A/N: Though it's been said by a lot of authors on this cite, The Last of Us is one of the most thought provoking and powerful stories in recent years, and it leaves so much open to interpretation. Although the DLC revealed some of what happened between fall and winter (and it was awesome), I can't help but speculate about both post-winter and post-spring. So, that's what this will explore. As it stands, it won't be very long, but I'd rather it not overstay its welcome, especially because it zeroes in more on one character's side of things (and, for that reason, I hope she's in character). Thanks for taking a look, and any reviews would be much appreciated. Endure and survive.

Chapter 1: Baby Girl

The white gown doesn't suite her. It does hide the bandage on her abdomen, but her sweatpants and purple sweater could have do the same. The problem isn't that it's the wrong size. The problem isn't that the gown is in and of itself ugly. The problem is that it makes her look frail and vulnerable.

She flinches lightly as he runs his finger over the IV in her right hand. The golden bracelets twinkle alongside her earrings in the light from the bedside lamp. As gently as he can, he raises her arm, slips the bracelets onto her wrist, and sets it back down. The earrings will have to wait.

Snowflakes bounce off the window and pile on top of each other on the sill. The silence permeating the building is only occasionally broken by the padding of the nurses' soft shoes against the hallway floors.

He leans back in his chair and scratches his chin. It's late, and he should be getting home soon because he has work bright and early tomorrow morning, but he wants to be the first person who she sees when she wakes up.

A doctor comes in, looks at her, scribbles a few notes down on a clipboard, and walks back out without saying a word.

Sarah coughs quietly and instinctively rolls onto her side, but the bandage must be uncomfortable because she immediately roles onto her back again. Dirty blond hair falls in front of her closed eyelids.

The revelation that she could have died again runs through his head, the revelation that he's already had several times but that remains a revelation because it brings that same initial shock with every repetition.

Her hand squeezes his own, and her eyes finally open.

"Hey," he mumbles, pressing a cool hand to her forehead even though he knows she isn't sick.

"Daddy." She makes it sound more like a fact, a statement, than a greeting. Her soft voice is rough, and her hand searches her stomach for the stitches that mar the flesh she last remembers to be pure and soft and whole.

He kisses her cheek and tucks a few loose strands of hair behind her ears. "How're ya feelin?"

"Numb," Sarah replies, running her fingers over the bandage. "What are ya doin here?"

"What?" he whispers. "I was supposed to wait until tomorrow?"

She giggles, thinks better of it, and stops with a wince. "It's late."

"But it's still today." Joel reaches into his bag and pulls out a small box cocooned in strapped orange wrapping paper. A golden ribbon that matches her hair is clumsily tied around it. The bow is more than a little lopsided. He puts it in her free hand and winks.

"You're ridiculous," she whispers, struggling to rise up on her elbow.

"Nah." His eyebrows knit together as he gently pushes her back down.

"Then we'll need to be inventive." Smiling, she stops squeezing his hand, takes it by the wrist, and uses it to help undo the ribbon and tear apart the wrapping paper. Bits of orange flutter through the air and land atop the blanket.

He leans back in his chair when she finally unmasks the necklace in the shape of a golden Cross. "Well?"

Again, she tries to sit up, and he has to force her down. "It's awesome! Help me put it on."

Glancing at the clock and silently mouthing a thanks that he made it with a few minutes to spare, the father gently slips the necklace over her head as she feebly lifts it from the pillow.

"How do I look?" she asks, batting her eyelashes.

"Very charming." His face falls with each syllable as he again realizes that she almost died, that she had to get surgery on her birthday. She could have died on her favorite day of the year. It's like there was some kind of sick trade; she got a necklace, but she lost an appendix.

She looks down at the Cross and then back up at him. "I'd like to hug ya, but you'd have to bend down."

"Gladly." He allows himself to be pulled into her awkward embrace and releases an exaggerated groan as soon as she kisses his forehead.

"Don't be a baby."

