I’ve been thinking about this for a while and I really wanted to share it.
Just imagine a yandere hitman who entered the criminal world while still a teenager.
His mother abandoned him after the divorce. He didn’t really care tho, His relationship with her was very superficial — he never liked her that much anyway.
His father, on the other hand, was a drunk bastard who forced him to steal so they’d have something to eat.
And he was very good at it.
He didn’t hate stealing. He hated obeying that piece of shit.
It didn’t take long before he “accidentally” swapped his father’s high blood pressure pills for something bought on the black market.
From there on, he decided to stay in crime — but this time as a hitman.
Easy money. No being stuck in an office. No working at a convenience store.
A yandere hitman who was already cold by nature. Killing felt as natural as drinking water.
Ofc he gained a reputation quickly. Powerful men started contacting him — politicians who needed to disappear, rivals, personal grudges.
The amount of money he earned in just a few days was absurd.
Sometimes the payment wasn’t even cash, but mansions, private jets, etc etc.
The job itself was demanding.
It required traveling from country to country to complete his contracts.
That’s how he met Blind!Reader — in a foreign country where both of you were strangers.
Blind!Reader had traveled there in a desperate attempt to feel independent. A last-minute decision.
Your parents treated you like a burden, locking you in your room all day so you wouldn’t cause “problems.”
You knew how to take care of yourself — how to move around, how to find things. But this was different.
You were in another country… and you got lost at the airport.
Wow. Brilliant decision.
Despite being careful, you were innocent about many things. You barely ever left home.
One of those things was believing he was a good man.
You asked him for help with something simple — directions to a cheap hotel.
He noticed immediately that you were blind.
How the hell did you notice him?
Despite his height, he was extremely discreet — something that helped a lot with his... “work".
So this caught him completely off guard.
Really… only a blind person would ask him for directions. His intimidating appearance usually drove people away.
Out of pure curiosity, he decided to help.
It was supposed to be just that.
Curiosity.
He chose to delay his mission.
The gentle way you spoke to him stirred something in his mind. When was the last time someone talked to him like that?
Why did he suddenly care?
He had always been antisocial — and now look at him, doing a good deed.
How ironic.
He offered to help you cross the street, carry your luggage and guide your steps.
During that time, you talked a lot about yourself — excited just to speak to someone new!!!
The stranger barely replied, except to mention that he was also a foreigner in that country.
When you finally arrived-
Huh.
The building didn’t exist.
At least, that’s what he told you. It was just a bar full of passed-out drunks.
Panic set in immediately. What do you mean it doesn’t exist?
Was it a scam? You had already paid for EVERYTHING.
God — not only blind, but now homeless too?!
The yandere hitman cut off your spiraling thoughts by calmly offering:
You could stay with him. Just for a few days until you found another hotel or an Airbnb.
Blind!Reader let out a deep sigh of relief and accepted with a soft, relieved smile.
What a considerate man!!!
Blind!Reader, that ever saw the smile on his face at that moment. It was inevitable, you were extremely naive.
I think we already know it won’t be just a few days.
Simon Riley with legally blind reader. LB! Masterlist
He avoids you for a week begore getting deployed a month.
But when he comes back, ready for debrief, still in that skull mask, he seats himself where he always does.
Unfortunately youre the second one in the room for debrief. Nearly fifteen minutes early. You pluck your way over chairs and settle in a spot. And then you lift those eyes and search-
And your eyes land on him again! Squinting and glowering at him! It's a long still moment of Ghost debating whether or not he'll say something, because obviously something is drawing you back to him.
"If yer blind, why the fuck are ya still starin' at me." He's not even done speaking before you're falling out of your chair.
"Oh fuck!" You cry, he nearly laughs as you go from squinting to terror. "Lieutentant!?" Your voice is higher and louder in his ear, warbling with his own hearing damage. Your head lifts from the edge of the table. "What do you mean!?"
"Starin' righ' fuckin' at me, am I so pretty even you can't help but stare?" He drawls out.
Confusion crumbles on your face. Your eyes search. You sigh and push up into the chair again. Your huffing from the fright and red from embarassment. Simon thinks its quite the sight.
"Right here?" You gesture at him.
"Mhmm."
You rub a hand dowm your face. "All I see is the white blob in a shadow, Lieutenant."
"My mask?"
"You're wearing a mask?" You huff. "I've been trying to figure out what the floating white blob at these meetings has been." And then laughter begins to trickle out of both of you as you bury your face in your hands.
"You can't see me? 'M a big man," he chuckles as understanding befalls you both.
"Now, it just sounds like your bragging," you toss at him. "Handsome, big... what's next?"
"Apparently, I smell like nicotine gum and cheap deodorant, too." You cover your face again, cheeks flushing.
"Oh?"
"Some people like that kind of thing," he remarks off hand, throwing in a shrug you can't see, only to recieve you snorting and laughing. It's ugly. Simon's dead heart twitches to life. It reaches his ears wonderfully.
"Funny, too, huh?"
"Aye."
"Well, I apologize for- er, staring was it?"
"Glarin' more like. Kept think you were gonna climb over the table for me."
