Chapter Text
The moment you realized you had been uncuffed at some point in your sleep, you got out of the bed. You had no way of knowing what time it was, but you gathered the folded up clothing left at the foot of your bed in your arms, and you went to barricade yourself in the bathroom. The bathroom door wouldn’t shut properly, hanging unevenly on rusted hinges, scraping against the peeling metal door frame as you tried to close it. You pressed your shoulder against the surface of the door and pushed it. Those in charge of the clinic provided you with a simple bar of soap, a metal tub of lukewarm water, long past being the perfect temperature, and a few stiff towels. They must have gone through your stuff, because your clothes that were with you were yours, stiff but noticeably cleaner.
Your reflection caught you off guard, you leaned into the cracked mirror anyway. Your hair had grown out since the last time you had gotten this good of a good at yourself, the color masked by the sheer amount of blood and sweat and dirt that matted it. You looked dirty, almost feral… How could Francine ask you to be someone these people can trust, when the person that looked back right now looked untrustworthy and fearful, someone even you would steer clear of if encountered. You leaned forward, pressing the calloused pads of your fingers against your cheek, sliding down your jaw and over your chapped lips, feeling your hot breath against your skin.
You knelt, submerging your hands in the tub to your elbows, washing your rough and uncomfortably dry skin before stripping your body of the thin shirt the clinic had dressed you in. Once naked, your eyes avoided the mirror, your trembling hands hovered over the bandages taped to your wound. You started to peel them away.
Your breath shivered from the sensitivity of the sore area, red, raw and still swollen, discomfort pulling at your skin. You let the lump of gauze drop to the damp ground at your bare feet, it quickly started to soak up the dirty water that puddled at your feet.
You stepped into the tub, sinking down into the water. It lapped up against your thighs, your waist, and you hesitated heavily before submerging your stitched injury. You grit your teeth, letting out a strangled whine at the sting, and sinking down to your shoulders letting the water sting for a moment before you dunked your head.
The soap seeped into the grooves and healed scars that decorated your hands, you dug your soapy fingertips into your scalp, the subtle smell of lye filling your senses. Another dunk, and the clear water quickly turned a murky brown, a layer of suds swirling on the surface in circular patterns. You didn’t dawdle in the bath, when your fingertips started to prune you stood unsteadily and stepped out.
When you looked in the mirror again, your face was flushed from scrubbing, the washed away grime revealed the texture and color of your skin again, and little goose bumps formed along your arms and thighs, tickled by the cool clinic air on your wet skin.
It's been too long since you have been clean like this, the slickness of your greasy skin replaced with a fresh tight sensation that lingered after you dragged the stiff air dried towel along your clean skin. The texture of your hair has been more or less restored, fat drops of water dripped from the soaked strands, tracing the length of your neck before being absorbed by the roughness of the towel. Even though you washed the dirt away, you still found the towel stained, marks of grey and streaks of red dotting the fabric where your scrubbing scraped old scabs raw again.
Your reflection kept drawing you in, maybe because you rarely stopped to take in your appearance, and now, given the safety of the four walls around you, you found the time. You traced scars you didn’t remember despite them being on your body, one on your forehead, one decorating your collar, the large sweeping marks of scar tissue that swept across your ribs and arms. Those you recognized. You cringed at the memory, your body dangling hundreds of feet above the stones that decorated the shore back at the lighthouse.
You proceeded to hide them, pulling a shirt on, tugging it over your still damp skin. Despite seemingly being washed, the cotton of your seagull shirt was still very much stained, a faint rust colored reminder of the blood that you spilt wearing this very shirt. Your hair sat on your shoulders, weighed down by the water, leaving wet spots on the fabric. You wore it because you liked it, despite the gnarly history you had with it, you felt nostalgic of the time you spent in the lighthouse on the shore. Your fingers feathered over your breast, where the gulls, machine embroidered, wings extended, flew across the stained cotton sky.
You felt a tug of a subtle urgency when you pushed open the bathroom door to return to your clinic room. You didn’t feel eager to get back into the hospice bed, but you felt an overwhelming uncertainty about attempting to leave the clinic. You wanted to see where you were, the place you were being kept, the place where Ellie was being kept. You meandered, unsure, towards the sliding door, your fingers outstretched to touch the plastic blinds that were drawn closed. You peeked through into the empty corridor, your hand reaching to slide open the exit.