There's a knock at the door, and he pulls away after exaggeratedly wiping his brow with the heel of his hand.

Tommy is standing in the hallway carrying another, slightly larger present and a vase with a few roses in it. "I'm so sorry I'm late. She awake?"

"Uncle Tommy," Sarah calls, not trying to sit up this time because she knows how her father will react.

As his brother hurries inside, mumbling something about visiting hours coming to a close, Joel stares at the polished tile floor. The word late has struck a cord with him, though he doesn't know why. Late. Is he late for something? Is he too late for something?

With a shrug, he turns around, but he isn't standing in the hospital, Sarah isn't recovering from her operation, and Little Brother isn't running around like the apologizing madman he was that night.

The snow is everywhere, climbing inside of his boots, biting at his face, and chilling him to the core through the wound on his waist. Heat bursts forth from the burning restaurant a few yards away, and he knows what he's late for.

Hopefully, he's not too late.

The darkness begins to fade, to turn to a lighter shade of grey. It's hard to breathe, but she doesn't mind. She's tired, and sleep doesn't sound so bad. Green eyes open halfway, and it feels like a wooden pick is being driven through her head.

Ellie tries to sit bolt upright, to make a run for the door, to escape, but her body doesn't listen because only her brain wants to live; the rest is resigned. She props herself up on her elbows, more pain erupting in her left leg and back.

David is stirring, the blood from the wound in his side pooling around him. How is he alive?

The girl looks about frantically. She needs a gun, a piece of wood that isn't five thousand degrees, a pot, anything blunt. Trying not to scream and pull him through the tunnel to complete consciousness, she gets onto her hands and knees and feels like she's going to vomit.

Under a booth, only a few feet away, is the machete.

She forces herself to crawl forwards, to make sure that her brain remains in control of her body and not the other way around. The weapon draws closer, but the pain is getting worse, and black dots dance around the edge of her vision and blurt out the patches of fire that lick at the walls and roof of the building.

A boot collides with her belly, knocking her onto her side and cracking something that she can tell should never crack. Blood squirts out of her nose and mouth when she bites down on her bottom lip.

"I knew you had heart," David chuckles, putting one hand to his side and leaning down slightly to try and catch her gaze. "Y'know, it's okay to give up. Ain't no shame in it."

Ellie ignores him, releases a few ragged breaths, and uses her elbows to claw her way forward. Her legs are limp behind her, but the bullet wound rubs against the punishing fibers of the carpet.

"I guess not," he observes. "Just not our style, is it?"

Again, he kicks her stomach, and she can't breathe at all, can't lift herself up, can't do anything. No, no she needs to breathe.

As soon as she can suck air into her lungs, he's shoving her face into the carpet and sitting on top of her. "You can try beggin'."

The world crumbles away as the meaning of those words hits home. She's alone with him, alone in a deep and endless darkness, unable to call out to anyone who might be running by and willing to put her out of her misery before this psychopath gets what he wants. Her head snaps back as he lets go of her hair, and anger consumes her, making her body shudder like it's back out in the cold. The desire to sleep, the ability to sleep, is gone. "Fuck you."

His warm hands, stained with red speckles, force her onto her back. Even in the heat of the fire, his breath burns her cheeks as he leans closer. "You think you know me? Huh?"

She reaches out her hand, blindly scrambling for the blade that could save her, maybe from the one thing worse than death. Her fingers curl around empty air, curl around smoke, curl around cinders being blown from the fires.

He's chocking her, curling his hands around her throat, crushing her windpipe. "Well let me tell you somethin'."

The Fireflies mean nothing, stopping the infection means nothing, saving the world means nothing. All that matters is escape, escape from him and his horrid breath and his taunting eyes and his cruel fingers.

"You have no idea what I'm capable of."

A nail taps against the handle, and she reaches again, farther, nearly ripping her arm out of its socket. She has it, and adrenaline is coursing through her veins. The blade slices through the air and buries itself in his arm.

David screams and falls off of her, trying to plug up the gaping hole in his flesh.

