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Rain. Endless rain.
Lyra told herself it could be useful – every collector they had was full now, after a week of near non-stop storms and showers. Water they didn’t need to risk their lives for was a boon.
But it also meant muddy roads. Fallen power lines. Hordes would be drawn out of their usual haunts by the rolls of thunder and windswept debris. Animals would seek cover. This was no weather to scavenge in.
It meant a lot of days holed up with Mal.
She might have liked to take the opportunity to sleep in, stay in bed, and get some well-deserved downtime. But that would remove any good excuse to be anything other than tangled up with him. He was perceptive. He noticed things. So instead Lyra utilized her work ethic to rearrange the kitchen and organize the mess of their shelves into something resembling functionality.
By the time Mal realized the rain wasn't stopping anytime soon, he also came to the unfortunate conclusion that he couldn't keep putting this off. Eventually it would come up regardless, and the anxiety of stewing in it without knowing for sure — without knowing if Lyra knew — was eating Mal alive.
With the storms came the lack of their usual freedom. No roaming out. No distractions, other than chores, sleep, and sex, the latter of which Lyra seemed less enthusiastic about initiating than normal. Not overtly avoidant — but come on — who voluntarily chose to organize the kitchen and pantry rather than spend at least part of the day in bed?
But talking about it meant, well, talking about it. Which meant bringing it up in the first place, which was where Mal consistently stalled out in his brilliant plan to find out if Lyra was a mother-to-be.
If he was wrong, she was going to kill him.
Hell, if he was right she might still kill him anyway.
Mal finally worked up the nerve after Lyra had organized her way through the better part of one of the shelves. He poked his head around the doorframe first, then slipped the rest of the way into the room. Cleared his throat, just in case he didn't already have her attention.
Better get this over with quick before he lost his nerve.
"Hey, uh — can we talk a sec?" Leaning back against the doorframe, Mal slipped a hand into the baggy hoodie he'd taken to wearing around the house, and chewed at a hangnail on the thumb of his other. Strands of messy, ginger hair fell in front of his eyes, escaped from his attempts to comb them into style. "Looking good in here though," he added, lip tugging in a more-characteristic smile.
She only turned her head half to face him, a glinting green eye sweeping over him with brevit assessment and then returning to the task at hand. Deft fingers turned a can of pork’n’beans just so. Right between the corn and the sardines. Perfect. Not a bit of wasted space. “If yer tryin’ to butter me up so I’ll agree t’help ye chase pigeons around the park again, save yer breath. As ye can see, we’re not that starved.”
The sound of teeth biting through a chunk of nail was nearly audible, even over the drum of rain. Mal huffed quietly, then tucked that hand away inside his pocket too.
"Yeah, but we don't have eggs. Still think fresh eggs would be nice." Rather than allow himself to be sidetracked, Mal continued with his original point. "But that's not, uhm —" Christ, there was really no good way to ask this, was there? "I was kinda wondering more if things were...good, with you?" Between the moodswings, bizarre cravings, and puking her guts up nearly every morning a while back, it was pretty obvious to Mal something was wrong.
It didn't necessarily mean a baby, but...
Mal grimaced. "You know you can just tell me if — if you're — I mean if something's..." He trailed off, trying and failing not to look guilty as a hand crept up to rub at the back of his neck.
Lyra stopped. Back turned to him, she grimaced, braced herself – and shut the cabinet.
When she faced him, she wore a mask of reproachful skepticism. After all, only guilty people gave their own guilt away. If he was hoping to catch her off guard, he’d be disappointed. Besides, this might have nothing to do with… what she was afraid it might have to do with.
“Somethin’ like bein’ stuck in this hole with ye for more days than it took all a’creation t’come into bein’? ‘Course I’m stir crazy. Might as well be useful about it.” She folded her arms, “Yer lucky I like ye enough I didn’t decide te sort the garage instead.”
Okay, fair, Mal thought, before the indignation of the second bit could fully sink in. Anyone would be feeling cooped up after so long indoors.
But Mal also knew Lyra well enough to know for a fact that wasn't the issue. Any other time, with lower stakes, he'd let himself be diverted and drop the issue for her peace of mind. Mal did his best not to push. Gave her whatever space she needed when things got too heated, or hit close to old wounds.
Mal cared about Lyra. Deeply. He didn't want to hurt her. Or back her into a corner, even to have a conversation they needed to have.
Unfortunately for both of them, Mal didn't see a way around it this time.
He took a slow, deep breath and forced himself to look at her as he said, "No, I mean — I'm talking about everything else. The — you know, all the weird shit."
She cocked a skeptical warning brow.
Ugh, she really was going to make him say it, wasn't she? The hand rubbing at the back of his neck curled, and Mal scratched at freckled skin hard enough to sting. Fuck. Okay. Right. Just get it over with quick, like ripping off a bandaid.
"Lyra, are you — pregnant?" The last word came out softer, more raw and less steady, than Mal hoped. His heart thumped hard in his chest. Squeezed, like it was trying to wring itself out like a washcloth.
She blinked. Glanced to the side, before remembering that would make her look guilty. Then back to Mal, and stared at him, hard.
Lyra couldn’t have children. She’d known it to be likely before she was even of age – her mother had been all but barren, and Lyra’s birth damn near called a proper Catholic miracle. When her own cycles finally came they came unevenly – so it was a certainty she’d inherited the same poor odds.
A lucky quirk of genetics, to be sure. It made her previous line of work, before the end of the fucking world, much easier. The few times she’d even had to consider the possibility of conception were met with misscarriage soon after. So even when the first signs had manifested, Lyra hadn’t worried. Had hardly noticed at all.
