Left 4 Dead 2, Nick/Ellis, NC-17
Title: Four Strangers of the Apocalypse
Pairing: Nick/Ellis
Summary: Running around fighting off hordes of zombies isn't quite what it's cracked up to be, but they make do.
Warnings: Violence, gore, explicit sexual content.
Author: blacktofade
Words: 7,181
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Written so I could include angry fingering. Also snake catching, an idea I stole from an overheard conversation in a shady diner. Fulfils my wish for a version of Blood Harvest for L4D2 ;__; This has not been beta'd, so feel free to point out mistakes/offer concrit.
Disclaimer: I am not associated with Left 4 Dead 2 or any of their affiliates. I don't mean any harm, this is all made up.
The saferoom is in sight. Only problem is the crying Nick hears over the clanking of pipes in the dingy basement.
“Great,” he says as he flicks his flashlight off. The other three follow suit and Nick leads the way, stepping over boxes and bloodied limbs. He sees the witch rocking only six feet from him. Her eyes glow in the spaces between her fingers and his heart picks up when she shifts and looks up briefly.
She doesn’t growl, just presses her palms back up to her eyes and carries on wailing like a banshee.
He makes it around her, carefully avoiding an unfortunately placed stack of barrels, and slips around the corner, three steps away from safety for another night. He hops up into the room and waits, holding the door for the others to come, ready to close it quickly and forcefully if necessary.
Rochelle rounds the corner, then Ellis, but then there’s an almighty crash and Nick knows Coach must have knocked into the oil drums accidentally.
He swears, raises his gun and listens as the witch’s screams start.
Coach runs towards them, his upper body turned so he can fire shots into the darkness behind. The eyes are a dead giveaway.
Nick thinks that for once they might be able to outrun her and be able to slam the saferoom door in her face, but then he remembers that things always go tits up for them.
The witch sprints straight past Coach and lunges for Ellis.
Poor, poor son of a bitch, Nick thinks and he’s sure they’ll finally lose the sad sucker.
He watches as Ellis spins around and fires straight at her. A bullet lodges in her shoulder, but she keeps going, swinging her arms madly. Ellis drops his gun and throws his arms up to protect his face as he falls to the floor, the witch crouching over him, still attacking.
Three blasts from Rochelle’s shotgun ring in Nick’s ear, but they do the trick; the Witch slumps dead over Ellis, who pushes her off him and climbs to his feet with Coach’s help.
“I’m okay,” he says, but Nick hears the slur in his voice. He stumbles towards them and slips into the saferoom, the door clanging shut behind. In the light, Nick sees the damage.
Ellis’ arms are slashed to pieces; blood running down over his knuckles and off his fingertips, dripping splatters onto the floor around his shoes.
“God almighty,” Coach mutters, slipping off his medpack and unzipping it. Rochelle crouches at his side and helps, pulling out gauze and tape in long strands. Nick stands back, away. He’s never been one for blood.
Ellis struggles.
“Quit it, guys, that hurts. Just leave it; I’m fine.”
He drops to the floor and Nick is vaguely worried. He glances about and sighs when he spots the half-bottle of whiskey.
“Here,” Nick says, holding the No. 7 to Ellis’ lips. “Drink.”
Ellis makes a noise that might be a protest or maybe even thanks, but either way he opens his mouth and lets Nick tip the alcohol inside. He swallows, shudders, and accepts another drink, then one more after that. He slumps back against the wall and Rochelle is there with needle and thread - which probably won’t help Ellis heal in the long run, but it’s all they have - digging under Ellis’ skin to stitch him back up.
Ellis swears like a sailor the whole time, kicking out and at one point knocking over a table covered in weapons.
Nick thinks he should tell Ellis to be quiet, to stop alerting the whole planet - or at least what’s left of it - to their whereabouts, but he figures Ellis is hurt enough that he might actually deserve to make as much noise as he wants. He watches the blood drip over Rochelle’s fingers and knows she won’t be able to get it out from under her nails for a long time. She ties off the thread and snaps it gently, leaving only a small end dangling over Ellis’ stained skin.
Nick takes a quick swig of whiskey for himself before pressing the neck of the bottle once more against Ellis’ lips, tipping it back and letting him drink down healthy mouthfuls. When he tugs it away at last, Ellis lets out a wheeze and half a cough, arms twitching in obvious pain.
“What a bitch,” he says, slumping down further, exhaustion and alcohol getting the better of him.
Nick kneels down, letting Rochelle move away to clean her hands the best she can, beginning to gently wrap bandages around Ellis’ arms.
“You can say that again,” he murmurs and Ellis shuts his eyes and doesn’t say much after that.
*
Nick wouldn’t say he’s a ladies’ man, as such. He might be good for a one night stand, but more than that and he gets restless. All he needs is a first name and ten digits; easy to pick up and easy to forget. He not great at the relationship part, but he’s had his share of partners and he’s willing to admit he’s good at what he does. In his experience all he needs to do is buy a cocktail and breathe a few suggestive words into the alcohol-plied ear of anyone willing to listen. He has no idea what to do in case of a zombie invasion; there’s no break-glass-in-case-of-emergency box with a martini glass and a stash of condoms - as much as he wishes there were.
All he has is his good looks and charm and he puts them to the test as he presses his forearm against the wall by Rochelle’s shoulder and leans into her ever so slightly.
“Nick, what d’you want?” she snaps when she finally notices him.
“Nothing.”
“And denial is just a riv-”
“Is there something wrong with me being here?” he asks as she folds her arms.
“No, surprisingly, I’m totally okay with you standing over me and breathing down my neck.”
Her sarcasm bites, but doesn’t deter him.
“I’ve just been thinking that we don’t really know each other, so - ”
“You want to get to know me?” She laughs and narrows her eyes as though she’s trying to figure him out. “Meg Ryan called: she wants her shitty rom-com acting back. Really? That’s the best The Conman can come up with?”
“I figure it’s either you or the redneck.”
She stares for a moment then narrows her eyes. “You’re really that desperate?”
He smirks and winks.
“What about Coach?” she says straight-faced and Nick turns to look at the man in question, who stands a few yards away swinging his machete in wide arcs as though trying to loosen up his muscles. It’s certainly a sight Nick wouldn’t want to mess with unless forced at gunpoint.
“You think he’d go for it?”
“I don’t know,” she says as though taking his question seriously. “How much do you like the way your face looks right now?”
“Yeah, you’re probably right; I’m probably not his type.”
Rochelle laughs and nudges him gently with her elbow.
“C’mon, slick, you can worry about that later. Lock and load.”
He watches her as she walks away, her hips swaying slightly, and he sighs inwardly. It’s a shame, because he’s sure they would have been good together, at least for a night or two.
“Quit staring at my ass!” she yells back at him and he smirks. Rochelle’s a woman with intuition and he’s sure as hell going to respect that.
“Hey, Ellis, c’mere!” he calls out and Rochelle looks over her shoulder at him and laughs.
“Boy, you’re going to have your hands full, I can tell you that.”
“Yeah, full of something all right.”
Rochelle shakes her head and snorts with laughter, but keeps quiet as Ellis catches up to Nick’s side.
”Hey Nick, I ever tell you about the time me and Keith went snake hunting?”
“No, Ellis,” Nick deadpans, “tell me more.”
“Keith stuck his hand down a hole and grabbed a hold of this one snake's tail and pulled it out. Dang thing must have been four feet long. It whipped around and bit him on the arm and he had to spend three days in hospital until they'd got rid of all the venom in him. Came out with one badass scar, though, I’ll tell you what.”
Dear god. He’s definitely going to regret this one.
*
Nick doesn’t say anything, mostly because he’s not completely sure how badly he’s hurt. He’s all for using medkits, but the twinge in his side doesn’t really seem enough to warrant a hold up. A sign tells them there’s a safehouse two blocks away and he knows he can last until then. He keeps up with the group, blows away at least five spitters and three hunters, and no one appears to notice that anything’s wrong.
When they’ve boarded the door, Rochelle and Ellis prop each other up as they sit against the back wall and doze. Coach finds an old motoring magazine in a box pushed into a corner and he seems happy enough to flip through it slowly.
Nick turns his back on them all, the pretence of reading the scribblings of past survivors, while he peels the corner of his shirt up and finds a deep slash along his side. He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath; this was his best shirt.
He prods carefully at the skin and finds it strangely numb, but after a second it begins to bleed again, dripping over his fingers and down his hipbone. He’s never felt ashamed to be hurt before, but knowing that everyone else is perfectly okay - well, as okay as they can be in a zombie apocalypse - makes him wait until he’s sure everyone has fallen asleep before stripping off his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt.
There are flecks of dirt in the wound and he’s no expert but he knows he needs to clean it out before it becomes infected. He washes the cut with the meagre remains of his drinking water and scrubs it with the handkerchief he always keeps in his coat’s inner pocket. It hurts. Like a bitch.
