A/N: I'm not sure if I could do that episode justice. Oh gosh, I'm still crying. Here you go, guys. I tried. I'm really rusty, but I tried. I hope you like it. ;u;

"You're burning up," he says, lifting his hand from her forehead.
"Ngh," she whimpers before rolling over to her side. "I-I feel fine."
He takes off his pack and unzips it. "Now, don't be telling me that, Marceline," he says. "You know I don't like it when you lie." His voice is stern, but it cracks.
"I can keep going," she insists.
He holds a lone foil pack of expired painkillers in front of his eyes. "We'll make camp here."

It was as if a god had taken the world in its hands and bit into it like an apple to reveal the worms festering there. It took four months for the smoke to clear and in the end, all that was left were the bodies—or rather, what was left of them. The cities were cleared, disease struck, desperate hands slapped at racks of food, and screams were silenced. The quarantines made sure of that. Something was there, but no one had said anything. Whole cities died off in their bubbles, and no one really knew why. But something had come out of the debris, with the amount of atoms split from the bomb's explosion, something had to have been created, but Simon had never thought much of it. Once the war was well on its way and Betty and Gunter had left, he had exiled himself from all of that. That had been eight years ago, and he still had the scars to prove it.

In the end, all they could become was scavengers. It was their only option, actually. Simon was no hunter and no matter how many times Marceline would aim her little makeshift slingshot at the things moving in the grass, Simon would take her hands and say something about hurting things and how it was wrong.

He had to say things like that, he supposed. It seemed appropriate. He definitely wasn't used to the whole father thing.

"You know," he would say, ruffling her hair, "Gunter's probably around your age right about now."
She would laugh. "When can I meet him?"
He would poke her stomach, grinning. "We'll schedule something out. Are you free for Tuesday?"

It wasn't all that bad, scavenging. Harrowing, yes, but it was an optimistic job. It was parting rubble to find sprouts and pilfering through piles of empty cans to find one dented one just a few days before its expiration date. There were socks to be found in houses encased in plastic and blankets to be discovered in former fallout shelters. It was a necessity, but it did not come without its own dangers. He was no exception. There were predators out there—wolves, foxes, anything that had been once been held in the zoos before the collapse, and there were humans—what had been human. Marceline had told him of men who were red and had red all over them and spat out red and hit the red out of others. They had red in terrible shades, red that stained the streets and soaked her father's coat, but that had been long ago and she had recovered considerably since then.

She puts her fist to her mouth and coughs, a hollow sound that sends him back to reality.
He gives an empathetic cluck, worry furrowing his brow. "Oh gosh…," he clucks, "I've got to go to the city to get you some medicine."
She grabs his arm. "Simon, no! There are those…things out there." She had meant the mucinous figures that roamed the city. They didn't know what they were and they definitely didn't want to know what they fed on.
He puts a hand over hers. "I'll…I'll be fine. That pink stuff helped us get your soup, remember?"
"I…" But she doesn't finish. She lets out a sigh and the fluttering of her eyes cease. He takes her small hand off and slips his under her back. He must do this alone, so he carries her until he finds an old car to put her in. He brushes the seats free of leaves and makes a nest of blankets for her. He does not try to think about how hot her skin is or the way her hair sticks to the back of her neck with sweat. He instead focuses on making her better, because she is all that matters.

But then he stops. Grits his teeth. He can't. He can't leave her alone. So by putting a length of the blanket over his shoulder and tightening it, he makes a sling. She gives a little huff, but her eyes do not open as he carefully eases her into it. He tries not to think about it. He tries not to think about it.

He shoulders his pack and looks at the ruins in the horizon. There were no more humans. There weren't any more people who could care. He didn't even have a knife. But he had a crown that possessed the power of the ice and cold and maybe that was enough. He clenches his fists…and walks.

***
His shoes are slick with goo and he tries to not think about if these things were people. He thinks of the trips they had taken through places such as this and how she would trot ahead for a few feet before picking something up and slipping it into her jumper. Once, while he was washing her clothes in a stream, he had emptied her pockets and found that they were full of things such as cracked marbles and broken chains. There had been earrings, dusty buttons, and lockets that were rusted shut. She would turn them in her small hands, fascinated, and he wouldn't say anything. He understood. They were stories, sentences of ghost stories that had, at one point in time, some life to them. She kept the world in her pockets, even if it hadn't offered much in the first place.

It was stuff like this—cities with no people, streets strewn with broken glass, silence on once busy highways—that made Simon think about himself. Once, he studied the remnants of civilizations that had died off centuries before and now, now it was his life. Marceline learned about the world piece by piece like he had once, but now it was different. He was a testament to this apocalypse and being alone in this quiet, quiet ruin, the ever-present question of, "Why me?" pressed at his skull. Why me?
It was cruel-to once have studied death and then doomed to live it. A part of the past, yet part of the future. It was a strange halfway point.

But he presses on. There was once a time where he would let such thoughts, such loneliness poison him. He'd carve it into the walls, his arms even, but the thing at his waist would spread its tentacles throughout his body, patch him up and insist that he live. No more. There was no time for that.