There wasn’t much room to doubt now, though. By the time denial lost the practical advantage, raiding the local overrun Pharmahug for some morning-after pills wasn’t going to work. And the kinds of doctors you might find out here, while certainly backroom in nature, weren’t liable to know how to handle… this safely.
She was stuck with this condition. An equally miraculous deliverance from it seemed more unlikely every day. If God was even looking her way (which she doubted, because no Divine interferer had ever seemed particularly interested in looking out for her thus far) then this was probably a punishment. She had no bleedin’ use for Him, and wouldn’t stoop to praying.
This was her own problem to solve. Of course she’d known Mal would eventually pick up on it all. It hadn’t been her intention to keep quiet till the end. She’d just needed – more time. A better plan. A way to smooth things over.
Time, of course, was always in short supply.
Her fingers clutched tight on the edge of the countertop behind her, but she sighed nonchalantly. “I didn’t see a point in worryin’ ye. I’ve got it all sorted; I’m gettin’ rid of it. So there’s nothin’ ye need to concern yerself with.”
She’d told him before, there’d never be any little accidents when they made merry between the sheets. This wasn’t exactly how she’d intended to keep that claim, but she’d keep it nonetheless.
Stunned silence followed. Mal swallowed, skin prickling with unease in the humid air. Somewhere between his question and her reply, the bottom had dropped out of his stomach. He felt the swoop of it catch behind his navel, throwing him off balance.
"Get — get rid of it?" The words felt thick and wrong in his mouth, and tasted bitter.
In the world before, Mal could've imagined how Lyra might've 'dealt' with it. Maybe it'd never been a problem (or never his problem, at least), but Mal had known women who'd been desperate enough to find doctors to help terminate a pregnancy.
Personally, Mal didn't hold it against them. It still felt kinder than most of the alternatives. Getting the boot while you were still just a little glob of tissue and cells, never having to deal with the bullshit of the outside world, never knowing even the people responsible for your existence didn't want you — yeah, Mal could wrap his mind around that being a kindness. He'd seen the aftermath of the alternative and it sure as hell wasn't.
An edge of dark humor crept into his tone as Mal forced himself to meet Lyra's eyes. It just barely covered the unexpected anger simmering below the surface. "What — what the fuck does that mean? Are you gonna, what, tie it up in a sack and dump it in the river?"
She’d thought about it.
Well – not that , exactly, but certainly more humane methods of achieving the same goal. Ends that would be better than starvation or sickness or – should it be so unlucky – discovery by the Dead. They weren’t pleasant thoughts, but these weren’t pleasant times. You didn’t survive the end of the world by being squeamish.
In the end, she’d decided it was better to give the tyke a fighting chance. The same as she’d been given. The best anyone could hope for, especially now. “Plenty a’ folks take the interstate as a trade road. There’s stops everyone in the county knows. I’ll find someone t’take it, or leave it at a likely spot t’be found. No trouble.” She answered dismissively, waving a hand to indicate that ought to be the end of it.
To press the reassurance further, she went back to her sorting.
Lyra was used to violent men. Her whole life she’d spent spinning them, turning their teeth outward at her enemies. Or distracting them long enough to get what she needed, and move on. She was good at it. She understood what they wanted. And what they didn’t. Oftentimes better than the men themselves.
Women who thought the threat of a baby would inspire loyalty and devotion were often left destitute for their scheming, and Lyra didn’t intend to count among their number.
Mal was an investment for the long-term.
He went quiet after Lyra answered. Mal stayed quiet as she dismissed the whole thing like it was as simple as taking out the trash, and turned back to the shelf. The scrape and rattle of canned goods sounded unnaturally loud in the void left by the sound of their voices.
He felt heat rise in his face. Something protective surged at the thought of just...leaving a kid like that. Pawning them off on strangers.
When he did speak, finally, it was laced with something that ran deeper than anger. "‘No trouble’?" He echoed, lip twisting. "What the fuck , Lyra? You can't just sell a goddamn baby!"
Their child, a voice nagged. Her child, his child, their child —
Lyra’s shoulders tensed. Just a little. She turned again, brow sharply furrowed, a can still in hand. “Was drownin’ it like some mutt a serious suggestion, then?”
He took a half-step away from the wall, hands falling to his sides and curling into fists. "What the hell is wrong with you?" Mal snarled. Not quite pleading, because he was too fucking angry for that, even if some part of him was desperate for Lyra to be different. Just in this one way, this case, for them.
“Wrong wit’ me?” Lyra’s fingers curled tight around the can’s metal grooves. Mal had always been too soft. But acting like taking their survival seriously – putting the two of them first – was somehow… a flaw? Her lip curled. “I’m doin’ what I’ve always done. Keepin’ us alive.” She scoffed. “You tink now’s the time t’be playin’ house? Want yerself a doll that screams an’ wails – so you can dress it up ‘n feed it till it’s fat enough t’make a meal for the Runners it’ll bring t’our door? Knew ye were a dope, but didn’t take ye fer bein’ delusional.”
Mal flinched, just enough to give him away. "I — no, " he started, voice rough. "But I'm not just gonna throw our baby to whatever random ass stranger offers to take it. Or — fucking leave it in a ditch for the crows." Nausea rose at the thought, despite the fact that Mal had seen some shit out here already.
The virus didn't discriminate much by age, and not all of the shambling dead outside had been adults when they'd succumbed. They'd both seen the remains, too. Mal handled it better now than the first time they'd stumbled into a nursery painted a bright, cheery yellow that was nearly lost beneath the bloodstains.
That had been uncomfortable, but Mal had managed to keep his lunch down...until he made the mistake of looking in the crib.
It wasn't empty. It was still moving —
It'd been too late for that kid.
It was too late for hundreds, thousands, of others. Mal could even see some sense in Lyra's hesitance to bring a child into this hellscape, if she hadn't been so dead set on pawning it off to someone else.
