Chapter Text
I
“(...) Gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.”
Friedrich Nietzsche
Robinavitch
A horse called Pitt cuts through a thick field of devil's grass, soft from the cold drizzle. Together, they draw a path of mud and dripping blood. Michael’s vision is a blur, his mind a wrecking ball, but his ears are tuned to whatever sounds could be hiding behind this curtain of feathery rain. His heartbeat feels heavier where he bleeds, his wound warm against the palm of his hand. There's otherness inside him, and if he doesn't manage to stop the bleeding, it will consume him, just like death consumes all those who wander lost.
His grip begins to loosen as the daylight sinks into the horizon, behind thick clouds of grey that won't let him see one last sunset. The cold cuts as sharp as a knife, through skin, muscle and bone, but the pain is numbing when it could have been agonizing—kind enough to let him slowly fall asleep.
There's a roadway that attracts the horse, like tracks to a train. The sudden change of pace startles Michael awake but his eyes can barely stay open. He's tired. So fucking tired. Maybe it's time to let go.
The house comes into view as the horizon flips itself upside down. Michael doesn't feel gravity, but he feels the soft mud he lands on. He sees his hat rolling in front of him, landing on the tarmac, taking in the rain. Behind it, the blurry farmhouse fills the background.
His mind loses track of time. His eyes slowly accept the darkness. Still his ears are tuned to what might be hiding in the rain, so he hears it; steps, running, huffing. His body is rolled onto its back and he finds the sky. He can't feel the hands that move him, that send sharp shoots of pain from his side, but he can hear the voice.
“Hey, hey, hey, stay with me…”
Michael wishes he could. But darkness comes with the night, and he falls into a dreamless sleep.
Whitaker
Dennis drags the wooden chair over to the centre of the living room. The fire has burnt down to embers, the horses have their gates open, the chickens were set free, and the surviving cow finally passed away. He's done. He's free. He can join them now.
He takes a deep breath even though he can't stop crying, can't stop sobbing, ears tuned to the banging against the basement door. Hisses and gurgles that barely sound human. Sounds he can't understand unless he becomes what they've turned into. A song he'll never be able to hear unless he joins their choir.
With another deep, shaky breath, he stands up on top of the chair, hands around the perfect noose he tied just like his father taught him. The window’s grey light washes over him, bathing him in a soothing glow that calms him enough to look through the glass, past the rain and the fields and the fence. His thoughts rush out of him at the sight of a rider on a horse.
He sees the person fall, sees the horse circle the body like it doesn't want to move on without it, and his own body moves before he can't think to rush over. The banging on the basement door gets louder as he rushes to the front door. It swings open with a loud thud, and the muddy ground welcomes his boots like it's barely ground and more a sea of dirt.
Dennis runs through the drizzle, tears drying in the cutting cold. Nebraska, where the weather has a strange case of bipolarity. Yesterday, a beautiful spring day during a rigorous winter. Today, rain that won't stop until it has carved rivers deep underground. Tomorrow, maybe snow. And then sun again.
The rider, in a growing shallow of blood, might not make it until then. Is it a bite? Dennis sees his own pale hands hovering over the wound.
“Hey, hey, hey, stay with me…”
The man's brown eyes roll back as his eyelids flutter closed, smile lines softening as his face relaxes. Dennis panics, hands flying to the man’s jacket which he moves aside to take a better look at the wound on his hip. He can barely see it through the blood.
“Oh, that's bad…” Dennis looks at the man, still passed out, and fists his hands over his chest before slamming down. “Hey! Stay with me!” He smacks the man's face a few times, white feather hawk beard dotting with rain, and he stirs, but barely.
“Pressure,” he croaks out. Dennis rushes to apply pressure over the wound.
“Think you can stand…? I—” He's on his knees, and they're burrowing into the mud where the tarmac is missing. He looks around, startling when the brown horse walks closer to push its snout against his cheek. “Oh—” Dennis looks at it. “Yeah, you can help…”
A hand grabs at his arm and then his shoulder, big, heavy, but weak. Is that a smile? Dennis tries his best to keep pressure on the wound, but it's with the help of the horse and the man's weak grip on the reins that they manage to pull him up. Dennis fits in under his arm as they start their stumble forward.
