They all look up and greet Thomas when he enters, many of them giving you looks too. You are immediately one of them it would seem.

None of them seem so much as suspicious. That is every one of them but one. You can't remember her name, but you've always been good with faces. Plus the way she's looking at you gives it away. 

Tear tracks and rage. You've shared that expression quite recently several times over. 

"You'll have to forgive, Luciana." Thomas says by your ear. "She will get over it in time and if she doesn't, then you can calculate that time for me again. I am curious if you can do it twice, I must admit." 

You nod, and look away from her. Luci, that's what it was, has not personally wronged you. You'll kill her if you must, but you won't seek her out to do it. There's an itch along your shoulder blades however that says she'll give you no choice soon enough. 

Honestly, you can relate. You're here doing what she wants to do to you right now. It'd be hypocritical to judge her for wanting you dead. Unfortunately for her she's just not going to get what she wants. 

He leads you to an empty cafeteria table and sits you down, waving a lazy hand in the air. Someone arrives a moment later with steaming hot food. 

"I know it's not pancakes, but rabbit is a luxury in some places." He explains grabbing a fork and knife. You catch the glint of his blade, a butter knife but a metal one. It's enough with the right pressure. 

He either doesn't fully trust you yet, or is a control freak because he cuts up your food first before handing it over. If Troy did that for you, you'd make fun of him. 

"Thank you." You reply taking the plate. Merle has got to be laughing at you from beneath your feet. What polite trailer trash you are. 

It's not a bad breakfast, you don't share Troy's strange desire to murder every rabbit he sees but you don't mind the taste. You've eaten a lot of game in your life, pre-apoc too. 

"Sir?" Someone says, and you look up at them. You don't recognize this one as a ghost from your past at very least. 

"What is it?" He asks before taking a bite of his own food. Attention caught Thomas sets the knife down and looks up. 

Now might be your only chance, but it's too high a risk he'll miss it in a moment. You leave it. 

"Some of the others are restless, we've been at this hospital longer than we stay most places. I know it's not my place, but I was wondering if we were going to move again soon. The others, and I to be honest, we like moving around." 

What a sniveling bitch. You push down your hostility and keep eating. Now is not the time to say anything incriminating, even if this guy would be easy to mock. 

You are distinctly aware you would be sacrificed in a cult. Ironic. There's no way you could ever bow down like that. 

Troy and you work because you push each other. Always growing, always climbing higher and higher. Your husband may look delicious on his knees, but he is not the only one who gets on them. It is take and give. 

Thomas takes, he gives nothing. He is less like Troy in that way and you're glad for it. 

He glances at you and you're glad you left the knife because now it feels more like a test than an opportunity. "We'll be packing up today, gone tomorrow. I'm thinking we move inward for awhile, away from the ocean. I want to show Raina where we met." 

Don't panic. Don't panic. 

Even if he does take you off somewhere you'll be able to find your way back. It might just take a little while longer, but you will find your way back. You always do. 

"Where is that?" You ask, trying to sound curious and not like you're coming up with exit plans. 

He looks at you and you don't think you sounded curious enough. He picks his knife back up, dismissing the cultist without so much as a word. "Kansas." 

"Long way to go then." You say and try to keep eating. It's hard to keep an appetite. Everything feels tentative, like you might never find the opportunities you're looking for. Maybe you fail and you'll be stuck here forever. 

You might never get to go home. 

And then you hear it, the shattering of glass. And that crack to crash sounds a little like home, a little too much like hope and Thomas sees it. 

He stands, and grabs you by the top of your arm and you're being marched from the cafeteria. His grip is iron clad, but you don't try to pull against him. Now is not your moment, but it will be soon. 

Jerking you around a corner he stops in front of one of the doors. "Foolish decision on their part, and here I was about to spare them." He opens it and it's a small closet, likely used for cleaning supplies at one point, but the shelves are empty. 

You let him guide you in, more out of surprise than anything. "I will take care of this." The look he gives you next makes you hold your breath. "My second gift to you is not making you watch as I kill them all." 

He snaps the door shut and you are locked in. The room is small, you don't have enough room to spread your arms out all the way. You can barely take a step. It's dark too, the only slight the faintest sliver along the bottom of the door. 

And in that moment you finally understand. A hand at the top of your arm, thrust into a closet, locked into the dark. 

The panic is biological, it comes from nowhere. It comes from your innate fear of spiders and snakes. It is the cavewoman that lives inside you, suddenly you do not feel safe. 

You ball your fists smacking on the door. "Let me out, Thomas!" You hit it several more times, trying the knob too. It's a thick door, you don't have the space to kick it down. 