Sure, there were a lot of horrible ways to die out here, in a world remade by the dead. But there were also a lot of horrific things to subject a child to while it was still alive. The first, at least, Mal had some ability to guard against. And the second sure as hell wasn't happening on his watch.
Swallowing hard, Mal didn't try to mask his disgust. "You really wanna just — trade it away to someone , after the kind of messed up shit we went through as kids?" Lyra hadn't told Mal all the details of her childhood, but he'd gotten enough to paint a disturbingly vivid picture, and it made his look almost tame by comparison. "I'm not gonna do that to our baby, Lyra." Something caught in Mal's throat, and the last half of his admission snagged. "I — can't."
Her eyes glinted a shade darker. She stood a little taller. “We’re still breathin’ ‘cause we already knew what this feckin’ world was like. And I dunno if ye’ve taken a stroll around our charmin’ little neighborhood lately, but nobody’s getting birthday parties and visits from Santa anymore.” She threw her hand up, the weight of the can heavy with drag. Snarled, “Every fool who was before is shamblin’ around wit bits of ‘em fallin’ off, moanin’ and carryin’ on. I’ve got no mind t’join ‘em fer what – sentiment ? Can ye eat that? Will it keep Zeds off yer back ? A baby’ll be nothin’ but grief, mark my words.”
A scoff, and Lyra shook her head. “If the kid’s got what it takes t’survive, it’ll damn well do so. It’ll learn the same lessons we did. Better maybe – out there.” Without looking, she shoved the can onto the shelf, pushing the others aside. “Neither of us asked fer this. It ain’t our fuckin’ responsibility. If someone else wants it, hell, let ‘em have it. But don’t –”, her voice wavered with an intense rage, cheeks flushed red, “you dare pretend I’m bein’ unreasonable. Feelin’ guilty about somethin’ that happens every day is about as useful as feathers on a fuckin’ fish.”
It wasn't really rage that possessed Mal.
Grief, maybe. Helplessness. He didn't think too hard about the words to put to the feeling, because in the end it didn't really matter. Not like he knew what to do with it, regardless of what he called it.
"Fuck the world then," he snapped, face flushed. "Fuck — all of it! Shit."
Scrubbing a hand through his hair, Mal pushed out a breath and turned to the side. Pressure clamped down around his chest and his head, suffocating him. He needed to move before he drowned in it.
The room was small, but there was just enough space behind the island counter for him to take a handful of small strides. Stop at the doorway. Turn. Pace back to the locked and curtained door, then turn again. Vindictively, Mal aimed a kick at the trash can along the way. It toppled over with a clatter, spilling empty cans and other bits of useless garbage across the grimy tile floor.
“Oh tat’s very nice. I see it’s company yer own age yer after.” Lyra sneered, crossing her arms and leaning back against the counter with a huff.
"You didn't have to stop Jericho," Mal said, once he reigned in his temper enough to speak. "He probably would've just beat the shit out of me, not killed me. That's just life , right? Not your fucking responsibility." Mal stared down at the mess of garbage to avoid looking at Lyra. "I could've left you to the Zeds too, when that van stalled. That wasn't my responsibility either — fuck." A small, bitter laugh worked its way out of Mal's throat. "I'm just... sick of it. All of it. This world fucking sucks."
A sharp prickle arced through Lyra from toes to spine, and she trembled, fists clenched. “ Zeds eat yer feckin’ brains? ” She stalked forward – lunged even – to brace against the island counter between them. A brutal palm slammed onto the granite. “I didn’t save ye fer pity, asshole. And that’s all keepin’ a baby would be. What part of that exactly is confusin’ to ye?”
Mal tossed back a muttered string of profanity telling her exactly where she could shove all of that, then returned to his pacing. Both hands rose to clasp the back of his neck in the vain hope that might ground him.
Lyra could scarcely believe it. He wasn’t angry about the surprise, no. Or the hassle of dealing with it. He’d rather not deal with it at all. “Ye can’t be seriously tinkin there’s anythin’ but blood t’be had from keepin’ it! Ye couldn’t even keep that damn cat alive.”
Lyra always knew where to dig her nails in to gouge the places that stung worst. In the scheme of things, it was small; the fact that it held a grain of truth was what really got under Mal's skin.
He reached the end of the kitchen, turned and stalked back the other direction. Giving up the baby wasn't a choice Mal could accept, not without knowing where it would end up. A 'mercy' killing, something quick, as humane as possible — Mal considered it. Entertained that line of thought right up to the point he knew he couldn't go through with it.
Not without a better reason. Not without at least giving the kid a chance.
Scowling at a point on the floor ahead of him, Mal curled his fingers harder against the back of his neck.
Fuck.
"I mean…I can't think of anywhere else it'd have a better shot than with us."
“And what about our fuckin’ chances, Mal?” Lyra spat back, knuckles white on the countertop. “What d’ye think keepin’ a helpless brat fed and safe an’ raised will cost us?”
"I don't know," Mal admitted, after a few more seconds of silent pacing. "But I do know the cost of tossing a kid to the wolves, and it's too fucking high, alright?"
“Too fuckin’ – ?” Lyra gaped, chest tight. She’d hoped to bring him around to a reasonable way of thinking. That he’d realize he wasn’t talking sense, and she was , and they could move on. But Mal seemed to think an unborn baby, one he hadn’t even asked for or wanted, was somehow more valuable than – than anything. Even them. Even her.
And worse, seemed to think she was somehow the crazy one for not being similarly enamoured with whatever fairy tale he’d imagined would play out. She felt her heartbeat in her ears, cheeks pulsed hot. “Don’t be so goddamn naive. The world’s ended, or hadn’t ye noticed? No price is too high if it keeps us breathin’ another day.” She hissed. “So come off it with that fuckin’ bollox before ye get us both killed.”
