Chapter Text
The scene is almost like a photograph: an empty, desolate street, lined with skyscrapers. Once a thriving city of millions, now a ghost town. Not a soul in sight. Eerily quiet. Then, a sound so faint you can't catch it as it’s swept away with the wind. Perhaps it was your imagination. But there it is again, just a little stronger. It's still impossible to tell what it is. But a feeling of doom grows, notch by notch. A pressure. Fear. There it is. The sound. Like distant thunder. Amidst it, faint words that are growing louder. A lone figure shoots out onto the wide expanse of the street. He swerves, starts sprinting straight ahead. The closer he gets, the clearer the word he is repeating gets too. The word that can only mean one thing. His clothes are ripped, blood smearing his ashen face, green eyes full of panic, his breathing ragged as he shouts again and again.
“RUN!!!”
—
28 days earlier
It's late. Armie’s boots crunch against the wet, cracked pavement as he moves in the shadows of the tall buildings that surround him everywhere. Distant shouts and gunshots reach his ears, but he doesn't pay any attention to them. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just another night of raids and unrest. The August heat doesn't help. It makes people restless. His own t-shirt is sticking to his skin both from the drizzle and the humidity. His gun held loosely in his hand, he ducks into an alleyway, double checks that no one is following him. Not that he is expecting anyone, but it never hurts to be cautious. As he anticipated, the street is empty. He turns and jogs towards the dead-end of a dirty alley littered with garbage and broken glass, until he reaches an unused dumpster pushed against the wall on the left. It looks like any ordinary dumpster, nothing significant about it, but he drags it aside, the rusty wheels complaining against the concrete. Behind it, a large piece of plywood is leaning against the brick. He drags it aside too, revealing a man-sized hole in the wall.
Another gunshot. This time a lot closer. Maybe two blocks away, he calculates. Stopping to listen, he stands still for a few seconds, but nothing else happens. No shouts. No commotion.
Giving the deserted alley one last glance, Armie slides through the opening with the confidence of someone who's done it countless times. Once inside, in the damp darkness of the derelict building, he pulls the dumpster against the hole, then grips the edge of the plywood and slides it between the two, concealing the entrance from any prying eyes.
The dark space smells like old dust and mold. He can hear the rats scuttling away as he flicks on the small flashlight he always carries with him. Hoisting his backpack higher on his shoulder, he makes his way quickly through the passage, finally reaching another opening, another piece of plywood, a bigger one this time. He pulls it aside, climbs through the hole behind it and enters a narrow stone staircase. The main entrance to the building has been blocked off for years, buried under the rubble and debris of the collapsed property next door. It's not uncommon in this part of the city where abandoned, destroyed or otherwise uninhabitable buildings litter every block, the downtown that used to be a prosperous centre of business and wealth, now unsavory and dangerous. When the infection had swept through the area with devastating results over a decade ago, most of the survivors had either wanted to escape the memories or preferred to flock around the Park, where the large markets, livestock and most social life is now centered.
Less than three hundred thousand people remain in the city that was once called New York. A few thousand of them are living on the fringes of this new society, either too poor, too spent or needing to hide in the shadows. The building Armie has just entered has stood empty for years. No one wants to come here, and no one would find this place, not even if they were trying. Which is why Armie had chosen it all those months ago.
Now eager to get to his destination, he ascends the dirty, and in many places cracked stairs, often taking two steps at a time. In less than three minutes, he reaches the tenth floor, his old injury making itself known, even though it's only a ghost of the pain from long ago. He brushes it off without a thought. The cool light of his torch leads him through a hallway, stuffy and damp from the heat of the past few days, just as unused and unappealing as the rest of the building. He passes doors on his left and right, not stopping until he reaches the end of the hallway. The door he knocks, number one-two-seven, is as nondescript as all the others. He taps his knuckles on the worn wood in a succession of short and long knocks. The easy code keeps away anyone who would ever get this far.
