A/N: Well here we are again. Me, 'bout to drop a long ass fic. So this fic is another post apocalypse fic staring Bill Hobart. We also have a dash of Alice/Rose, Blake/Jean and a whole lotta Bill/Charlie. Warnings: Graphic violence, slavery, prostitution, scary governments, sexual assault (mentioned only) character death (lot of this) and to finish it all off sickfic and blindness. Enjoy ya'll and please, leave review! It's my birthday :-)

He always dreams about Charlie Davis.

Charlie Davis, behind his desk, never looking up from his keys as he typed his invisible police report.

Charlie Davis, sitting on a bench outside the office drinking tea from a ceramic cup filled with holes.

Charlie Davis, smoking a cigarette and lamenting the unfairness of life.

Charlie Davis, in his bed, fingers cold against the skin of his back, eyes looking down, pale blue and sad.

Bill Hobart missed him every second of every day, never able to find relief from the ache that is seemingly never filled. Not that he would want to.

…

The world they had known ended five and a half years ago, at Bill's count. While the exact cause was never really said, there was guesses floating around, not that he ever subscribed to them. Perhaps that was unwise of him, but he'd always been one to look forward rather then backwards.

The old government, the old police, they were all gone. People were gone as well. Some showed up again when the scorching heat turned itself down to bearable. He spent the time where the ground was so hot it melted shoes hidden away, studying his photograph of Charlie, the one he carried for good luck. Charlie is leaning on him, one hand on his chest, splayed, he's laughing at something Bill said, his eyes scrunched up into a laugh. He hides from gangs and bandits, killing his way back from Melbourne, where he'd been hiding, and making his way back to Ballarat, to be reunited with Charlie.

He returned to Ballarat, intent on finding Charlie, and then taking him some place safe. Not that he had any idea where that would be, the finer points of things tended to be Charlie's expertise. He'd assumed he would find Charlie at Blake's house. He hadn't.

Blake himself had never left. No one calls him Lucien any more. He wouldn't allow it. Not that Bill had tried, of course. He had no desire to form a friendship with the man. He seemed like one of those men who had become dangerous and unhinged. God only knows Bill has met enough of them to last him a lifetime. Perhaps the part that made him so unhinged was not only the solitude of five years, but blindness. Those who looked right at the end of the world, that great big explosion, they always looked like he did. Acted like he did as well. Bill has no idea how Blake survived without him providing food and company, but he doesn't ever ask. He's not sure he would like the answer.

Lawson showed up a few weeks later, Bill had been settling into Charlie's old room, still convinced Charlie would be back here soon. Lawson seemed like his old self, just more distant. He spoke often of how the heat reminded him of Africa. When he wasn't talking about Africa, he was talking about how fucked up everything was, and he was right. Bill likes that Lawson hasn't changed too much, finds it comforting, actually.

Rose Anderson showed up a week after that, and threw herself into chronicling the events post – end of the world, and trying to care for her uncle. He found her tolerable. She listened to him talk about Charlie, which meant a lot to him, because she didn't try to make him out as something more then he was. He could tell easily why Charlie liked her. She had a sort of dryness about her that he liked. He wonders if he should have given her a chance before the end of the world. He wonders if it would have counted for anything.

Frank turned up half a year later. He'd done a brief stint as a mercenary for hire, but tired of it quickly. He wanted to garden and sell food at the market. Blake allowed him access to what was left of Jean's garden, an important moment. In all of their lives.

Alice Harvey was the most recent one to come home. She'd worked and still worked at what was left of the hospital healing people. It had taken Bill months to convince her to come up to the house. She hadn't wanted to come back lest she infect anyone with the illnesses from the hospital. She was still jumpy and Bill was always slightly worried she's shatter into a million little pieces. Rose had taken to her right away, two women among a sea of men. He would expect it, actually.

There was those who were yet to show up. Jean Beazley was one. No one has seen her. No one would even know where to begin. Some had shown up, but went to live some place else. Ned, who lived in town.

Charlie was no where to be seen or heard. But Bill was going to look until he found a body to bury, if that was how things turned out.

…

After the new government established itself (by killing all the competion) in Perth, their first order of business was setting up ration delivery to all the states, then electing officials (one of the Tynemans, for Ballarat) and then a police force. The new police force was started in Victoria when someone (again, one of the Tynemans) wanted justice for some murdered family member or other, and then lynch mobs started forming.