Mal answered back with a grunt and ambiguous shake of his head. Phantom pain ached in his chest. "I can't — okay?" Things would be so much easier if he could. "Look, I'm fucking sorry, alright, but — ugh."
“Of all the nonsense that’s ever come outta yer mouth, that takes the fuckin’ cake.” She grinned with teeth.
Mal didn't have anything else to say she wanted to hear; he knew that much at least. They could stand here and swear and spit at each other all afternoon, but Mal didn't really want to fight with her just for the hell of it.
Outside, the rain continued at a near-downpour. Shitty weather to be caught out in, but Mal wouldn't melt. He needed to clear his head, move.
Space seemed the best thing to give the two of them right now, anyway.
"Fuck this, I need some air. I'm going out," Mal said, this time reaching for the door when he made his next lap around the kitchen. He tugged it open, letting in a cool, humid blast of air and the smell of rain. Droplets of water spattered against his cheeks. "I'll be back later."
Before he could reconsider, or Lyra could protest (or chuck a can at the back of his head), Mal slipped out and pulled the door shut hard behind him.
Alarm coursed through her like a lightning bolt. Arguing, here, she still had a chance to change his mind. Get this back under control. Out there, alone? He could come to any conclusion at all. Lyra surged forward after the door and flung it open. Thunder rolled high above them, rattling her to the core. Time to change tactics.
“Don’t I mean anythin’ to ye?” She wailed, angry still, over the crash of rain. Lyra didn’t cry. Some defenses were too deeply ingrained. But she shivered in the cold rain. Made herself small. Hoped that whatever possessed him to protect the thing growing inside her might turn its gaze to the something he could see, and feel, and touch, right now , instead.
Three strides towards the fence and Mal stopped like Lyrha's voice had him under a spell. It felt like it, almost, the knee-jerk reaction to respond to the plea crashing against the sour taste that rose in the back of his throat.
Torn, Mal just...stopped. Stood there, shoulders tense, as thunder growled around them and rain plastered his hair to his head and soaked into his clothes.
Lyrha lied. Manipulated. Led men around by their hearts (or their cocks) to get what she wanted. Mal wasn't stupid, and he hadn't gone into this relationship blind. But for all their stupid fights and arguments, she'd never tried to twist Mal around her finger like this.
This was new and different and sickeningly familiar for all the worst reasons.
Mal hated it.
"Lyrha, don't —" Mal ground out, expression twisting into a pained grimace, still not daring to look back at her. Head down, he stared at the puddles of water pooling around his shoes and listened for indications she was creeping closer.
Don't do this, don't make this like before, stop fucking acting like him.
Another sharp crack of thunder split the air. Mal felt the vibration of it behind his ribs. Water dripped from the tips of his hair, trickled in cold rivulets down the back of his neck.
She knew better than to chase him past the threshold of their home. Pulling his heartstrings was one thing. But too desperate – that was the worst she could appear to be. Losing Mal had now begun to feel like a very real threat, and for all the wrong reasons. Unlike the rest, the men who’d come before, he wasn’t a bridge she was willing to burn.
Slumped in the doorway, Lyra made another bid, the whine her voice twisting like a knife, “Then don’t leave me ‘ere in the middle o’this, Amadan.”
Grinding his teeth, Mal waited out another peal of thunder. He closed his eyes. Her voice grated against already frayed nerves, and Mal gave another thought to simply jumping the fence and disappearing for a while anyway.
Instead, he turned, fixing muddy green eyes on Lyra and not bothering to hide the swirl of emotions battling for control. His anger, and hurt, and betrayal, and beneath that — still — affection for her.
Shivering there in the rain, she looked small, and pathetic, and Mal was fucking sure every other idiot she'd planted a knife in the back of had thought the same thing.
"Just stop ," Mal said, quietly, with teeth. "If you actually give a fuck about me, then stop trying to get in my head and make me do what you want. Christ." Mal choked back a bitter laugh. "You're as bad as Jericho."
She blinked, startled. The insult didn’t sting. For all his flaws, what Jericho hadn’t lacked was charisma. She was better than Jericho – or worse, maybe, going by Mal’s metric. And proud to be so. It kept her alive. It kept them both alive.
But Jericho meant something to Mal that Lyra never wanted to mean. Rigging Jericho’s name to an accusation of scheming proved she’d utterly failed, for one, to stir the sympathy in Mal she badly needed.
And though rage was never far from reach in Lyra’s heart, it rarely burned hot as it did in that moment, when it rushed to meet the cold shock of fear that must be utterly, unequivocally rejected, if she was to survive what came next.
So violently did it flare – she couldn’t even think to be disgusted by her own self for such histrionics.
“Fuckin’ hell, Mal. I’m – nothin’ like that fuckin’ bollox!” She snarled, lip curled like a dog ready to bite. She had to make him see. Make him understand. Pull him back. “All I’ve done this whole fuckin’ time is give a fuck about you! An’ now the moment I ask ye t’do th’same all ye can manage back is — a barmy tantrum!” She straightened herself, took a stomp back, cheeks quivering as rain splattered down. A spew of angry Gaelic and nigh-unparseable English followed, each word more savage than the one before. About her efforts. His ingratitude. Her pain. His ego. She tossed her head, glowering and hot-cheeked, “The only selfish one here is you , ye poxbottle!”
"Awesome! Fucking fantastic — really glad we cleared that up," Mal muttered, after Lyra left enough dead air for him to get out a reply. "Now this 'blarney feckin' poxwaffle' is gonna go for a walk before he loses his goddamn mind." Mal shook his head, and added more to himself than Lyra, "And his fucking hearing. Jesus."
