What is Faith (Just a Sequence of Grace and Gravity)

by liliwick the WORD

There's Pewdiepie. There's Cry. And then there's a zombie apocalypse. That's when shit hits the fan. (Or, that one fic where two gamer boys who've played survival horror games get stuck in a real zombie apocalypse and have real, bad shit happening to them.)

21. Chapter 21

To all the readers, who have been with me since the beginning, middle and up until now.

To the readers who have expressed their excitement, praises and love for the characters, the events of the story, and the writing in these past 20 chapters.

To the readers who have affirmed and reaffirmed their support and patience for this fic for the last three to four years.

This is for you.

Thank you for everything.

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21.

When Pewdie wakes, he feels disorientated. He feels terror. Feels his heart pounding hard against his chest. He panics, not knowing where he is.

"You alright there?"

A man's sudden appearance before him makes him shrink into his seat. It takes him a while to realise that the man is Speed. Not a shadow wearing a beanie hat. Not a set of strong fingers that had gripped and squeezed his throat. He forces himself to relax. It's okay. I'm back. This is the safe house. That was just a dream, just a stupid, harmless dream.

"I-I'm fine. Sorry," Pewdie reassures a little too breathlessly. He clears his throat and looks around the now-empty infirmary. "Oh, where did everyone go?"

"Finished checking them all," Speed supplies, looking at him concernedly. "You're the only one left, dude. Didn't want to wake you yet 'cos I thought you needed the rest."

Despite the short nap, Pewdie still feels the exhaustion of the long night of this op. The op itself took a hell of a beating on him as did the walk back to the Fire House. The period after that – the one he spent fidgeting with restlessness and worry during Cry's medical examination, especially when Speed identified the former's mild hypothermia – sapped what was left of everything else. He only found time to sit and breathe easily once Cry was bundled off to Pewdie's bunk. After that, he had fallen asleep while Speed went to tend everyone else.

He guesses it must be well into the morning because he can see the sunrays peeking through the boarded-up windows of the infirmary. An hour or two must have passed while he was out. Eventually, Pewdie becomes aware that half of his face is smarting and sore. He reaches up to touch his cheek and finds the swollen bruise where he had been punched tender and painful.

"Here." Pewdie is surprised to find Speed offering him an icepack, similar to the one Cry used many nights before, followed by a bottle of water. The other man grins at him. "I managed to save these for you. I thought you sounded a little raspy there. As for that bruise – someone jumped you?"

"Someone jumped me," Pewdie confirms in a grumble, gratefully taking the icepack and water bottle.

"You look really tired, dude," Speed points out, peering at his face. "I heard you and Cry did a great job out there. But damn, you both are in need of a lot of rest. Look at you. I mean, even your eyes are a little bit…" he suddenly stops and squints at him with such intensity that Pewdie becomes uneasy at the other man's stare. He watches Speed's gaze drop to his neck, resting there for a moment before darting back up again.

"Oh. Probably should've told you earlier," Pewdie says apologetically. "Someone jumped me and tried to choke me."

"Tried to strangle you?" Pewdie doesn't miss the correction as he sees Speed's eyes harden.

"Hey, I'm okay," Pewdie quickly counters, nonchalant about it. "I mean, I'm still alive, right? That dude who did this was from that other group. I didn't see him. He jumped me. Cry came in time to stop him, so it's all good." Although the punch to his cheek makes his whole face and neck hurt a bit, he is certain that over time, the pain will fade away and he will heal.

Despite the reassurance, Speed's expression doesn't change. He seems to be contemplating on something, not really looking at Pewdie as he does so. Pewdie manages to catch him muttering, "Right. Right. Okay," under his breath before the other man holds out a tentative hand towards him. "Do you… mind if I take a closer look?"

"Um, okay." Pewdie tilts his neck up a little and lets the other man examine him, hearing him hum as he peers at him from every angle. At some point, Speed presses the chestpiece of his stethoscope onto Pewdie's wrist to listen to his pulse.

"Do you feel any pain anywhere? Your neck? Collarbone? Maybe your head?" Speed asks, his voice distant and professional.

"My neck does feel a little sore," Pewdie replies.

"How about breathing? Any trouble breathing? Or swallowing?"

"Um." Pewdie takes a couple of experimental breaths and swallows. His throat feels swollen and a little raw. "I'm breathing okay – well, mostly. It hurts a bit when I swallow, like when you have something stuck in your throat."

Speed moves the stethoscope's focus onto Pewdie's chest. "Right. Breathe?" Pewdie inhales and exhales slowly. "Feeling dizzy?" Speed asks afterwards. "Nauseous?"

"No, none at all." Pewdie's answer isn't quite that truthful. Speed's thorough questions have started making his stomach squirm with nervous butterflies.

"Did you black out at any time on the way here?" Speed continues on.

"No."

"Do you remember everything that happened? No blanks in your memory or…?"

"Uh, no. Don't think so."

"Did you – pardon my saying this – but did you at any point involuntarily lost control of your bladder or bowe–"

"Whoa, dude!" Pewdie reels back this time, flushing at the mere suggestion. "No, I-I definitely hadn't pissed or shit my pants! Okay man, what is this about? Did Delta put you up to this? Because it's not…" It suddenly occurs to him what Speed has been doing and what it may imply. "Is… is there something wrong with me?"

He expects Speed to scoff and smile and tell him that he is only being systematic like this because that is what nurses do. What he gets though is Speed sighing and answering, "We don't know yet."

There is a brief pause as the words sink in.

"I don't get it," Pewdie replies because we don't know yet is not an answer. We don't know yet is not a fucking answer. His bruised cheek throbs as he grits his teeth. "I'm not gonna die, am I?"

"Hellno, don't think that!" Speed quickly counters, having noticed Pewdie's distress. "I'm sorry, Pewds. I should've been clearer. I didn't want to worry you. When I said that we don't know yet, I actually mean what I say. I really don'tknow yet. Sometimes, these kinds of injuries take time to show themselves. You might seem well now, but it's very likely that strangulation symptoms and aftereffects start showing up much later. We'll just have to wait and see. Only then can we decide if your attack may have resulted in any serious complications."

'These kinds of injuries'?Oh. So he was injured? Pewdie pauses to lick his lips, feeling his stomach continue to squirm unpleasantly. "When you say 'serious', what do you mean by it?"

"Well," Speed says eventually after a hesitant pause and not meeting Pewdie's eyes. "You know. 'Serious' as in internal injuries or long-term damage. Or even psychological symptoms like depression or anxiety. In some cases though and depending on the nature of the injuries, there may also be a delayed fatality."

What? "Delayed…?"

Speed shakes his head. "But not likely in your case, though!" he quickly interjects. "I think that sort of thing is more common when there's a lot more violence involved. No, just… be informed, Pewds. Yes, that's it. Attacks like these tend to leave marks. You might feel a little out of it for a while. That's normal. If you feel okay, that's alright, but don't think that you're out of the fire just yet."

"So you're saying that there might be something wrong with me," Pewdie tries to summarise what the other man is saying, and the words come out strange in his mouth. "That this attack may have left marks. That there is a chance that I might not be okay."

Speed huffs out his cheeks. "Um, yeah. Probably."

Pewdie falls into silence, letting this all sink in. How can that attack lead to this? He had seen movies and TV shows where the characters turned out okay even after undergoing what he had experienced. Why did real life have to be so different? He escaped death for now but why is this not over yet? Why is this happening to him?

"Well, the bottom line is," Speed goes on, still watching Pewdie's reaction. "Let's… let's keep an eye on things, okay? I can't really make any kind of diagnosis right now, but we'll take it one step at a time. To do that, it's important that you check with me regularly. Tell me if you notice any changes. It'll help me build a picture of your condition. If, you know, anything's bothering you or if anything comes up, come and see me immediately." He reaches out and claps a hand on Pewdie's arm in reassurance before stepping back and heading towards the desk, leaving Pewdie to his thoughts for a moment.

"Hey man," Pewdie then calls a minute later once he is able to gather some of his composure. He feels strangely numb as he goes to press the melting ice pack in his hand onto his bruised cheek. He notices that the coldness immediately soothes the ache there. "So ... you've handled a lot of people who were like me too?"

"Hospital patients, you mean?" Speed rephrases. He is in the middle of scribbling what looks like Pewdie's symptoms into a notebook.

"Well, uh, yeah." Pewdie realises that he does not like the word 'patient'. In fact, he does not like being associated with it either. "You know. People who got strangled."

Speed straightens up from his notebook, pursing his lips in thought. "I've… met quite a few but it was actually my colleagues who treated and took care of them. Poor things were victims of their own households. Usually women and children. I always remember the look in their eyes though – like they lost something. Like they're broken inside. Whenever we had a chance to chat, I always try to tell them not to think of themselves that way. That they're gonna be okay."

He then looks at Pewdie straight in the eye. His voice comes out gentle and nurturing, "You shouldn't think that way too, Pewds. Alright?"

Something in Pewdie's head suddenly clears. "Yeah, I know," he says firmly and yes, of course Pewdie knows. He had already told himself back at the riverbank that he has to move on and keep going, that survival (and Cry) must be his main priorities. These are the things he is absolutely certain about. Wallowing in negative thoughts will not help. He cannot let them hold him back. Nobody is going to wait for him to get his shit together.

Because of this reason, Pewdie decides not to worry too much about his welfare for now. Whatever kind of complications may rise, he'll deal with them later. After all, there are other, more essential things to worry about – like Cry not waking up yet and zombies still roaming the streets outside. There was no time to dwell on other things. No, Pewdie shouldn't be thinking about his attack at the power plant, about being wrestled onto the ground, about the moment he struggled and fought to breathe, about the heavy weight on his body, the hands around his throat, about the–

Shit. Shit–! Pewdie jerks his head to the side, forcing himself to erase his thoughts. He should not think about this right now, should not let his mind linger on that experience and replay it in his head. No, no, Pewdie is exhausted. He wanted rest. He wanted sleep and he much preferred it if he could just knock himself out without having memories of that attack become the last thing on his mind.

"You okay?" Speed's voice cuts through his thoughts.

"What?" Pewdie snaps out of his trance, embarrassed at being caught off-guard and with his mind in a vulnerable place. He forces out a sheepish laugh. "Sorry, yeah. Just super tired. So, we done here, Nurse PJ?"

"Nurse PJ? Haha! Hadn't heard anyone call me that in a while. Here, give me a second, Pewds." Speed smiles, motioning for him to sit comfortably for a moment while he takes out one of the tin boxes that he uses to store the medical supplies. As he digs into the contents, Pewdie catches a glimpse of an assortment of pill and tablet packets. Speed eventually emerges, holding a tube of antiseptic cream in his hand.

"I don't think I cut myself anywhere," Pewdie points out as Speed unscrews the cap and squeezes out a small glob of cream onto his finger.

"But you've got abrasions – scratches – on your neck," Speed tells him, making Pewdie startle, horrified. "Oh, you hadn't realised it yet. Don't worry, dude. It's nothing major. Just need to disinfect those and that takes care of that."

As Pewdie sits still, trying not to wince as Speed dabs cold cream onto his skin, he discreetly inspects his fingernails and sees once more the blood underneath them. He thinks he knows where the abrasions had come from and tries not to think about them too deeply.

"And now, we're done," Speed says, stepping back and screwing the cap back on the cream tube. "Just keep that ice on that bruise and the swelling should go down soon. We'd better let you have that well-needed rest."

"Right," Pewdie says, standing up and feeling the muscles all over his body ache. He watches Speed put the antiseptic cream back into the tin box before he gets an idea. "Hey, have you got any sleeping pills?"

"Sleeping pills?" Speed absent-mindedly sifts through the packets of pills and tablets for a bit before glancing up at Pewdie. "Are you having some trouble sleeping?"

"Um, no…" The curiosity in Speed's eyes sets off warning bells in Pewdie's mind. He doesn't want to let the other man think he needed sleeping aids because he didn't want to lie awake in bed, thinking about his stressful experience. "You see, it's morning now," he quickly invents. "I may be exhausted as fuck but my body's gonna think that it should stay awake 'cos it's daytime."

Speed looks uncertain. "I don't know…"

"Oh come on. Help a bro out, man. I really wanna sleep." Pewdie puts on his most convincing pleading expression for good measure.