He bites the inside of his cheek and tries not to focus on how much blood is draining from him, training his eyes on a spot above the door they’ll leave through the next morning. The stinging grows worse, but when he looks back down, the wound is cleaner and it’s about as good as it’s going to get for him. He’ll probably just manage to put more dirt into it when he attempts to wrap it with bandages. The whole area is red and swollen now and there’s a metallic taste in his mouth.
He carefully tugs the medkit off his shoulders and unzips it as quietly as he can, while he glances about for any leftover alcohol to ease the constant throbbing of his side. Someone shifts in their sleep and when Nick looks over, Ellis is watching him blearily, Rochelle leaning and snoring softly against his shoulder. His eyes move to the cut then back up to Nick’s face. Without a word, he slips his hand behind his back and pulls a bottle off the shelf he’s resting against. He rolls it towards Nick and Nick picks it up gratefully; it’s a dusty, half empty bottle of rum and he wastes no time as he takes two deep mouthfuls, shakes his head against the burn, and starts bandaging himself.
He knows the blood will eventually soak through, but it’ll do for now. He pins the end down and buttons his shirt back up. Ellis has gone back to sleep already and Nick can feel the exhaustion winding around him. He takes one last drink and sets it aside for the next poor asshole in need.
With his jacket folded under his head, he rolls onto his good side, his back to the others, and eventually drifts off.
*
In Statesboro, Ellis roasts them something on a fire. Nick doesn’t want to know what the hell it is, just eats and picks around the charcoaled bits. Coach obviously isn’t as certain because he eyes the branch cum skewer Ellis offers him and looks sceptical.
“Boy, you best tell me that’s not what I think it is,” he says.
Ellis, straight-faced, says, “Eat, Coach, don’t complain. My barbequing skills are second to none. My friend Keith, you know the one I always talk about, he’ll tell you how amazing I am at it. One time we - ”
Rochelle cuts in.
“Honey, eat your own food before it goes cold. We need to find somewhere to hole up for the night anyway. Quicker we eat, quicker we get to go to sleep.”
“Okay,” Ellis says as if that’s all there is to say about that. No debate, no fight, just okay. He hands Rochelle a skewer then takes the last one for himself. They eat in silence and Nick welcomes the heat from the fire; it’s been getting colder at night and his suit isn’t exactly the warmest outfit. Even from where he’s sitting he can see the goosebumps on Rochelle’s arms. He slips his jacket off and holds it out to her.
“No need to be a gentleman, Nick. None of us give a shit about how you choose to treat women these days.”
“Not a gentleman when the jacket you hand over smells of sweat, boomer puke, and god knows what else.”
“I don’t need - ”
“Ro, just take the coat.”
She snatches it out of his hands, but pulls it over her shoulders, nonetheless, tucking her hands into the sleeves which are a little too long for her. The cold prickles at Nick’s back, but he ignores it, just wipes his hands on his pants and stands, stretching out his legs.
“Ready, people?”
*
Ellis hangs back; Nick almost doesn’t notice him, too busy watching Rochelle roll up the cuffs of his coat and wincing at the fact that he’ll have one hell of a hard time trying to get the creases out after.
“You’re not such a dick after all, eh Nick?”
Nick glances over at him.
“No,” he says as a cold wind picks up and he wonders if it would be possible for him to ask for his jacket back already. “No, I’m still a dick.”
“But you - ”
“Ellis, I just don’t want to have to look after her if she gets a cold and starts holding us back.”
It’s not true, he only says it to get Ellis to shut up and leave him alone, to stop caring about the kind of person he is. It does the trick, though, because Ellis calls him an asshole and jogs forward to catch up with Coach.
*
“Are you the only survivors?” the pilot of the helicopter asks them.
“We aren’t survivors,” Nick says.
“Well, the way I see it, you’re not dead.”
“Yeah, but this thing isn’t over yet.”
Nick hates being right all the fucking time. Dials whizz, lights flash and the copter goes down like a rock in a pond. The possibility of them all making it out alive and in one piece is about four billion to one, but they all tumble out; shaken up, but very much still with blood pumping through their veins at a million miles a minute.
Rochelle’s brow is bleeding pretty badly and he watches as Ellis futilely tries to help her patch it up, though she only slaps his hands away and tells him to take care of his own cuts and bruises. Ellis glances over at them as if to look for back up, as though he needs the extra support to tell Rochelle to let Ellis fix her up, but Nick just shrugs. If the woman wants to fix herself up then more power to her.
Ellis turns away to heal himself, but not before Nick notices the cut across the bridge of his nose and the swelling surrounding it. He’s pretty sure it’s broken and the deep purple bruises forming around Ellis’ eyes doesn’t help prove him wrong. He thinks about offering to stick a butterfly stitch over it, but then he imagines what Ellis would say to that. Probably something about him not being a pussy or that chicks love a man with broken bones and black eyes. So, instead he helps Coach up then tightly winds tape around his throbbing ankle to support it, even though it continues to hurt with each step he takes.
“We’ve gotta keep moving,” Ellis says, voice sounding slightly nasally and when he turns around, he has tape across his nose; apparently Nick knows jack shit about him.
They stumble away from the helicopter wreckage, heading in the direction of an abandoned town that looks like something from a Stephen King story and if there’s one thing Nick can’t stand, it’s Stephen King.
*
“I hate cornfields,” Coach says at pretty much the same time Nick thinks it.
“Tell me about it,” he replies as he slips his pistol into his thigh holster and drags a katana from the ground. He gives a few practice swings and glances up when he notices Ellis staring.
“Good thinking,” he says as if Nick really cares about his opinion. “I reckon you can cut through cornstalks and zombie flesh with that one.”
That was pretty much his idea. He takes a moment to thank the stars that he got stuck with Ellis, because where would he be if he didn’t have someone to point out every obvious detail? It’s like watching a child in an adult’s body.
Ellis reloads his assault rifle and grins.
“I love cornfields.”
“Go on then, Old MacDonald. Lead the way.”
Ellis hops the fence and disappears with a swish into the crop.
“I’ve got your backs,” Coach tells them as they move to follow.
As they get deeper, growling starts all around them. Nick continues hacking away at the plants, making a path for them, though he has no idea which way he’s meant to be going. Ellis is nowhere in sight, but after a long stretch of silence, the loud rat-tat-tat of gunfire sounds to his immediate left, and he just hopes Ellis knows what he’s doing. It would be just their luck to get this far and then be mowed down by one of their own.
He lifts his weapon higher and picks up the pace, throwing a look quickly over his shoulder to make sure Rochelle and Coach are still following; they are.
A shadow to his right moves suddenly and there’s an infected gurgling at him from only a foot away. He swings wildly, blindly until he hears the sickening swish and schlick of his katana slicing through skin. The infected falls silent and Nick steps over the body.
“I found a farmhouse!”
Ellis’ voice floats above the rustling cornstalks and he’s sure it probably alerts a few dozen zombies.
They stumble free of the field out onto a dirt pathway and find Ellis halfway down it.
“Keep your voice down,” Coach warns, quickly taking the lead. “We don’t need any more trouble.”
The door of the old building is missing and Nick removes the heads of two infected that linger in the open. Coach pushes past into the room and does a fine job removing the snarling threats that lurk in the corners.
“Checking upstairs,” Rochelle calls from the back and Nick breaks away to follow her, to watch her back as she quickly climbs the stairs. They find two dead bodies lying on a double bed, fingers linked, and not a single sign of infection. Nick throws the covers up over their heads and shuts the door behind them when they leave. Rochelle glances at him then looks quickly away again.
“Those aren’t the first,” Nick reminds her, “and they won’t be the last.”
“I know,” she says quietly. “It just doesn’t get any easier.”
*
Nick hates rain; hates the way it makes his hair flat and limp, the way it makes his pants cling to his legs. He especially hates how much harder it makes it to breathe with the humidity heavy in the air with the low, dark clouds giving it nowhere to go. He accidentally steps into another puddle and curses loudly, shaking off the excess water from his foot. He can see the mud splashed up the back of the expensive, white material of his suit and his shoes are beyond saving, but he continues on with a low mumbling under his breath.
“Could be worse,” Ellis says, coming up behind him and Nick clenches his fist, wanting nothing more than to turn and sock him right in his drawling southern mouth.
“How the hell can this get any worse?”
Ellis shrugs and scratches at a blood stain on his shirt.
“Could be summer. We’d be sweating our asses off and dying of thirst. At least we can drink the rain.”
“It feels like summer,” Nick complains quietly, but doesn’t say a word when Ellis falls into step beside him, the dirt on his pants actually looking as though it belongs there. He falls silent as he quickly takes out a small group of infected in their path with an axe, before he glances across at Ellis, mouth opening, but he’s not quick enough to warn of the hunter that leaps from the edge of a house, arms thrown open wide and jaw even more so.