You only had to step out before flinching back, seeing the woman who was not Paula with her arms crossed, leaning against the corridor wall, looking at you with tired eyes as you stood in the doorway. You retreated back Into the clinic room quickly, and you heard her laugh at your reaction.
“Scared?” She asked, and your brow furrowed at the audacity, and you stepped out again, proving that you were not scared… you were cautious.
“See you cleaned up.” Not Paula commented, her dark eyes studying you, your movement, your intentions, “Good, that room was really starting to smell.”
She didn’t seem much older than you, a tall woman in her early 20’s, clearly well fed and taken care of. She had long hair, thick and dark and pulled away from her deeply tanned face in a long braid down her back. Dressed simply in a shirt, tucked into belted jeans, she had a carabiner of keys that jangled against her thigh, left belt loop. You dropped your eyes to study the keys, it was less guilt inducing than seeing the bruising you had left all over the middle of her face.
You frowned at her commentary, wondering if this was what the woman considered small talk. You didn’t like it, it didn’t feel casual or small. Somehow, despite the woman’s ease, you felt threatened, cornered… maybe the look in your eyes betrayed you, telling her that…
“You’re not in danger here.” Not Paula continued to speak, “Well… as long as you’re not a threat.”
“Was Ellie a threat?” You spoke up, your voice still more of a grumble.
“No, just a rule breaker.” Not Paula said matter of factly, “Door was locked, she should have known what was inside was off limits.”
You took in her words, trying to understand the situation from her side, but you couldn’t.
“It's not a severe sentence,” Not Paula continued, “A minor crime… she didn’t have to break the lock though, now we have to find a way to replace it.”
“Can you take me to see her?” You asked, your desperate priorities clear.
“You don’t wanna see your blond friend first?” Not Paula asked, “She seemed eager to speak to you when you first woke.”
“Why the fuck would I want to talk to Francine.” Your grumble started to border on a growl, the mention of Francine setting you off, furthering your discomfort.
“I guess I mistook your exchange, I thought you knew each other well.” Not Paula shrugged.
You didn’t respond to that, you weren’t sure if she was being genuine. The hazy memory of Francine coming to see you filled you with unease. She had gotten what she wanted at the cost of your freedom.
“You’re not bound to this place,” Not Paula informed you, “Not in the ways you are thinking at least.”
You narrowed your eyes. How would Not Paula know what you thought of this place?
“If you’re on your feet now, you should clear out of that room for someone else who needs it,” She pushed off the wall she leant upon, approaching you. You tensed, but she only waved you along down the corridor, her paces slowed down to match your slight limp. You weren’t exactly sure where else you would be able to go, so you followed her.
There was an office in the clinic, but you couldn’t help but notice how run down the building looked, as if they haven’t been here long, or maybe cleaning wasn’t their first priority. Not Paula stepped aside to allow you space to enter the small room, holding the door open for you. An older woman sat at the desk, greying curls pinned up in a loose bun, the nurse from before, Victor stood by her side. They both looked up at you when you entered.
Victor scowled deeply at your presence.
“Ah,” The older woman smiled, you were unsure if it was genuine or just common courtesy, a common problem you felt you encountered when surrounded by strangers, “Thank you Beck, you don’t have to guard that room anymore. Our guest looks a little less violent now.” She spoke, you turned to look over your shoulder at Not Paula, Beck, who seemed to take her comment as dismissal.
“Paula,” Victor said quickly, “Beck should stay.”
“Beck, take the afternoon off.” Paula directed, she had an air of authority, or maybe it was just because Beck did what she asked, turning and leaving through the door.
So this was Paula, it was uncommon to meet people of such ripe age out in the wasteland, out there not many people even live past their thirties but Paula looked well past her fifties, it was a little mesmerizing. She didn’t look particularly frail, which is what you expected from an elder. Her greying hair was pulled back into a tight bun, her brown eyes seemed kind, and she was missing an arm, her blouse tied off at the elbow.
“She sat outside this girls room all night,” Paula looked at you while addressing Victor, and she opened the drawer to the desk she sat at, taking out a 9mm pistol, placing it on the desk in front of her with a clunk.
It was a warning. What else could it be?
“Sit down,” She told you, so you did. You had little room to argue.