He'll keep you in here and you'll be helpless, and if everyone dies no one will find you. You will be stuck in here until you are delirious, until you are a forever hovering shark waiting for the day your door is opened. 

How long could you stay like that? Decades? The walkers don't decay the way they should, maybe your bones will disintegrate before anyone ever finds you. 

And maybe the situation is different, maybe it's not quite what it was before but you think of Troy. A small little boy thrown in a closet by the person he loved the most. Slamming his fists against the door, screaming to be let out. 

You know all of his stories, all of the words he'd used to try to beg his way to freedom. You don't think promising Thomas that you'll be good will get you anywhere. So you keep trying to bust your way out. 

Time passes, and your shoulders burn. You'll be coated in bruises tomorrow, but you are not dying in some fucking box. You've been in here maybe thirty minutes, but it feels longer. Time feels untouchable. 

Troy would spend hours in closets, two days in the pantry with no lights. You're a bit surprised that he didn't end up a serial killer, you feel ready to go nuts. Though you've never much liked tight spaces, caves or things like that. 

They've always made you jumpy. You let out another shout of frustration and yank at the handle again. 

It starts to turn and all you can think about is how badly you need to see him. Need Troy to tell you it is going to be alright, to have him promise to protect you. To have a moment where you don't need to be strong anymore. 

As soon as the door opens you launch yourself into his arms, "Troy." 

His arms tighten around you as you adjust to the light, he smells of lemon aftershave. He doesn't feel right. Shorter, less muscle. 

Thomas hugs you back. "I find that upsetting, Raina." His voice is cold as he holds you to him and your eyes blink to adjust. 

He can't be here. If he's here then that means the glass was either a fluke or your group lost. You hadn't been able to hear well, but you could have sworn there were gunshots. You'd heard them, they'd existed. 

Troy was supposed to be here, supposed to find you. 

You find your panic and run it through a shredder in your mind. You squash it down, remove it from the equation. If Troy is not here, then you have a job to do. This falls on you. 

If you backtrack you can do this, you just have to wait for the right opportunity. 

Your opportunity vanishes as his arms tighten. "I think you've been lying to me." He sounds calm, almost casual with the way he says it and that is your warning that things are about to go wrong. 

In response, the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Your body knows, is trying to warn you now is the time to fight or flee. Troy taught you to always fight, you don't surrender. 

You heave yourself backward out of his grip hard enough you stumble into the wall behind you. Throwing up your arms to cover your face, knees bent for balance. 

"I wanted so desperately to believe that you were my wife returned to me, that I wouldn't have to do this alone. But you're a liar aren't you? You want to trick me, to pretend to be her. You're not good enough." 

Any chance you had at faking loyalty to him is gone in the face of his fury. He is a man who kills defenseless women and nothing more. You are not defenseless. 

He lunges at you and you can't go backward so you dive to the side, cutting to put your back to the hallway instead. For now you are alone, except for whoever is shooting in the floors below. 

You can hear the shots, methodical not a flurry. It seems like your people, you're trained for situations like this, clearing floors. They will find you or you will find them. 

For now there's a bigger fish. 

Thomas is breathing heavy, his eyes dilated in anger. He wants to kill you, you're sure of that. It's shown through his entire posture, the readiness of it. 

Any second now he's going to throw himself in your direction, you can't take your eyes off him to find a weapon. 

But he has one, a thick knife in his belt that he pulls free. His grip on it is casual, untrained. But a knife still deals damage even without precision. 

"My name is Dixon." You say to him, gesturing a hand at him to come on. "Hate to break it to you Tommy, but Raina is worm food." 

It has the desired effect, he bursts into motion. You underestimated his speed, you're used to sparring against Troy. Thomas is smaller, faster. The blade coasts along your collar and splits skin and your shirt. 

You hiss dodging backward. "Lucky." 

He swings again with a growl and you start moving backward. If you're lucky you'll spot a stairwell or something. These windows are too thick to try and throw him out of. Unless you find an already broken one. 

All you need is an opportunity. Anything will do. He follows, and the two of you are a back and forth flow. Neither able to get too close or too far. There's a corner coming up. 

You don't know if you're walking toward others, if this will end badly. But you have to try. It is better than doing nothing. 

Two more steps, and turn. Taking the corner as quickly as you can backward you stumble, feet sliding out from under you. 

You hit the ground and get the air knocked from your lungs. He's coming toward you, knife aimed down at your chest. You try to move in time, but you know it's going to happen anyway. 

A hand snaps out, not your hand, masculine, cuffed in a fatigue sleeve and the blade slides right through his open palm. 

Troy.

"Fuck" He snarls, stepping over you. His AR is hanging on his back, forgotten. Out of bullets you'd guess if he didn't shoot Thomas on sight. 