Bill eventually agreed to help set up the new police men, leaving his job as a private security officer in order to do so. He recruited other ex police officers like Ned Simmons and Penny Wardlaw, new ones from all over the place, tried to convince Frank to lead them again (a firm no) set up the registry office with help from Rose Anderson (a place where you could register your status as alive), made new badges to be sewn onto shirts to denote who you were, set up an office at the old station, and tried again to convince Frank to lead them. (Another, firmer no.) So Bill became the unofficial leader of the Ballarat branch of the new police.

Some people trusted them. Some didn't. Even the opinion in his own home was split. Rose, Alice and himself approved of them. Blake, Lawson and Frank did not. But they couldn't stop him from doing what he thought was right, given that it was his wages, combined with Rose and Alice who kept the household afloat. Lawson couldn't work, the money Frank brought in from gardening was a pittance and Blake...Well.

Alice still worked at the hospital. She helped those in need on one condition. They signed up to the registry. The registry was one of Bill's projects to help the police force. It was a sort of master list of people in Ballarat and where you could find them, as well as allowing access to government provided rations. Rose ran the building, since she could get names and details and stories from them, and the typing meant she kept her skills in order.

Not much call for journalists these days. The only paper was the Tyneman run courier, but it was largely government approved stories that Rose said she would rather give up writing forever then write for them. Not that Bill blames her. Most of the government stories were propaganda. Bi weekly he submits a report of police notices to be printed. Rose would submit a people-seeking-people notices for anyone who was looking for people. Bill read them to Blake when they arrived weekly, at his request. He was listening for some kind of note from Jean. Perhaps in code. After a brief scan for other notes and stories, a scoff of the butchering of his police notice, and they were used as mulch for Frank's plants or to light the stove. Alice would read them first. Rose never read them. Frank and Lawson never cared enough to bother.

The hospital had three branches. Urgent, unregistered, returning. Alice, after being appointed by Bill, was the director of all three, as well as a doctor. Perhaps he played favourites. But everyone knew Alice was the best choice, as she had, in the aftermath, been the one who set the whole place up. Urgent was a bit like the ER. If you had suffered an accident, or were on the verge of death, registered or not, you would be treated. Unregistered was for those who needed treatment, but not urgently. Like a GP, really. Bill rarely had cause to make his way there, but Alice kept him in the loop. Returning was for those with ongoing treatment, like Lawson and Blake.

Bill was mostly in charge of shuffling them to their various appointments since Frank had become a recluse. Lawson's ongoing treatment was for his leg, mostly monthly check ups ensuring that he was fine. Blake's was a bit more often, weekly. Like many people who were in close proximity to the end, Blake suffered from extensive burns to the side of his face, and was blinded in his left eye, sight compromised in the right. His treatment included the same as all the other burn victims. And there were a lot of them in Ballarat.

Perhaps the biggest flaw with Bill and Rose's registry system was that people could register under any name. Bill himself was not free of this crime, he's registered under the name 'Bill Hobart' rather then his 'actual' name 'William Hobart'. Personally, he was quite glad to be rid of the name, he'd hated William his whole life. Everyone else had registered under their actual names, even Frank had registered as Franklin.

So, he supposes, late at night, when he is meant to be sleeping, in Charlie's bed, Charlie could be here. He could be registered under another name. Large groups of people with obscured faces registered all the time, mostly because they wanted rations or treatment. Charlie could have been one of them, not wanting Bill to see him for whatever reason. Analysis: unlikely. Charlie wasn't one for running away from things. He would face death head on if he thought he could. He would walk through Hell to come home.

There are worse options. At least with that one, Charlie would be alive, and in food. That was good. He'd possibly be okay with that, but he knows, deep in his heart that it's not the case. Charlie could be dead, at second best. A skeleton picked clean by angry birds. A shallow grave thanks to some nameless, faceless kind heart. At worst, he could be indentured.

Indentured was a nice word for slavery, in Bill's mind. Technically legal, the indentured were usually people working off debt from just after the end. Bill never much liked going out to those places, the souls inside always looked empty. Offered to take his coat, his hat, would he like tea? The boss will be here soon. He oft wondered, what good was he as a police officer if he can't protect the most innocent. But that was how it always was, right? Protect and serve, if they're rich. He wishes his political influence was enough to ban the practice but he knew it wasn't that simple.