“It's not that far,” Dennis says, but it is. And he doesn't think he's ever taken as long as he does to reach his front door from the side of the road outside their fence. More red drips and the man grunts in pain, making something hurt deep under Dennis' ribcage. He tries not to let his lip tremble, focusing on putting all of his strength in carrying someone taller and bigger than he is.
The horse lingers by the stairs, four steps that should be easier than they prove to be. The mud under his boots feels like a sheet of water between him and the wood, nearly making him slip. He has to dig into the railing with his nails, splitters digging into the soft flesh beneath them.
“You lied,” the bleeding man huffs. Dennis peeks at him, surprised. A chicken flies up to the porch and stares at them, cocking its head to the side.
“You can tell? That's good.”
A nod as the man leans against the house. A thin sheen of sweat on his face, his words a slur. “GSW…”
“Huh?”
“I got shot.”
Dennis frowns, nods. “I… I have… Tools, uhm. Nothing surgical, though.”
“Alcohol?”
“Yeah!”
“Door.”
“Shit, yeah–” Dennis struggles. “Uhm—Living room on the left. There's a couch! Don't worry about the blood, I'm going to get the stuff—” He practically flies to the kitchen, apprehensive, clenching his jaw when he hears a faint hiss.
At least they're not at the door anymore.
Robinavitch
Death’s lasso and the first step to… well, whatever comes next. A contentious thing, surely.
Michael stares from his horizontal vantage on the couch, at the chairlegs, parallel to the floor, creating the most dizzying lines in his vision. For a moment, they almost pulse like his own ventricles, a dull thump against his palm. He tries to count it, but the pain is too strong. All he can think about is the irony of it all.
The kid comes running in with a med kit he probably found in his bathroom, a tool kit that's greased up in oil, and alcohol. There's also a bottle of whiskey under his arm, to which he says, when he sees Michael staring, “For the pain…?”
All he can manage is a thumb’s up; both hands, for enthusiasm. The kid seems pleased with himself, which is objectively a good look on him, and he hurries to crack both kits open, unscrewing the bottle of whiskey which he gingerly hands over.
“I've never removed a bullet before,” he says.
Michael uses the ebbing remains of his energy to lift the whiskey to his mouth, gulping down a good amount. The kid perks up at him. “A for effort,” Michael grunts, hand shaking as the bottle nearly topples. It just lands, which is nice.
“I can stitch.”
“Get it out first,” Michael says. His throat burning is a good distraction, and his vision swimming now feels overcome.
“O—Obviosly,” the kid scoffs in an anxious tone. “Can I cut your shirt?” He says with a pair of scissors in hand. Michael peeks at him, an eyebrow quirking before he nods. The kid drinks in his consent, eyes wide as he tries to focus on what to do. Michael can tell he has no idea. But…
Well, Michael had made peace with dying. He hadn’t considered the idea of someone caring whether he does or not. And though this kid might seem happy to relent his own life, he seems desperate to save Michael’s. Even if he does die, that counts for something, right?
Cold breeze over his chest, Michael speaks, eyes closed, voice low. He’s fucking tired, but a teaching moment’s a teaching moment. A shot to the gut is never pretty. Luckily, once they clean the wound, it's easy to see how deep the bullet actually went.
“What’s your name…?” Michael asks, to his savior, as he spills alcohol over the carpet disinfecting a tong that’s gonna hurt like a fucking bitch going in.
“Dennis,” says the kid. He tries to clean the sweat off his forehead and paints a streak of blood instead. “Dennis Whitaker.”
“Michael Robinavitch.” His face tauts at a sudden bout of nausea. “Call me Robby…”
The kid, Dennis, nods. “Uhm… Do you, uhm—” He blinks and then stands up, knee still on the couch as he takes off his belt in a rush. Michael thinks it's not a bad image for potentially his last. “Bite this?” Dennis offers. “Just so you don't bite your tongue.”
A slow breath out, a nod. Another good catch. He’d shower the boy in compliments, but the darkness in the corners of his vision is encroaching. He hopes he’s coherent. He hopes Dennis listened to it all. Because once he puts the belt in his mouth, Michael can only try his best not to scream.