He's unarmed outside of the gun, until he yanks the knife free from his hand with a gasp of pain. 

He has never looked more like an angel in his life, he may as well have wings. The way he stands over you, ready to use his literal body to protect your own. His hand is dripping blood, but he's completely ignoring it. 

"I'm going to kill you." Troy says, "And I'm going to enjoy it." 

They go at each other, and end up collapsing to your right in a pile of flying fists and rage. You hear Troy grunt in pain, but you can barely keep up. 

Looking around for any kind of weapon you find the hall utterly devoid of anything useful. You pull yourself up to your feet and run for the nearest room. 

The closest thing to a weapon you find is a clipboard. The next door is locked, so is the one after. They're still fighting, and you think perhaps Thomas was more trained than you thought he was if he could keep toe to toe with Troy. 

You don't think tossing yourself in the middle would help so you check the next room. Again nothing unless you're going to suffocate him with a pair of medical gloves. You grab some though and shove them into your pocket as a way to cover Troy's hand. 

Not as useful as you were hoping but it's something. When you return into the hallway Troy is on top of Thomas, knife in both hands as he presses it down toward the other man. 

Not thinking you run back toward them, ready to do what other than play cheerleader you don't know. It seemed like the right idea. 

Now all you do is watch as the blade gets closer, until you remember that you are also a person with hands and muscle. A person capable of wrath. You reach out your foot and kick in Thomas's elbow. 

It's all the leverage Troy needs as he jams the blade into Thomas's chest, and smiles. There's blood dripping down his cheek, in his teeth. And he is victorious as he rams the blade to the hilt, and watches as Thomas chokes. 

"You should have stayed the hell away from my family." Troy hisses, yanking the blade out to bring down through his eye. He sits back, before standing. And then his eyes find yours and all that anger vanishes like wisps of smoke. "Vixen." 

The two of you stand there like silent monoliths for a brief second, until you're arms around his shoulders and he's practically lifting you from the floor. 

You laugh until you can barely breath, clinging to him. "We did it. We did it." 

He sets you back down. "Not so fast, we still need to get out. I don't know how many of them are left." 

You look down at his hand and offer him one of the gloves. He pulls it on, covering the wound with a wince. "Are you going to be okay?" 

He holds his hand in front of his face watching blood fill the glove and flexes his fingers testing, "If I can make a fist." Troy pulls the rifle back up, and snaps a fresh clip in. "I can fire a gun, and if I can fire a gun I can kill." 

You laugh, "I'm a little wet right now." 

He grins at you, and presses the stock into his shoulder, gesturing you behind him. "Oh, you love this too." 

The two of you head back down the hallway and you trust Troy to know where he's going. Likely memorized the entire floor plan given his lack of hesitation as he clears around the corners. 

He peeks around another one and pops off a shot. You finch at the sudden noise in the silence and follow as he continues. The corpse is dismissed on the floor as he steps over it. 

When he looks around the next corner his posture shifts and he relaxes. He walks around and drops the rifle and you find Jake standing there. 

"We're clear." Jake reports without needing to ask. Then he spots you and shakes his head with a smile. "You sure do know how to keep us entertained, little sister." 

You are so glad to see them to be surrounded by your family, to know that you've all made it out of this. Troy reaches out and takes your hand with his uninjured one. "Let's go home." 

Chapter Text

The two of you are sitting on the deck, while June leans over one of the side tables that Troy has propped his hand up on. She commended you for the glove idea, which apparently kept the injury from getting too dirty. 

Though he'd had some choice words for you both when she'd cleaned it earlier. 

He's leaning back in the deck chair, freshly showered, hair still damp. Sarcastically he holds his good hand out and grins at you, "If I had two I'd be Jesus."

You snort and June has to fight back a laugh. "No signs of infection, keep it covered and you'll be alright." She turns to you for the next part, because he only listens to you, "It'd be better if he kept his hand relaxed as much as possible. I'd recommend a sling but well I don't think he'd wear it, do you?" 

The two of you share an understanding look. Be like getting a worm to swim. 

"Fat chance." He replies. "But I hear you, no fingering until my hand is healed." 

You shake your head, grinning so wide it hurts a little. June rolls her eyes and leans back up. "Keep him on the straight and narrow, Dixon." She winks and leaves the two of you alone. 

He looks so damn content, despite his wrapped hand. Head tilted back to catch the sun's rays. You look out at the sea. "We're on vacation." You start and he knows exactly what game you want to play. 

"My father recently met an unfortunate end drunk driving." He remarks, with a soft smile. "Jake is living it up in LA, and I have inherited everything. I'll send him little stipends of course." He waves his hand like he's royalty. "But I'm taking you on a cruise." 