"No, I just-..." You laugh awkwardly. "I try to pick a spot that's not a face to focus on and- well youre in the shadow of the room and all I see is white- I'm so sorry. I didn't know it was your face."
Simon watches you for a moment as you find a new spot to stare and people begin trickling into the room. And Simon... Simon stares at you the whole rest of the meeting, thinking about just how pretty you are.
Ben x blind!reader where she doesn’t know he’s a wanted fugitive. She knows him as Ben (because I personally call him Ben, not Dex). He kisses her, then lets her run her fingers over his face as their goodbye gesture. She notices the scars but never says anything. She also notices the wrinkle between his brows, gently rubbing it and saying, “Less wrinkle here.” Then she pokes the corners of his mouth with her thumbs, forming a smile on his face, and says, “More wrinkle here.”
Michael has always guided you everywhere since meeting you. Learning you were blind and needed a walking stick.
He felt obviously worried about you every day and night.
So he’d be your guide forever.
Which was weird considering he could pay for someone to be your guide or caregiver along with a guide dog.
But did he listen when you told him these options?
No.
Cause he wants to be there for you.
He’ll hold your hand tight, arms around your waist.
He’ll get you Braille love letters every Valentine's.
He sometimes even has the audacity to be called your guide dog and jokingly bark.
You of course couldn’t help but laugh at that. Cause what????
He loves it when you touch his face, telling him he feels very handsome. That makes him so flustered that he can’t help but smile when you kiss his eye accidentally.
“You missed” he says softly while he guides you to kiss his lips.
He’ll accompany you to nail appointments, hair salons, and even shopping.
He loves how you depend on him, but also doesn’t.
You showed him that being blind doesn’t make you that bad at handling the public.
At least you don’t have to suffer a lot of flashes from paparazzi cameras.
Something Michael told you about.
“I’m kinda jealous you get to not get blinded by so many flashes.” He’d say one night while playing with your hair. Your curls neatly spread the bed as you hum.
“I heard so much clicking. It sounds exhausting.”
He giggled, kissing your cheek before putting your bonnet on.
OMINIS & SEBASTIAN WITH A BLIND! READER HEADCANNONS
A/N: can be seen as platonic or romantic
If you aren’t as skilled like Ominis, you best hope you had a blind cane. And that cane was Sebastian. Or you did actually have a blind cane.
Ominis could try to teach you if you want. He wishes you could see the same way he can. He will be very happy to teach you dear
You three holding hands. It’s just funny because Ominis can see for himself while you can’t really so Sebastian suggested this
If someone dared to take away your walking cane. Sebastian is literally going feral as Ominis just holds your hand while Sebastian handles the situation “well”
Sebastian or Ominis reading to you during study hall
Ominis tries to help you use your wand to navigate in the dorms as Sebastian just watched from the beds
Let’s say you accidentally fell down the stairs. Well lets just say the boys got so over protective that Sebastian suggested to piggy back you for the rest of the year
It was absolutely embarrassing and Ominis didn’t say a damn thing
Sebastian probably gets a hufflepuff to make you guys bracelets to show how powerful your friendship is. “Friendship is magic!” havin ahh 😭
When you guys cuddle, you are in the middle just being wrapped around by the boys arms
Two golden retrievers + one black cat. And you already know who is who 🫶🏾
Sometimes Sebastian is the best to the two of you. Like he is always giving good descriptions on what is happening. He likes seeing you smile at your own imagination. So he describes your smile towards Ominis who also smiles at the thought of you smiling.
simon riley x blind!reader
requested by @wareagleofthemountain <3
tw: none!
Simon never expected to meet you, nor was he remotely looking for somebody to enter his life and completely flip it around. He didn’t attach himself to people, and interactions with strangers with the intent of becoming more than that was a far-fetched idea for somebody like him. Being on his own was something he greatly preferred, and his task force were the only people he ever needed.
That was what he thought, anyway, up until you.
Even when you had accidentally bumped into him in the middle of a rundown convenience store late at night, you didn’t cower away from him. The sight of his mask didn’t cause you to turn away and mumble out a half-assed apology in order to leave his vicinity as quickly as possible, and at first, he didn’t understand.
That was until he noticed the furball standing next to you, staring up at him as if scolding him for getting in the way. The harness was glaringly obvious now that he looked at it, and he felt a bit stupid for not noticing it in the first place. You had a guide dog, with words boldly lettered indicating that you were blind.
“I’m so sorry!” you said, and he caught himself staring at you as you began rambling out genuine, sweet apologies, explaining that you didn’t mean to bump into him, that you hoped you didn’t hurt him by accident.
Simon didn’t get attached to people, no. But that didn’t mean he didn’t notice cute people who had hearts of gold that made his look rotten in comparison.
“S’alright,” he assured you, fighting so hard to push back the smile that threatened to curl up under his mask. Smiling meant he felt amused, and amusement meant he saw something in you that intrigued him. “What’s his name?”
When he asked about your guide dog, you practically lit up like a damn Christmas tree and oh, he was fucked. That smile wasn’t fair.
“Peanut,” you introduced affectionately, and when he glanced down at your dog, Peanut, the little thing looked almost prideful at that.
“Hm,” he hummed in acknowledgement, and before he could detach himself from the conversation, before he could bid you farewell and leave you behind for good, he found himself speaking once more. “And yours?”