Speed finally yields after a few seconds. "Oh, alright. Normally, I wouldn't be encouraging this but… just as long as you don't rely on these too much," he murmurs as he goes back to his rummaging. In the end, he extracts the correct packet of pills and breaks a section off the blister pack inside. "If you continue to have trouble sleeping and not because you can't sleep during the day, I want you to tell me about it, alright?"

Pewdie takes the pack and thanks him. After another stream of reassurances that he will definitely come to Speed for regular checkups as well as any sudden discoveries, Pewdie is finally dismissed from the infirmary, ice pack, water bottle and pills in hand.

The first thing he does when he enters his and Cry's room is to check on the sleeping Cry. The sunlight seeping through the cracks of their boarded-up windows give him enough light to observe the other man in deep slumber, his breathing regular, his expression calm and untroubled. Pewdie spends a few minutes sitting on the bed, pressing the icepack onto his bruised cheek and watching the rise and fall of Cry's chest.

This is what matters right now – he reaffirms to himself during his vigil – that Cry is alive and still here. Until Cry wakes up, it is crucial that Pewdie regains his strength and recover from whatever condition he is in. He should be okay though, he has to be okay. Maybe Speed is treating his circumstance so seriously because it is a natural thing for him to do. As a former nurse, he needed to be attentive and cautious and treat everything seriously, right? Maybe it won't turn out that bad. Maybe Pewdie is going to be alright. Cry came in just in time to stop his assailant from causing even more damage. I'm sure this scare will go away sooner than you think, Pewds.

If not, then he would just have to deal with whatever shit comes up tomorrow. Not right now though. God, right now, he just wanted to rest.

The pills hurt his throat when he swallows them down. He drinks the remaining water, hoping its cool temperature will lessen the swelling, and afterwards, stares up at the darkened ceiling, trying to find a comfortable spot in Cry's top bunk. The pills take their time to work and as minutes slowly tick by, Pewdie groans loudly, covering his eyes with crossed arms, wanting to shut everything out for now. Sleep, sleep, sleep!Go to sleep. Don't worry about Cry right now. Don't think about the op. Don't think about searching for Cry in the river. And for fuck's sake, Pewds. Don't you think about almost dying from not being able to breathe.

Eventually, eventually, he sinks into a deep and dreamless sleep without even realising it. The next thing he knows, he is wide awake, sprawled haphazardly across the top bunk, his legs tangled in the sheets. It is very warm in the room. He slowly sits up, rubbing his eyes and flinches as something deep inside his skull clenches in pain. He sways his head experimentally and the pain persists. How long had he been asleep? If he only managed a couple of hours, then it is possible that this headache is a product from his lack of sleep.

Cry is still unconscious when he climbs down. Pewdie pulls half the bedcovers off the other man's body, not wanting him to overheat. He then leaves the room, wanting a change in scenery, and heads towards the lounge and kitchen area.

The Fire House is quiet as he walks down the hallways. He feels a lazy sort of air, like waking up to a weekend where everyone is still fast asleep after a wild night out. When he reaches his destination, he opens the door to peer inside and sees no one. That is, until a voice suddenly calls out to him: "Oh, hello Pewdie."

Pewdie jumps, his hand automatically flying to his chest and he feels his heart racing. "Geez, fu– what… uh, hello?"

"Over here." Pewdie has to step deeper into the room so that he is able to see a smiling Doc waving at him from behind the kitchen counter. After returning the wave, he makes his way over to the other man and finds him leaning against said counter, spooning mouthfuls of dry cereal from a bowl.

"No milk I'm afraid," Doc points out, lifting his spoon up for Pewdie to see. "Would you like some food?"

"What–" Pewdie shoots a look at the boarded up windows of the lounge/kitchen. It looks like there is still light outside. "What time of day is this?"

"Around sunset, actually," Doc replies. "It's only been six or seven hours since you returned from the op. Everyone is still quite exhausted. I believe some of them came down here for a bit to get something to eat but then went straight back to bed afterwards." He opens a cabinet and extracts a bowl. "What would you like to eat?"

Pewdie isn't too picky about food at the moment. "I'll just have what you're having."

"Oh." Doc's eyes briefly flick to Pewdie's neck for a second before averting away. He then speaks in a light tone of politeness, the kind he uses when he doesn't want to state the obvious. "Actually, this cereal is really dry and quite rough when I swallow it. It's not very pleasant. Might I recommend something softer for you?"

"Um." Pewdie is a little surprised that Doc seems to know what happened to him. Did Speed tell him? Nonetheless, to have him be considerate about Pewdie's food choices was a nice thought though. "Sure. What-what do you have in mind?"

In the end, Pewdie lets Doc convince him to eat a bowl of instant oatmeal ("We may not have milk but we do have a kettle," Doc had said cheerfully). Pewdie then sits on one of the stools of the counter and eats his tasteless meal but realises that this was a better choice than Doc's dry cereal. His throat still feels raw and painful when he swallows but not so much that it hinders him from eating.

The peaceful silence between the two of them, broken only by the soft crunches of Doc chewing his cereal, eventually prompts Pewdie to begin chatting. "So did you and Speed stay up all night, waiting for us to come back?"

"Something like that," Doc easily answers after he pauses for a bit to swallow. "We both waited at the Watch Tower. One of us kept vigilant while the other rested, although Speed didn't sleep for very long. He always worries whenever the group goes on an op. You can imagine his great relief when you all marched back here, looking very weary but thankfully, very much whole."

Hearing about Speed's relief at their safe return somehow inspires Pewdie to think about his own experience – his happy realisation that Cry had been rescued and was safe from the river. He doesn't know why he suddenly feels like sharing that memory. Perhaps it is because Doc is so easy to talk to which encourages him to do so. Either way, he ends up telling Doc about his and Cry's adventures, particularly the moment when the latter slipped and fell into the raging current and then the unspeakable joy Pewdie felt when he discovered the unconscious body that the Anorak had been carrying was Cry all along.

"I'm very glad you both survived your ordeals," Doc is saying, once Pewdie finishes his recollection. "And that you were able to come back mostly unharmed."

"It was more of a lucky break for us," Pewdie points out. "I don't know how we managed to get through that. I mean, we didn't know half of the plan and that there were bandits on the camp with us. I mean, how should we know that our real job was actually to trigger a fight when you guys never even told–" He cuts off the moment he realises he has said this aloud, and that the only other person whom he confronted about this partial concealment of the op was Vegas. It seemed oddly uncomfortable to bring up such a topic in front of Doc, who was gentle and polite and did not seem the type to conspire or deceive. "Er…"

To his surprise, Doc lets out a defeated sigh. "I suppose you may have questions about that."

A pause settles in between them at first, but since Doc is explicitly acknowledging the topic, Pewdie decides that he might as well pursue it. He makes an effort not to be confrontational as well, only because Doc actually appears ashamed and apologetic compared to Vegas's cool indifference the night before. "Maybe I do," he tells the other man, albeit a little stiffly. "Maybe I wondered why you all didn't tell us your whole plan."

"Perhaps," Doc starts, looking rather sheepish. "Perhaps you might already know the answer – we were afraid you might not agree. I wish we were able to explain to you just how vital your role was in this op, even when it involved a risk, and one that you might not want to take."

Pewdie pauses to choose his next words. "Still, I mean. It doesn't hurt to ask us, right?"

"Perhaps we should have," Doc admits with a small sad smile. "There was some debate over this issue but in the end, some of us decided that, for the sake of the op, it was sufficient that we provide you with simple instructions with little detail to avoid any complications. All in all, please do try to understand our decision. The people you had travelled with last night have much experience in these ops. It may have occurred to them that telling you and Cry every detail may plant seeds of doubt that can lead to a possible collapse of the plan."

When Pewdie thinks about it, it seems very likely that this may be the case. On the whole though, Doc's explanation did tally with Vegas's. Pewdie and Cry were only told what they should do and not why they were doing it. You didn't have to do anything that could be any more dangerous than that one simple task, Vegas had pointed out. What Vegas failed to acknowledge aloud though was that their task still placed them in great peril. Being stuck in the middle of a gunfight certainly counts as one.

When Pewdie points this out to Doc, the other man hums pensively in response: "We need to understand, though, that in this age, we are all constantly in danger. Every one of us. Any one of us could have died tonight, Pewdie. There are always risks in the things we do, but sometimes there is no choice but to take them if we are to overcome those dangers. In your case, it was unavoidable. Without your involvement, we will be unable to execute the plan this smoothly. Your role was critical. Any mishaps, and we may never get another opportunity like we had last night."

Doc pauses for a bit, as if to let Pewdie absorb his words before he then continues, his voice becoming gentle: "In spite of this though, the important thing right now is to see how many of us are still standing and be grateful for making it out alive. Wouldn't you agree so too, Pewdie?"

"I… yeah, I guess you're right," Pewdie replies. Indeed, Doc's remark seems pretty convincing and Pewdie, whether it had been from that reasoning or the soothing and calm quality of Doc's voice, finds himself conceding to it. He sits back afterwards, much more at ease now in Doc's presence after that explanation, and goes to finish the last scraps of his oatmeal.

Not long after that, Doc gets up, picking his and Pewdie's empty bowls and carrying them to the sink. "I've got to go back up the Watch Tower," he then explains. "I'm actually supposed to be on Watch duty right now. No one else could do it because they're all resting. I came down for a while to eat something. Will you be staying here then?"

"Uh, yeah, I think so." Pewdie doesn't feel like going back to his room yet. The lounge and kitchen is a spacious area and he needed that space to think for a while. "Yeah, you go on ahead. Don't mind me."

Doc goes to leave but not without a light touch on Pewdie's shoulder as the former passes him. "Get some rest, Pewdie," he says kindly. "If there is anything you'd like to share or if you don't feel so well, please come to any of us."

Without Doc in the room, the calm and pleasant atmosphere seems absent now, and an emptiness take its place. Pewdie slumps against the counter, sighing, and thinks about what Doc has said. He tries to examine this in an objective light, pictures being in the group's shoes and having to trust two strangers to risk their lives for a plan like this. He begins to understand why there was a concealment, and decides it best to let any ill feeling go. After all, the deed has been done. It was now water under the bridge. Be grateful for making it out alive.

He does not know how long he stays there, his face buried in his arms on that counter, but soon, he hears the door of the lounge swing open. Pewdie lifts his head and turns.

"Oh hey!" It is Delta, looking unkempt and tired but still sounding cheerful and very much pleased to see him. "Hi Pewdie. How ya feeling? Cry wake up yet?"

"Not yet," Pewdie offers a smile and pats the stool next to him invitingly, grateful to have Delta for company right now. At least the other man can help him distract his thoughts for a while – that, as well as the faint throbbing in his skull. "Vegas not with you?" he then points out because it is a bit odd to see one of the pair here and the other nowhere in sight.

"Still in her room," Delta answers, settling into the offered seat. "She doesn't want to come here after I told her I was going to cook some food. She says it's because she can't stand the smell. Isn't that weird?"

"What is?"

"You know, V saying she can't stand the smell," Delta says, frowning. He then bends closer to Pewdie, like he is sharing secrets. "I think she's ill or something because she threw up a few hours ago. And you know what? I blame it on the cans we swiped from the op. We had something to eat before we crashed, right, and I definitely noticed that some of the cans were past their expiration dates…"

"Why did you still eat them then?"

Delta winces, scratching the back of his neck. "Aw, come on. We were really pooped, you know? That walk back here took a lot out of us. It's weird though because I feel absolutely fine and not sick at all. Maybe I've got an iron stomach."

He then gets up from his stool and makes his way into the mini kitchen, opening a bottom cabinet and dragging out a backpack that is full to the brim. He starts sorting through the items inside, most being cans, packets and boxes of food. "Better check all the expiration dates and throw away the bad stuff. Shouldn't take too long."

Indeed, it does not take long at all. By the time it occurs to Pewdie that he should offer help, Delta had already segregated the items into separate piles. The ones that he deemed 'bad' were very few – and he carelessly tosses them back into the backpack.

"Right," Delta says, as he takes the items from the 'good' pile and lines them up on the counter. "What should we cook today?"

Sometime later finds Pewdie watching Delta hunched over something that is simmering quietly in a pot. He isn't sure what it is that the other man is cooking as Delta had improvised the whole thing, selecting a few items from the selection on the counter and a few more from their existing food supply stored in the kitchen. The smells that are coming out of the pot give nothing away. What Pewdie does notice though, is that Delta keeps adding hot water to it.