You chuckle, "Is this our first vacation?" 

He nods. "I've booked half the ship so that we can finally get some privacy. But the ranch will be waiting for us when we return. We have three hundred head of cattle and a flourishing agricultural project. I have sold the rights to my father's TE plan to another crazy bitch from Texas. That money means we'll never want for anything the rest of our lives." 

Snagging your water bottle where it sits, you raise the glass. "This is champagne, the best on board." You take a dainty sip. "Delicious. You must try some of this, Troy." 

He takes the plastic bottle from you and sticks his pinky in the air as he drinks from it. "Sublime. Money has never tasted so sweet." 

You laugh, unable to help yourself before relaxing your expression again to go back into the bit. "Troy darling, it is dreadfully hot up here. Perhaps we should find someone to bring an umbrella." 

His eyes light up with delight as he looks down the decking. "You, pool boy!" 

Following the path of his eyes you have to fight the urge to laugh again as Jake stands there frozen, pointing a finger at his own chest in confusion. 

"Pool boy!" Troy shouts again and tries to wave him over. His attempt at a posh English accent makes you want to break character. 

Jake walks over, still looking hesitant, and definitely confused. "Uh, what?" He doesn't look all that put out though considering the mood the two of you are in. You can't remember the last time you felt this happy, truly happy. 

Peaceful.

"My wife and I didn't rent half of this cruise chip to have to shout to the staff for attention." He clears his throat and Jake's so baffled you almost lose it. Your lips are pressed into a thin line to try and keep your composure. "We require an umbrella, if she burns I'll have your job by Monday." 

Jake blinks at him, a smile creeping up his face. In the bright light you can make out the faint scar on his forehead, but it disappears into his hairline when he raises both eyebrows. "We, uh, we don't have any umbrellas." 

Troy scoffs, bandaged hand coming to his chest. "Inexcusable!" 

You add in. "Absolutely unheard of, a cruise ship with no umbrellas."  

Your brother lets out a little huff of a laugh and shakes his head. "Are the two of you pretending to be on vacation?" 

This time you let out a little noise of indignation. "Pretending? What, dear boy, does it look like I'm doing?" 

Jake laughs, "I'll go get the manager." 

"I don't appreciate your tone!" Troy shouts after him. "I paid good money to be here!"

In less than two minutes Beth is tottering toward you. She's huge, and you think it'll be any day now. "I hear you two have been giving my staff trouble." She props both her little arms on her rounded hips and glares. 

"Not at all, miss." Troy replies. "I'm simply affronted that this liner does not come with umbrellas." 

She steps forward and sticks a finger in Troy's face. "We don't give umbrellas to cheapskates." 

He throws up his arms, playfully grinning. "Don't you know who I am? Why, I'm Troy Otto." 

"We own a ranch you know, one of the best in all of California." You say, raising your chin. 

Troy nods. "Best fried bull balls from here to Mexico." 

That breaks you, it breaks everyone. And a cacophony of laughter follows his comment. Jake wraps an arm around Beth as they laugh and Troy is in stitches. You're pretty sure your own face is bright red. 

Everyone comes down slowly. Jake rolling his eyes, "Well unlike your wife mine does actually need shade, and we really don't have any umbrellas." 

They make their excuses and the two of them walk back toward the stairs. You watch them go with a little smile. "I really could use a vacation." 

He leans forward so he can reach out to take your hand. "Then let's go on vacation. Write ourselves off the chore chart for a few days, no one will mind. You've been through a lot." 

"So have you." 

"All the more reason to use it to our advantage. I've been working on a little project for you." He gestures with his head toward the stairs and you follow him down to get to the cabin level. He never lets go of your hand as he leads you back into your room. 

It looks normal inside. So his surprise isn't immediately evident. You sit on the edge of the bed and wait for it, kicking your feet like a little kid. 

Troy goes to the wardrobe, pulling the bottom drawer open that you don't really use for much but backups and his hidden rifle. He pulls something out and holds it out to you. 

You take the journal from him, not recognizing the cover. "What's this?" 

He doesn't say anything, just comes to sit beside you. You flip it open, reading the cover. 

THE STORY OF TROY AND DIXON OTTO

You smile at it, turning to the first page and see it's his recollection of meeting you. Every single page is shoved full of small font. 

"There's three of them." He says, and taps the side. You turn it to see carved into the leather Broke Jaw Ranch. "There will be more." Troy says and you can see the emotion, hear it in his voice. "I need there to be more." 

You close the book and press a long kiss to the cover, before turning to him. "There will be. I'm not leaving you behind." 

THE END