Simon never expected to meet you, nor was he remotely looking for somebody to enter his life and completely flip it around. But you did, and he found himself so engrossed in you, he couldn’t ever imagine life without you.
He thinks fondly of the day you two met, where he was in a mindset of pushing everybody around him away. He’d never given himself an opportunity to live a normal life, then you came around and had him seeking out the future.
The future was never a possibility until you, nor was it a possibility without you in it.
Simon never made you feel incapable just because you were blind. You had worked your way around the world just fine before him, and you’d continue to do it during him.
That didn’t mean he never tried his best, though. In fact, Simon took pride in helping you out with things as his way of showing his undying love for you. He may not have been the most affectionate person physically, but doing things for you was his favorite form of care.
Cooking was one of many. Simon was naturally a lover of cooking, so teaching you how to do it was something he took to almost immediately.
When it came to chopping vegetables, he’d gently guide your hands with his own, closed around the kitchen knife and showing you how to chop away without nicking yourself. If it was an excuse to hold your hand and watch your joyful smile light up your face, he’d never admit it.
He’d explain every step of a recipe to you, wanting to give you your independence of cooking on your own while also involving himself enough to be useful. He’d explain in soft ways how to properly cook meat, how to make sure it’s not undercooked or overcooked, guiding you through every part of the meal and watching with pride when you’d figure it out after a few trial errors.
Simon had never thought a meal could taste so good until it was cooked by the one you adore.
Reading was something you could do on your own. Your entire collection were books geared towards your blindness to help make it more accessible to you, but Simon quickly found out that he specifically liked reading for you.
It became routine in your apartment, the one that he was staying in so much that it might as well had been his as well, for the two of you to snuggle up close on the couch with a book you mentioned hearing about in those silly videos you listen to on your phone. His arm would tuck you into his side while the other held the book he’d gone out for, venturing to find (even if it took going to multiple stores), while Peanut laid content at your feet.
The books might not have been his personal favorite, but he’d spend every night reading them to you, his voice soft and quiet as they executed every page. You’d listen with a smile on your face, head resting in the pit of his shoulder, allowing the warmness of his voice send you into a peaceful serenity that almost always had you falling asleep twenty pages in.
Simon never minded that you’d fall asleep, and with a sweet kiss on your head, he’d string you along to bed, bookmarking the book for the next night when he’d read to you once again.
Being blind had never bothered you, and it was something you were never embarrassed or ashamed of.
Simon aided you in whatever you needed, but never made you feel an inkling of being broken or unable. He was passionate in the way he cared for you, while remaining stern in letting you be your own person.
The one thing that did bother you was that you’d never be able to see Simon’s face for all the true glory it was. The man you’d come to love over the time spent together was so close to you, yet felt so far when your brain would remind you that you didn’t know what he looked like.
The more time went on, the more you failed to grasp on to those strings, enough for Simon to take notice. When you finally had the gall to express this concern of yours, he understood completely why you’d upset yourself over it.
Thankfully for you, Simon had an easy fix for that.
“No need to worry yourself over that, sweetheart. Here.”
You may not have been able to see him, but you could feel him. Simon took your soft hands into his own, gently guiding them to cup his face. He bore himself naked to you, adorning no mask, all scars and rugged skin on display.
Your fingers traced along every feature of his, taking it in and mapping them out. You felt the thickness of his brows, trailing down to the flutter of his eyelashes, gently swiping your thumbs across them. You felt every bump of old, healed scars that indented his skin, every prickly stubble of his unshaven face.
You may not have been able to see him, but you knew he was beautiful.
Simon didn’t rush you. He remained patient and willing, face relaxed as you felt every crevice and divot. Your fingers were so careful in the way you handled him, like dealing with fragile glass, that he could’ve easily fallen in love with you a second time.
“You’re pretty,” you breathed out, hands halting their movements to lay flat on his cheeks. You were holding the world in your hands, and after getting a feel of what lay beyond it, you never wanted to let go.
Your words had dazed him, and he felt his mouth go dry as he stared at you, sinking in your own lovely features just as you did his own.
Simon had no words to speak back to you, but you knew what he was thinking without him having to say it – he loved you, more than any word could express.
Simon might not have been the type of person to get attached. You were the last thing he’d been looking for in life, but you came rushing into him like a flood, engulfing him in a forever calmness.
His body was permanently sinking in a sea of passion, and you were the life vest keeping him afloat.
i promise i didn't forget about u lovie! work was a bit crazy and my brain was a bit fried but it's here and i sincerely hope u enjoy it! thank u for the request, i love soft simon sm
CW; mentions of a suicide mission, emotional tension, fear of loss, protective behavior, power dynamics, sensory impairment, mild sexual tension, slow burn, angst.
Summary; Born after the outbreak, you and your father are taken in by Isaac, an old friend. Life under the WLF is harsh, but manageable, and over time, Abby Anderson becomes your quiet constant. A slow bond forms through shared silence, careful hands, and unspoken loyalty. But when Abby is sent on a near-suicide mission and refuses to take you, you won’t stay behind, because if she’s risking everything, then so are you.