Ellis lands with a wet smack in the mud, obviously winded from the fall as he gasps and wrestles with the creature on top of him. Nick shrugs the shotgun off his shoulders and takes it out in three resounding shots, the sounds crisp even above the howling of wind. He throws out a hand for Ellis to catch and pulls him up with an easy tug; Ellis leans over, hands on his knees for a moment, drawing in shallow, shaky breaths, before he stands upright and grins as though ashamed to have been caught off-guard.
“Thanks, Nick,” he says, stepping closer as though to slap Nick on the back. Nick steps back quickly, holding his hands up.
“Not like that, you don’t. I don’t need your muddy fingerprints over my suit jacket.”
Ellis shrugs, but doesn’t touch him, settling for tugging at the shoulders of his shirt and wriggling.
“‘S stuck to my skin,” he explains and Nick turns his attention back to their surroundings, pointedly not thinking about Ellis slipping out of his clothes in order to wash them in rainwater.
*
Ellis does that for him in the next safehouse they stay in. It’s someone’s house, plenty of space, more rooms than they need, and he finds Ellis outside on the balcony collecting rainwater in a bucket. They’re safe where they are, most of the area boarded up to stop infected from climbing too high, and the loud pattering of rain on the DIY tin roof is enough to stop there from being an uncomfortable silence, especially when Ellis tugs his Bullshifters shirt up over his head and dunks it underwater.
“I figure it don’t matter if it dries or not seeing how we’re just going to get wet again anyway.”
Nick thinks for about a thousandth of a second about doing the same before remembering he actually has dignity and keeps his clothes on. It’s not even as though Ellis has soap to scrub the pale material properly, but he stands, a happy expression on his face as he trails his fingernails over the back of his shirt and scrapes mud off. It leaves dingy stains behind, but Nick knows it’ll stop it from itching, though he almost laughs when he notices Ellis’ back is caked with the stuff, rendering his work useless unless he decides to clean himself.
There’s a half-full flowerpot sitting just beyond the overhang of the roof and Nick doesn’t think twice before picking it up and dumping the water over Ellis’ shoulders, watching the dirt drift in rivulets down his skin.
“What the hell!” Ellis gasps, body curling in shock.
“Hold still,” Nick orders, dragging a towel that’s more wet than dry over the railings, beginning to scrub at Ellis’ back. It’s easy to clean, even with Ellis trying to assess the damage over his shoulder, spine twisting with the movement, and before long, he tosses the towel back where he found it, unable to stop himself from smoothing one palm down between Ellis’ shoulder blades. It’s been so long since Nick last felt heat beneath his hands, he doesn’t care whose it is anymore.
Holding his breath and hoping Ellis isn’t harbouring any hidden homicidal tendencies, he dips down, pressing his lips against one sharp vertebra. Ellis turns around almost immediately, giving Nick no time to open his mouth against the cool skin, his eyes wide and shocked.
“I ain’t like that,” he explains and thankfully doesn’t use his fists to get his point across.
“Just pretend I have tits.”
“But you don’t.”
“Hence the pretending part. Look - let’s say us four were the only people left in the world. Would you happily die without getting laid again?”
Ellis’ brow furrows in thought briefly.
“What about Ro?” he asks, but at Nick’s crooked grimace, he laughs. “She shot you down, didn’t she?”
“That’s not the point; it’s me or Coach, who would you rather?”
“It’s cheating because I don’t think of Coach like that.”
“But you do me?”
“No,” Ellis grumbles. “I don’t think of anyone like that.”
Nick raises an eyebrow and Ellis waves his arms.
“No, I mean - stop it! You’re doing this on purpose.”
Nick settles a palm on Ellis’ bare hip, the skin covered in goosebumps despite the warm air.
“What if we try it? If you don’t like it, I’ll stop and you can go back to lusting over nothing.”
Ellis doesn’t look sure, mouth a line of clear confusion, but it only makes it easier for Nick as he leans forward and slides their lips together softly, the rasp of their stubble rubbing so loudly that Ellis pulls away looking startled.
“Calm down, Bambi,” Nick mumbles, mouth once more over Ellis’. Ellis doesn’t draw back again, his arms hanging limply at his sides as Nick presses forward, the warmth of Ellis seeping through his suit. He nips gently at Ellis’ bottom lip, his mouth still unresponsive, even as Nick’s tongue slips inside tasting food they’ve only just eaten and the sharp fizz of the soda they found half-buried under dust in the pantry. He shuts his eyes and pretends Ellis is the girl he met at a bar in New Jersey, the one who had a knack for blowjobs in cramped spaces, namely the end stall of the men’s restroom.
Ellis’ tongue is tentative when it moves, finally brushing against Nick’s own, and Nick wastes no time before sucking it into his mouth, drawing a shocked groan from him. He places his hand on the curve of Ellis’ neck, sliding it slowly down the centre of his chest, through the prickling hair below his navel, and under the tight knots of his overalls. Ellis shifts backwards, hardly moving anywhere with the banister immediately behind him, and if anything it gives Nick the space and leverage he needs to slip down further, fingertips brushing the softness of Ellis’ cock.
Ellis finally pushes him away, mouth soft, bottom lip bruised from Nick’s teeth, and Nick grunts, hand falling away.
“Didn’t like it?”
Ellis looks abashed, eyes failing to meet Nick’s own for a moment or two.
“S’not that,” he admits. “Just don’t think we should be doing this in front of the zombies.”
“If you’d rather have Ro and Coach as our audience, lead the way.” Ellis makes a face, but doesn’t step away. “They’re adults; they’ve all done it before, don’t worry.”
“Who? Ro and Coach or the zombies?”
Nick laughs before he realises Ellis has made a joke, but covers it with a cough, fingertips brushing his nose and smelling far too musky for his liking. Ellis doesn’t move forward, but doesn’t try to stop Nick either when he leans in and drags their mouths back together, fingers resuming their attempts to edge under Ellis’ clothing. Ellis does actually loosen the knots at his waist and Nick’s hand slips in up to the wrist, palm sliding smoothly over Ellis’ slowly hardening cock.
For a guy who wanted Nick to have boobs, he doesn’t seem to have trouble with his libido, and it’s one thing - possibly the first thing - Nick’s been glad about since the start of the whole apocalypse.
*
The snarling of infected around them is almost so loud it blocks the witch’s cries until she’s practically underfoot. Nick watches as Ellis shoves the last zombie out of the way, knocking it down for good with a sharp whack of the butt of his gun, and then levels his shotgun to the witch’s head. Four sharp blasts and she slumps backwards, unable to even get her feet under her before she dies with a sickly wet sound. Rochelle and Coach don’t say anything, but Nick’s heart’s sitting in his throat and he has to swallow thickly before he can even think about shouting.
“What the fuck was that?” Nick yells, stepping forward, fist twisting the fabric of Ellis’ shirt, pulling him close.
“What? I heard people do it all the time.”
“Where did you hear that? Because I know for fucking sure that you haven’t heard it from us and we haven’t met anyone else.”
Ellis brusquely pushes him away, forcing him to take a few stumbling steps back.
“It worked, didn’t it?”
Nick crowds in close again, but doesn’t attempt to touch him.
“I don’t like that attitude,” he whispers, voice low and even. “It’s the kind that gets people killed, and I refuse to die because some stupid-ass redneck thinks it’s fun to take a chance.”
“Just stay in the safehouse, then, and we’ll let you know when the apocalypse is over.”
Nick thinks about reeling his arm back and throwing a punch, but then Rochelle nudges him with her shoulder and walks past them.
“C’mon, tiger,” she says without looking back. “We’ve got bigger fish to fry.”
He glares one last time and knocks into Ellis as he passes, but keeps the rest of his anger in check.
“Next time you want to try to kill yourself, leave us out of it,” he says and Ellis stares at him with an expression on his face that he doesn’t want to think about because it looks like realisation and that’s not what Nick needs right now.
*
Ellis hardly puts up a fight when Nick rolls him onto his back that night and slides a hand up his inner thigh.
Ellis murmurs, confused and still half asleep, until Nick nudges his legs apart and kneels between them, his other hand slipping under the hem of his shirt. He’s found that it’s the easiest way to wake Ellis up, that it cuts out a whole load of time-consuming chatter about whether or not they should really be fooling around - mostly from Ellis’ end; Nick doesn’t really give a shit. This way, with Ellis only just on the edge of consciousness, Nick can rub Ellis through his overalls and have him respond with a shift of his hips and a low noise in the back of his throat.
Ellis’ hands, slow with sleep, untie the knots keeping his pants on and he raises his waist enough for Nick to tug them down his legs with his ratty boxers. He’s half-hard in Nick’s palm, mouth soft and lazy as Nick kisses him further awake, but his hips roll, responding to every touch, making Nick’s job a whole lot easier.
“Y’still angry ‘bout earlier?” Ellis asks between breaths, eyes still closed, but lips parted and open under Nick’s tongue. Nick bites down sharply and Ellis hisses in response.
