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“How many days since we’ve seen anything but fields,” she griped one morning.
“Three if I was countin’.”
They were traipsing across endless summer fields when the storm blew in. Joel cursed a little while about how long it would take their boots to dry out after they finally squelched into the old machine shop with the missing door.
“Ellie get back from the door,” he griped.
“Why? I’m already soaked.”
“You’ll get more soaked. Change out of those wet clothes,” he grumbled. “We’ll hang it all up and let it dry.”
His mood improved after he’d dug around in the abandoned shop awhile and found a pair of channellocks.
“No comics,” she pouted, toeing at a dry rotted tractor tire by the door.
After satisfying himself that he’d unearthed all the treasures the place had to offer he walked to the open door and sat on the floor, staring out at the pouring rain.
Lightning split the sky and he found himself counting silently like a kid.
“Three miles away,” he said when the thunder rumbled.
She looked up from the toolbox full of mice pellets she was a shaking. “What? How do you know?”
“You count the seconds and divide by five.”
“Nuh uh, you made that up.”
“Believe whatcha want,” he drawled. “Get changed.”
She grumbled unintelligibly behind him and he heard the wet suck of her shirt being pulled off of her head.
“Just leave ‘em and I’ll rig something to dry it on in a minute.”
“You gonna change?”
“Yeah after you get done.”
He pulled off his boots and wet socks, leaned back on his right arm. The rain drummed against the tin roof and he let himself accept it as a day off, like he was having to delay pouring concrete. Could gather up some of the bits of burnable debris around the shop after the storm blew off, start a fire, dry their clothes, spend the night in guaranteed shelter.
So they’d be a day behind. Who was counting.
She stomped over from behind his shoulder, dropped into his lap between his knees and leaned back into his wet shirt, body bare except for her panties and sports bra.
“Whoa girl,” he jerked back from her mostly naked body.
“Don’t be a prude,” she yawned.
“Pretty sure that ain’t the word anybody else’d use,” he grumbled.
“Nobody else here. Shut up and enjoy the rain.”
He considered arguing the point, but she made a happy little sigh and he could feel her steady breathing through her shoulders onto his chest and it was peaceful. Not just the quiet in between massacres of infected, or the uneasy wariness when they’d gone so long without seeing people he became sure it was because something was wrong, but peaceful. Just them, staring into the rain.
Lightning flashed.
“One. Two. Three,” she counted.
“Nope, gotta add the Mississippis. You’re countin too fast. One Mississippi, two Mississippi.”
“You’re making this up too.”
“Nope.”
“Why Mississippi? Why not,” she counted syllables on her fingers, “helicopter?”
“No idea.”
The thunder rumbled.
“Made me lose count, old man.”
“You were countin wrong anyway.”
“Asshole.”
“Can’t believe they didn’t teach you how to count at school.”
“Was a really shitty one.”
“You’ve said.”
“What did you learn in school?”
“Uh. Math. Learned math. Learned how to diagram a sentence, that’s come in real fuckin useful.”
“Really?”
“No.”
They sat in comfortable silence under the rain. She gave another happy little sigh and took his left hand in hers. He again considered moving away but stopped at consideration. Maybe everything good didn’t have to have an edge. Maybe everything sweet didn’t have to be a sin.
But then she pulled his hand and laid his fingers over her crotch and it was damnation after all.
“Ellie,” he complained, more annoyed than angry. “Quit it.”
“Quit what?” She asked innocently.
He didn’t answer. Should pull his hand away. Should stand up.
But it kept raining.
So he didn’t.
Just let his fingers rest against her crotch where she’d laid them.
They stayed that way for another flash of lightning.
“One Mississippi. Two Mississippi,” she started counting.
The thunder rolled at 13 Mississippis.
“Thirteen divided by 5,” she said.
“Two somethin. Two point six.”
She laced her fingers through his.
“So two and a half miles.”
“Thereabouts.”
“Getting closer.”
“Mm.”
She curled their fingers against her crotch and let out a contented little grunt.
“Ellie,” he muttered again.
“Just - for a couple Mississippis,” she said. “You can count.” It flashed again. “Till the thunder,” she said sensibly, as though that were a reasonable compromise. “Ooooooone Mississippi.”
“Two Mississippi,” he grumbled, drawing a heavy circle with two fingers against her clit through her panties.
She burrowed back against him, ass pushing into his crotch.
“Three Mississippi,” she agreed, pushing herself into his fingers.
A sick sort of anticipation sluiced through him - almost dizzying. Like standing on top of the rafters when you were done framing, thinking ‘ I could jump ’.
“Four Mississippi,” he managed to get out as he felt the little knot under his finger swell.
She probably said five. He quit noticing. Slid his fingers under the panties, felt her warm and wet like the summer rain, dangerous as the lightning.
Waited for her to jerk away, to realize that this was too far, too much, too wrong, but she didn’t. She shifted to put her legs outside of his, wedging her feet under his calves and spreading herself open for his fingers.
He took a slow pinch of her outer lips, made a soft brush against her clit with the two fingers trapped between her and her underwear.
The thunder rolled and he hesitated.
She made a dissatisfied little rumble, so he sat up, shook feeling back into his right hand, reached around her and slid it between the bra and her skin.
“This ain’t gonna be a habit,” he muttered.
