Archive of Our Own ^beta

The road is cracked and endless, stretching toward a horizon that shimmers in the heat though the sun has barely crawled above it. Every step is a slap of boot leather against asphalt, a dull rhythm that has been going on for days and would keep going until their bodies simply gave out.

Collie keeps his eyes low, watching the lines of the road, one after the other, like stepping stones in hell. Beside him, Barkovitch shuffles like he's half asleep, his head dipping forward only to snap back up again, the same way a drunk might fight to stay upright at last call.

"Stop looking like a zombie," Collie mutters without glancing at him. "You’re making me nervous."

"I am a zombie," Barkovitch shot back, voice thick and scratchy. "Just waiting for the part where I eat you."

"Try it," Collie says, but the corners of his mouth twitches despite the exhaustion dragging at him. He didn’t have the energy for a real smile, but Barkovitch didn’t need one to know it's there.

Ahead, Ray suddenly slows, lifts one arm like a schoolteacher, and starts pointing. His eyes are bleary, ringed dark from sleepless nights, but the crooked grin across his face made him look alive in a way none of the rest of them felt.

"You," he says, finger stabbing toward Hank, who's slumping forward and dragging his feet like his laces are tied together. "You’re lazy."

Hank groans but didn’t argue.

Ray turned his hand toward Richard, who's limping slightly, his prosthetic foot clicking against the road with every step. "You’re whiny."

"Go to hell," Richard mutters, his jaw tight, but there isn't much venom in it.

Ray points at Art, because he had just dropped his canteen for the third time. It clatters on the pavement and rolls into a ditch. "Butterfingers over there."

"Hey!" Art barks, but his voice is thin and tired, more bark than bite.

Then Ray shifts his gaze to Stebbins, who's dragging himself along like every step is a personal insult. "Downright depressing."

Stebbins just lifts his head long enough to glare at him, eyes half hidden beneath lank hair. He didn’t dignify it with words.

And then Ray turns, smirk widening, and points straight at Barkovitch. "Annoying."

Barkovitch’s jaw drops like he's about to launch into a speech, but instead what came out is a strangled, incredulous laugh. "What the fuck, Garraty?"

Collie leans sideways, bumping Barkovitch with his shoulder. "He’s not wrong."

Barkovitch snaps his head toward him, mock offended, but the snort of laughter he let slip ruined it. "I’ll kill him in his sleep," he mutters, but he's still grinning, sharp and bright in a way Collie likes seeing on him.

Behind them, Peter rolls his eyes. "Dad’s getting cranky again."

Ray gave him a look that's supposed to be serious but lands somewhere closer to fond.

The insults didn’t make the road shorter or the packs lighter, but they shifted the air between them. It isn't silence anymore, isn't just the slap slap of boots and the hiss of wind pushing over the empty fields. It's banter, the kind that keeps their heads above water, keeps them from folding under the weight of miles.

A vulture wheels overhead, its shadow long on the road, and Collie tilts his head back to watch it circle. He wonders if the bird could smell how tired they are, how close they are to dropping. He wonders if they look like walking carrion from up there.

Beside him, Barkovitch mutters, "I swear my legs are hollow. There’s nothing left in them but air."

"Then quit talking and keep moving," Collie says, but he slows his stride just a fraction so Barko didn’t fall behind.

Ray’s voice cut through the air again, rough but steady. "New Chicago’s not getting any closer while we whine about it."

"Whine," Richard repeats under his breath, bitter. His hand flexes at his side, like the phantom ache in his missing foot is creeping back in. Stebbins reaches out casually, brushing Richard’s knuckles with his own, grounding him. Richard’s jaw clenches, but he didn’t pull away.

Collie notices, but didn’t say anything. Everyone had their own way of holding each other together.

The sun is climbing, the road baking under it, but the Nomads keep moving. Step after step, insults and banter trailing in the air behind them like breadcrumbs in the wasteland.

And Collie, despite the exhaustion, despite the ache in his shoulders and the weight of Barkovitch half slumping against him, felt the faintest flicker of pride. They aren't just surviving. They're still human.