“No,” he lies and Ellis kisses him as if he already knows.
“I think you are,” he murmurs and Nick doesn’t know why he does it - well, he does, because he just wants Ellis to shut up and it’s the only thing he can think about doing and his fingers are so slick with pre-come - but he lets go of Ellis’ cock and slips his hand down further, pushing one finger inside Ellis.
“Get that the fuck out of me, Nick,” Ellis says quickly, pulling away, appearing more awake, and looking a lot like he’s thinking of smashing his fist into the side of Nick’s face within the next three seconds.
Nick pulls his hand away, though only so he can slip two fingers into Ellis instead. Ellis’ whole body tenses, jaw locking and chest rising sharply. He flicks his wrist and Ellis’ right eye twitches in response. He holds steady as Ellis tries to twist away, pushing his fingers in deeper and changing the angle.
Ellis manages to knee him in the stomach, but if anything that only fuels him to hold tighter because Ellis is still hard, he can feel the head of his cock pressing heat into the hollow of his hip. He curves his back, looming over Ellis as he crooks his fingers and Ellis goes still, as though the urge to fight suddenly leaves all at once.
A fist, weak, with hardly any force behind it, hits against his side, the knuckles slotting into the grooves of Nick’s ribs. It unclenches and fingers dig into his skin, pulling as though looking for enough flesh to grip onto. Nick smirks, pushing a third finger into Ellis’ body and watching as Ellis falls completely apart, slowly losing the strength to struggle.
“You asshole,” Ellis bites out and Nick shrugs as much as he can in his position.
“Yeah, well. We don’t get anywhere in life by being the nice guy.”
“Is that what you said to the man you killed?”
He holds back the laugh that threatens to burst out because, sure, he might have hinted at it, but he’s never killed anyone that wasn’t a zombie. He has people to do that for him. With enough money, any problem can be solved and Nick knows this from experience.
“No, I told him that he was a whiny-assed, son of a bitch that needed to learn to keep his fucking mouth shut.”
Ellis doesn’t appear to understand that it’s directed towards him, just says, “You’re sick,” and turns his face away.
Nick grins, knowing Ellis won’t see it, and leans down to bite Ellis’ shoulder. Ellis doesn’t react, but as Nick nips and mouths along his skin, heading towards his throat, he feels the pulse under his lips quicken. He speeds his hand up, thrusting his fingers into Ellis faster and, just barely, he feels Ellis shift and lift his hips. Nick huffs a laugh against the curve of Ellis’ jaw.
“Decided you like it then?”
“Go to hell,” he spits even though Nick can feel him push downwards onto his fingers.
“Already there.”
He rubs the pad of his thumb gently over Ellis’ perineum; Ellis lets out a loud sigh, as though Nick’s just punched him in the stomach, and winds one leg around Nick’s waist.
“Fuck,” he drawls, dragging the word out as he screws his eyes shut and pushes his head back onto the floor.
Nick watches the way his stomach dips in with every sharp breath and rubs his free palm over the line of Ellis’ hip. He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t a nice sight. Of all the people to be stuck sleeping with, he gets the guy that’s a fine piece of ass, but talks as though he’s been beaten round the head with a shovel as a child. Nick guesses he can’t have it all, but he wishes he could.
He brings his other hand up to his mouth and spits into the palm before shoving his clothes aside and rubbing it along the length of his own cock. At this, Ellis’ eyes shoot open and he attempts to draw away.
“The fuck you think you’re doing, Nick? You ain’t putting that inside me.”
Nick pauses and stares at him.
“What, would that be too gay for you?” He twists his fingers just to make a point.
“Look, just don’t do it.”
Nick shuts his eyes and breathes steadily for a moment.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”
“Because I don’t want you sticking your dick in my ass, Nick,” he whines. “Kissing is one thing; handjobs are another, but I don’t want to do that.”
“Then don’t pull anymore ridiculous stunts,” Nick orders, pulling his fingers free of Ellis’ body. He slides down, bending just enough to bite the skin of Ellis’ stomach while his hand wraps once more around Ellis’ cock, tugging him with fast, hard strokes until he comes, Nick only just pulling back in time to not get come all over his chin.
Ellis exhales slowly, breath coming out in almost a whistle as his body slumps, muscles slackened from exhaustion and Nick pulls his hand away, wiping it fruitlessly on Ellis’ shirt.
He lets Ellis doze, despite the pressing need against the inseam of his pants, and wonders what he’s done so wrong in order to deserve the life he leads. Ellis grumbles in his sleep, rolling over, fingers automatically finding his waist and gripping tightly. It’s far too stuffy and hot in their shared room to feasibly enjoy the comfort, but after a moment, Ellis yawns, jaw clicking in the silence, and his hand slips under Nick’s waistband, returning the favour before Nick even realises Ellis is awake once more.
“‘M sorry about today,” he mumbles against Nick’s throat as though he knows Nick won’t be able to answer no matter what he says, not with his fingers curled so firmly around his cock and being so close to the edge. “But you have to admit it was awesome.”
Despite everything, Nick can’t help it as he shuts his eyes tightly and clenches his teeth as he comes without a word.
*
Just outside the border of Louisiana, Rochelle single-handedly takes down a tank.
Nick’s never doubted that she couldn’t. She has their backs, he knows this, but she’s also a woman who’s lost everything she once had. She’s a woman filled with everything she’s surviving for, reasons why she keeps loading that rifle and swinging that baseball bat. If a tank thinks it’s going to get in her way, it has another thing coming.
Nick’s down, barely strong enough to hold his pistol up to fight off the last straggling infected, but he hears her yelling and cursing alongside loud gunshots. The ground under his back shakes and he feels sick with the pain of everything. He has no idea where Coach and Ellis are, can’t even hear or see them. There’s a burst of bright light and flames spread across the ground nearby sending warmth his way. The tank yells in anger, but Nick can see the fire across its shoulders, and Rochelle never once stops firing, bringing it to its knees in a matter of minutes.
He hears the tank’s final roar of defeat and feels the ground shudder as it falls over dead, then Rochelle’s face comes into view as she begins helping him up and he doesn’t think there are enough words in the English language to properly convey his relief.
“Thought you were gone for good?” she asks, a laugh in her voice despite the way her hands shake in his. When he’s standing and has a few pills inside him, he claps her on the shoulder and squeezes her arm gently.
“You know what they say about a woman scorned.”
“Don’t give her a shotgun?”
“Yeah, that’s about right.” She glances over Nick’s shoulder and he turns to look, finding Coach and Ellis stumbling their way towards them over a mass of strewn bodies. “Where the hell were you two? Having a nap?”
“Coach got caught by one of them tongue-men, so I went to save him.”
“Don’t worry, we dealt with the tank.”
“I can see that,” Coach replies, whistling appreciatively as he nudges the tank’s dead body with his foot.
“And when Ro says ‘we’ she means herself. Don’t think I’ve ever seen her look sexier, I’ll admit,” Nick jokes as Rochelle snorts and whacks him with the back of her hand at the same time Coach laughs.
“Watch it,” she warns, “you’ve seen what I’m capable of now.”
“If you think we’re easier to take down than a tank, you’ll be sorely disappointed.”
She pats Coach on the back and starts walking, letting them follow in her wake.
“Is that so?”
*
“I saw that parade as a child,” Coach says when Nick least expects it, tin of beans tipped up against his open mouth. He chews, watching Coach, waiting for him to continue. “I was twelve and my dad just wanted to go for the women, despite my mom arguing with him. He told her he was taking me on a fishing weekend, but she figured it out pretty quick when I came home with my weight in beads stashed away in my backpack.”
Ellis laughs and Rochelle looks a little sad, but no one says anything.
“The fights they had after rivalled this apocalypse; the damn walls used to shake when my mom cussed my dad out, but I’m glad they’re not around to see this, partly because I’m sure they’d find a way to blame it on each other and I’d never hear the end of it.”
Rochelle finally lets out a soft snort of amusement, but when she drops a hand to the crook of Coach’s arm, her eyes are heavy with emotion.
“You’re making it sound like a goodbye, Coach.”
Coach doesn’t argue with her, just shrugs and slides his large palm over the side of her face.
“I’m just thinking that whatever happens tomorrow will happen for a reason. If we make it over that bridge, we get to survive another day, but if not, maybe we’ll be better off.”
“It’s all or nothing, Coach. If you think we’ve come this far, just to leave you behind, you obviously don’t know us at all.”
Coach looks over at him and Nick sees the smile finally reach his eyes.
“Four strangers of the apocalypse,” he says and Nick holds his tin out, tilting it slightly.
“I’ll eat to that,” he says as they tap together gently like wine glasses. Nick nudges his foot against Ellis’ and lets the corner of his mouth curl up into a half-hearted smirk. Ellis has that look of realisation on his face again, as though he understands that Nick cares after all, but neither of them says anything. Ellis just bumps him back and takes another mouthful of cold beans.