Seconds tick by as he listens. There is a faint sound of a chair scraping against the floor, hurried footsteps. Then the security bar and the locks being opened. The door is yanked open and Timmy is standing in front of him, shirtless and looking thoroughly distracted. He pulls Armie into a harried kiss that ends before it even begins.
“Hi! Perfect timing! We have to go soon or we're gonna be late.” Timmy is already retreating back into the apartment. “There's just one thing I need to finish. Give me a sec.”
Smiling, Armie enters the spacious but dim apartment, securing the locks and bolts back in place, then letting his eyes rest over the sight in front of him.
Home.
Timmy is already back at his desk by the heavily curtained windows, typing furiously on his old yellow typewriter. The solar camp lights Armie has set up for him cast a bright light on the boy--his now closely-shaved head, the lean muscles of his bare back, the leather belt holding up the cargo shorts hugging his slim hips, the bare feet. Armie lets his eyes linger for a moment, just because he can, then looks around the place.
It's plenty enough for two people. The small kitchen on the left is a storage area now because there isn't any way to power up the fridge or stove. It's mostly stocked with guns and ammo and all the canned and dry food they've managed to gather, plus any other equipment Armie would consider useful in various situations. Their survival kits are neatly placed against the wall–ready and packed–if ever needed. The bathroom is dingy and the pipes questionable, but they manage with a self-made shower and the several gallons of water they haul down from the roof every time it rains. It's been another wet summer, so luckily their supply is plentiful. The main living area looks much more comfortable than the other parts of the apartment, cozy even. That's mostly Timmy's doing. He's hung up colorful wall-hangings around the place, covering up the dirty, yellowing wallpaper and leaving only the one wall of exposed brick visible. The rickety bookshelf on the opposite wall is bursting with books, stacks of newspapers and magazines, some of them scattered on the floor and piled up on the old shabby armchair in the corner. The clothing rack next to the front door is neatly organized, but it is mainly because it’s all Armie’s. Most of Timmy's clothes are strewn on the floor at the bottom of the bed or hung on various furniture around the apartment, some of them scattered on the unmade bed. Armie is eyeing the disarray with affection. It might have ground his gears at the start, so used to the rigid regime of military diligence and neatness, but months of co-living has forced him to relax a little. Mess is healthy! Timmy told him once when Armie brought it up. He had been ready to argue the point, but Timmy had found a way to shut him up fairly quickly. Timmy is good at that--getting Armie distracted when it suits him. Not that he is complaining, his eyes now lingering on his favourite spot in the apartment– their bedroom nook, which consists of an old iron-framed bed, ancient but surprisingly strong. It had been there already, they had just added the bedding. Timmy had flourished it with several pillows and extra blankets too, because he often gets cold. He had also hammered a shelf above it that now holds half a dozen half-burnt candles, for the nights when it's too cold to keep the windows open or when there is no moonlight but they still want to be able to see each other.
Armie’s eyes return back to Timmy, who is still completely immersed in his typing, the quick tap-tap-tap of the typewriter louder than the music coming from the small portable radio propped next to it. Riders on the Storm. Armie recognizes the song even through the typing. A feeling of calm and contentment settles over him.
It’s home alright.
“You finish that and I'll make dinner. We have time. The meeting isn't till midnight,” Armie says, removing his cap and then his backpack, setting them both on a small, wooden dining room table in the middle of the room.
“Mmm.” Timmy’s murmur is the only answer he gets, but Armie just smiles, knowing that when Timmy is writing, he might as well be miles away. Armie leaves him be, goes about the routine of washing his hands, firing up the tiny gas plate on one of the kitchen counters and unpacks the content of his backpack. The steaks are rarity, and an open flame would be a much preferable option, but he makes do. The bread is slightly stale and the tomatoes soft, but it's fresh food so there's nothing but hunger burning in Armie’s stomach as he prepares the dinner. Only when he is plating up, does Timmy spring up from his chair with a whoop.
“Fuck yeah!”
He pulls the paper from the typewriter, flourishing it in the air, then picks up the stack of finished pages from his desk and slams them on the kitchen table.