“Ok,” she agreed breathlessly.
“I mean it Ellie,” he squeezed her nipple between two fingers. “Don’t make me regret it. This is a one Mississippi kinda deal.”
“I got it, I got it.”
He let himself pretend to believe her.
“A’ight.”
She leaned back, rested her head on his chest, and closed her eyes.
The slow, gentle exploration of his fingers continued. Soft, almost too soft, pressure against her clit, fingers sliding on either side back and forth, back and forth, steady as the rain.
She started wriggling and he stopped, breathing a silent little laugh into her neck.
“Don’t know what your damn hurry is.”
He didn’t move again until she said
“Come on man.”
The chuckle in his throat rumbled against her cheek.
“You gotta learn to be patient. Never gonna be any kinda hunter if you can’t sit still and wait.”
She sighed, sat up and pulled her sports bra over her head, canted her hips up to pull her panties off.
“Hold on,” he began before she interrupted with
“Don’t be a dick,” and he looked up at the sky like he was expecting the next lightning strike to fry him where he sat but didn’t argue again.
She squirmed back up against him and put his hands back where they’d been.
“Now go,” she demanded.
“Bossy,” he muttered, obediently resuming the gentle little strokes.
She accepted that happily for another flash and thunder (two miles away) before saying “in.”
“In what.”
“ Me.”
He considered saying no. Considered it very strongly. But as he considered it he leaned back into the tractor tire behind him, pulling her back with him, her weight on his chest, and slipped a finger inside.
“Mmhm,” she sighed.
He could feel the tight walls pushing against his finger, sucking him in.
“You done that?” He managed to ask.
“Mmhm. But it’s not - I’ve got little fingers.”
“Too much?”
“No. ‘Sgood.”
He let his thumb slide up and down her slit; it wasn’t the best angle really, it would be easier if she lay down and he could be beside her but that was too much like something that this wasn’t; it wasn’t it was just the rain and the storm, just the space between the lightning and the thunder in an endless field, the count between the strike and the sound until they were one and the destruction was on top of you all at once.
Them sitting leaned against the tire, her with her back to him, not looking at him - was a shelter.
Her hand was still on his, her finger touching where their bodies met and rubbing against his every time he slid it in and out. He knew what she was going to do a split second before she did it, realized it just before she pressed her finger against his the next time it slid out and slid hers in crushed next to his and their fingers were both inside her.
When he sucked in a surprised little stuttering inhale through his nose she wriggled against him like she was pleased with herself for producing that reaction.
He glanced down at her feet wedged under his still sopping jeans and it occurred to him distantly that he had been barefoot now for longer than he had in weeks.
His constant state of preparation had stalled to sit on the floor with her and watch the rain while lightning shattered the sky.
He wasn’t prepared. He was just following her into the storm.
“I like this,” she whispered.
He rubbed his thumb loosely over her clit, decided it was too much like rubbing his head and patting his stomach to try to have the same hand doing different things, let go of her chest to reach his right down and replaced his thumb with a middle and pointer to circle over her.
Her hips jerked against his hand but he didn’t try to slow her down again, just moved his fingers a little faster, a little harder,
She let out a high whine.
“Go on, nobody else here,” he whispered.
She whined louder, grabbed a handful of wet jean leg, anchoring herself to him.
He slid her clit under his slick fingers and she leaned back into the lips on her ear, felt his beard scratch against her neck and cheek.
“That’s right kiddo,” she felt his lips move against her when he spoke. “That’s good, like that.”
He slid his finger further than hers would reach, scraped it against the inside, pinched her clit between the tips of his ring and pointer fingers, pet the head with the pad of his middle, said
“Attagirl.”
and she came apart.
He continued slow off-centered strokes until the lightning flashed again. Cupped his hand over her until the thunder.
“One mile,” she panted. “Bet I can get you off before it gets here.”
“No you ain’t. You need to get dry clothes on anyway, gonna get cold.”
“So do you, you’re still all wet.”
“You first.”
She grumbled under her breath but stood and walked back to her bag. He stared out the door, as if seeing her naked from the front was more intimate than what he’d already done.
Lightning.
One Mississippi. Two Mississippi.
Thunder boomed.
He stood, walked out into the rain. Heard her call his name but didn’t turn.
The rain pelted down onto his bare head as the mud squished up between his toes.
Standing on the rafters like a lightning rod in the storm, waiting for the blast that would knock him to the ground when the fire came down from heaven.
It was just supposed to be that once .
But who’s counting.
Heard her call his name again. Couldn’t tempt judgment, she’d be out here by herself, lost, alone, afraid. He was going to get her killed, either by being too old and slow or by inviting wrath.
He could still feel the weight of her head against his shoulder, hear her little satisfied noises. How long from the strike to the crash?
Enough time to -
Nope, nope, nope.
Maybe he could count the spaces between his sins and his destruction. Maybe if he counted very, very slowly the rain would wash him clean before the storm tore him away - tore them apart. Maybe he’d come to shelter before consequences.
He turned and went back inside. Lightning flashed.
One.
M-
I-
S-
S-
Thunder.
Missed me.
~
…We were born survivors….
It’s never too late
Hell will have to wait.
Well it won’t get me today.
Oh, Not today.
~ Prayed for Rain