She's blinded by her rage, blinded by her fear, blinded by her pain, and he becomes the source of it all. The fire builds, a chandelier falls, she's on top of him, her heart is beating so harshly against her chest that she wonders how much more her ribs can take.

The hand he brings up begs for mercy, but he choked that out of her.

His head splinters apart, blood erupts from the wound and drenches her jacket in thick red. She brings the machete down again and again, and she wants to stop, but she can't. Every swing makes her feel alive at the same time that it makes her feel dead. Every swing makes her feel like she's redeeming herself at the same time that she's condemning herself. Every swing makes her feel like an old wound is closed even as new ones are opened.

Somebody calls out her name, but that doesn't stop the next swing, doesn't stop the next splintering of bone.

The arms around her waist do. "Stop, stop," the voice commands, dry and soft at the same time.

Ellie squirms away, yanking her pursuer with her. "No!"

The cuts and bruises and broken bones squeal as he pulls back and yanks her into a clumsy embrace. Tears form in her eyes that even David hadn't been able to cultivate.

"Don't fucking touch me!"

"Ssh, ssh." He lifts her off the ground, deposits her in front of his crouched figure like a package.

"No-"

"It's okay. It's me. It's me." Joel cradles her face in his hands, and his brown eyes finally capture her gaze.

It occurs to her that he shouldn't be here, that he's irritating his wound to no end, but she stops caring as everything that happened in the past few hours lands on top of her, crushing her to the ground and knocking all but the smallest sliver of life out of her. "He tried to-"

He pulls her forward, hugs her, rubs her back. "Oh, Baby Girl."

She's numb, she's cold, and she has trouble understanding what he says when he pulls back. A nod seems to urge him onwards, a nod seems to make it appear that she's got herself together, and so a nod is what forces her to stand. Despite his support, despite the arm around her waist, she trembles and sobs and doesn't stop looking over her shoulder at the corpse.

They are back out in the snow, back out in the town, and there are distant calls for support and weapons and blood. Gunshots ring out, and the sound of Clickers echoes off of the closely cluttered buildings.

Joel becomes anxious, so he tries to pick her up, but she won't let him. He looks frantically about, ducks as a bullet shatters a nearby window. Pulling her to the ground, he sees the wound in her leg, curses, tries to give her a pistol before throwing her over his shoulder.

She can't take it, she can't hold the cool metal, and she can't hold on anymore. The town bounces with every one of his steps, and it gradually grows smaller. Darkness comes at her from between the trees in the forest. She realizes that the gun falls to the ground, but there's too much darkness, and she can't see where it landed.

The bouncing is the rocking of a cradle, his heavy breathing is a lullaby, and her jacket covered in coagulated blood is a blanket. She falls asleep amidst a nightmare.

Cold and hot. She's chilled to the bone, yet she's burning up, her entire body having caught fire while encased in ice. Her eyes flutter half-open, and that's as open as they'll get. An old and sputtering electronic heater beside her head is a source of comfort and pain, soothing when it combats the cold and agonizing when it adds to the fire. "Joel?" she croaks, rolling onto her side and pulling the thin blanket tighter around her shoulders.

"Ellie," he breathes, sitting a few feet away with his back up against the wall. "Was worried you weren't never gonna wake up."

The smart-alike comeback he's expecting never comes, and he's visibly disappointed. "Where are we?"

"An old apartment complex. I think the Fireflies used to stay here; there's a whole bunch of pendants in the living room, and there's a gassed up generator in the basement."

She nods and sits up, her head swimming. "I feel funny."

"You've got a fever. I cleaned out your leg wound, so it won't get infected, but it's gonna hurt like a son of a bitch for a while." He inches closer and puts a hand to her forehead.

Ellie tries to stand, but her legs aren't cooperating, and she can barely lift herself off the ground. "Let me see your side."

His lip curls downwards. "I'm fine. Worry about yourself."

"I'm fine too."

"Stop," he commands as she again tries to rise.