Pairing: Nick/Ellis
Summary: Running around fighting off hordes of zombies isn't quite what it's cracked up to be, but they make do.
Warnings: Violence, gore, explicit sexual content.
Author: blacktofade
Words: 7,181
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Written so I could include angry fingering. Also snake catching, an idea I stole from an overheard conversation in a shady diner. Fulfils my wish for a version of Blood Harvest for L4D2 ;__; This has not been beta'd, so feel free to point out mistakes/offer concrit.
Disclaimer: I am not associated with Left 4 Dead 2 or any of their affiliates. I don't mean any harm, this is all made up.
The saferoom is in sight. Only problem is the crying Nick hears over the clanking of pipes in the dingy basement.
“Great,” he says as he flicks his flashlight off. The other three follow suit and Nick leads the way, stepping over boxes and bloodied limbs. He sees the witch rocking only six feet from him. Her eyes glow in the spaces between her fingers and his heart picks up when she shifts and looks up briefly.
She doesn’t growl, just presses her palms back up to her eyes and carries on wailing like a banshee.
He makes it around her, carefully avoiding an unfortunately placed stack of barrels, and slips around the corner, three steps away from safety for another night. He hops up into the room and waits, holding the door for the others to come, ready to close it quickly and forcefully if necessary.
Rochelle rounds the corner, then Ellis, but then there’s an almighty crash and Nick knows Coach must have knocked into the oil drums accidentally.
He swears, raises his gun and listens as the witch’s screams start.
Coach runs towards them, his upper body turned so he can fire shots into the darkness behind. The eyes are a dead giveaway.
Nick thinks that for once they might be able to outrun her and be able to slam the saferoom door in her face, but then he remembers that things always go tits up for them.
The witch sprints straight past Coach and lunges for Ellis.
Poor, poor son of a bitch, Nick thinks and he’s sure they’ll finally lose the sad sucker.
He watches as Ellis spins around and fires straight at her. A bullet lodges in her shoulder, but she keeps going, swinging her arms madly. Ellis drops his gun and throws his arms up to protect his face as he falls to the floor, the witch crouching over him, still attacking.
Three blasts from Rochelle’s shotgun ring in Nick’s ear, but they do the trick; the Witch slumps dead over Ellis, who pushes her off him and climbs to his feet with Coach’s help.
“I’m okay,” he says, but Nick hears the slur in his voice. He stumbles towards them and slips into the saferoom, the door clanging shut behind. In the light, Nick sees the damage.
Ellis’ arms are slashed to pieces; blood running down over his knuckles and off his fingertips, dripping splatters onto the floor around his shoes.
“God almighty,” Coach mutters, slipping off his medpack and unzipping it. Rochelle crouches at his side and helps, pulling out gauze and tape in long strands. Nick stands back, away. He’s never been one for blood.
Ellis struggles.
“Quit it, guys, that hurts. Just leave it; I’m fine.”
He drops to the floor and Nick is vaguely worried. He glances about and sighs when he spots the half-bottle of whiskey.
“Here,” Nick says, holding the No. 7 to Ellis’ lips. “Drink.”
Ellis makes a noise that might be a protest or maybe even thanks, but either way he opens his mouth and lets Nick tip the alcohol inside. He swallows, shudders, and accepts another drink, then one more after that. He slumps back against the wall and Rochelle is there with needle and thread - which probably won’t help Ellis heal in the long run, but it’s all they have - digging under Ellis’ skin to stitch him back up.
Ellis swears like a sailor the whole time, kicking out and at one point knocking over a table covered in weapons.
Nick thinks he should tell Ellis to be quiet, to stop alerting the whole planet - or at least what’s left of it - to their whereabouts, but he figures Ellis is hurt enough that he might actually deserve to make as much noise as he wants. He watches the blood drip over Rochelle’s fingers and knows she won’t be able to get it out from under her nails for a long time. She ties off the thread and snaps it gently, leaving only a small end dangling over Ellis’ stained skin.
Nick takes a quick swig of whiskey for himself before pressing the neck of the bottle once more against Ellis’ lips, tipping it back and letting him drink down healthy mouthfuls. When he tugs it away at last, Ellis lets out a wheeze and half a cough, arms twitching in obvious pain.
“What a bitch,” he says, slumping down further, exhaustion and alcohol getting the better of him.
Nick kneels down, letting Rochelle move away to clean her hands the best she can, beginning to gently wrap bandages around Ellis’ arms.
“You can say that again,” he murmurs and Ellis shuts his eyes and doesn’t say much after that.
*
Nick wouldn’t say he’s a ladies’ man, as such. He might be good for a one night stand, but more than that and he gets restless. All he needs is a first name and ten digits; easy to pick up and easy to forget. He not great at the relationship part, but he’s had his share of partners and he’s willing to admit he’s good at what he does. In his experience all he needs to do is buy a cocktail and breathe a few suggestive words into the alcohol-plied ear of anyone willing to listen. He has no idea what to do in case of a zombie invasion; there’s no break-glass-in-case-of-emergency box with a martini glass and a stash of condoms - as much as he wishes there were.
All he has is his good looks and charm and he puts them to the test as he presses his forearm against the wall by Rochelle’s shoulder and leans into her ever so slightly.
“Nick, what d’you want?” she snaps when she finally notices him.
“Nothing.”
“And denial is just a riv-”
“Is there something wrong with me being here?” he asks as she folds her arms.
“No, surprisingly, I’m totally okay with you standing over me and breathing down my neck.”
Her sarcasm bites, but doesn’t deter him.
“I’ve just been thinking that we don’t really know each other, so - ”
“You want to get to know me?” She laughs and narrows her eyes as though she’s trying to figure him out. “Meg Ryan called: she wants her shitty rom-com acting back. Really? That’s the best The Conman can come up with?”
“I figure it’s either you or the redneck.”
She stares for a moment then narrows her eyes. “You’re really that desperate?”
He smirks and winks.
“What about Coach?” she says straight-faced and Nick turns to look at the man in question, who stands a few yards away swinging his machete in wide arcs as though trying to loosen up his muscles. It’s certainly a sight Nick wouldn’t want to mess with unless forced at gunpoint.
“You think he’d go for it?”
“I don’t know,” she says as though taking his question seriously. “How much do you like the way your face looks right now?”
“Yeah, you’re probably right; I’m probably not his type.”
Rochelle laughs and nudges him gently with her elbow.
“C’mon, slick, you can worry about that later. Lock and load.”
He watches her as she walks away, her hips swaying slightly, and he sighs inwardly. It’s a shame, because he’s sure they would have been good together, at least for a night or two.
“Quit staring at my ass!” she yells back at him and he smirks. Rochelle’s a woman with intuition and he’s sure as hell going to respect that.
“Hey, Ellis, c’mere!” he calls out and Rochelle looks over her shoulder at him and laughs.
“Boy, you’re going to have your hands full, I can tell you that.”
“Yeah, full of something all right.”
Rochelle shakes her head and snorts with laughter, but keeps quiet as Ellis catches up to Nick’s side.
”Hey Nick, I ever tell you about the time me and Keith went snake hunting?”
“No, Ellis,” Nick deadpans, “tell me more.”
“Keith stuck his hand down a hole and grabbed a hold of this one snake's tail and pulled it out. Dang thing must have been four feet long. It whipped around and bit him on the arm and he had to spend three days in hospital until they'd got rid of all the venom in him. Came out with one badass scar, though, I’ll tell you what.”
Dear god. He’s definitely going to regret this one.
*
Nick doesn’t say anything, mostly because he’s not completely sure how badly he’s hurt. He’s all for using medkits, but the twinge in his side doesn’t really seem enough to warrant a hold up. A sign tells them there’s a safehouse two blocks away and he knows he can last until then. He keeps up with the group, blows away at least five spitters and three hunters, and no one appears to notice that anything’s wrong.
When they’ve boarded the door, Rochelle and Ellis prop each other up as they sit against the back wall and doze. Coach finds an old motoring magazine in a box pushed into a corner and he seems happy enough to flip through it slowly.
Nick turns his back on them all, the pretence of reading the scribblings of past survivors, while he peels the corner of his shirt up and finds a deep slash along his side. He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath; this was his best shirt.
He prods carefully at the skin and finds it strangely numb, but after a second it begins to bleed again, dripping over his fingers and down his hipbone. He’s never felt ashamed to be hurt before, but knowing that everyone else is perfectly okay - well, as okay as they can be in a zombie apocalypse - makes him wait until he’s sure everyone has fallen asleep before stripping off his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt.
There are flecks of dirt in the wound and he’s no expert but he knows he needs to clean it out before it becomes infected. He washes the cut with the meagre remains of his drinking water and scrubs it with the handkerchief he always keeps in his coat’s inner pocket. It hurts. Like a bitch.