Notes; OMG FINALLY finished this first part of this fic!! I’ve been screaming and crying about it forever bc I had NO idea how the hell to even start or get some tension in here. Huge shoutout to @gogolsbf for literally telling me to start this and like hurry my ass up fr (but also he’s suuuper patient and ILY <3) So here we are!! Expect LOADS of tension and angst, probably gonna be a slooow burn... maybe, idk yet >_< stay tuned!!
Word count; around 5,1k
You were born into the dark. Not metaphorically, though the world was already ash and bone by the time your lungs drew their first ragged breath, but literally. No blinding hospital lights, no sterile nursery cribs. No handhelds flashing from proud fathers. You were born in the backroom of a storage facility just outside your hometown, your mother gritting her teeth through labor while three people she barely trusted whispered panicked instructions beside her.
The only light came from a cracked skylight above, stained with moss and the shadow of rot. And when you opened your eyes, they stayed closed.
You never saw her face. She died minutes later. And you don’t remember her voice, either, though your father used to say it sounded like the wind through chainlink. Soft but cutting. He doesn’t say that anymore. Not because he forgot. But because some memories hurt less in silence.
There were a few truths you learned young. First: the world doesn’t slow down for you. Second: silence doesn’t mean safety. Third: people are kind, sometimes, but only until the kindness costs them something.
But your dad? He was different. The kind of different that lasts even in a world like this. He didn’t look at you like a burden. Didn’t speak about your blindness with that hushed tone people reserve for death or weakness. He never flinched when you stumbled, and he never overreached to help you unless you asked.
“You’re not broken,” he’d say, tying your boots the first time you tried them on. “Just tuned to a different station.”
He called it that often, your head. Your world. A different station. And maybe he was right. You never missed the sight of things. Never grieved the loss. You couldn’t lose what you never had. While other kids were learning colors and shapes, you were learning textures and distances, cataloguing spaces by sound and vibration. You could tell a person's weight by the way the floor groaned under them. You could tell their mood by the pattern of their breath. You never needed eyes to see when someone was lying.
But still, the world was cruel. And crueler to those who asked for space or help. So your father kept you close, moving often, bartering his skills, first as a runner, then as a mechanic, then as something between soldier and scavenger, just to keep your heads above water. But it was never quite enough.
୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧
The moment it all changed was the day your father got wind that Isaac Dixon was alive. Not just alive, but building something real. Not a settlement of wishful thinkers with garden beds and hand-sewn blankets. Not a group of half-starved zealots clinging to some repurposed scripture. A force. An army. One with rules. One that could protect its own.
Your father knew Isaac from before. Before the fall. They weren’t best friends or anything like that, not then, but they were close enough to recognize each other without weapons raised. Isaac had respected him back then. Trusted him. And that trust? It carried over.
It took a month to track the WLF down. Another week to convince the guards at the outer wall not to shoot. But the moment your father said his name, everything shifted. Someone fetched Isaac. There were muffled words, soft but urgent. And then Isaac stepped out, and you felt your father relax beside you. Shoulders dropping. Breath even.
“Holy shit,” Isaac had murmured. “Didn’t think I’d see your face again.”
And your dad, with that dry edge to his voice, answered, “Wasn’t sure you’d made it.”
Isaac didn’t hesitate. He looked at you next. Not with pity. Not even confusion. Just... calculation. A soft exhale. Then a nod. “She yours?”
Your dad rested a hand on your shoulder. “She’s mine.”
“Then you’re in.”
୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧
They gave you a room the same night. Not far from your father’s, though you insisted on having your own. You liked your space. Liked knowing where things were. And though the beds were hard and the lights always buzzing overhead, it was the safest you’d felt in years.
You didn’t go on patrols, not at first. You weren’t assigned to a station, weren’t handed a rifle and told to “stand watch.” But you weren’t dismissed either. People stared, sure. Whispered. But nobody said anything out loud. That was the thing about the WLF, respect was earned, not handed down. And over time, you found your rhythm.
You helped organize supplies. Catalogued ammo and gear by weight and count. You carved identifiers into storage racks. People caught on quick, your hands could find things faster than their eyes could. And after a while, they stopped treating you like dead weight. Some even came to you for help.
୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧
One of the first to actually talk to you was Manny.
Loud, cocky, full of shit in a way that made you grin even when you didn’t want to. He was always trying to flirt, but never in a way that felt mean. He liked making people laugh. And you? You were a great excuse for him to practice charm without consequences.
But the one who mattered most, the one you hadn’t expected, was Abby Anderson.
She never said much at first. You could tell she didn’t quite know what to do with you. She wasn’t cruel, but she wasn’t gentle either. You liked that. The first time you heard her speak, her voice came from across the mess hall, low, even, clipped. “Pass the salt.”
The sound of her was sharp. Controlled. You pictured her then: tall, probably. Strong. Someone who could silence a room without raising her voice. And you were right. Not long after, Manny introduced you two. She didn’t shake your hand, didn’t lean close or adjust her tone. She just said your name. Once. And then hers.
“Abby.”
Simple. Like she didn’t think you needed more. Like she trusted you’d figure it out.
୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧
The shift between you wasn’t fast. It came in layers.