Delta had been chatting about how he found the route to the edge of town as he lazily stirs the cooking pot, pausing once in a while to dip his finger into the wooden spoon to taste the simmering concoction. "It was really just a coincidence when I came across that fire engine one day," he is just saying. "I was out on a supply run a few weeks back and what did I find instead? A way over the fence! A way outside town! Was surprised no one's touched that fire engine yet. It's in pretty good shape. Also parked really nicely too – you could see everything from there. If you see a zombie mob coming after you from behind the fence, that engine's your ticket outta here. Grab the keys under the seat, turn the ignition and zoom – off you go."

Pewdie has been listening to Delta's chatter and is thinking about the zig-zagging route that the other man had used to take them to that tall wire fence. "Geez, how can you remember your way around the place?" he asks. "The way I see it, it just looks like you're picking random routes and they all coincidentally end up at the place you want to be."

"Nah," laughs Delta as he sprinkles a pinch of salt into the pot and reaches for the kettle to pour another dose of hot water into the mix. "I know my way around because I memorise it. Keep following the same route a couple of times and you eventually know it off by heart."

"So I guess you wander outside of town often?" Pewdie surmises.

"Outside? Nah, I – oh wait… what?" Strangely enough, Delta looks confused by the simple question.

"I mean, if you remember your way to that fence and that fire engine, you must go there often, right?" Pewdie elaborates, furrowing his eyebrows at the other man. "I mean, isn't that what the Anorak said?" Technically, the Anorak didn't say this outright but when he mentioned that Delta explored some areas more than others, he made it sound as if Delta visited that particular place a lot.

"Oh. Uh. Well…" Delta begins, smiling awkwardly and not meeting his eyes. "I don't… go out of town a lot actually. Just by the fire engine. It's, uh, well, it's nice to look at some greenery sometimes, you know? Ah, no buildings, no streets, no… dead guys around…?" His words then trail off.

"Sure, I… guess." Pewdie has a feeling he may have touched on something private for Delta. Whatever it is that Delta did by that fire engine is none of Pewdie's business. He decides to think of something else to say instead. "So… how long have you Parkoured?"

Delta perks up a little and Pewdie thinks that the other man looks relieved for the change in topic. "Well…"

And so it goes on. Eventually, Delta decides that he is done with his cooking and finishes up his stirring, bringing the entire pot to the counter.

"What is this stuff?" Pewdie stares at the contents inside. He can make out shapes of beans, soft strips of meat, rice and some other things he thinks he recognises, but overall, he does not know what this is.

"A bit of this and that," Delta replies mysteriously with a sheepish grin. "It's supposed to be a lot drier than this but I figured I needed to boil this into a porridge so that you could eat it more easily."

"Why… why would I 'eat it more easily'?" Pewdie says warily. "What are you talking about?"

The tone in Pewdie's voice makes Delta hesitate. "Oh," the other man blinks, looking perplexed. "You know… 'cos you're not well, right? Your eyes look pretty red? Your throat's all sore and swollen? 'Cos you're hurt?"

"I'm not–" Pewdie manages to stop himself from reaching up to touch his neck, feeling the heat rise up his face after Delta's words. Like Doc, it seems as if the rest of the group have been well-informed of Pewdie's incident from Speed.

Still, when Doc had been considerate with his food, Pewdie did not mind it. Now, when he looks at the porridge that is cooling in Delta's pot, he cannot help but become affronted by it. Pewdie was going to be fine. Unless some complication arises, Pewdie deems himself well and fit for now. It didn't help if other people treated him like an ill or injured person because for god's sake, he was not ill. He did not need to be babied. He was going to be okay.

"I'm fine, you know," Pewdie insists and hears the sharpness in his tone. "No need to treat me like I'm dying."

"Oh, okay, okay, sorry," Delta apologises, flushing, having sensed Pewdie's displeasure. "Didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable. Speed told me to keep an eye on you every time we hang out. I thought you came out of the op pretty bad from the way Speed described it."

"Well, Speed is just over-exaggerating some things," Pewdie grumbles, not really meaning what he says. This time, he reaches up to gingerly rub his neck. It still feels tender to the touch. Maybe he should stick his icepack over that area later.

To Pewdie's surprise though, Delta lets out a huff of laughter, "Oh yeah. You're totally right about Speed on that." Although Pewdie knows from Speed that the latter tended to complain about Delta and Vegas a lot, it was surprising to find that this happened the other way around as well. "That guy worries too much," Delta is just saying. "Really doesn't like it when we leave the safe house to go into town. Worries that we might not come back. He gets extra fussy with me too because I sneak out of the compound a lot."

Pewdie leans against the counter, recalling the joy he felt when he saw Speed and Doc waiting for the group upon arrival. "But that isn't such a bad thing though, right? If someone worries about you? It shows how much they really care."

"I guess." Delta's reply comes out exasperated. "But sometimes I really think some of us needs to let go. I mean, Speed – he really wants us to be where he can see us. He's sort of – well, I wouldn't really call it 'clingy', but it's pretty close to that. If not, he'll just worry himself to death, wondering where the heck we are. Yet that guy won't stick a toe out of the compound to look for us. Too scared to do it."

Pewdie cannot help but smirk when the thought strikes him: "Is that why you and Vegas like to scare him so much?"

"That's exactly why," Delta confirms with a grin before he stretches his arms above his head and yawns. "Man, I am so pooped!" he exclaims and makes his way over to Pewdie's side of the counter to slump into a seat. His shoulder then presses against Pewdie's.

"Hey," he says, his voice soft. "I'm glad Speed thinks Cry's okay. Nothing broken or bleeding on the outside and hopefully, none of that on the inside too."

Pewdie smiles, pleased to have someone else share his relief. "Yeah, me too. Cry's still knocked out cold though. But he's breathing okay. Everything looks alright. Just waiting for him to wake up soon."

"What about you though?" Delta asks, studying him. "You doing alright?"

"Yeah of course," Pewdie replies a little too quickly and realises his mistake when a look of doubt crosses Delta's face. "I mean, I'll be fine. I think. Last night was just one crazy ride, hey? Battling through a tunnel full of zombies, a storm and then a gunfight? That is pretty crazy."

"True, and we wouldn't have done it if it weren't for you two," Delta points out, a grin breaking out of his face. "Seriously, we owe you guys one. I wish I'd been there to see you in action. Unfortunately, tunnels aren't my speciality."

Pewdie feels a sudden urge to bring up the partial concealment issue with Delta, just to see what his views were about it, but then something Vegas said last night comes to mind.

"Back then," Pewdie begins, swallowing and is annoyed when his throat aches at the movement. "When you turned off the lights, you sent Vegas to look for us. You wanted to make sure we got out of there."

"Of course I did," Delta replies easily, as if this was the most obvious answer in the world. "How can I not? I'd be crushed if I left you guys alone."

Pewdie feels an unexpected tingling up the back of his neck. "Really?"

"Hell yeah. Didn't I mention it enough already? You guys are fucking awesome. And also fucking amazing. Fucking awesome amazing."

Again, that tingling sensation makes Pewdie feel almost uncomfortable. Or perhaps the feeling may be embarrassment. The way Delta is looking at him is nothing new, but now that Pewdie is paying attention, he realises that the brightness in the other man's eyes may be due to something more.

"Dude," Pewdie says, looking away and jostling Delta's shoulder that is resting against his. "What could possibly be awesome about us apart from our skills in ninja-stealthing? We're just a couple of normal guys trying to survive a zombie outbreak."

"Oh come on. You know you're not just that," Delta counters with a shake of his head. His bright eyes then go soft. "Look, I think you know what I'm talking about, man – it's you two. The way you work together. The way you are together. The way you treat each other."

"What?" Suddenly, Pewdie's face is burning.

"I'm saying that you guys make a great team. You are a great team. Anyone can see that – I mean, okay, so I don't know about anyone else but – I can see that."

"Delta, don't want to burst your bubble," Pewdie says, grimacing at how awkward he feels from the other man's praises of admiration. "I'm sure everyone noticed us falling out on that first day, right? I'm also pretty sure you and Vegas saw us arguing when we first met."

"So?"

"I don't think that factor makes us that much of a 'great team'."

"Doesn't matter. You two are still tight. I mean, it might not seem like it but I could tell you something about Cry – dude's looking out for you. I sometimes catch him glancing at you – like he's worried for you. That tells you something. And then there's you of course. V told me about how devastated you were when you thought you lost Cry."

"Yeah, well, Cry's my friend."

"Exactly. And you care about him. He's important to you."

Pewdie is quiet for a while, a little alarmed by how transparent he and Cry actually are to the group. He does not know what Delta thinks of them or why the other man is telling him this. To him, he and Cry are still burdened with issues that continue to weigh them down until they become too heavy to carry.

"Look, I'm sorry," Delta suddenly apologises. "I'm being a little vague and creepy with all this gushing. It's just… there's something about you two, you know? It just makes you so… so likeable."

"Likeable?" Pewdie still cannot accept this. He also cannot understand how he and Cry could be likeable to others. They're nothing special. They just play a lot of videogames.

He sees Delta's face pinch in thought. "You mentioned you both had YouTube channels, right? There must be a reason why people watch you. Maybe if you two made a video together, I bet people are gonna love watching you talk to each other. It's like that. There's just something about you two."

Pewdie pretends to remain oblivious to what Delta is talking about. He and Cry had already made collaboration videos together. It was also quite true that viewers enjoyed watching them interact.

Perhaps Pewdie's silence tells Delta that the former still isn't getting the message because in the end, Delta waves his hands about, gesturing at him to disregard those last words. "Let me put it this way instead," he tries again. "This is probably gonna sound cheesy as fuck but here it is – to me, I like to think that the two of you give the rest of us some hope, you know? I mean, I look at you and there's something about you two that's just so fucking charming. Inspiring. Hopeful."

He pauses for a little while to draw a breath before looking at Pewdie directly. "Whatever it is, and whoever you two are, just know that I'm rooting for you. Okay? I'm counting on you to make it out of this hellhole alive."

The effect of those words leaves Pewdie staring at Delta in stunned silence. A deep and profound kind of warmth suddenly blossoms in his chest, leaving him at a loss at what to say. For now, he is left to bask in this rosy glow, with his throat suddenly tight and his heart squeezing with an indescribable kind of emotion. Delta's words had been so sincere, so overpowering, that Pewdie feels his eyes start to water.

"Oh shit." Delta looks away, rubbing the back of his neck. His own cheeks are glowing red with embarrassment. "Shit, shit, sorry. Didn't mean to make this whole thing sound awkward. But this became really fucking awkward. Truth is, Pewdie, I've always wanted to tell you and Cry this. Just didn't expect it to happen this way."

It is only a few seconds later that Pewdie finally finds his voice. "You – You're really weird, you know that?"

Delta splutters. "Wha–? Me, weird? Fuck you, man. You know you love me."

Pewdie lets out a laugh, blinking back tears. "It's okay, man. I'm kidding. I'm kidding. But… thanks for that. I…" I'm rooting for you, Delta had said. Holy shit, for real? "Th-Thanks. Really." There are so many things that Pewdie wants to say but this is the best he can do for now.

They sit together in silence for a while and Pewdie uses that time to let out a deep breath, feeling a sense of newfound affection for this strange man beside him. A moment later, Delta reaches out to pull his cooking pot closer to them.

"Let's try out this gloop together, shall we?" he offers Pewdie another grin. "If you can swallow a couple of spoonfuls more than me, you get a gold star."

"I told you not to treat me like a sick person," Pewdie reminds him.

"Who said you were sick?" Delta scoffs, his tone reprimanding. "Eat your damn porridge, you guinea pig, and tell me if my experiment was successful. I need to know if I can feed this to the others."

Delta's profound words stay with Pewdie as he goes about the rest of his day in high spirits. There is something wonderfully uplifting about feeling valued, about being offered support, about being rooted for. The world now was cruel and relentless. It was extraordinary that there was still someone out there who thinks he and Cry are still needed, that they deserve all the second chances they can get, that they are worthy of living another day.

Pewdie holds on to these words and keeps them close to his heart. He and Cry need this, and he is grateful that he is offered that comfort and support here, in this Fire House in the middle of a zombie-infested town.