Whitaker
The rain outside beats the windows softly, like static on an old TV screen. It got dark, so Dennis had to relight the fireplace. He's watching the flames on the pink foam, a mix from the cleaning products and the blood on the wooden floor, when a finger reaches up for one of the curls of his mullet. He startles, peeking over at the man that's been sleeping on the couch for the past couple of hours. Brown, tired eyes stare back at him.
“You're awake,” says Dennis, throwing the scrub back into the bucket and taking off his gloves. There's still dry blood sticking to his nails so he tries to pick it off. “How… How are you feeling?”
“Acutely,” the man seems to groan, hand falling from Dennis’ neck to hang off the side of the couch. Dennis scratches the itch the touch left as he stands up.
He fixes the blanket over Robby before he says, “Do you want water…? Something to eat…?”
Robby takes a deep breath and winces. “You have all that?”
Dennis looks around. “We have a well. And… I'm sure the chickens are still around.”
Robby chuckles, brown eyes filling with a sudden warmth. Should Dennis tell him he's not a great cook? He can absolutely grill, however.
“Heard white meat is good for… Our health.”
“Pressing world issue, that one…” Robby groans in pain, turning his eyes to the ceiling. His profile, strong but slick with sweat, catches the light of the fire. “Thank you…”
Dennis picks up a cloth to wipe the floor with, and does it with his boot while picking up after himself. “Who shot you…?”
“Not a zombie,” Robby grunts. Dennis would have laughed, maybe on another day. “Near Bailey’s Lumber…. Assholes taking advantage of–” Another soft grunt, and Dennis feels quite helpless just watching pain. “Fuck. Of the end of the fucking world…”
“I'm sorry, I'm out of pain killers…” But Robby just shakes his head. “Do you want my brother's weed…?” Dennis tries with a shy shrug. Robby lols his head to the side, giving Dennis a look that can only be pure amusement, even with the sheen of sweat.
“Smoking marijuana,” Robby starts. “Or anything, for that matter, lowers the–the oxygen in your blood. Bad for healing wounds, especially the big ones.”
Dennis blinks. “Oh…”
“Later,” Robby says, and Dennis gets another thumbs up before the man melts again, as if just letting the pain flatten him. Sometimes, Dennis wishes he had the power to share hurt. It's always easier with company.
He goes to the kitchen to wet a towel under the tap, and then returns to wipe around the man's eyes and nose, his dry lips. There's blood on his cheek, too, so Dennis scratches it off. Robby watches him with weary eyes.
I could definitely grill a pair of chickens, he thinks when his stomach growls.
“Roar…”
Dennis blushes, eyes diving to meet closed ones. Excuse me?
Robinavitch
When Michael comes to his senses, there's a chicken casually walking around the living room. Dennis is by the fire with a pot of water. By his side there's a tray, a big bowl and a wooden cutting board with a big bone cutting knife on top. Michael watches those blonde curls he knows are soft shine golden in the firelight, his profile oddly delicate.
“Freshest chicken in Nebraska,” Michael jokes to get his attention. Dennis whips his head around, giving him an almost grin that vanishes all too quickly. Michael wants it back.
“I sorta… Was hoping they'd leave this place, but, even though I left the coop open, they've all just been circling around.”
“Animals don't like ‘em,” Michael huffs. He remembers the crows, migrating in murders out of the city. The dogs that went rabid in startling quantity.
Dennis looks back to the fire, eyes saddened by a sudden expression. “Two of them got our cows… We couldn't do anything…”
Michael forces his eyes closed as the past pushes so quickly forward it blinds him.
“LANGDON!” Michael screamed, head near-bursting with the sound of the fire alarm. White corridors slick with red, bodies at every second step. So much death. But death; death he understood. Or at least he thought he did.
“I'm fine!” Langdon told him. “I’m clean!”
“Show me!”
“We don't have time!”
Trust. Logic. A nod.
“Thank you, Robby. I got this–I swear to God, I won't–”
Crack. A slicing echoes through the room and Michael's eyes fly open. He looks over to see Dennis emptying the chicken’s blood into the big bowl, its head on the cutting board. Michael stares. How many heads on the street on the way out the city? Some still gnarling, snapping their somehow animate jaws…
The pot hanging over the fire bubbles and Dennis dunks the chicken in. The smell is sweet, almost unbearable, but familiar.