Her eyes widen at the sternness in his voice, a sternness that he's never used with her before. It's harsh, but it's compassionate, sweet. Loving.

Joel sighs and unzips her jacket. "You're not okay."

She almost vomits when she sees the miniatures pools of red gluing her undershirt to her skin. Some of it has dried, become like a thick paste. Some of it is still wet, and she can feel it trickling down her side and back.

"I was able to start a small fire outside and heat up some water."

"A fire?" she exclaims, panic seizing her heart and making her leg throb. "What if they find us? What if they come back? What if they kill you and capture me? I can't go back, I can't do that again."

"Whoa." He puts his hands on her shoulders.

"Don't say that. I'm being completely rational, and you should know that starting a fire near an enemy camp is a stupid fucking idea." She tries to stand again, but the weight on her leg knocks her down, and there's a sickening stab of agony in her chest that won't fade.

"Stop," he says again. "We're miles from that place, I promise. Before I did anything, I took a walk and made sure that the place was abandoned. 'Sides, I kept the fire real small and put it in a nearby forest, away from the apartments."

She relaxes a bit and feels her eyelids fall half-closed again. "Sorry."

"The point is, there's enough hot water for you to take a bath. You should do it soon because that water'll be frigid again soon."

"You take it," she mumbles. "I don't mind being dirty."

"I need you to be clean so I can see the rest of your injuries."

"Oh my God."

"We need to be safe. Come on, now." He slips one arm beneath her upper back and the other beneath her legs and gently lifts her into the air. As soon as the blanket is gone, she starts shivering, her teeth start chattering, and all the color in her cheeks vanishes.

The bathroom is in surprisingly good shape; aside from the thick layer of dust and the ruined tiles in the back corner, everything appears normal, like this room was somehow preserved when the rest of the world collapsed. The tub is only about a quarter of the way filled, which tells her that he was sure not to leave the fire going too long.

He sets her down on the tub's edge and lightly tussles her hair. "I'll be right outside, okay? There are some clean clothes by the sink; might be a bit big, but they'll do. When you're ready, knock on the door."

Ellie watches him leave and bites down on her lip to stop her teeth from knocking together. As much as she hates to admit it, the idea of a bath is tantalizing, and she dips one toe in the water. Allowing herself to smile the slightest bit, she gingerly slips off her jacket and lets it fall to the floor in a crumbled, bloody heap.

By the time she's managed to get into the water, it's already significantly cooler. Her other clothes were nearly impossible to remove without tearing the skin from her bones, and the blood coating her from head to toe promptly turns the water a deep shade of red.

She's too tired to scrub away at it, but she's too afraid to try and take a nap. There's always the off chance that those animals saw the fire and followed her here to finish the job, to punish her for killing David and escaping-

"Fuck," she screeches, feeling that same pain in her chest again. She doesn't want to tell Joel, doesn't want him to patch her up, doesn't want to be the victim. It's unbecoming, it's demeaning, it's embarrassing, and she's already been embarrassed enough. Besides, how could she deserve sympathy when, even for that smallest fraction of a second, she stopped caring about the Fireflies, stopped caring about the whole reason she's started this journey in the first place.

When the water gets cold and the shivering and chattering returns, she lethargically scrubs away at her body with a small rag Joel gave her. Her skin is raw before she realizes how many times she's going over the same spots. Shaking her head, she rises and uses an old towel speckled with holes to dry herself off.

It's impossible not to see the gash on her left forearm, the sickly yellow skin around the bullet hole in her leg, the massive bruise forming on her rib cage, or the torn flesh on her stomach as she looks in the mirror to put on the new clothes. When she approaches the door, she's forgotten what it is she's supposed to do, so she sits on the counter and bites down on her lip to avoid groaning out loud.

"Ellie?" a voice asks after what feels like hours.

"What?" The hoarsness of her own voice surprises her.

"You almost done?"

"I've been done."

There's a quiet sigh before the door opens, and Joel holds out a hand. "Told you to knock."