He bites the inside of his cheek and tries not to focus on how much blood is draining from him, training his eyes on a spot above the door they’ll leave through the next morning. The stinging grows worse, but when he looks back down, the wound is cleaner and it’s about as good as it’s going to get for him. He’ll probably just manage to put more dirt into it when he attempts to wrap it with bandages. The whole area is red and swollen now and there’s a metallic taste in his mouth.
He carefully tugs the medkit off his shoulders and unzips it as quietly as he can, while he glances about for any leftover alcohol to ease the constant throbbing of his side. Someone shifts in their sleep and when Nick looks over, Ellis is watching him blearily, Rochelle leaning and snoring softly against his shoulder. His eyes move to the cut then back up to Nick’s face. Without a word, he slips his hand behind his back and pulls a bottle off the shelf he’s resting against. He rolls it towards Nick and Nick picks it up gratefully; it’s a dusty, half empty bottle of rum and he wastes no time as he takes two deep mouthfuls, shakes his head against the burn, and starts bandaging himself.
He knows the blood will eventually soak through, but it’ll do for now. He pins the end down and buttons his shirt back up. Ellis has gone back to sleep already and Nick can feel the exhaustion winding around him. He takes one last drink and sets it aside for the next poor asshole in need.
With his jacket folded under his head, he rolls onto his good side, his back to the others, and eventually drifts off.
*
In Statesboro, Ellis roasts them something on a fire. Nick doesn’t want to know what the hell it is, just eats and picks around the charcoaled bits. Coach obviously isn’t as certain because he eyes the branch cum skewer Ellis offers him and looks sceptical.
“Boy, you best tell me that’s not what I think it is,” he says.
Ellis, straight-faced, says, “Eat, Coach, don’t complain. My barbequing skills are second to none. My friend Keith, you know the one I always talk about, he’ll tell you how amazing I am at it. One time we - ”
Rochelle cuts in.
“Honey, eat your own food before it goes cold. We need to find somewhere to hole up for the night anyway. Quicker we eat, quicker we get to go to sleep.”
“Okay,” Ellis says as if that’s all there is to say about that. No debate, no fight, just okay. He hands Rochelle a skewer then takes the last one for himself. They eat in silence and Nick welcomes the heat from the fire; it’s been getting colder at night and his suit isn’t exactly the warmest outfit. Even from where he’s sitting he can see the goosebumps on Rochelle’s arms. He slips his jacket off and holds it out to her.
“No need to be a gentleman, Nick. None of us give a shit about how you choose to treat women these days.”
“Not a gentleman when the jacket you hand over smells of sweat, boomer puke, and god knows what else.”
“I don’t need - ”
“Ro, just take the coat.”
She snatches it out of his hands, but pulls it over her shoulders, nonetheless, tucking her hands into the sleeves which are a little too long for her. The cold prickles at Nick’s back, but he ignores it, just wipes his hands on his pants and stands, stretching out his legs.
“Ready, people?”
*
Ellis hangs back; Nick almost doesn’t notice him, too busy watching Rochelle roll up the cuffs of his coat and wincing at the fact that he’ll have one hell of a hard time trying to get the creases out after.
“You’re not such a dick after all, eh Nick?”
Nick glances over at him.
“No,” he says as a cold wind picks up and he wonders if it would be possible for him to ask for his jacket back already. “No, I’m still a dick.”
“But you - ”
“Ellis, I just don’t want to have to look after her if she gets a cold and starts holding us back.”
It’s not true, he only says it to get Ellis to shut up and leave him alone, to stop caring about the kind of person he is. It does the trick, though, because Ellis calls him an asshole and jogs forward to catch up with Coach.
*
“Are you the only survivors?” the pilot of the helicopter asks them.
“We aren’t survivors,” Nick says.
“Well, the way I see it, you’re not dead.”
“Yeah, but this thing isn’t over yet.”
Nick hates being right all the fucking time. Dials whizz, lights flash and the copter goes down like a rock in a pond. The possibility of them all making it out alive and in one piece is about four billion to one, but they all tumble out; shaken up, but very much still with blood pumping through their veins at a million miles a minute.
Rochelle’s brow is bleeding pretty badly and he watches as Ellis futilely tries to help her patch it up, though she only slaps his hands away and tells him to take care of his own cuts and bruises. Ellis glances over at them as if to look for back up, as though he needs the extra support to tell Rochelle to let Ellis fix her up, but Nick just shrugs. If the woman wants to fix herself up then more power to her.
Ellis turns away to heal himself, but not before Nick notices the cut across the bridge of his nose and the swelling surrounding it. He’s pretty sure it’s broken and the deep purple bruises forming around Ellis’ eyes doesn’t help prove him wrong. He thinks about offering to stick a butterfly stitch over it, but then he imagines what Ellis would say to that. Probably something about him not being a pussy or that chicks love a man with broken bones and black eyes. So, instead he helps Coach up then tightly winds tape around his throbbing ankle to support it, even though it continues to hurt with each step he takes.
“We’ve gotta keep moving,” Ellis says, voice sounding slightly nasally and when he turns around, he has tape across his nose; apparently Nick knows jack shit about him.
They stumble away from the helicopter wreckage, heading in the direction of an abandoned town that looks like something from a Stephen King story and if there’s one thing Nick can’t stand, it’s Stephen King.
*
“I hate cornfields,” Coach says at pretty much the same time Nick thinks it.
“Tell me about it,” he replies as he slips his pistol into his thigh holster and drags a katana from the ground. He gives a few practice swings and glances up when he notices Ellis staring.
“Good thinking,” he says as if Nick really cares about his opinion. “I reckon you can cut through cornstalks and zombie flesh with that one.”
That was pretty much his idea. He takes a moment to thank the stars that he got stuck with Ellis, because where would he be if he didn’t have someone to point out every obvious detail? It’s like watching a child in an adult’s body.
Ellis reloads his assault rifle and grins.
“I love cornfields.”
“Go on then, Old MacDonald. Lead the way.”
Ellis hops the fence and disappears with a swish into the crop.
“I’ve got your backs,” Coach tells them as they move to follow.
As they get deeper, growling starts all around them. Nick continues hacking away at the plants, making a path for them, though he has no idea which way he’s meant to be going. Ellis is nowhere in sight, but after a long stretch of silence, the loud rat-tat-tat of gunfire sounds to his immediate left, and he just hopes Ellis knows what he’s doing. It would be just their luck to get this far and then be mowed down by one of their own.
He lifts his weapon higher and picks up the pace, throwing a look quickly over his shoulder to make sure Rochelle and Coach are still following; they are.
A shadow to his right moves suddenly and there’s an infected gurgling at him from only a foot away. He swings wildly, blindly until he hears the sickening swish and schlick of his katana slicing through skin. The infected falls silent and Nick steps over the body.
“I found a farmhouse!”
Ellis’ voice floats above the rustling cornstalks and he’s sure it probably alerts a few dozen zombies.
They stumble free of the field out onto a dirt pathway and find Ellis halfway down it.
“Keep your voice down,” Coach warns, quickly taking the lead. “We don’t need any more trouble.”
The door of the old building is missing and Nick removes the heads of two infected that linger in the open. Coach pushes past into the room and does a fine job removing the snarling threats that lurk in the corners.
“Checking upstairs,” Rochelle calls from the back and Nick breaks away to follow her, to watch her back as she quickly climbs the stairs. They find two dead bodies lying on a double bed, fingers linked, and not a single sign of infection. Nick throws the covers up over their heads and shuts the door behind them when they leave. Rochelle glances at him then looks quickly away again.
“Those aren’t the first,” Nick reminds her, “and they won’t be the last.”
“I know,” she says quietly. “It just doesn’t get any easier.”
*
Nick hates rain; hates the way it makes his hair flat and limp, the way it makes his pants cling to his legs. He especially hates how much harder it makes it to breathe with the humidity heavy in the air with the low, dark clouds giving it nowhere to go. He accidentally steps into another puddle and curses loudly, shaking off the excess water from his foot. He can see the mud splashed up the back of the expensive, white material of his suit and his shoes are beyond saving, but he continues on with a low mumbling under his breath.
“Could be worse,” Ellis says, coming up behind him and Nick clenches his fist, wanting nothing more than to turn and sock him right in his drawling southern mouth.
“How the hell can this get any worse?”
Ellis shrugs and scratches at a blood stain on his shirt.
“Could be summer. We’d be sweating our asses off and dying of thirst. At least we can drink the rain.”
“It feels like summer,” Nick complains quietly, but doesn’t say a word when Ellis falls into step beside him, the dirt on his pants actually looking as though it belongs there. He falls silent as he quickly takes out a small group of infected in their path with an axe, before he glances across at Ellis, mouth opening, but he’s not quick enough to warn of the hunter that leaps from the edge of a house, arms thrown open wide and jaw even more so.
