Time is a truly malleable thing. It warps and stretches, making weeks feel like years, hours like days. Itās no surprise, then, that the length of time theyāve been out on the road seems to elude her when she tries to keep track. Forty nine days? Maybe more than two months?
She starts keep score on the hilt of a knife, scratching tally marks deep into the wood.
There are some days, though ā a handful of them stand out against the gray, splotches of color in her mindās eye. Tongues of black smoke in the rear view mirror as they left the quarantine center behind. The first victim sheād seen, blank eyed and gray, and the way his bones had sounded as they caved in. The warmth of strong hands set at her hips, her lips laced with whiskey as they sought his.
Itās the last memory which outshines the rest, but thatās the one Dany wants most to forget. Needs to, really, because thereās no place for soft sentiment when every day was a war to survive. So what that she could barely look at his lips without feeling their phantom touch on her own? So what that sheād slept the soundest ā felt so safe ā the night she had fallen asleep on his chest? Nothing had changed between them. Nothing could. And if anything, Sawyer felt farther away.
Or maybe she was the one pushing him. Itās always hard to tell.
This morningās no different. Itās been almost three weeks since that fateful night, and neither of them has talked about it. As if speaking aloud meant itād really happened, and biting back words could keep the truth at bay. Dany comes down the hall quietly, familiar in the new house theyāve just moved to, shifting as ever from place to place. Itās a bright morning ā peaceful, really ā and the smell of Sawyer cooking at the fireplace almost whets her appetite. Almost.
Sheād barely made it past the door before sheās turning on her heel again, stomach convulsing violently. Itās a good thing she did know this new house so well; Dany slams the door into the bathroom wall, hands bracing on each side of the sink. For the second morning in a row, Dany thinks sheāll just skip breakfast instead.
Sawyer has always found comfort in routine.Ā
Side effect of a chaotic mind; you seek external order, the calming familiar. When every hour of the day is structured and organized just so, thereās no time to let the past or future haunt you. Even when that routine is broken, for whatever reason, the framework is so deeply entrenched that you find ways to adapt in order to maintain it. You absorb the disruption, and normalcy prevails. It has to, or you go insane.Ā
So, this is normal now. Hiding out in some abandoned house, stepping over the bones of an old world that doesnāt exist anymore and may never again. Kicking in doors, jimmying windows open, pillaging pantries and cupboards, sleeping with a weapon in hand or close enough to count -- assuming you can sleep at all -- and not even taking comfort in the sunrise because it doesnāt mean the nightmare is over.Ā
If nothing else, Sawyerās mind and hands are too busy to do much other than focus on immediate needs. Theyāre hungry, so he finds food. Theyāre cold and tired, so they find shelter. Theyāre surrounded, he hacks and carves a clear path for them to escape. Itās an endless, reactive cycle, but so far theyāve managed to keep their heads above water -- barely -- and right now thatās all anyone can hope for. Thereās no room to fret and wonder and rage at their circumstances. He has given up, at least for the time being, on ever understanding how this scourge came about, or how many lives have been lost, or whether or not society will ever get back up on its feet. None of that is certain.Ā
But what isĀ certain is that he needs to keep Daenerys safe. Not because she was his boss in a former life, and his whole world revolved around keeping her out of harmās way for exorbitant amounts of money. Not because she was the only friend he had left that was still alive, as far as he knew, and indeed, the only family. Not even because of what happened between them a few weeks ago, when she had just enough to drink that crawling into bed with him seemed like a good idea (and he was too weak to stop it, he wanted it, he wanted her, God help him); though he would be lying if he said that didnāt mean anything to him. If he could talk about it at all, which he canāt, because she wonāt, and if she wants to pretend like it didnāt happen, he can pretend too.Ā
He just...he doesnāt have a choice. Itās not even a discussion, really. She comes first. Because if he loses her, he will lose his way, and the tenuous illusion of control he feels, his very purpose,Ā will be irrevocably shattered. And whatever animal instinct he has for self-preservation is almost entirely built on the fear of abandoning her out here, alone. The thought alone is enough to make cold sweat prickle his skin sometimes, when itās quiet and still enough for his thoughts to wander down such paths. He doesnāt know where safe is, if anywhere, but he already knows heāll die trying to get her there.Ā
The smell of cooking eggs jerks his focus back to the present; it rarely strays far. He stirs the contents of the pan popping and sizzling over the fire, a scramble of bird eggs (he has no idea what kind) seasoned with stale bacon bits he found in the kitchen and mixed with canned spinach. Believe it or not, itās be the best meal either of them will have had in weeks. Given the questionable nature of the the food theyāve been getting by on, itās no surprise Dany is sick again this morning.Ā She tried to hide it yesterday, so he didnāt press her. But this being day two, he figures he should probably say something about it.Ā
She made her way into the living room, already heating up in the early morning sun. Theyād shut all the windows, hoping to keep the smell of food contained as much as possible. He watched her peripherally for a moment, before risking a fuller glance and noting her queasy pallor.Ā
His brows furrowed together.Ā āYou alright?ā