***
Diuretics, stool softeners, and chewy vitamin tablets. That's what the store has. He puts a few bottles of vitamin e capsules into his pack because they're good for treating small wounds and grabs a hot water bottle while he's at it. Other than all that, there's basically nothing. There's a box of bandages, which looks promising, but the fact that it's ruined by water damage makes him not take it. Mother—tears threaten to roll down his cheeks and he looks at the clock on the wall which hasn't worked its hands for years. He takes a deep breath. This was the third store he had gone through. There were more, yes, but those were located within the inner parts of the city and that was where those…things were.

He held up the piece of re-bar as he made his way through the pharmacy. Cracks in the roof permitted rays of sunlight, but it was still dark regardless. It was deathly quiet aside from the gnashing of wet jaws and oozing orifices in the dark. There was a hollow sound, almost like a groan, that permeated the air. They were close, but not far enough so that he could dash in and peruse the racks. He held up a bottle of vitamins and threw it.
A pause.

The gurgling sound stopped and the dragging of heavy feet started towards where the bottle had fallen. Carefully, he crept along the walls. He stuffed things like fever reducers and flu medicine into his pockets, but the problem was that he didn't actually know what was wrong with her. He put a hand under her neck. High fever. She had a dry cough, he remembered, so she wasn't congested—no, wait. She had sneezed, didn't she? He grabbed a few packs of lozenges and a box of tissues for that. Was it the dust? It wasn't that cold. Not yet. An allergy? No, a part of her would have been swollen, right? Darnit. What could it be? The nuclear snowflakes? He had told her to stop sticking her tongue at them, but that had been weeks ago and they themselves didn't seem to be affected by the radiation in any way. If that were the case, they'd either be dead or like those blobs. He closed his eyes. If he hadn't decided to study the dead when he was younger, maybe he could've had an inkling of how to save her.

…cough medicine. He takes that, too. Maybe all he could do was try. He packs all of the newly found supplies into an old shopping cart. It wasn't much and most of it was expired, but it was something.

Just then, Marceline let out a groan before curling up into great, hacking coughs. She wheezed, teeth on her knuckles, and spat something thick onto the ground. Simon froze, listening for the blobs. Sure enough, they seemed to be coming towards them.
"Gunter...," he says under his breath. "It looks like we're in big trouble now."

For all it was worth, he runs, pushing his dingy cart down the streets and swerving to avoid the masses that exited from crevices in the buildings. A puddle of sludge almost made him slip, but he recovers quickly.

"Simon," Marceline wheezes. "I-I don't…feel so good."
"Honey, you're gonna feel great," he huffs. "I found these gummy dinosaur vitamins you're gonna love."
"What?"
"Well, they're pretty new, but they've gotten great reviews." The horde was nearing. "They'll make you stronger," he reassures. "And once you are, we'll watch some movies together. I just heard of a couple great flicks that just came out last week."
"Simon?"
"Yes, sweetie?" The part in the barricades was in sight.
"I…I don't think I'll be free for Tuesday."
His eyes crinkle. "Don't you dare lie to me," he says. It's not a proper scold, but it makes her whimper.

Without Marceline, he wouldn't be human anymore. That much he knew. The crown whispered to him in his dreams, spouting promises of power, with sunlight glinting off shards of ice and cities that looked like cracked glass in the distance. Each night it poked and prodded, told him that he could be happy and alone, that he just needed to let it in, but then the sound of Marceline's laugh would break the trance and he'd feel the warmth seeping back into his bones.

***
He didn't remember much after that. There had been screaming—a lot of it—and laughter. He shuddered to think about it. All he could say was that he woke up with her leaning against him sipping from a thermos full of tea made from boiled pine leaves and a melted honey cough drop. She didn't know that he was awake, but he had smiled then, relishing the thought that she was better and most importantly, alive.

"Dad?" The voice inquired.
Hunson lifted his head towards the sound. "Yes, Marceline?" Simon held his breath.
"Is…someone there? I heard talking."
"Talking?" He laughed. "Oh, it's a guest, honey. We're just having a little chat."
Doubtful, she asked, "With no screaming?"
"Oh Marceline, you give me too much credit. Of course we're just talking! What do you take me for?"
"Whatever. Just…no torturing, okay? I'm trying to practice my chords, here." The door slid shut.

Hunson then turned to Simon, who was absolutely petrified with shock. It's been so long… An ache in his chest made him wince. It was as if a breath he had been holding was finally released. She was okay, and she was here.

The demon blinked. "That was a…touching story, Mr. Petrikov. If I had a heart, I'd clap you on the back."
Simon gulped. "Can I see her?" He asked, desperate. "I want her to know I'm here, and that it wasn't my choice. That I...had no choice."
"Now, now, Mr. Petrikov. You just got here! Why don't I give you a little tour of the Nightosphere?"
He offered his hand. "That is, after all, what good hosts do…right?" He asked, his mouth a grin full of sharp teeth.