“We are finally gonna nail that mother-fucker!” He stabs at the papers with his index finger, colour high on his cheeks. But then his focus shifts to the plate Armie has set for him. As if he hadn't noticed the smell or the sounds of frying meat in the last fifteen minutes. He probably hadn't.
“Where the hell did you get meat?!”
Armie sets his own plate down and sits down indicating Timmy to do the same.
“Someone owed me a favour.”
“Oh my god,” Timmy sighs and sits down on a rickety chair, still staring at his plate in awe, his story momentarily forgotten.
“I love you. I mean–I already love love you, you know, but now really fucking love you. This is a whole new level of loving.”
Armie laughs. “Go on. Eat.” He lifts his chin up towards the food. Timmy is strong in his own wiry way, but living in the shadows for the past six months, not seeing the sunlight nearly as often as he should might be taking its toll. His cheekbones are a little too prominent for Armie's liking, the shadows under his eyes a bit too visible. The boy needs protein and iron.
They eat in silence for a few minutes, both too hungry to talk, but after yet another huge mouthful, Timmy asks, “What were you up to today? Except for cashing in favours, obviously.” He waves at his first at their dinner.
“I was with Chen. We helped the Lee family move home. Chen suspects their location might have been compromised.”
Timmy’s eyes widen at the news. “Shit. Are they okay?”
“Yeah. Caution, that's all.
Armie finishes his last piece of steak and washes it down with lukewarm water, then picks up the sheets of paper full of densely typed writing.
“So. This is it. You think it will take down Salinas?
Christopher Salinas, the Head of Health in the City Council, corrupt to the core, and known for running a side business of selling low-grade, often dangerous, drugs to desperate people. They had witnessed the dire effects of his flourishing trade more than once, even in their circle. Timmy had been working on the story for weeks.
“Mm-hmm.” Timmy nods, mouth full, motioning with his hand for Armie to have a look.
Armie reads while Timmy finishes the rest of his dinner. Timmy's sharp, poignant style draws him in immediately, so familiar to him now. The way he weaves a story–whether it's a dry piece on the military budget negotiations or an expose like this one–it's enthralling. Armie knows he's biased, and not in any way an expert, but he also recognizes skill when he sees it.
Timmy is fucking good.
When Armie lifts his eyes from the paper, he finds Timmy biting his lip, looking expectant.
“It's good.”
Timmy sighs, looking relieved.
“Really?”
“Yep. Very good."
Timmy's cheeks tint with the compliment.
“But I'd leave out the wife,” Armie adds.
Frowning, Timmy takes the article from Armie's outstretched hand.
“Why? She's guilty too.”
“Yes, but only fractionally, in comparison. And they have three kids. If you don't bring up her name, they might have a chance.”
Timmy face softens. He rifles through the pages, scans one with his eyes.
“Okay, I'll make the edit. I gotta be quick though. I wanna run it through Ace too. Before the meeting.”
Armie’s jaw clenches at the mention of the man’s name. He does not care for Ace. Not one bit. He doesn't say anything though.
“You do that while I clear this up. Then we do need to head out.”
“Thanks.” Timmy hastily pushes up from his chair and returns to his desk. It doesn't take Armie long to clean the plates and the pan, then gather the few things they might need tonight–water, a couple of emergency supplies, ammo. The gathering they are attending is top secret, but that many people together in one place, no matter how secluded and guarded, is always risky.
By the time he is done, Timmy is too, shoving his corrected pages into his own backpack. He riffles through the pile of clothing on the floor, fishing out a black t-shirt and pulling it on.
“Tonight's gonna be huge,” he says, his head popping through the neckhole.
“So I hear. Do you have any idea what it's about?”
Timmy grabs a black hoodie from the bed and his cap and a bandana from the floor and crosses the room to Armie.
“No.” He pulls the hoodie on, zipping it up. “But Ace says it's something that will change everything.” He airquotes the last word. He looks slightly annoyed. Armie thinks he knows why. Timmy wasn't let into the know. The anticipation overpowers this feeling though, Timmy’s green eyes shining with excitement as he ties the scarf around his neck, then crouches down to pull on his boots.