Sometime later, Pewdie meets up with Speed for his check-up as promised. Speed has the notebook with Pewdie's symptoms open and ready to receive new records. After Speed poses the same questions from the last medical examination several hours before, Pewdie is happy to report that there is nothing out of the ordinary and that he is feeling fine. The bruise on his cheek still smarts, his throat is still a little painful but thankfully not becoming any worse. He is sure that this is just a minor injury, one that will fade away over time.

The next day though, everything plummets when he is hit by a sudden wave of dizziness and extreme nausea, one that is so intense and powerful that he immediately staggers to the toilets and spends half an hour there just heaving, retching, vomiting and shaking all over the toilet bowl. Once he emerges, confused and uneasy at what had happened, he rinses his mouth at the sink and almost chokes on the water when he sees his reflection in the mirror.

"What the fuck…?"

Pewdie hasn't seen his reflection after the op and this is the first time he is seeing what the others are seeing when they look at him. His face looks tired, the skin pale, clammy and drooping a little. The bruise on his cheek is a vivid purple colour, as are the terrible abrasions on his neck. Then, there are the whites of his eyes and the skin under the lids, peppered with tiny red pinpricks. He stares at himself, at the marks left from the attack at the power plant, visible for all to see. No wonder they think he looks ill. No wonder they think he may not be okay. He turns away from the mirror, disgusted at what he sees.

What the hell is happening to him? What is this? Appearance aside, why did he suddenly feel so dizzy, so sick all of a sudden that he ended up vomiting? Was he actually ill? Did he eat something bad? Did he catch whatever bug that Vegas may have?

It was a blessing that the wave of nausea struck when he had been alone or else he would have been fussed over by the others. He couldn't think of a reason why this had happened nor was he inclined to think about what the others proposed might be the cause of this sudden spell of illness.

(He tries really, really hard to ignore the possibility that this is linked to his attack, that these are the symptoms that Speed had warned him about. He's not gonna die, he's not. There's nothing wrong with him. He's going to be fucking fine).

When Speed comes to check up on him later, examining him and asking him the usual questions, Pewdie does not tell him about the dizzy spell or the vomiting. Instead, when he turns in that night, he decides not to take another dose of the sleeping pills. Maybe his stomach didn't agree with them. Maybe the pills had caused the nausea and the vomiting. Maybe this is a one-time thing and everything will be okay tomorrow.

It takes him a while to sleep but he eventually nods off to the sound of Cry's steady breathing below him.

At first, there is nothing. A blankness. A void. Then flashes of scenery, of feeling, both blurry and unclear. He thinks it is raining heavily. That he is soaked. He hears the sound of firecrackers. Sees men coming out of a cloud of smoke. A raging river at his feet. The feel of the cold, hard floor against his back. Crushing pressure on his throat. He can't see. He can't move. He's blacking out. He's drowning. He can't breathe. He does not know where he is.

The only thing that he is certain about is that he is fucking terrified.

His eyes open to darkness and he does not know where he is. He does not know where he is. So he leaps–

And almost falls off the bunk-bed.

"Shit-shit-shit," he yelps, scrabbling back onto the bed and crowding against the wall. His heart is racing wildly against his chest. He is back in their room. There is no droning sound of turbines. There are no fingers around his throat. This is their room. The Fire House. Their room at the Fire House. This is the Fire House, right?

Pewdie scrambles clumsily down the ladder of the bunk, wobbling a little when his feet touch the ground. Somehow, his body cannot hold itself up when he tries to stand. He collapses onto the bottom bunk and realises that he is shaking. He reaches around for Map and Torchy, wanting to hold onto something – his sanity, perhaps – and stops.

Not a good idea. Not a good idea, Pewds.

His breaths are loud in the quiet room. His heart is still racing, rattling like a caged bird behind his ribs. His fingers bite into the mattress. He tries very hard to focus on something. Anything.

You're safe. You're safe, Pewds. It was just a fucking dream. Fucking hell, I cannot believe I am freaking out over a stupid, fucking dream.

The longer Pewdie sits there, forcing himself to calm down, the more he becomes aware that his lower back feels warm, brushing against something solid. He moves his arm behind him and his wrist bumps into Cry's leg.

Cry, he realises, and something in him revives itself. Cry is right here. Cry is alive. This is real.

He does not know how long he stays like that, leaning against the warmth of Cry's body behind him. What he does know is that he is listening raptly to the way Cry breathes – deep, regular, steady – and his own breathing follows, mimicking and then synchronising with the other man's. Over time, he feels himself being put back together, being grounded back into reality. He thinks he is okay, that he will be okay. This dream – nightmare – is just an aftereffect. Like the darkest of nights, it, too, will pass.

Pewdie continues sitting there in the darkness, not wanting to go back to sleep. He does not want to take any more sleeping pills. And right now, he does not want to go back up the top bunk. He stays. Listens. Thinks. Breathes. Waits.

Morning eventually comes. Pewdie notices it from the way the sunrays peek through the cracks of the boarded-up windows. He rises from Cry's bunk, his body feeling stiff, his eyes stinging, his head suddenly aching, and makes his way to the toilets, intending to take a long shower, hoping that the last few hours will be washed away. He also makes sure to flush the rest of his sleeping pills down the toilet.

"Well, look who's up early." Vegas is in the kitchen area when Pewdie slips into the lounge, feeling cleaner but still rather drained of energy. He offers her a half-hearted smile. He has not seen Vegas in a while and he does not expect to find her looking as tired as he feels.

"I could say the same thing about you," he says before he takes a moment to survey the room to find no one else there with them. Vegas alone without Delta? "Have you been avoiding Delta or something?"

"Uh, no," Vegas replies with a look that says Pewdie had asked her the stupidest question on earth. "'m tryin' to get away from Speed."

"Oh," Pewdie blinks in surprise. "Why?"

"Never you mind," Vegas grumbles with an air of having regretted disclosing that piece of information. She motions to a stool with her head. "Have a seat, will you."

Pewdie takes a seat. There is a spoon on the counter in front of him. He absent-mindedly picks it up.

"How's Cry?" Vegas inquires and Pewdie's smile returns, this time whole-heartedly. He is reminded of being in this same position when Delta asked him the same question two days before.

"Oh, so he's finally awake?" Vegas's eyebrows rise and Pewdie realises that she must be saying this because he is smiling so much.

"Uh, not yet actually," he murmurs, dropping his smile while his fingers play with the spoon in his hand. "He's still alive. So that's a good sign to me."

"Good to know," Vegas agrees. "That swim downriver must have really taken a toll on him. Has he woken up at all, even for just a little bit? What kind of idiot gets knocked out for days on end anyway?"

"Only if he's called Cry," Pewdie chuckles. "Really, he tends to overwork himself. Goes on and on and doesn't stop. When he finally does stop, it takes him a while to recharge. He'll wake up soon."

Vegas gives him a sceptical look. "You sound so sure."

"He'll wake up," Pewdie says again, unwavering.

"Alright. Whatever you say," Vegas concedes with a dismissive flick of her hand. She then looks at him, studying his face. "Look, you hungry or something?" she says curtly through a scowl, as if small talk and trying to be nice were actions that were painful for her to do. "You wanna eat? I could, ah… I could probably whip you something edible. Just this one time though. Don't get any ideas."

"Really? In that case, some breakfast in bed? Eggs, toast and five slices of bacon?" Pewdie can't help but tease. He regrets it afterward when Vegas snatches the spoon out of his hand and uses it to smack him on the head.

"I told you – don't get any ideas," Vegas mutters and tosses the spoon back to him. "That's it. I'm feeding you that disgusting oatmeal we have here somewhere. Where the hell's that kettle?"

Vegas is a different kind of talkative compared to Delta. Delta tended to share experiences and funny stories with his audience. Vegas, on the other hand, complains loudly to herself and makes sure that other people around the vicinity hear about it as well.

"…Just because I brought my gun with me, doesn't mean I'm gonna jeopardise the op," she is saying, crossing her arms and glaring at the kettle she has set to boil. "It's a precaution. He should know I'm smarter than that. No guns, Vegas. Well, Doc. Newsflash. You ain't my mother. I know what I'm doing. Besides, we were lucky I had it with me. Even if Barbetta was a bad shot, the gun would've still been useful if we ever get caught in the middle of those dead mobs–"

Pewdie tries to keep up with her chatter but his head has started pulsating in pain again. He squints and rubs his temple, wishing the pressure would alleviate just a little. Maybe he should go to Speed later and ask if he can have some painkillers for this stupid headache. He has not been sleeping well after all. His head needs rest, needs to stop hurting, and he can't do that if he doesn't get enough sleep.

He catches a glimpse of a cloudy reflection of himself on the back of the spoon he is holding. Does he look bad? He did not look in the mirror this morning so he wasn't quite sure. Are the bruises and abrasions healing? He can still see the vivid purple colour from his reflection on the spoon. His neck still feels sore and tender as he touches it, as he traces the scabs with his thumb. If he presses here, he can feel his pulse throbbing under his finger. If he squeezes his whole hand, tightening his grip just a little like this–

His reflection stares back at him in shock. Pewdie is suddenly aware that his hand had drifted to his throat. That he has his fingers around it, pressing on it lightly. That his mind is thinking – how long will it take for me to die if that guy kept on squeezing?

"–d's sake, you can stop admiring yourself on a spoon now, princess." Something touches him and the sudden physical contact sends Pewdie scrambling backwards, the spoon slipping out of his hand. It lands into the bowl of hot oatmeal that had appeared in front of him with a clatter and a splash, causing the contents to splatter all over the counter.

"Whoa, whoa there, horsie." Vegas looks taken aback by his reaction, her hands held out in a placating gesture. "Are you okay? You freaked out all of a sudden–" Then her face suddenly changes and it is the worst thing. There, on her dark features, is an expression of understanding, of sympathy. It is clear in her eyes. She knows.

Pewdie feels his face heat up in humiliation. He stares down at the mess he had made, clenching his teeth and fists. He can feel himself shaking. He wants to be angry.

"God, Pewdie. If you didn't want that oatmeal so badly, all you had to do was ask," Vegas suddenly reprimands him and she looks irritated. Looks being the key word, because Pewdie senses that she is trying to cover up that glimpse of sympathy that she directed towards him earlier. Somehow, that makes him feel a little better.

"You're right," he croaks out and then goes to clear his throat. It is still raw, still sore. When is this stupid thing going to heal and go fucking away? "That oatmeal tastes like shit."

In the end, they clean up the mess together, Vegas continuing to berate him for making her do extra work and Pewdie secretly welcoming the very convincing bite in her words. They eventually settle down in their seats again, each holding an open can of spam. Pewdie can't help but peek at the bottom of the can for the expiration date, remembering Delta's previous words.

"What are you doing?" Vegas doesn't miss his inspection. She also doesn't waste any more time on courtesy and is already digging into her meal with her hands.

"Checking if this is expired or not," Pewdie replies, tucking in when he is finally satisfied. He explains to Vegas what Delta has said about expired cans and that is when an idea hits him.

"Hey, have you been feeling sick lately?" he asks her and for a moment, he thinks he sees a flash of panic cross her face. "I mean, I think I might have the same sickness as you. Or something. You know, food poisoning."

"Food poisoning?" Vegas stares at him. She looks calmer now after Pewdie's elaboration but her face gives nothing away. Something diverts her focus from him because she glances over at the door.

"I was sick two days ago," Pewdie explains further, trying to get back her attention. "I, uh, I threw up. Like you, I guess? I just – I really didn't feel so well that time. I thought maybe it was because of those cans. Expired food is pretty dangerous after all."

"I don't think so," says a new voice from behind him and Delta pops his head into view. Pewdie startles in his seat, unable to understand why he had not heard the door of the lounge open. It did, however, explain why Vegas's attention shifted towards the door. She had heard and watched Delta enter the room. Why hadn't Pewdie sensed that entry too? What was wrong with him today?

"Hey, you okay?" Delta obviously noticed Pewdie's reaction to his appearance. "You… seem a little jumpy today."

"No, I'm fine," Pewdie quickly answers. "I think you're actually turning into a ninja. Wait, what were you talking about before? You said, 'I don't think so'," he points out, intending for the question to distract the newcomer of their duo from his overreaction.

Delta falls for the trap. "Oh, right. Yeah, you saw me sort out those cans the other day, Pewdie. You saw that I was pretty thorough. So there was no way I could have fed you anything that's expired. You couldn't have gotten food poisoning. Maybe…" he hesitates for a bit, sighing. "Maybe you should see Speed. Have him check up on you."