“Your friend Francine vouched for you.” Paula spoke, your brow furrowed, “Even after your violent outburst. She claims you are competent.”
You narrowed your eyes, you didn’t like the way she used that word, competent .
“Why did you help me?” The question seemed pressing, it didn’t make sense. To hook you up to an IV, use precious medication to numb you and aid you, “It can’t just be competence.”
“We pick up stragglers often,” Paula explained, “You’re not the first to survive similar injuries in that bed. Competence is just a plus.”
Her claim brought you more concern than it did comfort. There was no giving without expecting something in return when it came to others, that was something that was true for almost everyone, even you and Ellie.
Although you were losing track, with all that you’ve experienced with her in less than 6 months, who was indebted to who.
You looked up at Paula, “I need to see Ellie.”
Paula looked at Victor for clarification, maybe not completely familiar with the names of those who came with you.
“She was jailed last night.” Victor told her.
“Oh, the young lady who broke my lock.” Paula’s lips formed a tight line, “I can’t imagine the punishment was severe, it’s not like she maimed anyone.”
Somehow that made Victor narrow his brown eyes at you again, puffing out his chest like a defensive bird.
“There’s some tolerance here when it comes to the strays we take in,” Paula continued as you engaged in the stare down Victor initiated, “There’s always petty crime when it comes to them.”
“Strays…” You murmured under your breath, wrinkling your nose at the term they used.
“Do you have any other questions?” Victor asked, he looked at you knowingly, because you did have questions. Your belongings, the jail, Francine, Delilah, Ellie.
But you lied.
“No.” You said curtly, “Just show me when I’m supposed to crash until we can leave.”
You would rather skulk around on your own rather than receive some half baked answers from people you have no real reason to trust. You needed to come to your own conclusions, because the only one you were confident you could trust was yourself.
They allowed you to show yourself out, allowed being a word you didn’t like, but that is what it felt like. You shouldn’t have had to ask for permission to leave, it put you under the impression that there were things you weren’t allowed to do in this place. Not that you were physically able, you weren’t able to walk painlessly, you were severely slowed down.
The air was still warm despite it being late into October, the afternoon sun flooded the street with golden light. You blinked away the brightness, taking in what you saw when your eyes adjusted.
It looked exactly like any other urban part of California, except for the chain links that were built up and barricaded with any and all scrap, to keep things that need to be kept out, out. The perimeter was long, curving around multiple blocks of paved road, sidewalk and parking. The building you left was an old Urgent Care, somewhat but not fully restored to its original purpose. Across the street was a motel, once painted pink, two stories of peeling paint that curved around an in-ground pool in the center.
“That’s where newcomers sleep.” You heard Becks’ voice, looking over your shoulder you saw her leaning up against the outer clinic wall, “It’s a motel.”
“I can see that.” You responded curtly, “Is that where I’m supposed to sleep?”
“It's where your friends are staying.” Beck responded matter of factly, “Not Ellie, she’s not there.”
You huffed a sigh of frustration, there was no helping it, you started to hobble towards the building. It didn’t look like permanent residence, but you shouldn’t blame the occupants for the lack of upkeep. The sign that welcomed guests to the motel was overgrown with vines, overshadowed by a huge palm succumbing to drought.
Salinas Inn You assumed, but the last a and s were laying on the ground, the sign that regarded vacancy was completely destroyed, a scattered pile of broken glass and a wire frame laying in a mound of roots.
Upon entering, there was no one to direct you where to go. The bell in the front had lost its ding, but the dust had been swept off the counter, so someone had to work here, or some level of work that included a clean counter.
You walked past, and started peering into the rooms with open doors, being as nonchalant as you could when you saw people inside. You quickened your pace. You were looking for anything that could point you in any direction. Then you saw your backpack, sitting on a chair in an empty room, you made a beeline for it.
“Hey!” A hushed voice came from behind you as you bent to pick up your bag, “Oh my god!”
“Delilah…” You gasped a sigh of relief when you turned to see her.
“It’s literally so good to see you… oh my god…” She developed an almost skip in her step as she rushed to you.
She gave you a hug, wrapping her arms around you like you were an old friend. It stunned you a little but, you reciprocated briefly before pulling away, holding the other by her shoulders.
“I don’t know where she is…” Delilah responded, as if she knew what you were going to ask, “Francine isn't here and I’m not good at sneaking around…
“Where is Francine?” You ask.