This time, Mal was determined to actually leave. No amount of screaming, pleading, tears, or tantrums was going to sway him; if Lyra wanted to stop him, she'd better hope she was fast enough to catch him.
Mal bolted, heading for the fence like a horde of Zeds was on his heels.
“Where the hell’d’ye tink ye goin’ in weather like this witout any sharp ends!”, Lyra gawked after him, veritably frothing, “Fine! Get eaten’ fer all I care! Gabh suas ort fhein! A mhagarlaigh!”
But he was gone, and the blaring storm above drowned out her violent assault. Lyra was not similarly foolish enough to leap unprepared into the realm of the Dead. Spinning with the unequaled fervor of wounded pride, she slammed the door shut behind her on the way inside. Kicked the toppled trash can. Hard. “Bod! ”
She kicked the trash, too. Stomped a pile of dirty rags like they were the head of a Zed. Then grabbed the closest thing she could find – another fucking can of peas – and flung it as hard as she could at the wall. Plaster gave way beneath her fury. “Sack o’scaldy’ testicle pus!” Her breath came fast and shallow, chest heaving, and Lyra staggered under the weight of her fury.
She thought she might be sick.
Mal had always been willing to take risks for her, well beyond any rational motive. She’d always paid him back, plus a little extra. Because a lovestruck man that listened when you talked was worth keeping around, no matter his other qualities. But now he seemed to have found something more interesting to gamble on. Or decided she was a sunk cost.
A porcelain bowl shot in a bolt towards the fridge, shattering. She howled.
Lyra sank to the ground, clutching at her stomach with claw-like hands and shaking in earnest as the patter of rain dampened all other sounds.
She didn’t need him. She’d rebuilt herself a dozen times over, and she could do it again. Even in this world. It was a bloody hames she’d made such a spectacle of herself at all, as if he mattered, in the scheme of things. As if she’d ever really believed this was something to last, when now, as ever, nothing lasted at all.
Especially not men like him. Cowards. Fools. Amadan.
He didn’t have what it took, and it was her who ought to be collecting her chips and leaving. She glared at the floor a moment longer, as if willing it to set ablaze. When it refused to combust, she flung herself upright, toward the stairs, and the bedroom, and a fucking suitcase.
The sound of Lyra's ranting tapered off, swallowed by the storm before Mal made it to the neighboring house. She didn't follow.
Nothing pursued him but the creak of tree limbs moaning in the wind and the rush of water cascading into the storm drains. The stretch of road and former homes around theirs looked clear.
Unsurprising, since he and Lyra patrolled it regularly, mopping up any stragglers that roamed in, and keeping up defenses and traps to divert hordes wandering in from other parts of the city.
Even their fellow survivors were more spread out, everyone who decided to stay having staked out their little chunk of territory and guarding it possessively. Mal steered clear of those roads. Unprepared didn't mean completely unarmed, but a multitool and a lighter were hardly an arsenal, and Mal preferred not to channel his inner-Rambo today if possible.
The fucking wind and rain though —
Eugh.
His soft, green sweatshirt was significantly less cozy and warm when it hung off his shoulders like a wet sack, heavy and dripping and doing fuck-all to keep out the biting wind. Even his shoes were soaked. They squelched disgustingly with each step, and his toes had already gone numb. Mal shivered.
No amount of brooding was worth turning into a popsicle.
Doubling back, Mal picked the house two down from theirs. He pried open a back window and climbed inside, gave the house a thorough sweep (empty, other than a family of mice nesting in the old sofa), then grabbed the musty smelling comforter off the master bed and wrapped himself in it like the world's soggiest burrito.
Cold, grumpy, and suddenly exhausted, Mal curled up on the bed, closed his eyes, and listened to the storm. No thinking. No pondering what the fuck Lyra was doing, or how the hell he was going to talk her into not tossing their baby into a fucking river, or trying to convince himself maybe she was right just to keep the peace.
Nope.
Just the soothing white noise of rain drumming on the roof and the subtle creak of the house as the storm raged outside. Cozy and safe and cocooned in blankets, finally coming down from the adrenaline high, Mal drifted off to sleep.
Lyra had half a hiking bag full of travel clothes (including Mal’s favorite sweater, just for spite) before the tidal wave of her fury began to fizzle into something less suffocating.
Kneeling down on the carpet, she huffed and stared at the messy pile of unfolded chaos thrown at her feet. She was still angry, to be sure. She just – wanted more resolution than punching a wall and tearing up socks could offer.
What the hell was Mal even thinking, acting like they could keep the damn brat?
He wasn’t thinking, that was the only explanation.
In many ways, her life thus far had been a series of worst-case “What Ifs.” So she expected Mal to die eventually. Even when she’d decided he was at least worth taking a risk for now and then to protect, it was still only practical understanding that in a dangerous town something would eventually go wrong. He might not die by her hand, but he would die.
She knew it because he was soft, because he was cocky, because he didn’t want to lead – and because he cared more than he claimed to, but when it came right down to it, he also didn’t really want to fight. Until now , apparently.
She was usually good at anticipating such things, because she’d had to be. Her survival depended on it. Pick the wrong boss, the wrong bedfollow, or the wrong mark in her line of work and you’d end up the dead one.
The problem was, she knew the cost of things better than Mal did. And until now, it hadn’t seemed practical at all to anticipate a wedge like morality to come between them. If he only understood , this wouldn’t be a fucking problem. Trying to start a family was madness throughout.
But he couldn’t understand, because he hadn’t seen the things she’d seen. So he couldn’t even be angry for the right reasons, and they were stuck having a pointless argument.
Because he was weak.
And for all the benefits he offered her, weakness was a danger it’d been foolish to underestimate. A juvenile mistake.