"But I'm fine," Pewdie protests, his body stiffening. "It was a one-time thing. I feel a little better. Could have been an upset stomach actually. I didn't tell you before but I kind of took some sleeping pills and maybe those didn't agree with me. That could explain why I didn't feel so well at that time."

Delta scrunches his face up, looking doubtful. "I still think you should tell Speed about this. It might be important. You know, maybe this is happening because of–"

Pewdie inhales sharply, like he is bracing for the words. And sure enough, they come.

"–you know. What happened to you during the op," Delta finishes and it is like a ball dropping to the floor. A cold sense of dread sinks into Pewdie's stomach. His chest grows heavy and his insides squirm with discomfort. He wants out. He wants out.

He counters with the only method he can think of. Denial. "Why would you think that?" he challenges quietly but he can still hear it – the tone of defensiveness in his own voice. The sound of a cornered animal.

Vegas suddenly lets out a loud, irritated sound. Pewdie had actually forgotten that she was in the room with them until she turns to him, her face a countenance of impatience. "Because this could be a possible aftereffect. Or side-effect. Or whatever!" she snaps. "Look, stop fucking around and just go to Speedy already, Pewdie. And don't you dare try to argue with me or I will drag you to the infirmary myself."

"But–" Pewdie starts and is cut off when Vegas suddenly steps into his space. Although she is much shorter than him, her fierce and menacing demeanour is enough to make him flinch backwards.

"Go. Now." She orders quietly, cold steel coating her voice. "Or so help me, I will take my ice axe and bring you to Speed in pieces."

Pewdie does not waste any more time or breath after that. He scarpers from the room and bumps into Speed outside the infirmary.

"Oh hey. Where you off to?" the other man asks once he straightens himself up from their collision. He is wearing the shabby fireman's jacket again. Pewdie must have caught him post-challenge against Barbetta.

"I don't know," Pewdie replies. Now that he is facing Speed, he feels reluctant about disclosing what happened to him to the other man. He considers lying to Speed at first and saying nothing was wrong but he has a feeling that Vegas will find out and hunt him down. After a few seconds of consideration, he gathers up his courage and concedes.

"I have something to tell you," he declares, his voice muffled in his throat. Speed's eyebrows rise, catching the meaning in Pewdie's words, and turns to open the infirmary door. "Come on in," he says and leads them inside.

Speed is patient as he listens attentively to Pewdie's recollection of the last few days, occasionally breaking eye contact to scribble something into his notebook. When Pewdie finally finishes, the other man leans back against his chair, eyes fixed on his notes while tapping his pen thoughtfully onto his lips.

"Thanks for telling me, Pewds," Speed then says a few seconds later, putting the pen down and getting up. "Is it okay if you let me check you up again?"

Pewdie lets him. Halfway through the examination, his gaze falls onto Speed's notes and he sees that the other man had drawn a rough diagram of a human head and had marked it with the locations of Pewdie's injuries. A checklist had been scribbled next to the image: Physical injuries – mild neck pain (reported), mild pain when swallowing (reported), fingernail abrasions, voice changes, petechia (sclera & under lids). Reported physiological symptoms: nausea & vomiting, headaches, insomnia–

And then in smaller handwriting at the bottom of the page, Pewdie manages to make out some more words: Unable to advise suitable treatment or medication without further examination / no means to determine whether there are internal injuries or possible brain damage without proper medical equipment / wish there was a fucking reference manual or something / best course of action for now is regular monitoring of patient–

What the hell does Speed mean by that? Pewdie is a little alarmed by the comments on the page, by the underlying tone of frustration in the written words. Reading the notes somehow makes Pewdie's situation all the more real. He tears his gaze away from the book just as Speed finishes his check-up. The other man's face gives nothing away as he steps back and Pewdie dares to ask, "Is what I'm going through normal?" because now he is even more uncertain about himself than ever, and he has never felt so much dread at being so uncertain as he is right now.

"…It is, yes," Speed confirms hesitantly. "I believe the nausea and headaches are a common thing after assaults like these. So are the sleeping problems too."

There is something in the other man's face that Pewdie cannot help but notice – the strain in his eyes, the way his gaze seems unsteady, unable to stay on him for very long. Speed is holding back, hiding something from him.

Speed is not the type to hold things back.

Pewdie decides to be bold and upfront about the issue. He looks at Speed in the eye and demands, "Look, Nurse PJ. Tell me the truth. I can get better from this, right?"

The confronting manner catches Speed off-guard. The man falters. "Um–"

"No. Tell me."

Something in Pewdie's hard stare and persistent tone finally convinces Speed to confess. "I'm not–" the other man says and for the first time, Pewdie hears something he never thought he would hear from Speed – a tone of helplessness. Desperation.

"I'm not a doctor," the other man blurts out, his voice coming out stifled. "But I wish I was one. I wish that I could do more. I wish I could just stop all this – this sickness that's taken over everything and fucked everything up. But I'm just one guy, and I can't even tell you if you're going to be alright from this or not! I'm not an expert, Pewds. I'm sorry. I thought I could handle it. Pretended to act all professional, like I knew what I was doing when I asked you all those questions. Truth is, I don't know how to treat cases like yours. I've never even handled cases like yours. All I know is that it's a big jumble of complications. So many factors come into play. I can't do a complete and thorough examination because we don't have the equipment or treatment for it. I don't know if you're going to get better or worse from this. I just don't know! And I feel really shitty about it. I'm supposed to know everything. But now you know that I don't."

The outburst is unexpected. Pewdie is left speechless for a moment, a little disturbed to see the usually jovial and cheerful Speed looking upset and frustrated. He had not expected Speed to have no idea what to do with him. He had expected a different sort of answer – something like: Yes, you can get better, but we need to get a specific kind of medication and the only place we can get it is back at the hospital. That's the biggest hotspot for zombies! Or – Yes, but we need to find a real doctor to treat you. We'll have to go to another survivor camp to ask for help but we're not on good terms with them at the moment. Or maybe even: I'm sorry but it's bad news, Pewds. It's not looking good. It's only a matter of time.

Not this though. Not Speed collapsing like this in front of him.

It seems that Pewdie had not been the only one who was anxious about the nature of his condition. Speed was having an even harder time dealing with it compared to him. Speed was, after all, the Fire House's only medical officer. Everyone would turn to him if anything happened, if someone needed to be cared for or tended back to health. That kind of responsibility must carry such a heavy weight on the other man's shoulders. Shit. Shit. Pewdie instantly regrets putting unnecessary pressure on him.

"Bro," he then says, and tries his best to sound reassuring. Anything to get Speed from looking as distraught as he is right now. "H-hey, don't beat yourself up over this. We're not expecting the sun and moon from you. Like you said, you're just one guy. A guy who we know is doing his best."

"Oh, I dunno. I dunno if I am doing my best," mutters Speed, sounding defeated as he folds his large frame into his swivel chair and rests his elbows onto his knees. Not a good sign. "Dammit. Pewds," he then says, shaking his great head sadly, the eyes peeking out of his face a dull blue colour. "How much good am I doing if I don't even know how to treat you? You must think I'm useless."

"Stop that," Pewdie chides because how can Speed think of himself in that way? "You looked after Cry. He got better from that hypothermia, thanks to you."

Despite this reassurance, Speed continues to shake his head. "Nah, he got lucky. Both of you got lucky. That was not me. I only tried to make him comfortable, raise his body temperature a little. That was just a small thing, though. Nothing to it. But what if the next time it isn't a small thing anymore? What if you all came in here and your injuries are so bad that I can't fix you at all? All because I don't know how?"

Speed rests his forehead onto his palm and slumps even more into his seat. "Oh god," he moans, his voice stifled and he begins to rock pathetically in his chair, much to Pewdie's horror. "I'm not good for anything, dude. I'm just not enough."

Pewdie recoils from where he stands, not wanting to watch the scene unfold before him any longer. He realises that he quickly has to fix this because he needs Speed to be okay again, to be on top of his game, to be cheerful and positive and willing enough that he finds some kind of solution to Pewdie's condition. Speed is arguably the most important member of the group. Too often was a doctor, nurse or indeed anybody with medical experience, been the saving grace of many survivor camps. If Speed gives up now, then that would spell out trouble for everyone, not just the Fire House's morale.

"That's bullshit," Pewdie says loudly as he desperately searches for words in his head that could turn this whole thing around. He reaches out to touch Speed, only because he knows that handling someone like him must always involve some form of physical contact. Speed is the type of person who craves contact with people after all. Perhaps it is a way for him to remind himself that the things he touches are still alive, are still present and standing there with him.

"Don't say you want to be more than what you are," Pewdie avows. "That you're not enough. You're already doing what you can. You shouldn't ever be something you're not. Unless you can be a fabulous unicorn," he then adds and forces out a laugh – a cheery, light-hearted laugh that shakes his shoulders. "Ha-ha-ha! Always be a fabulous unicorn."

"Wh-What?" comes Speed's voice in a tone of incredulity as the other man immediately lifts his head to stare at him with wide eyes. Pewdie is strongly reminded of Vegas giving him a similar expression, albeit in her case, she also had the look of someone who believed she was in the company of an absolute madman. He wonders where the hell he comes up with stupid shit like this.

Speed suddenly lets out a snort and ducks his head, trying to stifle an unexpected fit of wheezing laughter. It goes on for nearly a minute, all while Pewdie grins down at him, before he eventually quietens and shifts his gaze up to meet Pewdie's. There is something different in his eyes this time, like he is looking at Pewdie in a new light.

"Oh man. You surprise me, Pewds," he finally says. "Didn't pin you as someone who can spin such rhetorical wisdom."

"What can I say?" Pewdie sighs dramatically. "I have many hidden talents."

"Maybe you and Doc should establish a club. Club Rhetoric. We'll publish a book full of your quotes in no time."

"Oh stop it. You're making me blush."

Speed lets out a hearty chuckle and Pewdie is relieved that some of his cheerful demeanour has returned. "Aww man. What was I doing? That was embarrassing. Didn't mean to dump all that stuff on you, Pewds. I'm not the moping type. I'm always trying to keep the mood positive. I'm always trying to keep everyone together, keep 'em comfortable, give them support. You're like that too. I'm glad I ain't the only person in our ragtag team who's like that. You know, we're quite a pair, huh?" He waves his arm, gesturing at the two of them.

"I do what I can," Pewdie replies with a shrug. He thinks about his epiphany in the church. He thinks about Cry recovering in the bottom bunk of their room right now. He thinks about almost losing Cry to the river.

I'm always trying to keep everyone together.

I'm trying my best to keep Cry safe.

"Hey, I appreciate it, dude. You hearing me out. Even when all the stuff I said was not supposed to happen," Speed says sincerely, clapping him on the shoulder and Pewdie cannot describe the relief he feels knowing that Speed is back to his old self. He is sure he won't be able to stand another image of Speed rocking in that chair in distress.

Speed puts his hands on his hips, regarding Pewdie from top to bottom. "Enough about me right now. You're still my patient. I'm supposed to be listening to your woes and doing what I can to fix you up."

"So how long do I have left then, Nurse PJ?" Pewdie asks melodramatically, gazing wistfully at him. He even pretends to swoon on the spot as he does so. "What do I need to trade so that I could keep my life for one more month?"

Speed bursts out laughing again, holding onto his shaking chest at Pewdie's ridiculous theatrics. "You're hilarious, dude! Even in the face of danger, you still find it in yourself to crack a joke and keep it together. Well, I may not be an expert on cases like yours. But I still know a thing or two about taking care of people."

Good. A little positivity goes a long way. Perhaps Speed's rekindled cheeriness can inspire him to try again, to find some way to cure Pewdie. The important thing for Pewdie right now is that Speed can tell him what he should do to recover back to full health.

"The best thing right now for you, Pewds," continues Speed. "Is to rest. Keep an eye on your body and your mental state, and come to us if anything is bothering you. Anything. If your neck continues to hurt or is feeling worse, we'll need to examine it closer. Determine if there is damage in your muscles or a fracture in your neck bones. If your head gets any worse, we might consider the possibility of brain damage. If your thoughts are turning a little dark, or if you start to feel a little isolated or alone, just know that I'm here if you need some support."