She shrugs, you let go of her shoulders, “I haven’t seen her since this morning, she said she wants to talk to someone who’s in charge.”
“Of course she does…” You think out loud.
“She thinks these people are going to help us…” Delilah said, her voice wavered slightly.
“I see that…”
“How are you feeling?” Delilah asked, and maybe the question had caught you a little off guard.
It was the afternoon, you had only been awake for an hour or so, and whenever the last dose of painkillers they gave you was, you were still groggy and moderately numbed…
“I’m…” You had a very limited vocabulary when it came to describing your feelings, you didn’t often talk about such matters, “Anxious… I guess.”
“I meant physically,” Delilah frowned, “I’m anxious too, it’s a given. How was the clinic?”
“Oh.” Your hand hovered over your injury, you had padded the stitching with layers of gauze, taped it down with what was available to you in the clinic but… if you were to be in any shape to go anywhere in a matter of days you were going to need painkillers, “It’ll heal.” You deflected the question.
You reached for your bag, to rifle through the contents. Delilah watched, not knowing what you were looking for but always there to fill the silence.
“They went through our stuff,” She mentioned, which you had noticed the moment you pulled the zipper, “Took our guns, any knives…”
“The fanny pack.” It wasn’t there and that troubled you deeply. You fought to keep your voice from shaking. “It’s got like fucking flowers on it or something, where is it?”
“Fran sacrificed that too…” Delilah said, “To trade I think…”
“Fuuuck…” You groaned, tossing the bag aside, your hand pressing to the wound again.
“How long are we supposed to stay here?” Delilah asked you.
“I don’t know, ask Francine, she seems to like acting like she’s in charge of everything…” You said off handedly.
Delilah didn’t respond to that.
“Where is Francine?” You asked, Delilah looked out the window.
“This place isn’t that big… We have to run into her at some point.” You stated.
“You wanna like… walk around?“ Delilah asked, looking out the motel room window, “Can you walk around…?
“Yes…” You lied, you dropped your gaze, a pang of anxiety, when you looked back up to her and she shook her head when she saw your face tense.
“Maybe you shouldn't…” Delilah frowned, her hands raised in a gesture that tried to coax you towards the bed.
“I just woke up, don't make me get back in bed.”
Somehow there was so little you could find out by just walking around the settlement. By the time the sun was starting to set, you found yourself outside of the restaurant that connected to the inn. Delilah sat on the curb beside you, and you set to counting the people who you’ve seen.
So many faces… you may have been completely overwhelmed but you estimated 80, it couldn’t have possibly been more than that and yet that number seemed to double when the patrols returned the moment the sun dipped below the horizon, the smell of diesel filled the air as trucks drove into the compound through gates.
Christmas lights lit up above you, sparking light showering you from the windows of the establishment. Half of the patrol retired to wherever their beds happened to be, the other half flooded the restaurant. Through the window you could see the bar, all the stools occupied with dirty, exhausted individuals or varying ages. The radio on the counter played old songs, like it always did, the same 25 or so songs, all from different decades.
“We should go in.” Delilah spoke up.
You looked down at her.
“What…” As if you didn’t hear her, your eyes lifted back to the bar.
“It feels stupid sitting out here like this.” She said, “We stick out, there’s no way around that.”
Maybe she was right, but you could hear the flood of noise from inside, you knew it would make your head spin. Such a stark difference to the silence of the woods, the beating of waves against coastal sand…
“O…okay.” You managed to muster up the courage.
“You’re so on edge,” Delilah stood up from the curb, “It can't be that bad. No one here knows you, you don’t need to be afraid.”
“That’s not what I’m afraid of.” You admitted.
Delilah took your wrist and pulled you along.
You looked up at the fairy lights that decorated the rafters above your head as you entered. It looked like an old Olive Garden or something similar, or maybe some kind of pizzeria, every doorway an arch made from stones. It was pretty big, almost the same size as the neighboring inn. You were stunned by the influx of chatter, being surrounded by so many people was so alien to you.
“Look, food.” Delilah pointed to a designated corner, connected to the kitchen where there was a line at the window. Fluorescent light poured out from behind the kitchen workers, but from above there was slightly dimmed orange light, coupled with the Christmas lights in every window.