“I doubt it,” Armie says, only mildly curious about the upcoming meeting. It's all propaganda. That's what it is. Changing the status quo when people are barely surviving is almost impossible. It doesn't mean they shouldn't try. He has seen the good the people in The Movement can do. Helping, even if it never leads to anywhere but that. He is happy to be part of something like that. He has witnessed Timmy’s passion and hunger for making a difference. Maybe it's starting to rub off on him. Just a little.
"But there is only one way to figure it out. Here.”
Armie passes a knife secured in its sheath to Timmy, who accepts it and attaches it to his belt.
“Take this too.” Armie hands him a pistol. It's small, easy to conceal.
“That serious, huh?,” Timmy comments, but accepts the weapon, tucks it into the waistband of his shorts against his back.
“There's going to be a lot of people there tonight. And I don't trust at least half of them.”
Timmy purses his lips. “Of course you don't.” But he's smiling, looking at Armie with a twinkle in his eyes. “Hey. Thank you.” He steps closer, wrapping his arms around Armie’s waist. Armie is still getting used to the lack of hair, Timmy's dark eyebrows and green eyes now the dominating features of his face, as are the soft lips that are now curved into a sly smile.
“For what?” Armie asks softly, his hands finding Timmy’s waist, pulling him snug against him.
“For dinner,” Timmy says with a low voice. “And helping with the story. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
He leans up and brings their mouths together, for a proper kiss this time. Armie hums into it, sliding his tongue against Timmy’s, tasting him, loving the fact that he is able to do this. That this is his life now. A second chance he doesn't deserve. A chance he is never willing to let go if it's up to him.
Timmy licks into his mouth, deepening the kiss, and Armie’s hand trails up under his shirt, because he knows Timmy well enough and he can feel the change in his breathing, when kissing turns into a prelude to something else. Armie guides him the few steps to the door and presses him against it, brings their mouths together again, this time with more intensity.
“Fuck,” Timmy breathes, breaking off the kiss after a good minute.
“We can,” Armie says, leans in, so close that his lips are grazing Timmy’s ear, running his fingers along Timmy’s belt, tugs at it a little. “I can use this on you again.”
Timmy curses some more, actually thunks his head against the door. Twice.
“You're an evil motherfucker, you know that?” He speaks with his eyes closed, and when he opens them his pupils are wide and dark, patches of red colouring his cheeks. He's still smiling though. “You just don't want to go to this thing tonight.”
“Did not say that,” Armie shrugs, now trailing his finger against Timmy's stomach, making him squirm. “I'm just saying there are other things I'd rather be doing.”
Timmy grabs his wrist, stopping his teasing.
“Mmmh. Right. But no. Come on, old man, we gotta go. We'll fuck after.”
Armie sighs, lets go. “Your call.”
Timmy laughs, picks up his backpack and cap that has fallen on the floor and pulls his bandana up over his mouth and nose, then pulls his hood over his head for good measure. It will be very difficult for anyone to recognize him. It's a good disguise. Armie just hopes it's good enough. It's worked so far. Timmy's name is at the top of every wanted list in the City, just like it has been every day since they escaped out of the window and disappeared into the crowd six months ago, and even though the list is getting longer, with new names added every day, Armie worries.
“Alright, let's go then,” he says. “But don't call me an old man ever again or I'll have to use something harder on you than that flimsy belt of yours.”
“Don't make promises you won't keep,” Timmy says, wiggling his eyebrows at him from under his cap, then turns and starts unlocking the front door.
Armie really needs to work on his threats.
They descend the ten floors down to street level in silence and crawl back through the hidden entrance that Armie had used only an hour previously, but as they start making their way towards the docks like shadows in the night, Armie experiences the same urgency to turn back as he always does.
Because the outside, the dark and humid city, means danger. Danger to someone Armie loves. The only person he loves in this godforsaken world.
All his instincts are telling him to go back. Take Timmy back.
Keep him safe and take him back.
Back home.
—