The list of possible repercussions of his attack suddenly makes Pewdie's stomach heavy with dread again. "I'm not sure I like what I'm hearing," he mutters, wincing.

Speed's hands land on his shoulders. The touch is firm, compelling him to look up at the other man. "I know what you're going through is tough," Speed says with a smile. "But remember what I said about those other patients who went through the same thing you did? You shouldn't think that you're broken. You're not a victim of an attack, or of anything, Pewds. You're a survivor. Remember that. Now, let's go through each of your symptoms. See if we can find some way to deal with them. Let's talk about…" he pauses so he can peer at the pages of his notebook. "Your insomnia? You been having trouble sleeping, is it?"

"Yeah, that too," Pewdie replies, and then realises his mistake when Speed echoes his words: "'That too'? Something else bothering you, Pewds?"

Pewdie had not told him about the nightmares yet. Then again, it seems that he does not need to. Pewdie's hesitation is enough to let Speed figure it out for himself.

"You've been having nightmares," the other man states, his voice going back to that faint and gentle tone that he often uses for his patients. "That's why you wanted the sleeping pills in the first place. It's been happening since you got back from the op."

There is no point in denying it. "Yeah," Pewdie admits and then falls silent, not wanting to elaborate any further. It was stupid to do so. What can anyone do to stop them from happening again anyway? Talking about nightmares seemed petty and insignificant since Pewdie is sure Speed knows what he dreams about.

"If you were thinking about taking more sleeping pills…" Speed says, his words trailing off, and it sounds as if he is about to unleash a speech about the dangers of addiction and over-reliance of medication but Pewdie beats him to it.

"Nah, I don't want any more. I'll find some other way to deal with this."

Speed nods, seemingly satisfied by his answer. "Take your time with your recovery, Pewds. No rush there. Just know – if you need to talk about anything, I'll be here. You've also got the others too."

"Thanks," Pewdie quickly replies, not wanting to linger on the subject any longer. He is grateful when Speed moves on to the next few symptoms and explains to him some possible ways to lessen them. At some point in his chattering, Speed ends up giving him some general advice when it comes to recovery.

"While you're resting," Speed is just saying as he motions for Pewdie to sit down. "I think it's important that you don't go out of the compound for a while. Delta sometimes goes out to scout the area, and if Barbetta or the Anorak get bored, they make sure to go out and clear the place of zombies. They should know better than to invite you to join them when you're recuperating."

"I'll keep that in mind," Pewdie says when Speed waits for him to answer. "When you say I shouldn't go out of the compound, I could still walk around inside it, right? A bro needs his fresh air too."

Speed chuckles, "Of course you can, bro. But any other work that involves strenuous activities? You're out for the count. No action for you. You just stay put, alright? No need to risk yourself so much. We got some of the others to do that for us. Vegas, Barbetta, Tesla and the rest. They're a lot better than us. They can handle it out there. Just–" he hesitates, his face falling a little. "They handle it out there just a little too well."

"What do you mean?" Pewdie asks, not missing the unspoken concern in the man's voice.

Speed casts his gaze around the infirmary, taking in the objects on the wall, the desk, the trophies and certificates. His expression is fond, faraway and a little bit sad.

"I like where I am now," he explains, raising his arms in a gesture of emphasis. "Here at the Fire House. It's safe. It feels like normal. Like nothing much has changed. It's nice to stay in here and pretend the world outside hasn't gone to shit. It's just that the others – it's hard to get them to stay put sometimes, you know? Get them to understand that it's important that we should stay together. Stay safe together. Don't change. Don't go out there and get killed. Don't go out there and kill. Don't lose yourself to all the crazy that's happening out there."

I wouldn't really call it 'clingy', but it's pretty close to that – Delta's words echo in Pewdie's mind for a moment. He is starting to understand why the other man would view Speed's actions in that way. Speed was afraid of losing people, likely for the fear that he may have failed to do his job as nurse and caretaker of the group, or that he might end up alone in the middle of a zombie-infested town. Or maybe it was because he was attached to these people. They were the only ones he had left after all.

"You really take care of these guys, don't you?" Pewdie comments, his tone gentle. "You don't want to lose them."

"I don't want to lose anybody on my watch," Speed corrects, confirming Pewdie's speculations. "And it isn't because it's my job as a nurse – was my job as a nurse. It's my role. The only role I have left. Everything else is gone. Home, family, friends. I only have myself and what I can do. Which is to keep this place and everyone else up and running. I mean, it's important to believe that there's always a safe place to go back to. That we believe there is still a safe place."

"Well, you're doing a good job on that, man," Pewdie praises, hoping that this can maintain Speed's cheeriness before the conversation can have a chance to turn the wrong way again. "You helped make this place welcoming. It's nice being here. It's nice of you to let me and Cry stay. This is a safe place, thanks to you all."

"I'm glad you think that," Speed says, looking grateful.

They then fall into a companionable silence, enjoying each other's company for a moment before Speed speaks again, his tone casual, "You know, Pewds. I was just wondering… what happens once you and Cry get better? You dudes sticking around?" Speed's eyes fix on him and they are watchful, unblinking.

"Ah, no actually," Pewdie replies apologetically and he sees the noticeable slump in Speed's shoulders after he utters those words. "We have to go somewhere. The radio tower outside of town. You know the one? We heard a message saying anyone who needs help should go there. Have you heard anything about it?"

"About a message?"

"Yeah, it was played on a loop. We heard it on our radio. You know, before we lost it."

Speed shakes his head. "I don't really have a clue about messages on the radio, but maybe, if you want, you could ask the Anorak to listen in on the radio waves. The dude's a wizard with electronics. Not sure how he does it though 'cos we don't have a radio. But whatever it is that he is using, that's how he knew when we should go do our op."

Pewdie smiles wryly at the suggestion, already knowing that he will not ask the Anorak for help. He may have decided that he will tolerate the other man a bit more after he saved Cry, but Pewdie will certainly not ask the Anorak for any favours.

"Do you know who you're meeting at that radio tower?" Speed asks.

"Not sure," says Pewdie. "All we know is that we heard voices and that there's a possibility of help."

"What do you plan to do after that?"

"Um…" To be honest, now that the issue has been brought up, Pewdie realises that he does not know. He does not know what will happen once he and Cry reach their destination, whether the voices who promised to be there waiting will even be there at all. What if the people are not as friendly or as accommodating as those in the Fire House? Will they be willing to help him and Cry? Or could this be a trap to lure desperate survivors so that they can be robbed of their resources?

Dammit. He and Cry should have stopped and talked about this first before blindly heading to a destination all because of a vague and unclear set of instructions from a CB radio.

"You don't really have a plan, do you?" Speed reveals the uneasy truth out loud.

"Haven't thought that far out," Pewdie admits with a sigh. "Our decision to go to the radio tower was more in-the-moment. Impulsive. I mean, we were desperate and it was a destination."

"What were you expecting to find when you reach there?"

"Ah, I dunno," Pewdie intones. "Obviously, a five course meal, some celebratory wine, a nuclear bomb that says 'FUCK YOU ZAMBIES' and a giant rainbow duck that can fly us to the moon."

Speed chuckles as he goes to perch himself on the edge of his desk. "I may have never stepped out of this place before, but even I know that the chances of coming across any of the things you mentioned are pretty slim, Pewds."

"Nah, you're right," Pewdie decides to put the jokes aside for now and be forward for once. "We hoped that we could find some kind of help at the radio tower. That someone there can get us to someplace safe, or at least point us to the right direction. You know. Something."

Silence again. Pewdie's fingers play with the frayed sleeve of his shirt. There are no traces of blood underneath his fingernails anymore. He made sure of that when he stepped into the shower earlier that morning.

From his peripheral vision, Pewdie sees Speed lean back on his hands on the desk, making contemplative humming noises. The other man seems to be deep in thought but Pewdie can sense that his eyes are fixed on him.

"So hey," Speed finally says, his tone once more casual. "Can I make a suggestion for you then? How about just… staying here?"

"We can't do that," Pewdie answers sheepishly. "We don't want to impose on you guys any longer."

"But you're not imposing. And you can't really believe we still think of you as our guests. Not after you helped us with that op a few nights ago."

"Yeah, but," Pewdie counters and stops, sighing as he tries to get his thoughts in order so that he can form a stronger and more convincing argument. "We can't stay."

"Of course you can, dude," Speed chirps, reaching over to clap him on the shoulder. "It's pretty easy. You just don't go. Stay here with us. Both of you fit in so well that it'll be a shame to just leave."

"It's not really that," Pewdie tries again. "What I meant about us not being able to stay is that we can't stay put. At least not for very long. We have to keep going. We have to get out. Out of all this. Maybe you guys should consider that too, sometime in the future."

"But where will you go?" Speed asks. "Where are you trying to get to?"

"Someplace safe, of course."

"And this place isn't?"

Pewdie falters. "Well... yes, it is. But–"

"Think about it, Pewds." Speed's grip on his shoulder is steady, almost as if the other man is determined to direct Pewdie's focus on his next words. "You know how dangerous it is out there. It's madness. And there's nothing much we can do to stop that madness. That's why you're looking for a safe place because it's the only place left to hide in and wait until this whole ride is over, am I right? Now what better place to be in than here, with the rest of us?"

Pewdie blinks and shrugs his shoulder, hoping that his jostling can loosen Speed's hold on him. Speed's grip, however, does not slacken. "I... I dunno," he mumbles, looking away and wanting to avoid the other man's gaze.

"You know that you are more than welcome to stay," Speed offers warmly. "This is the safest place you can find around here. We're barricaded. We got a lookout tower. We have food and water and medicine. Sure, we might get the occasional break-in or two but no one really gets hurt from that. At least, not so much because everyone here can kick ass and then some. And anyway–" he pauses to pat Pewdie's shoulder in emphasis. "There's still your condition, of course. There's a possibility that even after you recover, you might relapse. Or something. And if you do, you'd need a safe place and lots of time to get better again and we both agree that this is still the best place to do that. You got us after all, you got a support system. I mean, I'm sure you want to get back on your feet as soon as possible, eh?"

It is true. He does want to get back on his feet and not have any unwanted complications to linger around and hinder him from doing his job of looking after Cry. The more Pewdie thinks about Speed's proposition, the more he begins to see the sense and logic in it – that the Fire House is indeed their best bet. They were lucky to find a place with food and water. They were lucky to find a house full of inhabitants who were not hostile, who was welcoming and, for the most part, pleasant to interact with. There was also clear evidence that if things were to go bad, these people can fight and defend themselves. So why waste an opportunity as good as this one?

Pewdie begins to admit that he likes the idea of staying, the idea of always having a place to go back to, a place where there is a constant supply of water, a place that seems well-defended and secure. He also likes the idea of riding out this hell-wave with the company of a bunch of friends. It makes sense to him. Yet, at the same time, he cannot say that he will take the offer. He cannot give an answer, at least not now, because it is not the giving-the-answer part that is the problem. It is Cry.

Cry will not agree to it. He will definitely not agree to it and Pewdie knows this.

"Too much?" Speed's voice breaks into Pewdie's thoughts. Speed is watching him, trying to read his expression, trying to guess what Pewdie's reply might be but it is difficult to guess if he seems hopeful or disappointed with what he finds. "It's a lot of things to think about, is it? Maybe you need time. You don't need to decide on anything right now, Pewds. Just know that the offer stands."

"Thanks," Pewdie is grateful that Speed isn't pressing for an immediate decision. He leans back against his seat when Speed's hand gives a reassuring pat before finally leaving his shoulder.

"So," Speed says, hopping off his desk and straightening his shabby fireman's jacket. "I'm getting tired of wearing this. How about I give you an opportunity to have this baby for an afternoon if I beat you in darts, eh?"

"I'm not wearing that thing again," Pewdie tells him, getting up from his seat as well. "Do you know how hard it is to use my hands with those sleeves? No thank you. Besides, you look so much better in it than me."

"Hey, you're just saying that to escape this torture, bro," Speed says, playfully nudging him on the elbow. "I can't be the only person taking one for the team."

"Oh, leave me out of whatever weird arrangement you and Barbetta have," Pewdie laughs, returning the nudge with a playful jab at Speed's arm. "You're on your own. Bro."

"Aww come on, bro. If you win, you could have–"

Speed's words are cut off when the door to the infirmary opens and Barbetta glides into the room, her cool gaze settling on the two occupants inside.

