A/N: WOW this update is late. Sorry about that. Kind of left it alone for a while because of a Block but that seems to be going away. Anyway, here you go. Hope you enjoy! If there are any typos please notify me, because I likely don't catch all of them when I proofread myself.

Note: This chapter takes place in the past about ten years. Yay young Nick.

Disclaimer: I don't own Left 4 Dead. It belongs to Valve.

Track #4: Ten Feet Tall

Nick held back a wince as the burn of whiskey made its way down his throat, placing the shotglass back on the bar counter but not far enough to suggest that he wanted a refill. The night was still young. Well, young was an overstatement. Night hadn't really been born yet.

It was maybe six o'clock, at the latest. He wasn't usually in bars this early, but today was... special. 'Special' in the goddamn-I-hate-everything sense. You see, today was Nick's twenty-fifth birthday, and, figuring a quarter of a century was a pretty big milestone and he hadn't seen his parents in a while, he decided, for once, to give them a surprise visit—something he'd never done.

To no one's surprise, everything went downhill. Friendly conversation and catching up eventually turned into the subject of his career and his relationships, of which he had neither. And it all led back to those subtle comments about how they hadn't raised him right or that there was something wrong with him.

Hell, he tried. He really did. Got into college with decent marks. Had a relationship of eight months going at the time.

After a while, though, he got bored of it. He hated it. He realized it wasn't the life he wanted, so he broke up with his girlfriend—what was her name... Mary, maybe?—and dropped out of college, taking only the expensive car his rich grandparents had gotten him and some clothes, and going wherever the road took him.

He visited very rarely and only when they bugged him to the point that it was easier to go than to ignore them. But he always regretted it, because it always ended with him at some bar in that town on the cusp of urbanization, drinking whiskey and looking for a good anonymous lay to rid his mind of the day's events.

The bar was mostly empty—there were maybe seven or so others, alone or with a friend or a date—and Nick didn't expect much of anyone else to be there until around eight or nine, so he held back on the liquor, sitting on his stool, eyes wandering as he listened to whispered conversations and the muffled sounds of sports news coming from the tiny television to his left.

But to his astonishment, the door opened. He heard her before he could turn. The crying. And when he did, he had to supress a very interested eyebrow raise.

The way she walks, it's like she's ten feet tall. She's got a sound, coming through the wall.

Despite the fact that she was a complete wreck with mascara running down her face and red puffy eyes, she had a confident look about her. There was this strange thing in her walk—it wasn't a bounce, because she definitely wasn't happy, and it wasn't a drag like she couldn't lift her heels. He couldn't put a finger on it. It was... different.

And, interestingly, she did her pretty little walk right up to the bar and sat in the stool next to him. But it wasn't not an invite.

She's got a vibe, she'll kick it down the hall. She's got the whole damn thing, finger on the pulse.

There was an air to her, that very distinct 'back off' sort of air. He couldn't tell if she was depressed or pissed. He did a once over of her—from her red half-inch heels and faded flared jeans to her dark green blouse and messily cut strawberry blonde hair. It was sort of stunning. The girls he usually saw in bars were average and caked with makeup and had their cleavage falling out all over the place, but her... she had an unconventional beauty. The kind that made her pretty without her having to try.

I've got a signal, you know I'm already there.

She ordered a drink, completely ignoring the blatant interest he was giving her with his eyes, and when the bartender came over with her scotch, Nick stopped him.

"Hey, put that on my tab."

The man nodded and returned to cleaning glasses and shining the counter. She glanced at Nick finally, and he could see the slight astonishment through her tears, as if he hadn't been there a moment ago even though she knew he was. He smirked and adjusted the front of his slightly bulky ten thousand dollar white suit—another gift from his grandparents, though he told everyone who asked that he won it in a bet.

The woman returned her gaze to the counter, attempting to sip her scotch between her hitching breaths. Something had obviously just happened, so he figured he'd stay away from the subject. No need to put salt in fresh wounds.

"Nick," he stated. She didn't look particularly intrigued, but she must have figured it was rude not to introduce herself after he bought her a drink, so she spoke.

"Andrea."

The conversation dropped after that, but he continued to look at her, with just the slightest bit of a smile, his eyes squinted. Andrea's crying eventually stopped. She took a few deep breaths and reached for a pack of tissues in her pocket, wiping the mascara off her face as best she could. It was only then that she realized he was still watching her. More annoyed than uncomfortable, she emptied her scotch, then spoke. "What?"

Her voice was demanding, which made his smile grow a little wider. She really was different. "Sorry, you just..." he rested his elbow on the counter and placed his chin in the palm of his hand, as if deep in thought. He squinted his eyes for greater effect. "You look a lot like my first wife..."

Andrea furrowed her brow at that. Obviously the statement was a shock, considering his young age, so her next question was inevitable, whether out of curiosity or disgust. "Really? First? How many times have you... been married...?"

He grinned.

You know there ain't no one here baby, but yourself.

"Never said I was."

A/N: Thank you for reading. ConCrit is always appreciated c:

Track #5: Surface of the Sun