“You've been out here this whole time..?”
“I assume it's harder near towns or cities,” Dennis mutters, making sure the chicken sinks into the boiling water with a long wooden spoon. “What did they want…? The assholes from Baileys,” Dennis questions and Michael nearly shoots up into a seating position.
“My horse. Pitt–” Fuck, ow.
“Oh,” Dennis gives him a smile. Michael stares. “He's fine. I gave him a bucket of oats and a sugar cube. He's in with the others. I'll give him a good brush tomorrow.”
“You have more horses?”
“Two others. Snow White, a white mare, and Sunny, a young palomino, both Tennessee Walking.”
Michael nods, his own breath still catching up to him. It takes a while to find it, and then push words past the thick lump in his throat. “Thank you… Again…”
Dennis’ face scrunches just slightly and he shakes his head. “Couldn't just let you die right in front of our property…” He tilts his chin at the window. “Saw you fall through there…”
“Don't wanna break the bad news, kid, but property doesn’t really exist anymore...” A hiss of pain. “It's a miracle those assholes haven't found you yet…”
Dennis puts on a pair of gloves and brings the chicken out of the boil. He places it over his lap, covered with a thick cloth, and starts plucking its wet feathers. “I saw a couple of fires in the distance a few days ago… Was that them, d'you think?”
“Hopefully not,” Michael smiles. And when his own stomach grumbles, he takes it with grace—by pointing his red face to God and asking why.
“Do you like paprika and rosemary?”
“Fucking yes,” Michael scoffs. He rubs a hand over his face, shaking his head. He thought he was going to die. What’s all this? “How old are you…?”
“Thirty two.”
“You look younger.”
“Maybe on account of all the fresh air we get out here,” Dennis seems to joke. Michael chuckles. It's… it's been a while since he spoke to someone nice. Someone that seems nice, anyway. “You..?”
“Fifty… ish.”
“Ish?” Dennis seems amused, and Michael fights a flush.
“Two.” He's not indignant about his age. But, perhaps, he wishes it weren’t as… far off. “Fifty two.”
“That's a good age,” Dennis says, moving the now featherless chicken off his lap. He seems to struggle a little with the big pot full of water, though something about his build tells Michael he's used to tossing heavy weights over his shoulder. Maybe he just hasn't eaten today. His hands have been shaking a lot.
“Yours is better.”
“Maybe,” he says. Michael watches him tidy up, move things in and out of the living room like he knows exactly what to do, maybe because this time he does. It's calming to watch him work.
The smell of paprika and rosemary reaches him as Dennis begins coating the chicken with the spices, and Michael tries a peek out the window, at the stars bright with the new moon peeking through an opening in the thick clouds. It feels treacherous to relax, but he does. His eyes close and he just breathes, trying his best to ignore the pain.
“What about your folks…? Your family…?”
There's a long pause. So long Michael peels one eye open to stare at the light shifting on Dennis' profile. His pretty features cloud over. “My… Family…” He takes a deep breath and then hurries to say, “They should be back soon.”
Michael frowns. “Where are they now?”
“Oh, shit, I forgot the grill,” Dennis huffs as he hurries out of the living room. Michael has to applaud his avoidance of the question.
An unsteady weight settles in his stomach, deeper and deeper, past the real ache into something else. Would the kid’s family have come back soon, then? Found their son, their brother, swinging from a rope?
When Dennis returns, he seems a little lighter. “So, are you a doctor…?” He asks as he fits the seasoned chicken into the grill.
“I was,” Michael says. “Of Emergency Medicine.”
Dennis looks at him, eyes shinier than he's seen them before. “What was it like…?”
Michael looks away, chest tight. He tries to clear his throat. “It was always… Somewhat harrowing. Endless.” A deep breath. “Let’s just say you see a lot.”
“Were you there when it started…?”
He feels his hand twitch and brings it to his forehead. “Yeah,” he says, gruff, strained. “Yeah, I was.”
Dennis fits the chicken over the fire and it crackles. “That must have been awful. I'm really sorry.”