Ellis lands with a wet smack in the mud, obviously winded from the fall as he gasps and wrestles with the creature on top of him. Nick shrugs the shotgun off his shoulders and takes it out in three resounding shots, the sounds crisp even above the howling of wind. He throws out a hand for Ellis to catch and pulls him up with an easy tug; Ellis leans over, hands on his knees for a moment, drawing in shallow, shaky breaths, before he stands upright and grins as though ashamed to have been caught off-guard.
“Thanks, Nick,” he says, stepping closer as though to slap Nick on the back. Nick steps back quickly, holding his hands up.
“Not like that, you don’t. I don’t need your muddy fingerprints over my suit jacket.”
Ellis shrugs, but doesn’t touch him, settling for tugging at the shoulders of his shirt and wriggling.
“‘S stuck to my skin,” he explains and Nick turns his attention back to their surroundings, pointedly not thinking about Ellis slipping out of his clothes in order to wash them in rainwater.
*
Ellis does that for him in the next safehouse they stay in. It’s someone’s house, plenty of space, more rooms than they need, and he finds Ellis outside on the balcony collecting rainwater in a bucket. They’re safe where they are, most of the area boarded up to stop infected from climbing too high, and the loud pattering of rain on the DIY tin roof is enough to stop there from being an uncomfortable silence, especially when Ellis tugs his Bullshifters shirt up over his head and dunks it underwater.
“I figure it don’t matter if it dries or not seeing how we’re just going to get wet again anyway.”
Nick thinks for about a thousandth of a second about doing the same before remembering he actually has dignity and keeps his clothes on. It’s not even as though Ellis has soap to scrub the pale material properly, but he stands, a happy expression on his face as he trails his fingernails over the back of his shirt and scrapes mud off. It leaves dingy stains behind, but Nick knows it’ll stop it from itching, though he almost laughs when he notices Ellis’ back is caked with the stuff, rendering his work useless unless he decides to clean himself.
There’s a half-full flowerpot sitting just beyond the overhang of the roof and Nick doesn’t think twice before picking it up and dumping the water over Ellis’ shoulders, watching the dirt drift in rivulets down his skin.
“What the hell!” Ellis gasps, body curling in shock.
“Hold still,” Nick orders, dragging a towel that’s more wet than dry over the railings, beginning to scrub at Ellis’ back. It’s easy to clean, even with Ellis trying to assess the damage over his shoulder, spine twisting with the movement, and before long, he tosses the towel back where he found it, unable to stop himself from smoothing one palm down between Ellis’ shoulder blades. It’s been so long since Nick last felt heat beneath his hands, he doesn’t care whose it is anymore.
Holding his breath and hoping Ellis isn’t harbouring any hidden homicidal tendencies, he dips down, pressing his lips against one sharp vertebra. Ellis turns around almost immediately, giving Nick no time to open his mouth against the cool skin, his eyes wide and shocked.
“I ain’t like that,” he explains and thankfully doesn’t use his fists to get his point across.
“Just pretend I have tits.”
“But you don’t.”
“Hence the pretending part. Look - let’s say us four were the only people left in the world. Would you happily die without getting laid again?”
Ellis’ brow furrows in thought briefly.
“What about Ro?” he asks, but at Nick’s crooked grimace, he laughs. “She shot you down, didn’t she?”
“That’s not the point; it’s me or Coach, who would you rather?”
“It’s cheating because I don’t think of Coach like that.”
“But you do me?”
“No,” Ellis grumbles. “I don’t think of anyone like that.”
Nick raises an eyebrow and Ellis waves his arms.
“No, I mean - stop it! You’re doing this on purpose.”
Nick settles a palm on Ellis’ bare hip, the skin covered in goosebumps despite the warm air.
“What if we try it? If you don’t like it, I’ll stop and you can go back to lusting over nothing.”
Ellis doesn’t look sure, mouth a line of clear confusion, but it only makes it easier for Nick as he leans forward and slides their lips together softly, the rasp of their stubble rubbing so loudly that Ellis pulls away looking startled.
“Calm down, Bambi,” Nick mumbles, mouth once more over Ellis’. Ellis doesn’t draw back again, his arms hanging limply at his sides as Nick presses forward, the warmth of Ellis seeping through his suit. He nips gently at Ellis’ bottom lip, his mouth still unresponsive, even as Nick’s tongue slips inside tasting food they’ve only just eaten and the sharp fizz of the soda they found half-buried under dust in the pantry. He shuts his eyes and pretends Ellis is the girl he met at a bar in New Jersey, the one who had a knack for blowjobs in cramped spaces, namely the end stall of the men’s restroom.
Ellis’ tongue is tentative when it moves, finally brushing against Nick’s own, and Nick wastes no time before sucking it into his mouth, drawing a shocked groan from him. He places his hand on the curve of Ellis’ neck, sliding it slowly down the centre of his chest, through the prickling hair below his navel, and under the tight knots of his overalls. Ellis shifts backwards, hardly moving anywhere with the banister immediately behind him, and if anything it gives Nick the space and leverage he needs to slip down further, fingertips brushing the softness of Ellis’ cock.
Ellis finally pushes him away, mouth soft, bottom lip bruised from Nick’s teeth, and Nick grunts, hand falling away.
“Didn’t like it?”
Ellis looks abashed, eyes failing to meet Nick’s own for a moment or two.
“S’not that,” he admits. “Just don’t think we should be doing this in front of the zombies.”
“If you’d rather have Ro and Coach as our audience, lead the way.” Ellis makes a face, but doesn’t step away. “They’re adults; they’ve all done it before, don’t worry.”
“Who? Ro and Coach or the zombies?”
Nick laughs before he realises Ellis has made a joke, but covers it with a cough, fingertips brushing his nose and smelling far too musky for his liking. Ellis doesn’t move forward, but doesn’t try to stop Nick either when he leans in and drags their mouths back together, fingers resuming their attempts to edge under Ellis’ clothing. Ellis does actually loosen the knots at his waist and Nick’s hand slips in up to the wrist, palm sliding smoothly over Ellis’ slowly hardening cock.
For a guy who wanted Nick to have boobs, he doesn’t seem to have trouble with his libido, and it’s one thing - possibly the first thing - Nick’s been glad about since the start of the whole apocalypse.
*
The snarling of infected around them is almost so loud it blocks the witch’s cries until she’s practically underfoot. Nick watches as Ellis shoves the last zombie out of the way, knocking it down for good with a sharp whack of the butt of his gun, and then levels his shotgun to the witch’s head. Four sharp blasts and she slumps backwards, unable to even get her feet under her before she dies with a sickly wet sound. Rochelle and Coach don’t say anything, but Nick’s heart’s sitting in his throat and he has to swallow thickly before he can even think about shouting.
“What the fuck was that?” Nick yells, stepping forward, fist twisting the fabric of Ellis’ shirt, pulling him close.
“What? I heard people do it all the time.”
“Where did you hear that? Because I know for fucking sure that you haven’t heard it from us and we haven’t met anyone else.”
Ellis brusquely pushes him away, forcing him to take a few stumbling steps back.
“It worked, didn’t it?”
Nick crowds in close again, but doesn’t attempt to touch him.
“I don’t like that attitude,” he whispers, voice low and even. “It’s the kind that gets people killed, and I refuse to die because some stupid-ass redneck thinks it’s fun to take a chance.”
“Just stay in the safehouse, then, and we’ll let you know when the apocalypse is over.”
Nick thinks about reeling his arm back and throwing a punch, but then Rochelle nudges him with her shoulder and walks past them.
“C’mon, tiger,” she says without looking back. “We’ve got bigger fish to fry.”
He glares one last time and knocks into Ellis as he passes, but keeps the rest of his anger in check.
“Next time you want to try to kill yourself, leave us out of it,” he says and Ellis stares at him with an expression on his face that he doesn’t want to think about because it looks like realisation and that’s not what Nick needs right now.
*
Ellis hardly puts up a fight when Nick rolls him onto his back that night and slides a hand up his inner thigh.
Ellis murmurs, confused and still half asleep, until Nick nudges his legs apart and kneels between them, his other hand slipping under the hem of his shirt. He’s found that it’s the easiest way to wake Ellis up, that it cuts out a whole load of time-consuming chatter about whether or not they should really be fooling around - mostly from Ellis’ end; Nick doesn’t really give a shit. This way, with Ellis only just on the edge of consciousness, Nick can rub Ellis through his overalls and have him respond with a shift of his hips and a low noise in the back of his throat.
Ellis’ hands, slow with sleep, untie the knots keeping his pants on and he raises his waist enough for Nick to tug them down his legs with his ratty boxers. He’s half-hard in Nick’s palm, mouth soft and lazy as Nick kisses him further awake, but his hips roll, responding to every touch, making Nick’s job a whole lot easier.
“Y’still angry ‘bout earlier?” Ellis asks between breaths, eyes still closed, but lips parted and open under Nick’s tongue. Nick bites down sharply and Ellis hisses in response.