She stares at him, her eyes glassed over. "Told me to what?"

He shakes his head and helps her limp into a bedroom. Chairs blanketed in dust are propped up against mustard yellow walls, a desk consumed by papers and books is in the far corner, a twin bed with far too many pillow for a normal person and enough quilts to strangle a rhinosorous is opposite a dresser missing several of its drawers. "Sit down."

Ellie can't hide the groan this time, but she scratches the back of her neck like nothing's wrong, like nothing's happened, and waits for him to finish rumaging through his backpack.

"How are you feeling?"

"Bad. Sore. Fine." The words that come out of her mouth aren't registered in her brain, and neither is the puzzled rise of Joels' eyebrows.

His one hand pats her back as he sits down, and she winces; she couldn't see that in the mirror, so God knows what it looks like. "Lift up your shirt."

"No." She crosses her arms over her chest.

"I need to patch you up."

"I'm okay."

"Ellie," he whispers, leaning closer. "You trust me, right?"

She doesn't know why he'd ask that; of course she trusts him. It's a ridiculous question, one that he shouldn't even need to think about. That's the point, she realizes. Her fingers fumble for the hem of her shirt, and she's slowly lifting it up, trying not to look at the bruises and gashes. "Make it fast."

He grimaces and grabs a roll of gauze. "Hold it," he says, pressing it down above the waistline of her pants.

"Okay."

The roll makes a scratchy sound as it unravels, as he spins it round and round her abdomen, careful to cover the deeper cuts and darker bruises.

It reaches her chest, and she cries out.

"What?"

"No-"

"Don't tell me it was nothin. What happened?" When she doesn't respond, he shakes his head and squints.

"Stop looking at me," she spits, her cheeks redening like she's exposed again, exposed in that burning restaurant, unable to move, unable to run, unable to fight, unable to breathe, unable to surive.

"Your rib is broken."

"Then fix it up already." Her tone is harsher than she means it to be, but she wants this to be done. Then she can sleep. She wants to sleep, to forget, to escape.

He finishes with the gauze, but he makes sure it's loose over the broken rib. "Alright."

She lets her shirt fall and crawls into the middle of the bed. The only way to make herself remotely comfortable is to lie on her back; lying on one side hurts her chest, lying on the other hurts a gash on her side, lying on her stomach irritates the irritated and peeling skin that coats her from the waist to the shoulders. She hates lying on her back.

Joel looks away and crosses his legs. "I'm sorry, Ellie."

"For what?"

"I wasn't there."

"You were hurt. You still are. Come and lie down."

"Not tired."

"Please?" She thinks she's asking that for his own good, but, deep down in what's left of her heart, she knows that she's asking for her own good too. As much as she wants it, sleep may be illusive tonight.

Giving her a pitiful look, he obeys and puts a protective arm over her.

She hates pity, hates being the victim, hates being the center of attention. The tables have turned; she was the protector, she was the guardian, she was the caretaker, and now she isn't. But she isn't alone anymore. "Two months."

"Huh?"

"Huh?"

"What did you say?"

"I dunno." Hissing, she grabs the quilts and pulls them up to her neck, hoping that they'll trap in the heat from the fire. Right now, she's getting chills, but she knows that they'll turn to hot flashes sooner or later.

"Get some sleep, Baby Girl. You've earned it."

Has she? How? What has she done right? She led those animals right to Joels' doorstep, got Callus killed, got herself captured, and was willing to sacrifice the entire mission for a moment of reprieve from the attack. That's not what a good person does, that's not what a hero does, that's not what she should have done.

The room is hot, the room is in the middle of an inferno, and she's coughing her head off. Eyes open, and it's morning, she can tell from the grey light coming in through the dirty and boarded up windows.

Joel is at her side, pressing a damp washcloth down onto her forehead. "Morning."

"What are you doing?" she asks, teeth chattering despite the heat.

"You're fever is getting worse. Relax."

The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them: "Am I turning?"