First, it was food. Someone would hand you a tray, and by the time you sat, a spoon or fork would already be pressed into your palm. No word. Just a warm hand nudging it there.
Then it was doorways. Abby would clear her throat softly right before you passed through, just enough to signal she was holding it open. You never tripped. You never needed guiding. But she was there, anyway, hovering without suffocating. Present without pity.
Your father noticed. Of course he did.
“She watches out for you,” he muttered once while sharpening a blade. “More than most.”
You shrugged. “She’s like that with her friends.”
But you weren’t really her friend. Not yet. Just someone she didn’t ignore.
୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧
It changed the night the thunder rolled in.
Salt Lake didn’t get many storms, not the loud kind. But that night was different. Dry heat all day, then pressure dropped. Air thickened. Then the crack of it, sudden, sharp, right above the compound. You sat bolt upright in your bunk before the echo finished bouncing off the walls.
You weren’t ashamed. Not really. You’d hated thunder since you were a kid. Not because of the sound itself, but because of what it did to everyone else. The panic. The shouting. The fear of a breach. You couldn’t see their faces, but you could feel chaos rising in their bones like steam.
You curled up. Breathed deep. Tried to bury yourself in the smell of canvas and dust.
Then the door opened.
You recognized her footsteps immediately. Boots off, bare socks. The way she stood in the frame like she was giving you a second to say no. You didn’t.
She crossed the room without speaking. Sat on the edge of the bed. You didn’t touch. Didn’t even face her. Just sat there, both of you, with the thunder rolling outside and the whole world tensed like a fist.
She didn’t say you were brave. Didn’t say you were safe. She just stayed. And when the second wave cracked, louder than before, her hand drifted, barely brushing your shoulder. You didn’t flinch.
That was the night you knew she cared. Not because of what she said. But because she didn’t leave.
୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧
A couple months later
You knew she was coming before she knocked.
Not because of some dramatic intuition, or any of the things people romanticize about blind senses, but because Abby had a specific way of arriving. A rhythm. Her boots landed harder than most, but not heavy. Steady. A controlled sort of weight. Like she measured every footfall, like even the ground needed her permission.
There was a pause outside your door. You were still sitting on your cot, hands running slowly over the edge of your thigh holster, checking that your knife was seated correctly. Not fidgeting, just grounding. You had a ritual for mornings when the base felt loud before it was. There’d been a shift in the air since sunrise. A tension in the voices passing the hall. Even the pipes seemed restless, hissing more than usual.
She knocked. Just once.
The knock was soft but deliberate. Not like the clattering urgency of a guard with bad news, not like the nervous tapping of a kid wanting to borrow a weapon. It’s steady, familiar.
Abby.
“Hey,” her voice cuts through the stale air, low and steady, carrying the weight of quiet authority mixed with something softer, something careful.
You stood before answering. Didn’t speak, just opened it. Her scent hit you first. Clean sweat. Leather. Something cold underneath, like morning air clinging to skin.
“Put your boots on,” she said simply. You heard the gear on her, rifle over shoulder, straps creaking with movement, the dull clack of buckles catching against her chestplate. But her voice didn’t carry urgency. Just that quiet kind of decisiveness she wore like second skin.
“Why?”
She shifted. You could hear the rub of her gloves as she flexed her fingers.
“Fresh air.”
That was code, now. She never said walk, patrol, or escape. Just fresh air. Like it was a shared thing. Yours and hers.
You bent to pull your boots from under the bed. Fingers curling around the rough leather and pulling them on with practiced ease. Your fingertips find the laces, working them tight before sliding your feet in, molding yourself into the familiar weight and feel. The boots ground you, their rigid sole against your skin, the way the leather creaks just slightly as you flex your ankles.
When you stood again, she was still in the doorway. Not in it, exactly, just beside it, the way she always stood when she wasn’t sure if you wanted her in. She never crossed thresholds without being told to. You liked that about her. Liked that she didn’t fill a room until invited. You nodded once. “Ready.”
Her presence fills the narrow hallway. The scrape of her boots on concrete is a steady rhythm, a heartbeat alongside your own.
You reach out, and her hand closes around your wrist, not squeezing, just steadying. You let her guide you to the door. She doesn’t walk fast. She adjusts without asking. The first time she did it, weeks ago, you’d almost snapped at her. You hated being coddled. But she wasn’t slowing for you. She was slowing with you. Matching pace like it was instinct.
You can tell when she is armed differently. Today isn’t standard. You counted at least two guns, one on her hip, one across her back, and probably a combat knife at her thigh. She was always geared up around you. Never said why. Probably thought you didn’t notice.
Isaac must’ve signed off. She wouldn’t be taking you out otherwise.
You tilted your head toward her. “Did you ask permission?”
“Course I did,” she muttered. “You think I’d take you out there without a green light?”
You could hear the grin in her voice. That smug little edge she got when she knew she was playing by the book but still felt like she was getting away with something.
“He give you the usual speech?”
“Something about responsibility and discretion,” she said. “I stopped listening after that.”
You snorted once, quiet. She liked that sound, though she never acknowledged it out loud.
୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧
Outside, the air hits your face. Dry, sharp, salted with the faintest trace of something green, maybe pine or sagebrush carried in on a dry wind. The sky is a dull grey, heavy with clouds, but there’s no rain yet. You take a deep breath, filling your lungs with the wild openness you rarely feel.
Abby’s voice is close. “We’ll stick to the road for a while. Not far. Just enough to get some fresh air.”
You nod, as you’re already moving forward, your feet finding the cracked pavement, the broken glass crunching beneath your boots.
Abby walks beside you, her steps strong but measured, never too fast, always attentive. She’s silent at first, letting the sounds of the world fill the space between you. Distant birds calling, the occasional hum of a passing vehicle far off. The faint buzz of electricity from a downed powerline.
You lean slightly into her side when you sense rougher terrain ahead, a patch of gravel, maybe broken asphalt. She adjusts, stepping just ahead, holding out a steadying hand. Her fingers brush yours briefly. Not enough to startle, but enough to remind you she’s there. The heat of her skin transfers through the thin fabric of your sleeve. You hold onto it, steady and reassuring.
The jeep was already running when you two arrived. She helped you into the passenger side without touching you. Just opened the door, waited. You counted the seconds by her breathing. Not impatient. Not expectant. Just there.
The seat was cracked leather. Familiar. You ran your hand over the dash as she climbed in, noting the old radio toggle still half-broken, the duct tape on the gearshift.
She drove without music. Always did.
The ride out was quiet, save for the engine hum and the occasional crunch of gravel. You didn’t ask where she was taking you. You never did. It didn’t matter. The landscape changed every time, but the ritual was the same. She’d find a place she thought was safe enough. You’d walk. She’d track surroundings while you read them, by sound, by scent, by air.
Sometimes she talked. Most times she didn’t.
You liked the silence with her.
When the engine finally cut, you sat still for a moment. Let the absence of vibration settle in your bones. Then came the world, wind through tall trees, distant crows, the creak of old branches above. Pine needles, damp earth, the cold bite of elevation in your lungs.
You turned your head slightly. “Forest?”
“More or less,” Abby said. She was already at your side, metal clinking faintly as she stretched. “We’re west of base. Still inside safe perimeter.”
You nodded, opening your door before she could do it. The ground was uneven, but familiar. You stepped out, feeling the crunch of leaves and grit beneath your soles. You liked this texture better than concrete. It had life in it.
“Walk slow,” she murmured. “We’ll go maybe half a mile in.”
You heard the quiet click of her safety. Off, not on. Something about that both comforted and annoyed you. “Expecting trouble?”
“No.”
“Then why—”
“Habit.”
You didn’t push further. You never did with her. She spoke when she needed to. The rest came through presence.
She walked a half-step ahead, but not blocking. You tracked her by sound, the swish of her pants, the occasional branch shifting against her shoulder. She didn’t talk much during these walks, and you didn’t need her to. You could feel her. That was enough.
The forest opened slowly. Wider space. Less clutter underfoot. You tapped your fingers against your thigh once, three beats. A habit you’d picked up years ago. Calibration. Sound bouncing back from trees. You counted the seconds until the echo softened.
“Field?” you asked.
“Yeah. Cleared land. Probably old farmland before the fall.”
There was a breeze here. Colder, sharper. It moved your hair, slid between layers of your jacket. You adjusted your footing.
Abby stopped. You felt the absence of her motion before you heard it.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she said. Then, “You okay?”
You tilted your head toward her. “You always ask that.”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
She exhaled slowly. Not annoyed. More like she was working something out in her head.
“’Cause sometimes you lie,” she said finally.
You huffed. “Sometimes you do too.”
She let that hang for a second. Then chuckled once. A low sound, private. “Fair.”
୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧
You ended up sitting on a fallen tree, damp bark rough against your palms. Abby stood nearby, shifting occasionally. You could hear her cleaning something, probably her rifle. The cloth against metal was slow, even. Not really about maintenance. Just busy hands.
“You ever wish you could see?” she suddenly asked, voice quiet.
You turned your head toward her. Not startled, just surprised she’d asked. “No,” you said truthfully. “I think it’d make things harder.”
“Why?”
You shrugged. “I’d have to unlearn too much.”
Abby was quiet again. But her voice, when it came, was softer than usual.
“Most people want more.”
“I’ve had enough.”
That silenced held for a long time. You didn’t fill it. She didn’t either. The wind moved. A crow cried somewhere overhead. You could feel her shift closer, not touching, not even brushing, but nearer than before.
When she finally spoke again, it was without preamble. “I didn’t just bring you out here for the air.”
You nodded. “Figured.”
“I just... I needed out of there.”
You didn’t say anything. You just sat there with her, two women in a dead world, breathing the same bitter wind, pretending for one quiet moment that everything outside the trees didn’t exist.
୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧
The ride back was quieter than the way out.
You stayed still in the passenger seat, hands resting in your lap, the leather cold beneath your fingers. The world outside the windshield blurred into the low hum of the jeep’s engine and the muted whisper of tires on gravel. Abby’s presence filled the small space beside you like a solid shape, grounding.
When the jeep finally eased into the base, the scent of dust and wood smoke tangled with something faintly metallic and antiseptic. You heard the engine slow, then cut off.
“Here we are,” Abby said softly. She unbuckled her seatbelt with a muted snap.