Her cheeks burned hot, and she yanked the backpack angrily to stomp into the bathroom. A spew of angry Gaelic erupted off her tongue. This was his fault. All of it. She wouldn’t be sorry for causing him pain he’d brought on himself. If Mal wanted to persist in blissful ignorance, he could go find himself a princess to do it with until the Zeds came busting down their door and ate them alive. Surprise!
There were other safehouses she could crash at for a while. She wasn’t really showing yet, and there were plenty of men who’d be happy to offer her hospitality for the usual favors while she decided on her next move. Derrick would be a good place to start.
Except somewhere between the peroxide and the bandages, she started asking herself why she’d bother giving up a place like this, all set up and secure, when Mal was as good as dead out there, anyway. Eventually.
If he didn’t want to live in reality, he should be the one to go off chasing rainbows, then. Good riddance. Fucking idiot.
Of course – that meant evicting him. If he came back.
Of course he’ll come back. She berated herself for the hysterics of even doubting it to begin with. Loyal as a feckin’ dog and twice as mangy. She had to plan for it, at least.
So she’d kick him out.
Which might be as simple as telling to get the fuck off, but what if it wasn’t? She had to be ready to back up her words with a blade. To hurt him bad enough to convince him he had better odds on the road. To kill him herself, if she had to.
A kiss on the lips and a knife in the kidney – on the doorstep, to keep the bloodstains out of the wood.
Sworling rage in her soured.
Has he made you soft too, then? She berated herself, staring at the needles and scalpels shoved into a cup on top of the counter. Lyra grabbed the whole handful and threw them in her bag loose.
No. Of course not. Lyra had no softness to her. Only sharp edges and slick, poisonous polish.
She would do what she needed to, to survive. Like always. No matter the cost – she could pay it.
She didn’t need him. He made her angry enough sometimes that taking a bit of blood for her troubles ought to be easy.
And still the twist of unease persisted. She huffed, stretch of her ribs tugging on the scars laden over her back.
Pregnancy’s got yer brain addled is all. This is no different than Anthony or Thomas.
But… Did such drastic measures really serve her interests? Lyra clenched her jaw, teeth grinding. What if she was being hasty?
She’d misjudged Mal, a serious mistake to be sure. But now she knew better. Perhaps if she approached this whole debacle from a different angle… appealed to him a different way… She could play smarter, and still get what she wanted in the end.
He wasn’t entirely useless, after all, and as long as she kept his shortcomings in mind, she wasn’t really in any danger.
Hell, if he was absolutely determined to keep the kid, they could do that until the novelty wore off, and then she could soothe his conscience and solve their dilemma all at once without a fuss. It would probably only take a couple weeks of newborn-inflicted sleepless celibacy to wear the shine off his fantasy. But even if not, toddlers were easier to pitch than crawlers, anyway. Less maintenance.
Keeping Mal around would be a bigger investment – for a far less troublesome payout. Still better than gambling, Lyra reminded herself.
Cheaper than starting over again from scratch.
She took a deep breath. Shut her eyes. Exhaled. Paced the bedroom and gave the whole thing another turn around for good measure. But this felt more practical. Not because she was soft – but because she was a survivor.
Right. She could do this. She’d swallowed worse biles.
Dumping the contents of the bag onto the floor, Lyra fished through them till she found her lighter, and stalked back downstairs to sulk. There was no telling what sort of mood Mal would be in when he returned; she’d have to be ready to steer things in another direction the second time around, and play a more demure hand. Plan. Action. Easy.
Thunder rattled the house.
What if the novelty doesn’t wear off?
What if you can’t convince him?
What if he never returns from that “walk” at all?
Dropping into their comfiest chair – some fancy, mostly stain-free La-Z-Boy liberated from down the block – she stared down at her belly, and the treachery growing inside it. Her cheeks burned with a fresh surge of resentment and anger.
What if that fucking idiot’s got the right idea about things?
At least that one she could dismiss out of hand…
Mal woke up damp and a little itchy thanks to falling asleep in wet clothes, but otherwise better. Nothing like a good stress nap to hit the reset button. Yawning, he squinted at the gray light filtering in through the window, then checked his watch.
Only about an hour or so since he’d climbed into bed.
"Mmng."
Mal rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Yawned again. Made a halfhearted attempt to finger comb his hair into submission, then gave it up as a lost cause. He squirmed around under the comforter a few minutes longer, scratching idly and trying to get comfortable again, but now that he was aware of how damp and sticky his clothes were, he couldn't think about anything else.
Sighing, he kicked off the blankets. Completely awake now, Mal reluctantly sat up and resigned himself to actually dealing with the problem he'd run away from.
Ugh.
He stalled a little longer by digging out a cigarette and his lighter, and made another lap around the house. Ending up in the kitchen, Mal leaned against the counter, eyes drifting to the pictures and notes hanging from the fridge. Happy family photos, vacations and birthdays and graduations. Take out menus from the local pizza place, magnets in colorful shapes spelling out nonsense.
Mal prodded the letters into coherent order with one hand, the other crossed over his chest. He entertained himself by leaving a collection of rude words below a flier for the local high school's spring play, but kept feeling his attention drawn by the photographs.
Had any of these people made it out alive? Was there a mother, father, cousin, husband, child, sitting in another state, waiting for word from people they'd never talk to again?
Scowling, Mal exhaled a smoky sigh.
He needed to stop being so fucking morbid. It didn't matter. It wasn't his family, it wasn't his problem, and there was no way of knowing either way. He had enough problems of his own without collecting other people's baggage too.
Caring didn't fix anything. In all likelihood, there wasn't anyone left to remember them at all, much less miss or mourn them. It was just all this shit with Lyra, the baby , that stirred up a nasty mix of emotions Mal wished would leave him alone.