That feeling; it’s rising, like waves in a storm. Michael tries to not keep his breathing too shallow, though he feels like sucking in every breath he can manage before… before… His thumb scratches with the pressure he’s putting on his forehead, lungs shrinking. The next breath he sucks in is so desperate he almost wallows in it, and it tugs at the pain in his stomach. He sounds pitiful and he knows it, gasping like he’s drowning. But it hurts, it fucking hurts, and his mind won’t stop; this tortuous slide-show of faces, gore, screams of the living and dead an echo. He drops his hand to his chest, to the Star. “Fuck, fuck…”
The kid's face looms over him when he opens his eyes. “Are you okay…?” His hands hover, until one gently lands over his. Michael doesn't need to see the rise and fall of Dennis' chest to know he's taking deep breaths with him. Or trying to. It’s overwhelming, this sudden care. To not simply drown until the stars become visible again, or hide away in some dark place like an animal takes almost everything in him.
Michael shakes, trying to push the kid away, but he just slumps by his side, falling ass on the floor. His offending hand–I’m sorry, I’m sorry–hides his head. By his side, quietly, the kid settles, eyes on the chicken over the fire instead of him. Somehow that makes it easier to suck back the sniffles, to take the breaths he needs to combat the suffocating pressure in his chest. And when his hand reaches out, a now, new, needy pull towards Dennis, it rests on his shoulder, to feel at the softness of his hair again. It’s been so fucking long since he touched anybody. It’s a sweet burn on his skin, settling like embers in his chest. It’s nice. It’s so fucking nice.
“Your horse,” the kid tries once quietness settles in. “Pitt. Where were you two headed..?”
“Oh, you know,” Michael says, controlling the sway of his tone. It helps to look at the way Dennis’ blonde hair curls around his finger. “Fresh air…”
Goosebumps rise and fall over the kid's neck, but he doesn't pull away. It's hard to tell if he appreciates the touch just as much, but judging by the noose that still hangs in the living room like the elephant it is, maybe he doesn’t mind this replacement. Michael resists the urge to spread his fingers across the back of Dennis’ neck.
“Where do you come from?”
“Pittsburgh, born and raised…”
“Really? That's funny…”
“Is it?”
“When I was younger, I told my parents I was going to move to Pittsburgh to become a nurse, or a doctor. At some point I even thought about being a vet, but…”
At that, Michael can't help the spread of his fingers. It doesn't take much strength to squish lightly at the muscles. The kid's tense. He's worked hard. And Michael can see the way his face twitches when he finds a knot. Michael takes it slow, thumb pressing gently.
“You would've made a good doctor, or nurse, or vet,” Michael says. “Good learner, good instincts. Neat suture, too.”
Dennis stares at him, surprised, blushing in the low light of the fireplace. It makes Michael frown. “We, uh…” Dennis looks down with a frown of his own, then a wince when the knot comes undone. “My parents tried to save up, but… It didn't work out in the end.”
“Most of the doctors died,” Michael mumbles. “Maybe it’s fate.”
“You didn't,” the kid says, peeking at him. Michael smiles and looks away, back to tending his curl. A crackle in the fire has Dennis standing up, Michael's hand slipping from his neck. He probably shouldn’t do that again, anyway.
“I should probably turn that chicken…”
“It smells good, kid.”
“Thank you—Ah. I forgot the salt!”
Whitaker
Robby is still asleep when Dennis checks up on him the next morning. The wound will need to be dressed again later, but hopefully it will be a lot easier today than it was yesterday.
The rain has left everything soaking wet and cold, in the grey, foggy dawn. The chickens are out of the coop, but they've left eggs like little presents for Dennis to pick up. He leaves the basket by the front door while he cleans the porch, and then brings out the horses for some light brushing. It helps to keep busy. It's how he’s managed to survive; slowly fixing up what the apocalypse ruined; tying every loose end for the family. He still sees them sometimes: his mother with the tractor, his father with the horses and the cows, his middle brother smoking weed behind the barn, his eldest brother teasing him after catching him dancing alone in his own bedroom. Cousins, nieces and nephews running through the house.