He pulls away and says something in response, but she can't hear him, can't feel her fingertips, her toes, her anything. It's all a blur, all a messy blur, and she's scared by this sound that sonds not unlike the moan of a dying cat. It takes a while for her to realize that that's her voice, her moaning.

Riley shows up sometimes, takes her to the mall in Boston, tells her stories about the Fireflies and Marlene and Salt Lake City. But Riley couldn't have known about Salt Lake City, so who is this? It can't be her.

Snow flakes, a blizzard, guns cocking, shots fired, red blood on the white powder, death in life, life in death. Corpses, Clickers, fungus climbing up the walls, pushing its way through windows, knocking over pots and vases and teleivision sets as it rushes forwards, consuming, destroying.

Jackson. Tommy and Maria, happy, safe behind guarded gates. Warm beds, heating, hot showers, lamps, places to read, to laugh, to live. They had real food there, not berries picked off of a bush or cans picked out of an overturned dumpster. Ellie wants to go back, to stay there forever. What she wouldn't give for real food right now . . .

"Did you say something?" Joel's voice.

Her dry eyes peel themselves open. "Hungry," is all she can say; her lips are cracked, her tongue is glued to the roof of her mouth.

"Wait a second." He grabs a can of something, but that's not real food.

She shakes her head as much as she can and claws at the blankets that are suffocating her.

"That's all we have, Ellie. How are you doing?"

"Riley?" she calls.

"Ah, shit."

He's gone, and there's nothing but white, endless and mind-numbing white. There's no rhyrme or reaosn to it, and she's lost, trapped. There are no boundaries, nothing to push against and knock down. It's devious, it's horrible, and it's nothing at all.

She wants out, she wants out now, and she's starting to forget where it is she wants to go instead. There has to be a destination, a brighter horizon, something to strive towards. Otherwise, why would she want to leave at all?

Think, think, think, she needs to remember.

Him. Joel. Her friend. Friend, right?

There's a ringing, and it's getting louder and louder and louder and louder. She wants to scream, to shut it up, to soak up the silence that she misses.

Middle of the night. Dark room, his sleeping figure beside her.

She's numb, but she's not hot, not cold, normal. But she can't lift her head, has no energy at all, no drive.

It's like he has a sixth sense, a sense reserved solely for her. "Ellie?"

"Joel."

He wipes his eyes and props himself up on one elbow. "Thank God you're alright."

It takes her a minute to realize that he's kissing her forehead, kissing her like she's his-

"You've been delusional all week, but your fever finally broke a few hours ago." He tustles her drooping red hair and smiles.

"I can't move."

"You're weak, dehydrated. I wasn't able to get you to eat anything. Don't worry, I'm gonna fix you up."

This is weird, and she's uncomfortable. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you care? I'm one person, and you don't give a damn about the cure."

He stares at her, mouth slightly open.

Her eyes slowly close again, and she sighs, her body trying to return to sleep and her brain unwilling to leave this book open. "Sorry. I don't like being taken care of."

No response.

"You mad?"

He clears his throat. "No. You're right, I should pull back."

It dawns on her that she was acting the same way when he was sick, unconcsious, trapped in some kind of fantasy world. What's the difference?

Neither one of them says anything for what feels like hours, but she doesn't fall asleep, can't will herself to let go. "You there?"

"I'm here." The bed squeaks as he sits back down.

"I'm sorry."

"You already said that."

"Uh-huh." Her hand fumbles about until she finds another blanket, and she drags it over towards where she thinks he is without opening her eyes, hoping that he'll get the message.

He lies down and puts his arm around her again. "We'll stay here for a while longer until you've gotten some strength back."

"I want to see your wound tomorrow. Okay?" She yawns and puts a hand over the bullethole in her leg.

"If it'll shut ya up," he chuckles.

It takes a few minutes, right up until they both drift off, for it to dawn on them that she didn't make a joke, didn't make a witty remark, didn't say anything. She let him win.

She let him win.