In the next room, he could here the soft voices of Rose and Alice. The sleeping arrangements were made to keep everyone comfortable. Blake slept in the room he always had, because it was easy for him to find and it seemed to cruel to make someone who was as good as blind go up and down stairs. Lawson slept in the studio, on the overstuffed couch. He'd had a choice of all the remaining rooms but he chose downstairs in the studio, and with Bill's help, but managed to convert the couch into something of a bed. Frank slept on the couch in the living room, Bill still has no idea why. But he suspects it's because the three of them had the worst nightmares and he felt better being between them to get there and wake the nightmare prone first. Alice would comfort Blake. Rose would comfort Lawson. He'd comfort Frank. It was a system that worked, wasn't it? Rose and Alice shared a room and a bed. He's not one to judge. If anything, he's happy they've found comfort in one another. He sleeps, unsurprisingly, in Charlie's old room.

He gave up on sleep for the moment, and wandered to the old wardrobe. It was half Charlie's things, half his. He took out the blue police shirt, and held it close to his face, trying to breathe in anything that might be left of him and hold it in his lungs. Analysis: There's nothing, but if he tries his hardest, he can catch maybe the faintest trace of Charlie still there. Analysis of memory: Oil, hair wax, cheap aftershave and detergent. The ingredients that made up the scent he craved so much. It's not a patch on the real thing, but he still craves it. He can imagine Blake doing the same thing with Mrs Blake's clothes, holding her favourite cardigan to his face, trying to remember the exact curve of her hip when it fit into his hand. The way her eyes wrinkled when she smiled. The highway maps spelled out by veins on the back of her hands. He knows this because he thinks the same thing about Charlie.

He has an advantage, of course. There is a row of photos along the piano, kept by Jean for whatever reason. There is only one with Charlie in it, along with the one he'd been carrying inside his shirt pocket for the last few years. His photo is heavily worn by now, faded, scraped. Charlie is as beautiful as he ever was. In Jean's photo, he's sitting on the floor, at the feet of Jean who was sitting between Lawson and Blake on her other side. Next to him sits Rose, while they're mostly smiling. Charlie looks slightly shocked, like he wasn't ready for the flash. It's such a good representation of him that it still surprises him.

Bill put the photo on his bedside table, so there is never going to be a morning when he can't remember the exact location of every mole and freckle on his neck. The curl of his hair forever embalmed him his memory. The roundness of his jaw the way it always was. Putting the shirt away, he hears screaming downstairs. Analysis: Lawson.

Rose shifts in the room next door, Alice wishes her luck. Bill wonders if he should go down as well, but he decides not to.

…

Jean Beazley arrived at about seven thirty on a Tuesday morning, five and a half years after the end of the world. The first person she met with was Rose, who handed over her work as a copy writer and filer to another woman, Amelia Yorke. She took Jean straight to the station, which operated out of the old station building, to see Bill.

"Miss Anderson." Pause, analysis: She's here. "Mrs Blake."

"Sergeant Hobart."

"Actually it's just Hobart these days." He said, setting down his pen and his report to welcome her across from him into one of the rescued chairs. Ned is watching them, and then offers to make tea. They all decline.

"I hear you are someone of political interest these days." You could say that. Bill had a very minor sway of whatever Tyneman was in charge. (Is it the wife? He's pretty sure it's the wife.) but little more then that.

"Not by choice, Mrs Blake." He assured her, weaving his fingers together. "Where have you come from?" He asked, lips pursed.

"I was indentured, until recently, in Melbourne."

"To?"
"A woman who made dresses. It wasn't...It wasn't as bad as it could have been. She offered me work when I was free. But..." I missed him. It remains unspoken but clear as a church bell on a Sunday morning. He feels the same when he thinks of Charlie. He wonders if Charlie thinks of him.
"You want to go home to your husband."
"I do." Long, long pause.

"I can do that." Bill said, "But I need to explain some things to you first."
"Alright. Rose explained that you're kind of the household leader."

"Miss Anderson is quite generous." Bill replied, "But yes, if there was a leader I suppose I would qualify." It's been too long since he last got into a fight, he thinks, picking at one of the scabs that he had perpetually along his knuckles.

"Has something happened to Lucien?" Comment, sarcastic: What hasn't happened to Lucien?