Under the chatter there was music, on top of music there was singing, laughing, even dancing. These sounds masked the grumbling in your stomach, in the midst of all that was happening to you, you had no idea when the last time you ate had been.
Delilah let go of your wrist, walking up to a large chalkboard to the side, reading the menu. You just approached the window straight up, ignoring the line and awkwardly lingering at the front.
You stared at the food from the side, catching glimpses of the labels against the steamed up glass barrier. You couldn’t read the labels from here, nor could you see what was being served because of the steam, all you noticed was that this was fully transactional.
“Hey. You.” You were addressed, so you looked up, “Gettin’ anything?”
There was some groaning from the line when the man behind the counter, holding a ladle, asked you to pick.
“Oh… No.” You were starving a little bit… but… “I mean… I don’t have any…” You approached and tapped the sign with a small picture of… some kind of bill, “Whatever the fuck that is.”
“Ration Card?” The server asked.
“Ya I don’t have that.” You admitted, taking a step back, a little nervous now that you would have to go hungry.
The man raised a hand to wave you off.
“It’s on me” Beck emerged from the line, holding up two cards, and handing them to the man behind the counter.
“You sure, Beck?” The man reached for the cards.
“Yeah,” Beck shrugged, “Just doing what I can.”
“Do you ever clock out?” You crossed your arms, taking a step back, even when she handed you a paper bag, folded at the top where she held it, you hesitated to reach for it.
“There’s no clock.” Beck pushed the bag into your chest, you reached up to catch it before it fell, “We all pull our weight when we can.”
You didn’t respond to that. You knew it implied you would have to do the same. You rested your hand against your stitches, over your shirt.
“It’s okay, you’re off the hook for now.” She assured you, but you didn’t feel assured, “Heal first, then think about work.”
Work. Ha.
You lowered your eyes to the carabiner that she hooked on her left belt loop. You didn’t want to assume, but you were gay enough to know what it meant. Maybe it didn’t mean anything, and you wondered which of those keys, if any, could release Ellie from her confinement.
“I didn’t want to assume anything…” You looked up at the other, Beck’s deeply tanned cheeks turned a little pink as she asked, “She’s your girlfriend. Right?”
“What?” You said coldly, narrowing your eyes at the taller woman.
“You’re hard to read,” She reached up to scratch the back of her neck, “I keep thinking I’m spot on but I keep assuming wrong huh…”
“You mean Ellie?” You asked, taken back by what she was saying.
“Yeah? Am I wrong?”
Your gaze fell.
“Yes.” You said, maybe too coldly because a shiver ran up your own spine, “You’re… wrong.”
You’ve spent so much time ignoring the fact that Ellie was a cute redhead under all the dirt, and it had been easy when she wore her grime like a protective layer against everything out there that wanted to kill her. There have always been more pressing matters on your head than… what would you even call it, courting? Seducing? Dating? All notions seemed embarrassing considering all that you have done, your hands were not capable of even comfort, they were only capable of killing.
“Hm.” Beck’s eyes seemed strangely knowing as she picked apart your tells. Why was she even asking about this… it seemed barely relevant.
“Why are you asking me things like that…” You meant to say in a demanding way, but your voice happened to crack.
“Maybe I’m just trying to figure you out.” Beck smiled, but you didn’t return the warmth.
“You think I’m gay?” You raised a brow.
“You’re not?” She asked, you pressed your lips into a tight line.
Beck suddenly leaned into you, maybe so you could hear her clearly over the sound of the radio, the chatter… maybe it was a move to intimidate you into responding in a normal, straight up way.
“When I had to wrestle your limp body away from her, I was sure you were lovers.” Her voice was low, and she studied you when she leaned away. Your face grew hot under her inquisitive gaze, you could see your flustered reflection in her irises, unfathomably deep and dark.
“I… She…” You struggled to form words, not being able to recall that memory, stuttering though what you could remember, the musty smell of her dirty clothes, her voice murmuring into your ear over the sound of engines, her hands gripping your cold body tightly against her… refusing to let go…
“I’ll see you around, alright?” Beck’s hand lingered over your shoulder as she brushed past you, departing from the cafeteria area while you still processed.
“Are you okay?” Delilah approached you, head tilted to the side in concern as she saw you, and you quickly tried to wipe the stricken expression from your face, she didn’t wait for you to respond, “We don't have any money to afford this stuff…”
You handed off the paper bag, Delilah looked inside with a smile, but it faded slightly when she looked back up to you.