You nodded, steadying yourself with a hand on the door handle. The seatbelt tugged slightly as you shifted. The cold metal of the door frame greeted your palm when you stepped out.
The ground beneath your boots crunched with grit and small stones. You took a slow breath, savoring the shift from open air back into the enclosed safety of the base. Abby followed close, close enough that the scrape of her boots against gravel was a heartbeat behind yours.
You sat down on the edge of your cot inside your room, the rough wood cold against your bare calves. Slowly, methodically, you began unlacing your boots, fingers working the knots loose with practiced care. The leather was stiff from the day’s walk, slightly damp with sweat, and it made the familiar creak as you pulled your feet free.
Abby stayed standing nearby, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, her breath steady and quiet. She was watching, not with eyes, but with presence. You felt it as strongly as if she had a hand on your shoulder.
“Mind if I check you for wounds?” Her voice was low, careful, almost hesitant.
You hesitated. You were used to managing on your own, accustomed to dismissing small aches and bruises like they were nothing. But something in the way she asked made it feel less like an obligation and more like a favor.
“Okay,” you said after a pause.
She stepped closer. You felt her breath on the back of your neck, the heat of her body a tangible comfort. Abby’s hands were rough, calloused but gentle as she reached toward your calves, sliding fingertips along your skin.
She paused where the fabric of your pants was damp. Her fingers pressed lightly, searching. “Nothing here,” she said, voice steady.
You shifted your foot, flexing your toes. She moved to your ankles, tracing the edges of your boots’ sole marks left faintly on your skin. “Any pain?” she asked.
You shook your head.
Her fingers moved up your calves slowly, carefully, her touch never rushing or sharp. When she reached your knees, you felt her fingers press with gentle pressure against the scrapes and bruises there, small, faded, mostly superficial.
“Looks like you took a few hits,” she murmured, her voice low.
You shrugged, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Still,” she said, “doesn’t mean I’m not going to look.” She lifted your pant leg a little, feeling for anything missed. The fabric shifted against your skin, cool and soft.
Her hands brushed a faint scar you hadn’t noticed in weeks, old and barely raised. “Here,” she said quietly, thumb stroking the edge. “This one’s healing. Did you get it on patrol?”
“No, before,” you said. “Doesn’t matter.”
Abby didn’t press. Just nodded once, a quiet acknowledgment.
When she moved to check your arms, you felt the air shift as her body circled, careful not to startle. She paused, fingertips tracing a faint bruise near your wrist.
“Here,” she said softly, “this one’s fresh. You sure you didn’t feel it before?”
You hesitated, then shook your head again. “No. Maybe just didn’t notice.”
She pressed the bruise lightly, gauging your reaction. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
She exhaled slowly, like she’d been holding her breath. Her hands retreated. “Good,” she said finally. “Because if you’d been hurt and didn’t say something...” Her voice trailed off.
You didn’t ask her to finish.
Instead you rubbed your feet slowly, feeling the tired ache behind your arches. You shifted your weight on the cot, the wood groaning softly under you. The quiet was thick between you two, but it didn’t feel empty. Abby was still there, close enough that you could hear the soft scrape of her boots against the floor.
“Want me to get you some water?” she asked after a moment, voice low and steady.
You nodded, grateful for the simple offer. The air inside the base was dry, and after the walk, your throat felt tight.
She moved quietly toward the corner where a battered metal jug sat beside a cracked basin. You heard the click of the lid opening and the soft swish of liquid inside.
When she came back, she held the jug just out of your reach, letting you guide your hand until your fingers curled around the cool metal.
The water was colder than you expected, sliding down your throat in sharp, refreshing gulps.
You heard her shift again, closer now. “Feeling sore anywhere else?” Abby asked softly.
You paused, letting your fingers brush absently over your calf, feeling the faint pulse beneath the skin. “Just tired,” you said finally. “And maybe... stiff.”
Abby hummed. You could hear the breath in her voice, steady and careful, like she was measuring every word. “I can help with that,” she said. “I know some stretches. Nothing fancy, but it might loosen you up.”
You hesitated, not sure if you wanted to bother her. But there was something in her tone, no pressure, no demand, just quiet willingness.
“Okay,” you said.
She moved around you slowly, the scrape of her boots barely audible now. Then her hands settled on your shoulders, strong and warm, grounding.
The first touch startled you slightly, but she stayed gentle, firm without pressure. Her fingers kneaded the tension out carefully, feeling the muscles beneath. You breathed out slowly, letting yourself relax into the touch. Her hands shifted to your neck, tracing the tense lines there. You felt the weight of her presence, steady and calm, like a shield against the quiet ache in your body.
“Good,” she murmured. “Just slow, steady. Let me know if it hurts.”
You shook your head, words unnecessary.
Her fingers pressed into your trapezius muscles again, moving with purpose but never harsh. She knew you well enough to sense your limits, adjusting instinctively.
After a few minutes, she eased back, her hands sliding down your arms to your wrists, stretching gently.
“Better?” she asked softly.
You nodded, the tightness in your shoulders easing just a little.
“Thanks, Abby,” you said quietly.
She shifted again, this time closer, her breath brushing against your ear. “You’re welcome.”