"Yes." Bill goes on to explain the damage to his eyes, the fear, the loss, the nightmares, all of it. Jean nods along, taking it all in.

"And you've been taking care of him?"
"With help from the others. Lawson, Frank, Miss Anderson and Doctor Harvey."
"And you all live together."

"Care to make it six?" She smiles at him, before she nods her head, inclining that yes. She would. It was anticlimactic. But Jean belonged with Blake, this he knew. And it might free up some of the time he spent shuffling Blake around and reading to him. Describing Jean from pictures. That would be nice, he thought, as Jean and Rose made their way home.

…

There are some things that don't change, Bill thought, a few weeks later, watching Jean read to Blake from the doorway. They look like a comfortably married couple. And he feels jealous of it, despite his desire not to. He'll never have a life like that with Charlie, no matter how much he might want it. Charlie is gone. Even if he wasn't, he'd never seemed like the type to subscribe to marriage. He'd been convinced that there was no way they were temporary, but he supposed every relationship was.

Jean had settled in to the house like she had always been there. She tossed around the idea of finding work, but eventually, she took on the role of a care giver of sorts, thought he despises the term. Mostly she hung around the house and made sure that everyone was okay, at the least. She spent most of her time with Blake, and fair enough. They were married. And her being the one to shuffle him off to this appointment and that meant that he had more time to spend at work.

He watched them for another moment, before turning away. Frank is drinking tea at the table, the cup is chipped and damaged but he doesn't seem to mind.

"What's on your mind?" Frank doesn't talk to them much any more, just his damn plants. Bill slides across from him, and shrugged lightly.
"I'm just thinking about Charlie."
" You do that a lot."
"How would you know?"
"You get this sort of look, like you're eating several mint creams, all at once." Frank has a blackened tooth in his lower jaw, Bill thinks, frowning again, and tearing his away from it long enough to pick at the scabs on his knuckles. Analysis: This will make them scar. Further analysis: He doesn't care.

"I love him." Bill said, finally. A confessional, of sorts.

"I guessed." Frank replied, "I was in love once as well you know." Bill gave a little smile, and lets his mind drift back to happier times, but he shakes them away quickly. "My wife was something special." Pause. "I would have done anything for her." Analysis: Frank likes talking about his wife. Further analysis: this is not news to you, Bill. Frank had always likes to talk about his wife. Melissa? Madeline? Something along those lines. Consideration, fleeting: Learn his wife's name. Admission: He probably won't.

"I'd do anything for him." Bill said, quickly. He would. He'd give up everything to spend just five more minutes with Charlie.

"See that's love right there." Frank declared, finishing off his tea. Bill didn't say anything else, feeling like he'd exposed himself quite enough for one day.

…

Another thing that didn't change in Ballarat was murder and police politics. Among the jobs he had as the unofficial official leader of the new police force, was meeting with the local leader for an assessment of his practice. He'd never had any fears about it, but he always found it annoying. Still. He wanted to keep his job so he attended.

The Tyneman in charge, the wife, is there with her son, waiting for him in the little conference room she operated from. Like most of the leaders of this place and that, the government had given her a small office and conference room. He took his usual seat, usual scowl plastered onto his face.

"Officer Hobart."

"Ma'am." She has her hands folded neatly together. She is missing the tip of her pointer and her small finger on her left hand. Alice treated her at the hospital after some kind of failed assassination attempt, he is pretty sure, but not certain. Her son looks the same as he always did, if not even more grim now. Bill cannot remember what happened to him just after the end but he assumes it was bad. Wasn't everyone's story these days?

"Well. I had a look at the file you sent." He would hope she did. But he refuses to comment. "And everything looks to be in order." Of course it is. "But I do have a few messages to pass on from Perth." Perth, Melbourne, old government, new government, new police, old police, it was all the same to him.

"Yes?" He asked, keeping his lips pressed into a firm, tight line.

"They want more arrests." Bill remains unmoved. He is quite use to this demand. More arrests. More of this. More of that. More conspirators in jail. More executions.

Personally, Bill had always found the notion of watching executions perverse and used his minor political sway to put forward that executions would only be open to those who were affected by the crime. He still believed that some people weren't fit for the community, but that tiny piece of empathy Charlie had given him said that they weren't monsters. They didn't have to act like that. He never used to be like that, he thought, turning his attention back to the conversation.