Pitt, Robby's horse, comes to him while he's rolling open a hay bale, sniffing Dennis' pockets for more sugar cubes. When it can't find anything, it tries to nibble on Dennis' earlobes instead.
“I get it, I get it,” he whines, trying his best to keep the horse away. “I'll get you a carrot… I think we still have those…”
He's picking up the egg basket to go inside when he hears a crash. He completely forgets to kick the mud out of his boots, rushing in to find Robby tumbled halfway through the corridor.
“What are you doing?” Dennis stresses, shooting the basement door a look before rushing to help him. Robby is almost dead weight, still weak from the blood loss, but he tries to make it easier for Dennis to get him up.
“Sorry,” Robby winces. “I just–” A sigh that turns to a huffed laugh. “I really gotta pee.”
“Oh, of course,” Dennis says, quickly helping the man drag his feet all the way there.
The white tiles on the walls make the bathroom the brightest room in the house. The rest, even the kitchen, are dark under the shade of the old wallpaper. Dennis stares at it while Robby is busy in the bathroom. From the basement, not a single sound reaches them. But Dennis almost startles with every turn of the tap, flush of the toilet. Robby opens the door looking a little cleaner and calmer.
“I–” Robby looks down at him, brown eyes stuck to his. “This shit takes at least six weeks to improve, kid. You shouldn't have to be taking care of some old man…”
Dennis looks away. “Six weeks?”
“It's a bitch,” Robby mumbles. “I can… Probably get on the horse in two. If…”
“Where are you headed…?”
“The couch,” he smiles, leaning away from the wall with a grunt, smile still in place. When his hand fumbles to Dennis’ shoulder, he helps him stay up, one hand on his broad back, the other over his chest.
“You're not that old,” Dennis says.
“This is becoming a recurring subject,” Robby chuckles, peeking at him and away with another wince. “Alberta.”
“Huh…?”
“The city fell and I… I just tried to think of the furthest place from it.”
“And once you get there?” Dennis asks.
“If I get there,” Robby smiles.
Gently, Dennis guides him further into the house. The floorboards creak as they pass the basement door, and a hiss seems to swirl up from down below. Dennis feels his heart pick up, but if Robby hears anything, he doesn't say.
His parents’ bedroom is the only room with a bed downstairs, so Dennis lets Robby take it. A bed is better than a couch, anyway. The mattress is low, however, so Robby’s legs give in before he can take a seat and they both fall.
“Ow,” Robby laughs through a grunt. Dennis’ head slaps onto his pec, and he pushes his hands on Robby's thighs to keep his full weight from crushing his wound.
“Ohmygod, I'm so sorry!”
“You're not that heavy, kid,” Robby assures, a hand to Dennis’ chest as he frowns. “Still–”
“Yeah, sorry–” Dennis stands up, face red with shame. He hides his hands behind his back. “Uhm… You can sleep here. It's better than the couch…”
“It is,” Robby agrees, even though his legs are still off the sides.
“I can… uhm,” Dennis looks around. “Help you move around—” He starts pushing Robby's legs onto the mattress, wincing at the guttural groan Robby is clearly trying to keep controlled. “I am so sorry.”
“Fuck,” he swears. “It's fine. It's fine. You're doing great.”
“You're giving me mixed signals,” Dennis jokes, patting the pillows so the man can rest comfortably with his head slightly raised.
“You're giving me the five star treatment…”
Dennis meets his eye and then immediately looks away. There's something far too kind in this man's eyes. Something that makes him want to trust him. “Do you like eggs?” he asks. Robby nods. “I'll get you eggs, then. Just, uhm, rest. Okay?”
He's turning to go when a few fingers catch at his shirt. He startles, peeking over.
“Why are you doing this…? I could be anyone…”
Dennis blinks at him. “I'm sure you'd do the same…”
“Yeah, but I've had training,” the man smiles.
Dennis frowns in amusement for a second, like that part of his personality couldn't help but shine through the darkness he carries around. “I'll make sure to leave the next moribund soul dying outside.”
“Good. That's very smart. Great instincts.”
Dennis chuckles. A first proper laugh. It's been a while, hasn't it? Six months. Give or take.
“Just rest up, cowboy.”
“Shit… I am a cowboy.” Robby stares at the ceiling. “That's cool.”