For a long moment, the two of you just sat there, the small room filled with the quiet sounds of your breathing and the distant hum of the base settling down for the night.
Then, Abby spoke again, voice barely above a whisper. “You know... I don’t mind this.”
The words hung in the air, soft and heavy. You didn’t answer right away, just felt the steady warmth of her hands resting lightly on your arms.
“I mean... being here with you. Helping. Watching out.” Her fingers twitched slightly, like she wasn’t sure if she’d said too much. But you reached up, placing your hand over hers, the skin rough beneath your palm.
“Me too,” you said.
୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧
The briefing had been brutal. Isaac’s voice was sharp, clipped, laced with the weight of something too dangerous to sugarcoat. The map spread out on the rough wooden table showed a no-man’s land, an area deep into Seattle’s outskirts, crawling with hostile factions and infected alike. The mission was clear: scout, retrieve critical supplies, maybe gather intel, but above all, survive.
No one called it what it was, no one said “suicide mission” out loud. But the word hung in the air between the lines, heavy and undeniable.
When Abby heard the orders, the hard set of her jaw tightened.
“You’re going,” Isaac said, meeting her eyes with an icy calm.
Abby didn’t argue.
But later, when she came to you, you felt it. her usual steady, unflappable armor cracked just enough for you to glimpse the worry beneath.
“You’re not coming,” she said before you could say anything. Her voice was low, almost fierce. “This isn’t safe. It’s—” She swallowed the words, but the meaning was clear.
Suicide mission.
She didn’t want you there. Not just because it was dangerous, but because she couldn’t bear the thought of watching you die on her watch. You stayed silent, the weight of her words settling between you like thick fog.
“I’m not going to leave you alone, Abby,” you said finally, voice steady. “Not on something like this.”
She looked at you, eyes dark and heavy. “This isn’t about what you want. It’s about keeping you safe.”
You let the silence stretch. You knew she was right, this was dangerous. But the thought of sitting back while Abby risked everything? It was unbearable.
Abby moved around the small room methodically, gearing up for the mission.
You stayed quiet, your breathing steady, muscles coiled with determination. You knew she didn’t want you there. Hell, she’d said as much. But there was no way you were letting her go alone. Not on this.
You waited until you heard the faint clink of metal, her weapons being checked, secured. The subtle rustle of her jacket sliding over her shoulders. The sharp click as she tightened her boots. Abby’s movements were efficient, practiced, almost ritualistic, the kind of focus that made you hesitate for a heartbeat, but then you moved.
You slipped silently through the narrow hallway, toes skimming over the rough concrete floor. The scent of old leather, metal, and the faint musk of dirt hung in the air. Your fingers trailed along the wall as you navigated, every texture a guide. You passed the common room where the others were nowhere in sight, then the faint echo of voices drifting from somewhere distant.
You reached the garage door. Your fingers found the cold metal handle; the lock was simple, Isaac’s crew kept it functional, not fancy. You lifted it carefully, the slow creak muted in the thick evening stillness. Outside, the air was cooler, carrying the scent of dry dust and pine.
Your fingers brushed along the dusty frame of the car, a tough old thing with battle scars, dents, and a battered paint job peeling in places. You slid around the back, feeling the shape of the trunk, and then moved to the side door.
The car was unlocked. You smiled a little, thankful for the small mercy. You opened the door quietly, the soft thud almost swallowed by the night. You slid inside the backseat, the worn leather creaking softly beneath you.
Your heart hammered, not from fear, but from fierce resolve. You settled in low, trying to find a comfortable spot. The faint scent of Abby’s sweat and earth mingled with the oil and old fabric. You wrapped your arms around yourself, the chill inside the car reminding you that you’d chosen this willingly.
You heard the front door slam behind you, Abby was coming. You held your breath as the driver’s side door swung open and shut, the sound sharp in the quiet. The engine rumbled to life, a low, vibrating growl beneath your back.
You stayed perfectly still, listening. The seatbelt clicked in, then the soft scrape of Abby’s boots on the pedals. Then the car rolled forward, tires crunching over gravel.
For nearly ten minutes you remained silent, every sound magnified in the cramped space. You felt every vibration through the seat, the subtle changes as Abby shifted gears, the steady rhythm of the engine.
Then, suddenly, a sharp intake of breath came from the front. “Wait...” Abby’s voice was tense, uncertain.
You shifted slightly, the worn leather creaking beneath you, and you heard her stiffen.
“Shit.”
Her hands gripped the wheel tighter. “What the fuck are you doing back there?”
You swallowed, your fingers curling into the seat fabric. “I’m not letting you go alone,” you said quietly.
There was a long pause, then a soft exhale. “Goddamn it,” Abby muttered. You heard her lean back slightly, the leather seat creaking under her weight. “Get up here.”
Your hands moved quickly, feeling your way to the front seat as Abby reached over and unlatched the back door. The cold night air brushed against your face as you climbed out, the gravel crunching beneath your boots. Abby caught your arm as you settled in beside her, her grip firm but not harsh. “You’re impossible,” she said softly.
You smiled. “Yeah, well. So are you.”
The car slid back onto the road, the headlights piercing the gathering dark.