By midday the sun is burning, a steady white weight pressing down on their backs. The road had funneled them into a choke point where a pileup of rusted out cars had turned the highway into a canyon of metal. The wind is trapped here, hot and stale, smelling faintly of old oil and scorched rubber.

Art went first, trying to squeeze between a delivery truck and a sedan with its hood half melted from some long ago fire. He wedges himself halfway through and froze.

"Uh. Nope. Nope." His voice went tight, sharp. His hands went flat against the truck’s side, fingers scraping rust. "Can’t do it. Can’t move."

"Keep going," Ray says, tone steady in that fatherly way he’d perfected. "It’s not that tight. Just breathe and keep walking."

But Art didn’t. He sucks in a short breath, then another, quick and shallow. His whole chest is hitching. His shoulders hunch like the walls of the cars are closing in on him.

Collie exchanges a look with Barkovitch. Both of them slow to watch, because it isn't every day Art cracks like this.

"I can’t...." Art's voice broke. "I can’t do it. I’m...I’m stuck. Shit, I’m stuck."

"Jesus Christ, you’re claustrophobic?" Ray asks, surprise flickering across his face.

There is a beat of silence. Then Peter, standing a few paces behind, deadpan as stone, says: "No, Ray. He’s scared of Santa Claus. Yes he's fucking claustrophobic."

Collie snorts so hard it hurt. Barkovitch doubles over immediately, slapping his thigh.

"Claustro Santa," Barkovitch wheezes, eyes watering. "Baker's terrified of jolly old Saint Nick coming down the chimney."

"I am not..." Art tries to argue, but his voice cracks in the middle, and that just sent Collie over the edge.

"Better watch out, Baker," Collie says between laughs. "What if Santa shows up in that narrow chimney? You’ll lose your goddamn mind."

"I hate you all," Art barks, but his voice shook with the effort of trying not to panic. He finally shoves himself through, scraping his arm on a jagged edge of mirror glass, and stumbles into the open air on the other side, panting like he’d just fought a horde.

Ray tries to keep his face serious, but the smirk is right there, tugging. "We’ll keep an eye out for reindeer. Just in case."

"Fuck you." Art hunches his shoulders and storms a few steps ahead, clearly trying to outwalk his embarrassment.

Behind him, Stebbins leans close to Richard, his voice low but perfectly audible: "Imagine being afraid of elves."

Richard presses his lips tight like he could smother the laugh. He fails. It came out anyway, soft and quick, and Collie swore he saw Stebbins grin for the first time all day. Their hands brush as they walk, a casual touch, like it isn't a big deal.

Collie elbows Barkovitch. "You seeing this?"

Barkovitch blinks, face pale with exhaustion. "I’m hallucinating again," he mutters. "No way that’s real."

Collie let it drop, but his smirk says otherwise.

The group file single file through the rusted canyon, each of them scraping shoulders, ducking under collapsed hoods and spiderwebs of shattered glass. The air buzzes with their laughter, faint but real, bouncing against the metal walls. It didn’t erase the hunger in their bellies or the ache in their feet, but for the first time in hours, they aren't just trudging forward like dead men. They're a group of idiots, teasing one of their own about Santa Claus at the end of the world.

When they emerge on the far side, the sky is wide and blinding, the air cooler now that the breeze could find them again. Hank keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead, jaw clenched, while behind him Barkovitch leans heavily on Collie’s shoulder, still laughing under his breath.

"Claustro Santa," he whispers, barely holding it together.

Collie shakes his head, but the laugh that spills out is genuine. For a moment, despite the wasteland stretching around them, it feels like they aren't doomed kids marching toward an endless city. It feels like a road trip gone wrong, like any second they’d stumble into a gas station and buy sodas just to keep the joke alive.

But then the wind shifts, carrying the sour tang of rot from somewhere unseen, and reality folds back in. The road didn’t care how funny they thought Art's fear was. It only cares that they keep walking.

So they did. One foot in front of the other, with the echo of laughter trailing behind them like a ghost.

By the time the sun began sinking, the sky had turned a bruised orange, bleeding into purple at the edges. Their shadows stretch long and skeletal over the cracked highway. The wind had cooled, but the road under their feet still radiates heat from the day, cooking through their boots.