“What happened?” She asked again, “Are you in pain?”
“Yes.” You responded, “I’m in pain.”
It wasn’t a lie, but it was easier to admit that you were hurting than it was to admit that the implications of all of Ellie’s actions were leaving you breathless.
“You should sit…” Delilah looked around the busy room, taking you by the hand and leading you over to the bar in the corner. You hopped up on a stool, even pressing your hand to your injury to cement Delilah’s belief, she waved over the man who worked the counter, “Do we have to pay for water? She’s not feeling well…”
He shook his head, reaching for a glass to fulfill the order.
“Are you going to be okay here? You need painkillers.” Delilah asked you.
“I had painkillers.” You said.
“I should go look for Frannie…” She looked over her shoulder to scan the room, “She wouldn’t be here…”
“I don’t need an escort,” You said with a sharp exhale, “Go look for her.”
The bartender placed a chilled glass of water on the counter in front of you as Delilah nodded, turning to leave, glancing back to you for assurance. You nodded and shooed her off before taking the glass in your hand and taking a small sip. The water was cold, the condensation on the glass leaving your hand damp and your lips chilled.
How jarring, the urgency you felt to find her left you wide eyed, jaw slack and body stiff. The sudden tactician you were, scanning the room, mentally noting the exits, the doorways, the bustle in the kitchen, the drunks at the bar, the sound of squeaking boots against dull, water damaged hardwood floor. You abandoned your water, slipping off the stool. How likely were you to get caught sneaking around when there was so much happening, there’s no way anyone is keeping track of all the individuals here.
Along the wall you skulked, trying to guess who worked here and who was just a patron, but you noticed the back hallway where many of the servers slipped away into when finished with their rounds.
The hallway lacked the decor of the bar and the dining hall, no sparkly lights, just yellowing overhead fluorescents.
Someone brushed against your hand, fingers trailing up to your wrist. You turned around sharply, facing someone new. You pulled your hand away.
She was shorter than you, somehow even shorter than Ellie, dressed unusually in impractical clothes that revealed her midriff. The valley of her chest sat snugly in her lace brassier, her breasts pushed up and visibly spilling out of the low neckline of her tank top.
“Hello Wastelander,” She had a strange air of confidence to her when she spoke, her voice almost sultry, for some reason it had you baring your teeth.
“What?” You asked, breathlessly, almost shocked that she came up to you out of everyone in the room.
“That patrol must have taken a lot out of you…” She cooed, tilting her head to the side, “I can see it in your eyes… You’re tired…”
You took a step back, and she took another step toward you, reaching her hand out to touch you again.
It made you upset, maybe a little too much. You furrowed your brows and searched for a tell in her face, but you failed to find one in her drunken rosy cheeks and heavy lidded eyes.
“I could spare a moment for you… Help you unwind…” She offered, “I know a few places in this building where no one would be able to find us…”
“Oh?” Ohhh… You widened your eyes and hesitantly leaned into her touch, feigning comfort to urge more information out of the prostitute, “What kind of places?”
She took a step forward, your back driven back against the wall, her hands pinned you.
“Secluded places.” She murmured, looking up at you with calculated desire, “Lock and key baby… Would you like that?”
“I think I would love that.” You lowered your voice, attempting to mirror the way she purred.
“Hey! Tiff! Not here!!” Someone emerged from the back kitchen, wearing a stained white apron over his shirt and jeans, “Get a room!”
The woman, Tiff, pushed away from you, releasing you from your place on the wall.
“How much you got?” She asked you.
You raised your brows, perplexed.
“What can you afford?” She clarified, leaning back in as the chef returned to the kitchen.
“Oh, like money.” Fuck, “You want ration cards or something right?”
“Yesss….” Tiff purred.
“I don't have any.”
The switch was immediate, like she was turned off by the concept of no reward. She shook her head, stepping back immediately.
“Then… nevermind. I suppose.” She turned to leave but you felt like she needed to stay. You grabbed her wrist.
“Oh, you better be careful…” She tried to wrestle out of your grip, “I’ll scream and you’ll be in trouble.”
“No. Wait, Listen.” You pulled on her wrist, “Stop fighting! I dont wanna fuck!!”
