Chapter Text
The door slams hard enough to shake dust from the rafters.
Four figures shuffle into a dingy cabin in the dead of night. The warped floorboards creaked below them as they track mud, dirt, blood, and other various grime through the entryway, not that any of them cared. Being the last one in the worlds most depressing parade, you kick the door shut just as hard as it was opened. The man leading the group, Tim, sends a glare that tells you you're about to get the brunt of his pent up frustration yet again. That is until the guy in front of you, and just about the only one who you can semi get along with in this current group, Jeff, opens his mouth.
"That was bullshit." He starts. "Complete grade A bullshit. Seriously." He grumbles.
"Are you gonna keep bitching about it or can we at least breathe first?" You push past Jeff and the other two before walking over to the kitchen cabinet where you'd stashed your meager first aid supplies. You had a particularly nasty cut on your thigh to attend to.
"Don't keep wasting supplies on stuff you don't really need it for, next supply run isn't for a while." Brian finally spoke up, looking you over neutrally as always.
You had to dig your nails into your palm to keep from screaming back at him. Or just screaming in general. "Maybe I wouldn't need to use anything at all if someone didn't wanna play leader all the time." You mutter. You apparently weren't as quiet as you thought though because Tim, who'd been on his way to the back porch to smoke, turned right back around. Jeff, not wanting to miss the spectacle of the night, just plopped himself on the old couch in the center of the room. Brian didn't move from the entryway, apparently also keen on just watching you and Tim.
Tim’s boots thudded heavily across the floor as he stalked back toward you, the red in his face rivaling the blood still crusted on his Jacket. His eyes were narrowed at you like he was measuring how much effort it’d take to break something that was already cracked.
“Oh, I’m the problem?” he says. “You’re gonna stand there, patching up a scratch you wouldn't've gotten if you just listened for once, and blame me for everything going sideways out there? You wanna lead next time, hotshot?”
You don’t even flinch. Just crouch down and zip open the first-aid bag, pulling out some disinfectant and a rag. “No. But I'm sure we'd do just fine without walking into every shit show you march us into with your 'well laid plans'. Why not let Brian lead? We both know he's the real one in charge anyway. You just can't bear the thought of not being in control of anything else in your life.”
“You should have stayed down like I said. Maybe if you'd been there to intercept the runaway after Jeff's fuckup, we could've saved ourselves about half an hour and a whole lot of grief." He crosses his arms, trying to look intimidating. He does manage to be somewhat intimidating in the moment, but you'll pretend it's just because he is quite literally towering over you right now.
“Oh my god, here we go again,” Jeff groaned from his seat, tossing his head back dramatically against the couch cushions. “It’s always someone else’s fault, huh? Every time things go south, it’s because someone didn’t worship the ground you stomp and order us around on.” You side-eyed Jeff, acutely aware that he wasn't really on your side. He was just purposely riling Tim up further.
Tim clenched his jaw so tight you could hear his teeth grind. He turned that bottled-up rage toward you again, like he was waiting for you to apologize, to fold, to admit he wasn’t wrong.
But you don’t. You keep digging in the bag, pulling out a small roll of gauze and medical tape. You want to be in 'your' room with the door locked asap. Tim continues to hover there, looming in your peripheral like some ugly sleep deprivation caused hallucination. Those weren't entirely foreign to you.
“Got nothing to say now?” he bites out. “Big talk a second ago.”
“I’ve got shit to patch up and no patience for your tantrum.” You finally stand, using your jacket to help hold the medical supplies. “If you wanna keep talking down to me wait till the morning."
You move to step past him- but Tim doesn’t budge.
He actually steps in closer.
And for half a second, you brace yourself. Not because you think he’ll hit you, but because you're not entirely sure he won’t. That’s just the kind of night it’s been. It wasn't uncommon for your little spats to end in you getting your ass beat into next week.
“You think you’re untouchable,” he sneers. “Just because you're new and got a lucky break on getting high in the ranks, but one day, one of your mistakes is gonna get somebody seriously hurt and I’m not always gonna be there to clean up after you.” He jabs a finger into your chest and you're about ready to start a fight you know you wont win for the umpteenth time this week.
Before anything can start, Brian steps in. Much to Jeff's disappointment.
“Enough.” He doesn’t raise his voice, but it’s enough to freeze you and Tim. “None of us are in a good place right now. So let’s not pretend we’re going to solve anything like this.” He turns to you. "Just go."