They're bone tired, every one of them, but too restless to go silent. The silence is dangerous. In silence, the ache of hunger grew louder, the weight of exhaustion presses heavier, the sound of their own thoughts start gnawing like teeth.

Barkovitch broke first.

Without warning, he tips his head back and croaks out the opening lines to a Johnny Cash song, his voice ragged and cracked like sandpaper dragged over gravel.

Collie almost trips. "What the fuck was that supposed to be?"

"My art," Barkovitch shot back, already smirking despite the way his throat is giving up on him. "Shut up and let me finish."

He didn’t finish. His voice cracks on the next line, high pitched in a way that made him sound like a dying crow.

Collie doubles over laughing, hands braced on his knees as he keeps walking. "Holy shit, Barko, if Johnny Cash could hear you from the grave, he’d come back just to kill you."

"I thought we were trying to stay awake," Barkovitch says, grinning like an idiot.

"So your plan is to deafen us into consciousness?" Peter asks dryly. He's holding Ray’s hand loosely, his thumb absently tracing the back of Ray’s knuckles, but his eyes are sharp with amusement.

Hank, trying to salvage the moment, chimes in. He tries harmony. He fails miserably. His voice went sharp where Barkovitch went flat, and together they sound like two cats being strangled at different speeds.

Art tries to join, but his baritone wobbles off beat, like he's on an entirely different song.

Collie clutches his chest dramatically. "This is a crime against humanity."

"Shut up and sing, then," Barkovitch challenges.

So Collie did. He threw his head back and belted, deliberately loud and off key, twisting the words into nonsense just to make Barkovitch wheeze with laughter. His voice cracks on purpose, exaggerating the rough edges until he sounded like a cartoon villain.

By the time Ray and Peter try to bring some order to the chaos, it's too late. Their voices, actually decent, are drowned out by the storm of wrong notes, fake lyrics, and wheezing laughter.

Even Richard, who has been silent for most of the day, gave in. He shook his head but let out a dry, almost smile as Stebbins leans close and murmurs something Collie couldn’t catch. Whatever it is, Richard snorts, and then, shockingly, Stebbins kisses him on the cheek. Just quick. Just there and gone.

Collie blinks. He elbows Barkovitch hard. "Tell me I didn’t just see that."

Barkovitch, blinking rapidly, whispers: "Hallucination. No way. Has to be."

Collie smirks. "Sure. If you say so."

The "concert" devolves further, turning into half shouted verses, fragments of songs none of them really knew, clapping off beat, and Hank tripping twice because he's too busy trying to dance and walk at the same time.

The noise carries down the empty highway, bouncing off the husks of abandoned buildings and cars, wild and alive in a place where nothing living should’ve been. It's terrible, unlistenable, and exactly what they need.

For a half hour, the exhaustion loosens its grip. For a half hour, they're just kids walking home from nowhere, screaming songs into a world that couldn’t sing back.

Eventually, the laughter burns itself out, leaving them panting, hoarse, and smiling despite themselves. Collie’s arm is still around Barkovitch, pulling him close against his side to keep him steady. Barko’s head drops against his shoulder, not quite asleep, but drifting.

Ray’s voice cut through the quiet, gentler now, like the song had drained the sharp edges out of him. "We keep moving till dawn. Then we rest."

Nobody argues.

The road stretches ahead, quiet again. But the echoes of their awful music clung to the air, like smoke after a fire, proof that they’d been there, that they're still alive enough to make noise in a dead world.

The night came down slow and heavy. The last scraps of orange fade into ash, then into black, until the road is just a strip of gray barely visible under a moon that couldn’t be bothered to shine bright. Their flashlights are long since broken or dead or only used for sweeping a place, so they walk by starlight, by instinct, and by the rhythm of each other’s footsteps.

Collie’s legs are lead, every step a negotiation. His shoulders ache from his pack, his throat is raw from bad singing, and his eyelids felt like iron weights. The others aren't doing better. Hank stumbles every third step, muttering curses. Art keeps tripping over cracks he couldn’t see. Richard’s limp has sharpened into something harsher, the scrape click of his prosthetic louder now that the world is quiet. Stebbins walks close to him, just close enough their sleeves brush, as though tethering him forward.

Then there is Barkovitch.