Sentimentality had never gotten Mal anything but hurt.
The people in the photos stared back at him though, their silent disappointment growing the longer he stood there. Dead eyes bored into his own until Mal felt the itch of being watched prickle on the back of his neck. He threw a glance over his shoulder. Nothing.
Because of course there wasn't.
Don't be fucking stupid, he berated, stubbing the butt of his cigarette out on the door of the fridge. The self-admonishment still didn't stop him from quickly gathering up the photographs into a neat little stack.
And if Mal was gentle with them as he tugged open the nearest drawer and nestled them on a bed of hand towels and rags, well, there wasn't anyone around to see his momentary lapse of sanity. Logically, he knew no one was coming back for a bunch of pictures and mementos but...if they did, they'd be a little safer there in the meantime.
By the time Mal shut the drawer, his thoughts had once again circled around to Lyra. He felt like an idiot about things with the benefit of distance. Days of wondering whether or not she was pregnant had braced him for that possibility, but Mal had never once questioned whether or not she'd keep it if she was.
He should've realized it wouldn't be that simple.
Scrubbing a hand through damp hair, Mal sighed. No more stalling; he needed to go talk to her again.
Outside, rain continued to drizzle down. An improvement over the earlier downpour. He took advantage of the short reprieve and made it back to their yard before he was completely waterlogged.
Mal hesitated outside long enough to steel himself. He rapped against the door in the pattern he and Lyra had established, letting her know it was him coming in, then took the plunge.
She wasn’t there to greet him at the door, armed or otherwise. The house was a half-turned over mess, broken fragiles crunched underfoot and a magazine had been violently dissected across the living room floor. The kitchen was still only half-sorted.
Lips thinning, Mal nudged aside a horrifically dented can of peas with the toe of his shoe. A crater in the plaster on the kitchen wall painted a vivid picture of how it'd gotten there.
Cautiously, Mal swept the rest of the house.
Most of it was in a similar state of fucking catastrophe. Tossed papers, scattered clothes, the cup of sharp pointy things decorated the bathroom floor instead of sitting neatly in their cup on the counter. Even the brightly colored rocks Mal had brought home to decorate his windowsill in their bedroom had migrated to the toilet bowl.
Mal had to hand it to Lyra — she knew how to make 'fuck you' a truly memorable statement.
But Lyra herself was nowhere inside. Glass popped under Mal's feet as he trailed back down to the living room.
When he found her, she was on the porch out back, smoking a cigarette from a lawn chair facing the way he’d first disappeared from. A bottle of whiskey hung half-finished from her hand. Half a pack of ashen butts littered the ground around her.
Green eyes fixed themselves on him, but her face was utterly impassive.
Mal tamped down his irritation at finding the house trashed, braced a shoulder against the doorframe, and crossed his arms over his chest. He knew this mood.
From her, partly, but from others, too.
Tension filled the air like static, a fragile not-quite-peace that was ready to snap at a moment's notice. Quiet didn't mean safe, passive, or calm. Sometimes quiet was the distance between lighting and the thunderclap.
His eyes stayed focused on Lyra's, but Mal remained acutely aware of what the rest of her was doing — particularly her hands, while she was holding that bottle. Mal still had a scar notched through his left eyebrow from the first time he'd mouthed off to a tempermental drunk and been too slow to duck the reply.
Lip twisting, he took the head on approach, "Redecorating the place, huh?"
She took a puff and looked out across the yard. For a moment it seemed she might not answer at all – and silence from Lyra was undoubtedly the deadliest expression of rage she could manifest. But then, flatly, “…I trew your toolbox over the fence.”
Well, at least she was finally being honest. That was a start.
Mal didn't sigh, but his grimace and measured exhale probably said enough. "Guess at least I know where to find it later," he answered. Shuffling closer, he held out a hand for the real test. "I think it's my turn with the whiskey, too."
Tilting her head back, she grimaced at his calloused palm.
She wasn’t angry anymore – not dangerously so – though it still simmered like hot coals beneath the damp resignation that drink afforded her.
Lifting the bottle, she took one more swig for herself, spit in it, and handed it over.
Mal rolled his eyes at the now-familiar ritual, but felt something loosen subtly in his chest. Each step brought them closer and closer to familiar ground. Safer ground.
The other lawn chair was still on the patio, tipped on its side against the house, though whether it'd been kicked there in a fit of rage, or blown over by the storm, Mal couldn't say. He dragged it upright. Shook it to dislodge a few wet leaves and some of the water, and dropped it in its usual place next to Lyra's so he could sit.
Mal lifted the bottle. He swirled it a few times, watching the little glob of spit spin in a tight spiral. Then snorted and knocked back enough to temporarily scour the taste of smoke off his tongue. Holding it by the neck, he rested the bottle on his thigh and watched the liquid inside slosh.
Mal tried to take most things in stride. Adjusted. Compromised. He'd learned to be flexible, to adapt, to bend, over the course of his life, out of necessity. For better or worse, he didn't have many hard lines he wasn't willing to cross; it was just their bad luck to finally hit one of them. Still, Mal liked to think that despite it, the two of them could still work things out.
He took another long pull, and offered it back to Lyra. When Mal met her gaze this time, something in his own softened.
"So, did any of my clean clothes survive the uh — redecorating ? It'd be nice to change into something that doesn't feel like a cold, sweaty gym sock."
She took the glass back with a lazy snatch, and stared down into the lip of it. It was, bafflingly, a little disappointing to find he hadn’t turnabout and spit in it himself. She’d have felt better if he could have been similarly petty.