“Okay then I have nothing for you!!” She pulled her wrist away, red marks where your fingers latched on. She rubbed the soreness and turned to leave but you blocked her.
“Please just help me…” You didn’t want to beg, Tiff furrowed her brows as you pleaded.
“Information is also not free.” She crossed her arms, clearly not intimidated by you, she opened her mouth to add more but a commotion from the bar area caused you both to look around the corner.
Two men, highly inebriated, rolled around on the ground, thrashing each other around with all their drunken might. Bystanders started to scatter, and you saw the glint of metal.
“Shit!” Tiff exclaimed, and she dipped almost as quickly as she could yell, “Gun!!”
Beck was the one to leap into action, tearing the men apart from each other and restraining the aggressor, a disheveled and drunken man with a scruffy beard. He waved around the weapon haphazardly, you winced when for a split second it pointed towards you.
Beck slammed the man to the ground, with a force that you wouldn’t forget. The gun fell from his hands, as his palms splayed out from the restraint. She cuffed him despite his struggling, and pulled him up to his feet by the fabric of his shirt.
You came around the corner, evading the crowd of onlookers as you followed where Beck dragged the man, you pressed your hand to your still tender wound, and blinked away any oncoming haziness. You strained yourself not to fall too behind, but by the time the pinch in your side started to throb, you realized Beck wasn’t taking the man anywhere far, remaining in the building, just going far into the back, past the pantry and towards the cellar.
The cellar! Of course… Not that you had access to it. The drunken man cussed under his breath, pulling on the cuffs as Beck unhooked her keys from her belt loop. You wished you could see which key she was using but you were too far, and the wall was providing an infinite amount of support as you leaned against it. The drunken man saw you regardless, his unfocused eyes drifting from the floor, to you in the shadows around the corner, then back to Beck. He hummed, a catchy tune you recognized from the radio.
“This is your second strike,” Beck talked to the guy as he sang, “Hiding a gun… not a smart move.”
She pulled him along, you could hear his humming down the cellar stairs, the heavy wooden door moaned as it swung closed, the lock clicking as it shut.
You approached the door, it was sturdy, and when you pressed your ear to it, you could hear the rest of Beck's descent, creak by creak.
Then a voice. Muffled, but it was her voice. You balled up your fist against the wood, glancing side to side, before ducking behind some barrels as you heard the creaking of the stairs.
The door clicked again as she left, keys swinging around her fingers as she turned into the corridor. As she disappeared around the corner, you stood, and stuck your foot out, the edge of the door bumping up against the leather of your boot. It only clicked closed once you slipped in and descended down the stairs.
The cellar had the same stone arches connecting the structural beams that held the restaurant up. Dimly lit lanterns hung from visible rafters. On one side of the cellar, the aches were somewhat modified, tall welded bars forming cells along both walls.
“I’m not eating that fucking slop.” You heard her grumble from the cell furthest from you, in the corner against the far wall, “I’d rather wait it out.”
She sat in the far corner of the cell, against the wall, as far as she could from the bars of her enclosure. Her elbows rested on her knees, her head hung in between her legs.
“Ellie…” You gasped almost breathlessly, rushing over as quickly as you could.
She looked up immediately at the sound of your voice. She scampered onto her knees, and crawled up to the bars. You knelt down, and put your hands through the bars to reach out to her.
“Holy shit…” She took your outstretched hands, her furrowed brow relaxing, her wide eyes softening, “You’re alive…” She exhaled.
You sighed in relief, your shoulders visibly slumping forwards at the contact, her calloused fingers wrapping around your wrists and sliding up your forearms. She pulled you as close as she could, anchoring her grip on your tense biceps through the metal. Her face was faintly flush, her eyes looked up at you with an unfamiliar desperation that sent a warmth through your veins.
It felt longer than it must have been, the moment where you couldn’t form words, spent looking down at her. Your lips parted slightly, chapped and dry, you tried to speak, but your face twisted in pain that immediately washed away any remaining heat, and you let out a groan, pulling away from her to double over.
“Fuck!!” Ellie rattled the bars, jumping up to her feet and practically slamming into them as she realized you were still in immense pain, raising her voice as she cussed, “This fucking place!!!”
“Shhh…” You raised a hand, hushing her, no one knew you were down here!!
“NO!!!” Ellie cried, her face blotchy and red as she raged, “Fuck!!! Fuck this place!!”