You don’t thank him, not out loud anyway. You just walk past Tim, brushing your shoulder against his a little harder than necessary, and head toward the back hallway. Each part of your body just seems to hurt more the closer to the room you get.
Before you can slam your door shut, you can hear Jeff, still comfortably splayed out on the couch, sighs like someone bored of a soap opera rerun. He asks if anyone’s touching the whiskey under the sink or if that’s still considered a “communal resource.” Nobody answers. Tim must've set himself on the porch to sulk and smoke. Otherwise you're sure another round of yelling and antagonizing would start up.
The moment the door shuts with a loud slam, you press your forehead to the wood and finally let your shoulders fall. You don't bother turning on the light. You just limp over to the mattress on the floor and drop your supplies beside it, collapsing with a grunt. Ok so maybe the wound on your thigh is worse than you thought. You pull your pant leg up, gritting your teeth. Nothing disinfectant and spite couldn't fix.
You sit there in the dark for a minute, just breathing. The mattress creaks faintly under you as you shift to pull your leg up. You fumble open the bottle of disinfectant, unscrew the cap with your teeth, and pour it straight onto the rag. Before you can second-guess yourself, you're rushing the rag directly on the wound, just holding it there.
The pain is uncomfortably hot, sending a shiver up your spine. You hiss sharply through your teeth, You think you stop breathing for a good minuet.
“Fuck.” You whisper. Your voice cracked and low.
You try to think of anything else to distract you as you work the dried blood from the edges of the gash. Not from the wound, but from everything else. The missions, the fighting, the ache in your jaw from clenching your teeth and the secondary ache in your heart. Even the way the air in that cabin feels more like a trap than a shelter.
You end up wrapping the gauze tight. Too tight. You don’t bother to fix it. You just let yourself fall back against the mattress, springs creaking unsettlingly as you stare up at the ceiling. Sometimes you trace faint lines of water damage cutting across it to help you get to sleep.
You don’t remember the last time you were able to fall asleep without wishing you were anywhere else. You wanted to be back at your old house. Sure the monotony of your previous life had been miserable at the time, but now it was something you craved.
Here you were expected to suck it up. To take the hits, shake off the blood and injuries, and pretend you’re fine. Fine with the killing, the berating, the headaches, and worst of all fine with the ever present static. It only served as a constant reminder that you'd lost everything. You could never return to any sense of normalcy. You would just have to accept that there’s no one coming to check on you. Not Jeff, not Brian, sure as hell not Tim. None of the others either. If you were bleeding out behind this locked door (in which case that eldritch fuck would make sure you stayed alive to feel every minuet of that) the best you'd get is an annoyed knock in the morning and them shoving you in the trunk until you could walk again.
Your throat tightens and you sit back up. It's all just so frustrating!
You rake your hands through your hair and grip at the roots. At first you pull just hard enough to feel it, just enough to ground you. But the more you keep thinking, the harder you spiral, and the harder you end up digging your nails into your scalp. It’s not the kind of pain that really hurts. It’s just the kind that keeps you together. Something you can control.
God, maybe you and Tim were more alike than you thought.
You exhale shakily and drag your hands down until your palms are against your face.
Without thinking, you grab whatever's closest to you in the dark, which just happens to be the roll of medical tape, and hurl it at the wall with a sharp grunt. It hits with a depressingly soft and disappointing thud bouncing off and landing somewhere behind your bag. This does nothing to help soothe you. You wish you had the freedom to go break something.
Your chest rises and falls heavily. You sit there in the silence, stray hairs ripped from your head are tangled in your fingers, chest still feeling tight, and desperately trying not to cry. Not because you don’t want to, god what you would give to be able to sob into the arms of some dumbass with a savior complex, but because you can’t. Crying would mean you let them get to you. They had, but if you let yourself cry you would only be confirming to yourself that you couldn't survive here.
You take off your jacket and drag it over your lap like a makeshift blanket. The thin covers alone wont keep you warm enough. Your head still wont shut up, and you're shivering from the lack of warmth, but you close your eyes anyway.
Maybe tomorrow, you’ll wake up and not want to scream your vocal chords raw the second your eyes open and you remember where you are.
Maybe you’ll feel like a person again. Enough that you can keep going just a little longer, and assure yourself that it will get better.
But you don’t get your hopes up.
You’ve learned better than that.