Dennis nods. “I left your hat and your rifle with your horse's saddle.”
“Thanks, kid.”
“Dennis. Please. Or–Or Whitaker,” he says before he slips out of the room. He takes his own hand, thumb pressing into his palm.
‘Why are you doing this?’
Why aren't we all…?
The faith of humanity in the hands of those who've been taught to survive first and care later… Dennis shakes his head as he passes the basement door. Of course it turned out like this… Eat, or be eaten.
Robinavitch
The most vivid nightmares. Every patient ever dead at his hands, coming for his neck. Little girls, old men, mothers with still bulging stomachs, all rotting but alive, moving, walking, ambling and grabbing and– Their moans, oh God, their moans. The last breath of life. It's everywhere. He slams doors, the hands of doctors and nurses he's known for years clawing at him like animals. His oldest friend, dying miles away over the phone, at the center of it all. Langdon's scream louder than those of the already dead. The children–Mel and Becca, Javadi, Joy, Ogilvie, all stuffed into the back of an ambulance. Who was driving? Did Dana make it? He sees them all, dead, rotting, coming for him over plains of wheat and clear skies. His failures. He failed them
Michael comes to himself with a jolt of pain, his eyes quickly taking in the low light. Dennis is looking at him with worry rather than fear despite the hand that holds him at bay, close to his neck. He lets go of Michael's shoulder the moment their eyes meet.
“You were screaming…”
Shame washes over Michael immediately. “I– I'm sorry, I–” It's hard to breathe. He winces, bulletwound stabbing harshly.
“It's okay,” Dennis hurries to say, leaning back and rubbing a hand where Michael was grabbing him. So much fucking shame. “Might need to change your bandages, though… Clean the wound.”
A hissing echoes from some other room in the house, and Michael's heart tightens painfully. He makes to get up, to fight, but the kid hurries once more and pushes him down.
“What—” He frowns at him. “Please, you need to rest…”
“They're here,” Michael stresses, eyes wide on the doorway. He's not pushing Dennis away now as much as gripping him closer, like at the very least they'd kill him second when they crash in.
“Hey—” Dennis tries to make Michael look at him. He’s stuck there, on that doorway, already seeing the horde, but then, those eyes… “It's fine. You're fine… There's—” Dennis takes a deep breath, lets it go. “You’re safe.”
In the silence, Michael stares at him. There's not a single sound. His grip loosens, and he swallows something thick at the pink skin he can see blooming on Dennis. Had he grabbed him so hard? “Let me look,” Michael says, ever the physician.
Dennis blinks. “I’m okay—”
“Shush. Lemme look.”
“Okay, okay,” Dennis huffs, helping Michael sit up before sitting close, eyes on the creaky wooden floor boards.
Michael tries to move the shirt away, but has to slide a button out to see properly. He's gonna have a bruise. The size of Michael's own hand. With gentle fingertips, he touches the tender skin and watches Dennis’ face. “Tell me if it hurts…”
“Barely…” A few taps at the nearby bones. “You might need a few more chickens before you have the strength to commit to that,” he mutters, giving Michael a side-eye.
Michael bites back the smile on his lips as his chest tightens. He lets go. “You're just tougher than you look.”
“Farm work is tough,” Dennis says, standing up. Michael's fingertips seem to burn. Especially the longer he stares at the bruised collarbone. “Now stay. I'll go get the medkit.”
He goes. Michael only gets a few good breaths in before he's back. That sound, like a ghost in his ears…
“You don’t–” A hopeful glance over at Dennis, sitting down close with the kit. “Have any music around, do you?”
“Uhm… I have a portable CD player, but I've ran out of batteries…”
“Worth asking,” Michael huffs, sitting back into an oddly hollow feeling.
“I have books, if you're bored.”
Now this is embarrassing. “My reading glasses broke a week into this bullshit.”
Dennis opens his mouth in a soundless ‘ah’ before smiling. Michael stares at the smile, the way his cheeks puff. “I could… Read to you…?”
Michael smiles down. “Do you like reading?"
“I don't mind,” says Dennis as he leans closer, pulling the covers down and Michael's shirt up to see the wound bleeding through the bandages. “Plus, I don't have much else to do…”
“When you're not cooking, taking care of the animals, me…”
“I have to keep busy.”