The point of getting drunk had been to settle her nerves. But ritual dictated a modicum of snark, and it helped loosen her tongue to that, too. “I spared ye the party shirt an’ the pajama pants wit’ pickles on ‘em. Doubt they’ll do anythin’ t’improve yer smell, though.” She wrinkled her nose.
"Oh, fuck you." Mal scoffed, but playful amusement shone behind his eyes. "It's called musk and it's very manly. I guess a woman just wouldn't understand that kind of thing."
“Well ye should try suckin’ it off a cock sometime, then, an’ see how much ye understand about it.” She waved the cigarette in her hand.
He snickered, one brow arching. "Who says I haven't?"
Relaxing a fraction more — probably more to do with the mood than the drink, if he was honest — Mal stretched out his legs and slid lower in the chair. His sneakers were still disgustingly squelchy , and Mal finally gave in to impulse with a wrinkle of his nose and kicked them off. Wet socks followed after, and that did wonders for Mal's peace of mind.
It didn't soothe everything, though.
Most of the painfully tight fear knotted up in his chest had untangled itself, but he still itched to reach out and touch Lyra. Mal occupied his hands with a lighting cigarette instead, the motions so familiar he did it without thinking.
"...Were you really gonna leave?" Not the question Mal intended to ask, but after seeing the way the house was torn apart, the bags she’d dragged out, Mal had to wonder.
Lyra scoffed noiselessly. She’d done it to plenty of men before. For far less egregious failures than Mal’s. But for all her recklessness and reputation, she’d never left a man just for spite. And for now, she was still committed to the idea that leaving Mal – or kicking him out – didn’t serve her in the long run. They had time to turn this around.
She shook her head. Well, as much time as anyone’s got, these days.
Besides, even if it’d been her plan in earnest… she wouldn’t tell him that. Right now, she needed to soothe his nerves. Make up nice. “Nah. Guess I’m more attached t’yer feckin’ musk than I thought.”
Mal exhaled a silent breath of relief. It could be a lie, sure. But the fact was, Lyra hadn't left, and Mal wanted to believe her.
A gentle smile tugged at his lips, and he reached over for her. For the bottle, it looked like at first. Only to divert at the last second, so Mal could brush a gentle touch over the back of Lyra's hand, petting it with a feather-light stroke of his thumb.
"Good," Mal answered, voice carefully light and teasing as if he wasn't splitting himself open for the whole damn world to see. Which, right now, was just Lyra. "I probably would've straight up fucking died of broken heart otherwise." The heart in question picked up its pace, thump thump thumping against his ribs.
“I know. Yer sick as a dove, Amadan.” She answered frivolously, throwing out a devilish smile that came easier than breathing. It would mask the sharp spearing in her chest when he touched her, and said such an awful, vulnerable thing out loud.
She wanted it to be true. Had aimed to pull the words out of his mouth with wiles she’d spent a decade honing. It meant she had control over where things went, next. And yet –
It made her angry, too, like he’d tried to slip a knife under her ribs, and she was glad for the drink aboard her senses.
I almost wish you didn’t. You might live longer.
Her own hand reached out to rest atop his, and she let the smile falter. “Yer all I’ve got out here, Amadan. An’ I don’t want ye bein’ hurt by somethin’ – we could see comin’ an’ didn’t avoid.”
"I don't want you to get hurt either," Mal said, protectiveness rising to answer. "And I'd tear apart any bastard that thinks they can try. But — look, we've got options now that we've never fucking had before. We're not working for anyone else. We're our own goddamn bosses, we make the rules here, and you're the only fucking person on the planet I give a shit about keeping happy anymore." Mal wondered if she could feel the hammering of his pulse through his skin. He worried his thumb over the back of her hand, mindlessly. "If — if this was something you thought you wanted with me — well. I think we could make it work. Just...think about it?" Clearing his throat, Mal realized how he'd been carrying on and tried to reel it back in some. "That's all I'm asking. You don't have to decide anything right now. Not like you're gonna be popping that baby out tonight, right?" He snorted lightly. "We've still got some time to figure this shit out. I'm not — I'm not going anywhere."
Promises he couldn’t keep, and dreams she couldn’t share. If Lyra were more sentimental it might break her – the bleeding tragedy of it. How’d ye get yerself into this mess, ye wagon?
But he’d made right now easy, at least.
Lyra paused, as if to consider his words. Tried to wrestle down the swelling tide of anxious frustration – what if, what if, what if… There would be no answers now, and the coming weeks would be her chance to make him see sense with more subtlety than she’d managed tonight.
She took a weighted breath. Then nodded. “If it means so much to ye, I’ll tink about it.” A wry scoff followed. “But why’s it matter so much, Amadan? I knew ye were soft, but this–” Cocking her head at him, she blinked. “With me? ”
Mal smiled at her, fondly, and a little sad. "Why not with you? I mean — yeah, I know we didn't really go into this expecting anything serious. And sure as hell not a baby, but —" Mal shrugged and thumbed at his cigarette, knocking loose a fat clump of ash. "I dunno." He did know, but he also had the good sense to shut his mouth, finally, before he blurted out even more mortifying bullshit about love, and caring, and family.
It didn’t really soothe her nerves. She felt herself trapped by her own netting – here was a man who wanted her, loved her even. Who wouldn’t leave. Who would build his life around her. Who believed her to be something she wasn’t, and could never be. And she… Well – she would it were otherwise. That she was better. That he was worse. That the world was different.
Lyra hadn’t cared for fairy tales. Knights in shining armor didn’t sweep you off your feet into a happily ever after. Sailors didn’t come home. But Mal kind of made her wish they did.
When the silence stretched on again, Mal didn't prod. Even if he wasn't feeling self-conscious about vomiting his feelings all over the ground at her feet, she did better with patience, and space.
Mal could wait. They had time.
Maybe not forever, but enough.