“Ellie!!” You gasped out again, biting your cheek as yesterday's stitches throbbed again and you had to hold back another sob.
Ellie faltered at the noise, dropping her fists, breathing heavily as she stepped forward again, reaching through the bars with her left hand.
“I’m okay….” You said quietly, reaching past her hand and using the bars of her cell to help yourself stand.
“I’m sorry… they probably didn’t redo the stitches…”
“I figured this was your handiwork.” You scoffed.
“Is it infected?” Her brow pinched in concern, looking past the dig completely, her hand reaching for the hem of your shirt.
A chill went down your spine, and you grabbed her hand instinctively. Wide eyed, you looked from your fingers wrapped around her inked wrist, up to meet her unusually gentle eyes. How dare she look at you with such tenderness, and how could she think this was a good moment to make your heart skip in your chest. You stepped back, letting go of her, she was unable to get any closer to you, her face and body pressed against the bars.
“No.” You responded, “They just didn’t give me anything for the pain…”
“In your bag…” Ellie started to say.
“Not there…” You shook your head, gritting your teeth as you straightened your back and let go of the bars. You tested your weight on your legs, tingling with exhaustion, before starting to walk slowly along the bars of the enclosure. You paced, back and forth, quickening when you were able, when you hit the wall, you reached to lean against it. You could hear the radio playing through the small barred window above your head, flush against the ceiling.
After a moment, she asked, “You’re not mad at me.”
It wasn’t a question, more of an observation. You cocked your head to the side
“I just wanted to see you…” She explained, even when you didn’t ask, “I got upset when they wouldn’t let me…”
“Ellie…” You lowered your voice.
“They fucking threw me in here…” She grumbled against her cell, “Fuck… Fuck… Fuckkk…”
“I’m… I’m not mad at you.” You assured her, but she wasn’t fully listening.
“That shit has been playing day and night.” Ellie followed you on her side of the bars, grumbling her complaint.
“Thought you liked this kind of music,” You pushed an empty crate up to the wall and stepped up onto it to look through the cellar window, seeing where it looked out onto but it was a side of the building you didn’t recognize, not facing the street.
“Not this much…” She muttered, “How are these people not sick of hearing the same riffs over and over again?”
“I’ll turn it off.” You said, trying to see where the music was coming from. Out of sight, “When I can find it.”
The drunk man behind the bars sung along to the damp sound of the distant radio, lyrics slurred and muffled, songs from decades ago that have survived just as you have.
You turned towards him, and you approached, crouching down a safe distance from the bars.
“Some hit you took up there.” You started a conversation, he stopped humming and looked up from where he lay, on his back, on the dusty cellar floor.
“Motherfucker called my wife a whore.” He slurred, you heard the gentle rattle of Ellie leaning against the bars of her cell.
“Sounds rough…” She commented from behind you, “She can’t be that bad.”
The man grunted.
“Let her fuckin rest…” He responded, turning onto his side, away from you.
“l’ll be back.” You turned to Ellie, she was leaning with her face pressed to her bars, “I’ll bring you a hoodie or something, food that isn’t slop.” You nodded to the untouched bowl of what looked like a pale porridge, “How long have you been in here?”
“This is night 2.” She told you.
“Did they tell you how long?” You asked, but you knew it was a reach, she responded only with a look. A look that said ‘Fuck if I know.’
“Right.” You turned to the door, and after two steps…
“Wait.” Ellie's voice, small and almost husky, made you stop immediately, you looked over your shoulder at her, but she hesitated to say anything else, “No… Nevermind.”
You tensed immediately, like what were you expecting. You felt a wash of heat fall upon your shoulders and you spun towards the cellar stairs. By the time you reached the door, and made sure you left it unlocked from the inside, you were starting to freak out a little.
No really? What were you expecting? What was she going to say or, more importantly, what were you hoping for? You slumped against the wall, your body was really starting to ache.
You looked at your shaking hands, and you took a deep breath. You weren’t ready to admit it to yourself, but your fear was really starting to show. You were starting to think too much again, and now, with these fuckass walls around you, you had time to think about the next week, the next two weeks, the next month and how your treatment of those around you will impact your time spent here. You ran out through the kitchen, out the back door, at this point not aware of anyone who may have seen you.
You only started to cool down when the cold air hit your face, and you didn’t stop running until you saw the motel.