“That's… also why Alberta.”
Dennis peeks up at him, his curious blue eyes greyer in the candlelight. Six months since he's had someone so near who didn't want to eat him, or kill him to eat him later. “Right… Alberta. And then?”
Michael watches the kid change the gauze, clean the wound that still leaks in places, red where the bullet bit his skin off. There's blood matting in the dark hair on his stomach, his arm.
“Hell, I don't know,” Michael huffs. “I hadn't thought that far. Barely made it out of Illinois…”
“You've been on your own all this time…?”
Michael looks at him; at the softness of his expression and the slope of his jaw. It's all he can do to nod. And maybe it's the way in which Dennis looks down, the smile he shows even if maybe against his will, something that once again bleeds through—but Michael swears he almost hears a ‘me too’. With it, the yank of a rope.
“Dennis,” he says, as softly as the kid tends to him. Their eyes meet again, and the hand that slides the bandage closed lingers. “That night you found me out there…”
“Hm?”
A thick swallow, and a deep breath. It's a bad idea. “Were you lonely?”
As if called by some secret prayer, water wells in the kid's eyes but he frowns and looks down. “Isn't everyone…?” He cuts the tape. A shaky breath leaves him.
“Some bare with,” Michael mutters, carefully lifting a hand to lay it atop his head. Dennis flinches, Michael's fingers twitching, hovering with curls brushing just. Dennis’ lips purse and contorts into an almost-sneer.
“Yeah… I—” A strong wind rattles the old window. “I suppose I got tired of that, too… Baring with.”
Michael smiles and nods. His hand settles properly, and he forgets to breathe with how fucking soft it is. Is there still hair conditioner in this goddamn house? Conditioner and chickens.
“When you're feeling better, we can talk about bathing you,” Dennis says as if he read his mind. Michael flushes. Dennis immediately hurries to say, “Oh, no… I just mean… I can heat up water for a bath. You probably miss hot water… You smell fine.”
“I do?” Michael laughs. The kid flusters and stands up with the med kit, and Michael's hand falls.
“Maybe a bit mucky…?”
“Oof,” Michael huffs.
“It’s not worse than your horse.”
“You really know how to flatter a guy.”
Dennis blinks, med kit tight against his chest in his crossed-arm hold. “You're quite handsome, though.” Michael stares as if he still had glasses, above the rim. “So that probably makes up for it…” A pause. “Did you have a girlfriend…? Or… were you married?” The kid asks, looking down. Michael stares at the nail nervously fidgeting with a piece of broken plastic from the med kit.
“Ah, no. Never married.” It's such a practiced line. “No kids. Some exes.” A tilt of Michael's head. “You ask because I'm… handsome?”
Dennis blinks. “I mean, yeah…?”
Michael feels the stupid smile on his face. “Did you have a girlfriend?”
Dennis blushes, cheeks, ears, neck. “Oh. No. I wasn't that popular… My eldest brother, though,” he goes on with a hint of happiness, “Probably too good looking for his own good. I'm pretty sure he dated every girl his age in town.”
“Is this the stoner?” Michael chuckles.
“Nah, that's John. Middle brother.”
“Typical,” Michael says and Dennis smiles. “He doesn't mind us, maybe smoking it in a fortnight?”
Dennis chuckles. “Us…? I've never… I mean once, but it made me cough a lot and they just made fun of me.”
“I wouldn't make fun of you,” Michael promises. “No peer pressure here, though.”
Dennis shrugs. And the smile he tries to hide is probably the most beautiful one Michael has seen so far. Almost cheeky. “I don't mind a little bit of peer pressure…”
That just… Michael looks away, laughing at his own fucking wound. Deserved. He can still see it, though, that cocky little smile, so he peeks to see it again, but Dennis has turned to go. Michael's eyes catch at his jeans, instead, and he looks away like he's been shocked.
“What kind of book?” Dennis asks from the door, once he's all eyes and a mop of hair looking in by the doorframe.
“Not a clue. Bring me a few.”
Dennis smiles, nodding with cheer, and Michael starts thinking about the gates of Gehenna. Since that's where he's going and all.