"Keys," she simply says, her words directed at Speed. "The same ones I asked for last week."

Speed looks confused for a moment, surprised that Barbetta would walk into his infirmary to demand something like that. "Same ones last week?" He echoes and then his eyes go wide with recognition. "Oh, you mean on the morning after Pewds and Cry arrived and you gave our mutual friends their exclusive haircuts?" He circles around his desk to rummage through one of the drawers to pull out a set of keys. "I don't know why you keep giving these back to me. You could keep 'em, you know. You're the only one who uses that store room for whatever it is you do in there."

Barbetta does not answer but makes her away over to Speed to retrieve her keys. She shifts her gaze onto Pewdie and Pewdie can't help but flush under her stare.

"Speed offered you a challenge, did he? I heard his voice outside the door," Barbetta says and something in Pewdie sinks with dread at what is to come next. "The dart board is free. Once Speed has his turn, I will be waiting to take mine."

Which is why Pewdie ends up returning to his and Cry's room that night wearing that stupid fireman's jacket after a very predictable loss against Barbetta. After dumping said jacket on the floor and briefly checking up on Cry, he goes to bed with a head full of the day's events, of Speed offering him and Cry the pleasure of staying, and of the graceful image of Barbetta, cool and collected and captivating, as she elegantly throws darts at a board.

When his mind drifts into the black sea of sleep, his dream waits to claim him. Once more, he sees and experiences flashes of scenery and feeling. Rain, river, smoke, terror. A weight on him, solid and heavy and crushing. He sinks into the cold ground, his hands flailing and fighting and still helpless. He cannot breathe. He cannot breathe. His world goes dark and he is falling and twisting and breaking and–

He wakes up gasping. His head hurts more than ever and when he sits up, his whole world shifts, his stomach turns, and Pewdie struggles to fight off the sickening wave of nausea that is rising up his throat. He staggers down the bunk ladder and out the room as fast as his unsteady legs can carry him.

He does not vomit this time. He spends several minutes just breathing, trying to curb the queasiness that is churning his insides. His eyes sting with tears from all the dry heaving he has done over the toilet bowl and he hastily wipes them away. Once he is able to find himself again, Pewdie washes his face at the sink, not bothering to look in the mirror this time, and stumbles back into the room.

There is no hope in going back to sleep now. Pewdie absent-mindedly kicks the fireman jacket out of the room just because he can, and because he needed to work off this sudden wave of restlessness that has just come to him. He begins to pace the floor, first in small circles, then in a straight line from one end of the room to the other. The more steps he takes, the more his thoughts begin to race in his head, growing more paranoid with each passing second.

How long is this going to keep happening? Why is this happening to him? When is his stupid body going to calm the fuck down and just move on with healing? Dammit, he does not have time for this. This trauma he is going through right now. He cannot be affected by this. He needs to be strong. He needs to be strong for Cry, needs to be strong for himself. They are in the middle of a fucking zombie apocalypse and here is Pewdie, fighting off the nightmares in his head instead of the nightmares that are walking outside their walls. This is stupid and unnecessary and, oh god, why is this happening to him?

Now he is panicking. He can sense his thoughts scattering away from him the more he lets himself feel agitated and distressed. He has to collect himself again, snatch a moment of quiet and calmness so that he can put himself back together. He needs to think. He needs to see this in a rational light. He needs things to make sense. Needs to understand why he can't seem to let this go.

So he thinks about his dream. About the images he saw, the emotions he felt. He thinks about the incident, about the attack, about the time when he felt an arm wrap around his neck, his teeth sinking into skin, the punch to his face, the fingers around his throat, the darkness clouding his vision, the terror he feels of not being able to fight back.

Of not being able to fight back. That was it. He involuntarily shudders at the realisation and looks down at his hands in the dark. He cannot see them very well but he can feel them – he is aware of them, of the feeling of clammy skin against his fingertips, the blood pumping under skin and muscle. Blood. Oxygen. Life. That man had taken control of his breath, his life. He could have easily had Pewdie die by his hands in under a minute or prolonged it to one torturous hour. Pewdie's life had literally been in the man's hands.

And Pewdie could not even fight for his own life. He was powerless. What a horrible, horrible situation to be in. He cannot find the words to describe how it felt like to lie there and wait and hope and beg for it all to stop.

Pewdie pauses in his pacing, and he is struck by a sudden and profound feeling of loneliness, of feeling like he is the only one who is going through this struggle on his own. He sniffles, breathes to steady himself again, reaches up to wipe away the wetness in his eyes, and returns to his pacing.

"Where's… Pew–" A voice breathes out of the darkness and Pewdie jumps, a curse tumbling off his tongue. The voice had come from the bottom bunk. He shuffles away to the switch on the wall to flick on the ceiling lights.

A groggy Cry flinches as the lights blind him. The other man cries out in surprise, throwing his arm up to cover his face from the sudden glare of fluorescence. Pewdie almost runs to him then. The sight of Cry awake and moving sends his heart skipping with joy and relief, so much so that it is enough to dispel the thoughts that circled in his head as he paced alone in the darkness.

He takes Cry's hand in his. "Geez. You fucking scared me!" Pewdie exclaims and watches Cry squint at him, trying to see him without his glasses. Pewdie cannot believe just how much he misses looking at Cry again. He is aware that his mouth is going dry, his chest is tightening with emotion, and there is a danger that his eyes might start welling up with tears again.

"… You fucking scared me when you called out my name, man," he mock-scolds Cry as a means to cover up his swelling emotions. "You called my name in the dark. It was so creepy. Like a ghost or something. Did you even hear yourself? No?"

They talk to each other, trying to catch up on the events after the op and it is refreshing, it is relieving to speak to one another so familiarly like this again. For once, Pewdie feels a tension he never knew he had been holding slowly easing out of his body. The stress and shock from finding out the repercussions of his attack had done a number on his physical and mental being.

He is glad to discover that Cry seems perfectly fine, albeit still looking a bit drained from his jaunt in the river and the prolonged period of sleep. When the other man brings up the issue of Tesla, Pewdie finds himself a little uneasy about the topic because it forces him to recall the girl speaking to him with two voices. He insists to Cry that no sane person acts like Tesla, that they could not change their voice like she had done, that they (he) are not like them at all because "something went wrong with them." He feels a shiver run through his body as he thinks of Tesla again. "I'm getting bad vibes from her, Cry," he warns. "We should probably be careful."

It is interesting that Cry speculates about Tesla possibly doing the things she does because she actually wants them to stay alive. It really reminds him much of Delta telling him that the other man is rooting for him and Cry to get out of this zombie land alive.

"You okay?" Cry suddenly asks him a minute later, much to Pewdie's confusion at first because of course Pewdie is okay now. Cry is awake after all.

"No, I mean," Cry corrects himself and his eyes bore into his, watching him carefully. "You were pacing the floor. You seemed… worried or something. Are you okay?"

Pewdie cannot help it. He laughs. Fucking, fucking hell. Is his condition so fucking transparent that even Cry can see it too?

"Do you want to talk about it?" Cry offers, and Pewdie stops. Because Speed had offered the same thing as well and Pewdie had outright refused to share anything. It was embarrassing after all. But with Cry, well…

In the end, Pewdie lies. He covers the strain in his voice, in his face, and anything else he thinks that could show how he really feels through the same cheerful and light-hearted laugh he'd used on Speed when he tried to get the other man to emerge from his slump. It works for a little while. Cry's expression brightens a little when his does and when the other man begins laughing along with him, Pewdie's laugh turns a little more genuine.

He doesn't quite fall asleep again that night even after he bids Cry goodnight and climbs into the top bunk. He lies there in the dark and forces himself to feel grateful, to feel relief, to feel joy because he has Cry waking up and talking to him again. He wants this, he needs this, needs to hold onto something that is good and euphoric to his heart. Let him bask in this moment for a little longer before the shadows come to take him again.

The next evening, Pewdie decides that he should share some of his night terrors with Speed, only because Speed might know why Pewdie feels so nauseous after waking up. He escorts a restless Cry to the lounge and kitchen area, where they are greeted with almost the whole group. It has been a while since Pewdie has seen everyone together. All of them must have recovered back to full health. Almost all anyway.

"Hey, you don't feel sick or nauseous sometimes, do you?" Delta, the lovable idiot that he is, asks Cry keenly. "I don't know what's up with everyone lately. Vegas and Pewdie have been throwing up a lot these days."

Pewdie is grateful that Vegas is the one to step up and chew the other man out for revealing information so freely like that. "Come on. Let Speedy do his job and you do yours. That food ain't going to heat itself," she grumbles, pulling Delta with her to the mini-kitchen, and Pewdie has a distinct impression that Vegas is very deliberately not looking at Speed as they leave the group.

Barbetta sidles next to him while Pewdie waits for Speed to do a quick examination on Cry. "He seems to be recovering well," the other woman comments, motioning towards Cry with an infinitesimal nod of her head.

"Yeah, finally woke up last night," Pewdie replies, brightening at the interest that Barbetta is expressing towards Cry's condition. "Just waiting for Speed to give us the green light. And it also looks like everyone else seems to be doing okay as well." Then, feeling bolder than he'd thought he could ever be, he turns and tries his best to hold Barbetta's gaze in his. "I mean, you looked pretty worn out yourself after you fought with your sledgehammer."

Barbetta nods again. "Sledgehammer. Reliable for a one-hit kill if handled correctly. Allow twenty-four hours for full bodily recovery," she says nonchalantly. If it weren't for the twinkle in her eye, Pewdie would never have guessed that she may have possibly just cracked something close to a joke.

Doc wanders close to them a second later. "I take it that there are no problems with Cry?"

"Still waiting for the verdict from our medicine man," Pewdie tells him, and the trio turn their gazes onto the pair in question.

"You must be overjoyed," Doc says, his voice gentle and pleasant as he glances back at Pewdie. "To finally have Cry awake again."

"You bet!" Pewdie admits, unable to hide the delight in his voice as he recalls back to the events of the night before, to the happiness that overwhelmed him for being able to speak to Cry again, to the relief he feels for having something good occupy his thoughts for a moment instead dwelling on the stupid condition he is in. And because he feels like sharing that happiness with someone – in this case, Doc and Barbetta – he launches into an overdramatic recollection of how he had almost jumped to the ceiling when he heard a raspy, rattling voice calling out his name in the darkness of their room last night.

He finally finds an opportunity to speak to Speed after mealtime, once he excuses himself from clearing up the mini-kitchen. Speed listens as Pewdie gives him the briefest and vaguest of his experiences during the night time before the other man lifts his gaze thoughtfully to the ceiling.

"It's possible that the nausea is caused because your body still thinks it's imbalanced. It can also explain the headaches as well," Speed proposes. "As for your recurring dreams…" He then lowers his gaze to Pewdie's. "Maybe your brain is trying to relive the strong feelings you felt during the attack?"

Pewdie thinks about his realisation the night before. He fights off a shudder. "I guess? Maybe?" he responds hesitantly.

Speed says, "You know, if you want. You could always talk."

Pewdie scoffs at that, still reluctant about sharing everything, especially stupid things like dreams, with anyone. "Not right now. I don't want to think about it. I mean, I'm not a kid anymore. I can handle this. That shit's not real. I know what's real and what isn't."

They exchange some friendly banter after that. Later on, Speed barks out a hearty laugh at Pewdie's hilarious antics before he casually swings an arm around him, around Pewdie's neck, and Pewdie lashes out to forcefully knock it away without realising it.

A second passes before Pewdie becomes aware of what just happened. He does not know why he has reacted or is acting this way, and this realisation mortifies him. His face and neck grow hot with shame. He suddenly feels an inexplicable urge to cry.

But the look of surprise on Speed's face at his lashing out at him and the knowledge that Pewdie is still among a public are enough to hold back that impulse. He knows he needs to do something and fast to turn this around now.

"Ticklish, Speed," is the quickest and most convincing excuse he can come up with right now to save face. He pretends to dismiss this whole thing as some big, embarrassing joke, laughing cheerfully and light-heartedly along the way as he does so. "I told you I'm really ticklish!" He does not care that he ends up sharing a fist bump with Speed in the end. He is just greatly relieved that the other man willingly drops the subject.