"- Of course I told them that you would only be able to arrest anyone who you caught and I wouldn't have you arresting people who hadn't committed a crime." She sounds like she thinks she's doing him a favour.
"Thank you." He replied, even though he doesn't know if he is grateful that she's defending him doing his job and not breaking the law. She gave him that smile again. Aside from work, they have nothing in common. There is no small talk to be had. She gives him another look.

"They also say they approve of your...Restraining methods. They want more." They wanted Bill to beat up more people? Well. He could certainly do that, if nothing else. Even if he couldn't protect Charlie, or the indentured, he has no qualms about putting his fist into someone's face. He picked idly at a scab on his left knuckle. Lawson was always telling him to stop picking, and they'd heal faster, but Bill can't help himself.

Eventually, he says goodbye, and leaves the room, then the house, and heads back to the station to answer Ned's inevitable inquiries towards the contents of the meeting. He hopes he actually has answers this time. He usually zoned out in the meetings. It wasn't really a one time thing.

…

Blake wants to see him, and this is not good. Blake is more of less uncaring of what he did outside of his caring for him. More often then not, Blake didn't even seem to notice he exsisted outside of wanting something. Which was fine by Bill. He found the man unhinged. Analysis: Something happened to him after the end. Further analysis: He doesn't really care what it is. Does that make him a bad person? Conclusion: Probably.

He found Blake in his office, starring out into space. Analysis: This is not news to you, Bill. Blake spent more time starring into space then he did actually participating in the life they built for themselves.

"Remind me of what Charlie looked like." No greeting, or, how are you doing today Bill. Straight to it, then. He liked that. He had no time to play games any more.
"How so, Doctor?"

"His face. What it looked like. If anyone would remember, it would be his lover, wouldn't it?" Analysis: Blake knows. Extrapolation: Charlie probably told him.

"It would." Bill crouched down in front of Blake, willing his remaining good eye to look at him. It does. His other eye is pale, milky white, pupil a small faded dot in the centre of his iris. The other is cloudy, the corneal freckle Charlie had always spoken so fondly of almost hidden in the clouds.

"The first thing I ever noticed about him was that he was pale. I don't know if that was just how he was or because it was winter but he was always pale." He began, picking idly at his scabs. "Then I noticed his eyes. They were blue, but depending on the light, they would be deep like the ocean, or washed out. I preferred them in the dark, when they looked like two deep pools of water." He said, using his thumb to blot the blood that was now leaking from the scab he just picked. "He had sort of light eyelashes, they weren't that long, but they were nice. They looked almost blonde in the right light. Eyebrows the same colour. Seemingly too light for that hair." He smiled, rubbing at the small wound he'd just created. "His nose was a bit funny. It had a left tilt, but it was smooth all the way down. He was sensitive about his nose, actually." Bill said, struggling to keep the amused sound out of his voice. He pauses, and then, "His jaw was kind of square shaped, with just enough roundness too it to stop him looking like Lawson. He never let himself grow any stubble, he told me he hated how it felt. I guess I can see that." Analysis: He's side tracked. Objective: Get back on track. "His hair was dark. A very dark brown most of the time. He always wore it styled from the left, and then swept sideways. It was curly when there was no wax in it. Soft, too." He paused, and examined his bloody fingers before moving on. "He had a mole on his left cheek, it was very faint, as well as on his neck, on the same side, just under his chin." He said, "He had broad shoulders, and long fingers. They always looked so agile, his fingers. He hated them, he would tell me that he felt like he should be peeling potatoes with them or something." Bill scoffed. "The back of his hand were covered in veins. Like maps that lead him nowhere." He smiled, remembering kissing those veins, like following his own map to Charlie's finger tips, his true objective. "That was what Charlie Davis looked like."

Blake passes him a handkerchief.

"Wipe your knuckles on that before you infect them." Analysis: He's picking again. Charlie used to pick as well, but his was limited to hangnails, mostly. "You know, Bill. You didn't just lose a lover, in Charlie Davis." Bill knows what he's going to say before he says it. "I lost my friend. A member of my family." Long pause, both of them reflect. "I loved him like a son." Analysis: this is the first time he's admitted this. Further analysis: Charlie would have loved to hear that.

"He'd have loved to hear you say that."

"I know." Blake replies, moving his gaze back into space. "Tell me, Bill, since you're a man about town, how can I help?" Conclusion: Blake is back.