“No,” he lies and Ellis kisses him as if he already knows.
“I think you are,” he murmurs and Nick doesn’t know why he does it - well, he does, because he just wants Ellis to shut up and it’s the only thing he can think about doing and his fingers are so slick with pre-come - but he lets go of Ellis’ cock and slips his hand down further, pushing one finger inside Ellis.
“Get that the fuck out of me, Nick,” Ellis says quickly, pulling away, appearing more awake, and looking a lot like he’s thinking of smashing his fist into the side of Nick’s face within the next three seconds.
Nick pulls his hand away, though only so he can slip two fingers into Ellis instead. Ellis’ whole body tenses, jaw locking and chest rising sharply. He flicks his wrist and Ellis’ right eye twitches in response. He holds steady as Ellis tries to twist away, pushing his fingers in deeper and changing the angle.
Ellis manages to knee him in the stomach, but if anything that only fuels him to hold tighter because Ellis is still hard, he can feel the head of his cock pressing heat into the hollow of his hip. He curves his back, looming over Ellis as he crooks his fingers and Ellis goes still, as though the urge to fight suddenly leaves all at once.
A fist, weak, with hardly any force behind it, hits against his side, the knuckles slotting into the grooves of Nick’s ribs. It unclenches and fingers dig into his skin, pulling as though looking for enough flesh to grip onto. Nick smirks, pushing a third finger into Ellis’ body and watching as Ellis falls completely apart, slowly losing the strength to struggle.
“You asshole,” Ellis bites out and Nick shrugs as much as he can in his position.
“Yeah, well. We don’t get anywhere in life by being the nice guy.”
“Is that what you said to the man you killed?”
He holds back the laugh that threatens to burst out because, sure, he might have hinted at it, but he’s never killed anyone that wasn’t a zombie. He has people to do that for him. With enough money, any problem can be solved and Nick knows this from experience.
“No, I told him that he was a whiny-assed, son of a bitch that needed to learn to keep his fucking mouth shut.”
Ellis doesn’t appear to understand that it’s directed towards him, just says, “You’re sick,” and turns his face away.
Nick grins, knowing Ellis won’t see it, and leans down to bite Ellis’ shoulder. Ellis doesn’t react, but as Nick nips and mouths along his skin, heading towards his throat, he feels the pulse under his lips quicken. He speeds his hand up, thrusting his fingers into Ellis faster and, just barely, he feels Ellis shift and lift his hips. Nick huffs a laugh against the curve of Ellis’ jaw.
“Decided you like it then?”
“Go to hell,” he spits even though Nick can feel him push downwards onto his fingers.
“Already there.”
He rubs the pad of his thumb gently over Ellis’ perineum; Ellis lets out a loud sigh, as though Nick’s just punched him in the stomach, and winds one leg around Nick’s waist.
“Fuck,” he drawls, dragging the word out as he screws his eyes shut and pushes his head back onto the floor.
Nick watches the way his stomach dips in with every sharp breath and rubs his free palm over the line of Ellis’ hip. He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t a nice sight. Of all the people to be stuck sleeping with, he gets the guy that’s a fine piece of ass, but talks as though he’s been beaten round the head with a shovel as a child. Nick guesses he can’t have it all, but he wishes he could.
He brings his other hand up to his mouth and spits into the palm before shoving his clothes aside and rubbing it along the length of his own cock. At this, Ellis’ eyes shoot open and he attempts to draw away.
“The fuck you think you’re doing, Nick? You ain’t putting that inside me.”
Nick pauses and stares at him.
“What, would that be too gay for you?” He twists his fingers just to make a point.
“Look, just don’t do it.”
Nick shuts his eyes and breathes steadily for a moment.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”
“Because I don’t want you sticking your dick in my ass, Nick,” he whines. “Kissing is one thing; handjobs are another, but I don’t want to do that.”
“Then don’t pull anymore ridiculous stunts,” Nick orders, pulling his fingers free of Ellis’ body. He slides down, bending just enough to bite the skin of Ellis’ stomach while his hand wraps once more around Ellis’ cock, tugging him with fast, hard strokes until he comes, Nick only just pulling back in time to not get come all over his chin.
Ellis exhales slowly, breath coming out in almost a whistle as his body slumps, muscles slackened from exhaustion and Nick pulls his hand away, wiping it fruitlessly on Ellis’ shirt.
He lets Ellis doze, despite the pressing need against the inseam of his pants, and wonders what he’s done so wrong in order to deserve the life he leads. Ellis grumbles in his sleep, rolling over, fingers automatically finding his waist and gripping tightly. It’s far too stuffy and hot in their shared room to feasibly enjoy the comfort, but after a moment, Ellis yawns, jaw clicking in the silence, and his hand slips under Nick’s waistband, returning the favour before Nick even realises Ellis is awake once more.
“‘M sorry about today,” he mumbles against Nick’s throat as though he knows Nick won’t be able to answer no matter what he says, not with his fingers curled so firmly around his cock and being so close to the edge. “But you have to admit it was awesome.”
Despite everything, Nick can’t help it as he shuts his eyes tightly and clenches his teeth as he comes without a word.
*
Just outside the border of Louisiana, Rochelle single-handedly takes down a tank.
Nick’s never doubted that she couldn’t. She has their backs, he knows this, but she’s also a woman who’s lost everything she once had. She’s a woman filled with everything she’s surviving for, reasons why she keeps loading that rifle and swinging that baseball bat. If a tank thinks it’s going to get in her way, it has another thing coming.
Nick’s down, barely strong enough to hold his pistol up to fight off the last straggling infected, but he hears her yelling and cursing alongside loud gunshots. The ground under his back shakes and he feels sick with the pain of everything. He has no idea where Coach and Ellis are, can’t even hear or see them. There’s a burst of bright light and flames spread across the ground nearby sending warmth his way. The tank yells in anger, but Nick can see the fire across its shoulders, and Rochelle never once stops firing, bringing it to its knees in a matter of minutes.
He hears the tank’s final roar of defeat and feels the ground shudder as it falls over dead, then Rochelle’s face comes into view as she begins helping him up and he doesn’t think there are enough words in the English language to properly convey his relief.
“Thought you were gone for good?” she asks, a laugh in her voice despite the way her hands shake in his. When he’s standing and has a few pills inside him, he claps her on the shoulder and squeezes her arm gently.
“You know what they say about a woman scorned.”
“Don’t give her a shotgun?”
“Yeah, that’s about right.” She glances over Nick’s shoulder and he turns to look, finding Coach and Ellis stumbling their way towards them over a mass of strewn bodies. “Where the hell were you two? Having a nap?”
“Coach got caught by one of them tongue-men, so I went to save him.”
“Don’t worry, we dealt with the tank.”
“I can see that,” Coach replies, whistling appreciatively as he nudges the tank’s dead body with his foot.
“And when Ro says ‘we’ she means herself. Don’t think I’ve ever seen her look sexier, I’ll admit,” Nick jokes as Rochelle snorts and whacks him with the back of her hand at the same time Coach laughs.
“Watch it,” she warns, “you’ve seen what I’m capable of now.”
“If you think we’re easier to take down than a tank, you’ll be sorely disappointed.”
She pats Coach on the back and starts walking, letting them follow in her wake.
“Is that so?”
*
“I saw that parade as a child,” Coach says when Nick least expects it, tin of beans tipped up against his open mouth. He chews, watching Coach, waiting for him to continue. “I was twelve and my dad just wanted to go for the women, despite my mom arguing with him. He told her he was taking me on a fishing weekend, but she figured it out pretty quick when I came home with my weight in beads stashed away in my backpack.”
Ellis laughs and Rochelle looks a little sad, but no one says anything.
“The fights they had after rivalled this apocalypse; the damn walls used to shake when my mom cussed my dad out, but I’m glad they’re not around to see this, partly because I’m sure they’d find a way to blame it on each other and I’d never hear the end of it.”
Rochelle finally lets out a soft snort of amusement, but when she drops a hand to the crook of Coach’s arm, her eyes are heavy with emotion.
“You’re making it sound like a goodbye, Coach.”
Coach doesn’t argue with her, just shrugs and slides his large palm over the side of her face.
“I’m just thinking that whatever happens tomorrow will happen for a reason. If we make it over that bridge, we get to survive another day, but if not, maybe we’ll be better off.”
“It’s all or nothing, Coach. If you think we’ve come this far, just to leave you behind, you obviously don’t know us at all.”
Coach looks over at him and Nick sees the smile finally reach his eyes.
“Four strangers of the apocalypse,” he says and Nick holds his tin out, tilting it slightly.
“I’ll eat to that,” he says as they tap together gently like wine glasses. Nick nudges his foot against Ellis’ and lets the corner of his mouth curl up into a half-hearted smirk. Ellis has that look of realisation on his face again, as though he understands that Nick cares after all, but neither of them says anything. Ellis just bumps him back and takes another mouthful of cold beans.