That night, he lies awake in the darkness, afraid to go to sleep. The near-silence of the room, save for Cry's quiet snoring below him, is deafening. He wishes he can stop fidgeting, stop the churning feeling in his stomach as he tosses and turns in his bunk. His thoughts keep going back to the incident earlier that evening, to that moment when Speed's friendly touch caused him to react on impulse and he had felt that burning feeling of shame so palpably that he wanted to fucking cry.

First, he has nightmares. Then, he is nauseous and vomiting for no reason. Now, he can't even control the way his body reacts anymore? His attack happened days ago. It should be over. Why isn't this over?

Fucking hell, he is so tired of thinking. He wishes he had kept the sleeping pills instead of getting rid of all of them, despite what he had said to Speed before. What he wants right now is to snatch a moment of emptiness, just a moment when his minds shuts down and does nothing so that he can wake up and find that the night had ended. He just wants the next several hours to pass by without him lapsing back into deep thought again.

Sleep claims him without him knowing it. His dream returns, vivid and even worse than before. This time, he is fully aware of the presence of his whole body. His legs lie useless and numb under him. He feels no sensation in his chest, no beating sound from his heart, yet he can hear the roar of blood rushing in his ears. His arms are the only limbs he can move and they flail about violently, scrabbling, clawing, desperately fighting against the crushing pressure on his throat. This time, he cannot see the hands that are holding him down. In fact, there is no sign of his assailant. There is nobody there at all.

Pewdie is alone, and he is being strangled to death by thin air.

He wakes and he cannot breathe. He wakes, and finds his own hands clawing at his throat.

Pewdie scrambles out of bed, almost falling off the ladder in his haste to get down, and begins frantically pacing the floor. His whole body is shaking, covered in cold sweat, but the wetness he finds on his face, in the areas around his eyes, is warm.

Stifling a sob, he scrubs the remaining tears that have welled behind his eyelids with his sleeve and mutters to himself to calm down, to breathe, breathe loud and raspy breaths, to breathe slowly. In and out. Oh god just calm down. Breathe. Just breathe. In, out. Come on, Pewds. Think back, think way back to Bluey crashing, to Cry holding onto your arm. Look at me, Pewds. You're panicking. Just follow what I'm doing. Breathe like I do. Breathe, one at a time. In, out. Don't pass out. Breathe.

"Alright, I'll bite. What is it?"

The voice coming from the darkness, interrupting his mantra, makes him jump so badly that he almost trips on his feet. "I'm not sleep-talking. I'm awake," Cry tells him from the bottom bunk when Pewdie does not answer. "I know you're there, Pewds. Turn on the lights."

The seriousness in Cry's voice tells him that the other man knows that something is wrong so there is no point for Pewdie to cover anything up. Pewdie reluctantly turns on the lights and almost shrinks back against the wall when Cry stumbles out of bed, eyes wide with alarm, and rushes up to him to take him by the wrist.

"Have you been having nightmares?" Pewdie grimaces at the word after Cry leads him back to the bottom bunk and helps him calm down with a bottle of water. Nightmares. Fucking hell. It is embarrassing to even speak about this, about bad dreams haunting you, stopping you from sleeping. There is not much anyone can do about something that happens in your head anyway.

"What were you dreaming about?" Cry asks and Pewdie gives a half-assed, nonsensical answer about zombie unicorn ponies because he is so, so tired to talk about this. "Was it about me?" Cry then says and Pewdie shuts up. "Were you having nightmares about me?"

Pewdie does not understand at first just why he goes quiet at that suggestion. Eventually it occurs to him that it might be because he never once had any bad dreams about Cry. This fear of losing Cry is always something that is he mulls over when he is awake and it is not a thought that he shuts out of his head or refuses to think about for fear that it would come true sooner or later. No, Pewdie uses that fear to keep himself on his toes, to remind himself of what is important, to watch Cry's back in any way he can. The recurring nightmare he has now – this terror that he relives night after night about his own death – is different. Pewdie has no control over it the way he does when it comes to him and Cry. Perhaps that is why it keeps returning to him again and again.

"Then… what is it?" Cry coaxes when Pewdie tells the other man that he does not dream of him. "You gotta tell me, Pewds."

Pewdie does not know if he has the will to disclose what he goes through every night. Even if he does, he feels that he cannot find the right words for it. Despite this, he tries, for Cry's sake, to say a little bit about it, to say some blatant little white lies ("I don't know if I was dreaming or not just now") and some pretty horrifying truths ("I woke up and I was cl-clawing at my own neck"). His voice breaks when he realises how shocking this all sounds like coming out of his mouth. He swallows, trying to stop his lips from trembling, "I mean, who does that? In their sleep? Who does that in their fucking sleep?"

"And… have you spoken with anyone? About what happened?" Cry asks him after Pewdie confesses about the struggles he had been going through during the daytime, that this isn't just about wanting to sleep better at night. It is more than that, and goddammit, it is something he wishes would go fucking away.

"Not yet," he answers Cry with a slight shake of his head.

"Why not?"

"What is there to say? What is there to talk about?" Because talking about it was not going to make the nightmares go away. Talking about it was not going to make anything go away.

He feels Cry's hand touch his shoulder; a light, tentative touch. His hand is warm and it makes Pewdie's body relax a little, somehow pulling his thoughts away from his current worries and miserable mood for a moment. Pewdie feels a sudden impulse to try. To try and talk about this. Even if doing so will not dispel any of his problems away.

So he tries. He talks. Cry listens and says nothing but Pewdie knows he is paying attention because he feels the hand on his shoulder squeeze him in encouragement. Before he knows it, something in him cracks and his words spill out of him in a jumbled stream: "You're at their mercy. Completely at their mercy…" he confesses."You're just so fucking powerless. It's… it's terrifying when you realise that."

There is a dull pain somewhere deep in his chest as the words tumble out of his mouth, and he presses a hand over his heart, rubs it hard with his palm – because he can't quite breathe, because it hurts, because he's thinking about that whole experience and how he felt throughout it and it hurts.

He thinks he hears Cry say something, something along the lines of "don't beat yourself up" but it isn't right. Cry doesn't understand. Cry doesn't understand that Pewdie knows he needs to get his shit together. He needs to get over this. He needs this thing to stop because he has to get back on his feet, that he has to stay strong. "I'm not a fucking victim," he insists fiercely. I'm a survivor.

"Something's different," he continues desperately to explain. "You're not yourself anymore. It's like you've lost control over yourself, and it's fucking hard, trying not to let it get to you when… It's–"

A wave of intense emotion overwhelms him then, and he stops speaking. His chest aches, or maybe that is his heart breaking, and it is too much that he can feel it seeping through over his body, down his spine and into his limbs. Hot tears well up in his eyes again and he ducks his head, scrubbing them away. A sob escapes him. "Oh god," he mutters and he tries hard to push back the overpowering urge to break down then and there. "I don't ever want to feel that way ever again. I don't ever want to feel that way ever again."

Then, when he feels Cry's hands on his shoulders, pushing him to turn towards him, Pewdie manages to pull himself together, forcing down that surge of sorrow deep inside him and he is left empty and exhausted from the effort.

"Look at me, Pewds." Pewdie's eyes slowly rise to meet Cry's but he does not see him through the haze of hollowness in his head. Cry continues speaking and the tone of his voice, the sincerity of his words and the fire in his eyes ignite something within him. He gradually becomes aware of Cry's hold on him, the touch firm and solid and real.

"I got your back, pal," Cry promises with an encouraging smile. "I won't let anything happen to you. Hell, I'll make sure you won't feel that way ever again."

The words do a remarkable thing. A tingling warmth swells in Pewdie's chest, spreading to his limbs, over his skin and up his face. He almost wants to collapse from the release of tension out of his body, from the weight of his heart suddenly feeling so full. He is so struck by the realisation – no, the awareness of who he has in front of him. Of what he already has in front of him all along: Cry has been and has always had his back. Cry is the flame and the compass and the anchor that inspires him to keep going. Cry, no matter how fucking stubborn or irrational or infuriating he can be, is…

Cry is–

Pewdie cannot find the words. All he knows and all he is grateful for is that Cry is here and that makes it okay.

Pewdie is going to be okay. He will fight this.

"Thanks," he tells Cry quietly because there are too many things to say and the only way to say them all at once is this. He squeezes Cry's hand for a moment and lets go.

"I think I'm gonna go to the kitchen. Maybe eat something. Or take a walk," he tells Cry because he needs some space right now. He needs to think and process this. Needs some fresh air. Cry is understanding and he lets him go with a strange question that seems unlike him and Pewdie answers it with a playful smack on the arm before he turns and leaves the room.

The night sky is cloudy, the air heavy with the smell of approaching rain. Pewdie lets the door behind him swing closed as he steps outside onto the compound. He takes one breath of air, of musty earth, the sharp tang of ozone and the rotten reek of decomposition from the streets. He breathes. Waits. Thinks.

What's next for them now? Pewdie has decided to keep fighting, no matter how many times he stumbles or falls, if it meant that Cry will always have his back. But when Pewdie thinks of the future, when he thinks of the radio tower that he and Cry had originally planned to head towards, he is uncertain of what they would find there. What do they expect to discover anyway? The road ahead is foggy and unclear and definitely unsafe. Is it still wise to carry on? Or is it best if they just stay put and wait until this whole thing is over?

Speed's offer still stands and Pewdie already knows that Cry will not take it. But Pewdie has thought about the offer for some time now and he has already admitted to himself that it makes sense to stay here, that this place is safe and secure, and that this is an opportunity that is too good to waste. He cannot really think of a strong enough reason why he and Cry shouldn't stay.

Regardless of what conclusion Pewdie draws, he knows that Cry will still not take the offer. It does not matter why Cry won't agree to staying or why the other man is so adamant about their plan to go to the radio tower, even when there is a possibility that there could be nothing there for them at all. If Pewdie is going to get Cry to entertain the thought of staying, what he needs to do is to ask Cry to consider Speed's offer himself, to ask Cry to stop and think about it, to think deeply and rationally about it, to consider all of their options, before making a final decision.

Whether it is a yes or a no, Pewdie does not care. All he wants is for Cry to give him a good enough reason to go – or to stay.

With that resolution in mind, Pewdie exhales, feeling more assured than he'd ever felt these past few days, and goes back into the Fire House.

---

It's finally, finally done! I cannot believe it's taken me this long. I've had about half of this chapter written a year ago, not long after I'd posted up Chapter 20, and the damn thing sat in my hard disk for months on end. Anyway, this finished chapter right here is nearly 21,000 words long, by far the longest chapter I've written but it was needed and I hope that it made up for a year's worth of absence.

So, in this chapter, I needed us to experience the struggles that Pewds has been going through for the past few days in order for us to understand just why he was so distressed during his confession to Cry. It also fills in some info gaps we see from Cry's POV and maybe adds a bit extra as well. At the same time, I couldn't resist some more character interaction between Pewds/Delta and Pewds/Speed. Delta's fanboying is something we've seen since we've met the guy so it's about time Delta tells Pewds why he likes them so much. (Is he perhaps voicing our thoughts as well?)

By the way: Pewds's "You shouldn't ever be something you're not. Unless you can be a fabulous unicorn... Ha-ha-ha! Always be a fabulous unicorn" is an adaptation of Pewds's quote "Don't be something you're not. Unless you can be a fabulous unicorn. Always be a fabulous unicorn" which can be found in Pewds's This Book Loves You.

This chapter introduced two other important things: Firstly, Pewds picking himself up and deciding to fight as long as Cry has his back. This is particularly influential for Pewds because although he's had Delta and Speed attempting to cheer him up in the previous scenes, it is Cry's words that clinch it for him. In fact, just Cry being there, even while asleep, has helped Pewds with his struggles.

The second important thing is Speed introducing to Pewds the idea of staying permanently at the Fire House. As we have probably guessed from Chapter 20, this is the very thing Cry has been fearing. Kinda ironic that while Cry dreads this, Pewds has already entertained the thought of staying and rather likes the idea as well.

Overall, this chapter was hella hard to write, especially the stuff that Pewds goes through. Some of the emotions that Pewds undergoes stem from my own while others I had to rely on pure speculation. I apologise if any of Pewds's experiences or any of the medical stuff mentioned here is inaccurate. I tried my best. I hope it is still sufficient, and I hope it still brings thrills and tears for you.

This has been one hell of a journey and we are not done yet. We still have a fucking long, long, LONG way to go.

As always, feedback is always welcome. Come rant about this story with me. I'm always around to shit out the occasional super-long reply.