Collie realizes something is wrong when the weight on his shoulder grew heavier. Barko has been leaning on him since the sun went down, but now his head has dropped, his cheek pressed fully against Collie’s upper arm. His hair is damp with sweat, his breath slow and shallow.

"Don’t tell me..." Collie mutters. He shifts his shoulder, jostles Barko once. No response. "Oh, for fuck’s sake."

"He’s asleep?" Peter’s voice came from behind, flat with disbelief.

"Sleep walking," Collie corrects, though he had Barko’s whole body draped over him like a blanket with legs. "Or more like sleep using me as a goddamn pillow walking."

Barkovitch made a sound that might’ve been a snore, then smacks his lips once like a baby dreaming about food.

Ray slows to glance back at them, his grin faint in the dark. "Don’t drop him."

Collie rolls his eyes. "Don’t tempt me." But he hitches his arm tighter around Barko’s waist anyway, half carrying him now, guiding his steps forward so he didn’t face plant into the road. Barkovitch drools against his jacket, leaving a wet patch that Collie pretends not to notice.

The absurdity of it nearly broke him. They're staggering through the end of the world, and here he is babysitting a half conscious idiot who has decided Collie’s shoulder is more comfortable than the apocalypse.

It didn’t stop there.

The first fat raindrop hit Collie’s nose. Then another splatters against his hairline. Within a minute, the sky opens up, cold rain pouring like someone had flipped a switch.

The sound is deafening, drumming on the metal husks of cars at the roadside, bouncing off the cracked asphalt, soaking their clothes instantly.

"This is bullshit!" Barkovitch jerks awake mid step, sputtering as rain streams down his face. He blinks wildly, disoriented, before realizing where he is and who he is. "Why is it raining? Who the hell ordered rain? Billy?"

Stebbins glances in his general direction but didn't acknowledge his existence.

Collie pushes wet hair out of his eyes, his teeth chattering already. "Not me."

Peter groans behind them. "Can’t believe we survived another day just to die of pneumonia."

"Cheerful as ever," Ray mutters, though his voice lacks heat.

They trudge on, the rain turning the road into a black mirror. Their boots slap through shallow puddles. Hank curses louder with every step. Richard’s jaw clenches against the phantom pain that always hit him harder when the weather turns cold. Stebbins steadies him, a hand at his elbow, silent but solid.

Barkovitch stumbles, nearly taking Collie down with him. Collie hauls him upright, gritting his teeth.

"Stay awake."

"I am awake," Barkovitch argues, swaying. "My eyes are just… closed."

"You’re a menace," Collie mutters, but his grip didn’t loosen.

For a stretch, they walk in silence, broken only by the hiss of rain and the slap of their boots. The exhaustion is crushing now, a physical thing pressing them down, but still they keep moving. Because stopping isn't an option. Not yet.

Lightning flickers in the distance, painting the highway silver for half a heartbeat. The storm made the wasteland look almost alive, shadows dancing across broken billboards and crumpled storefronts. Collie feels Barkovitch flinch against him, and he squeezes his side without thinking, grounding him.

"Just a storm," he murmurs. "Nothing worse than we’ve already seen."

Barkovitch let out a shaky laugh, half drowned by rain. "You’re such a mom."

Collie snorts. "Shut up."

They keep walking, two shapes pressed together against the storm, the rest of the Nomads strung out around them like beads on a broken thread. The rain didn’t care if they're tired, or scared, or alive. But Collie cares. And that has to be enough.

The storm didn’t last forever. Nothing did, not even misery.

By the time the rain slackens, they're soaked to the bone, their packs heavier with water, their boots squishing with each step. The world smells like wet asphalt and rot, sharp and clean all at once. The clouds thin, the wind shifts, and a pale hint of light began bleeding across the horizon.

They stop walking without meaning to. One by one, their feet slows, their shoulders straighten, their eyes lift.

The sun is clawing its way up from the black edge of the earth.

First came a line of fire at the horizon, gold so sharp it hurt to look at. Then the sky split open streaks of pink, violet, and molten orange fanning out like spilled paint, like veins of glowing ore cracking through stone. The wet pavement caught it all, shining back in fractured mirrors: puddles glowing like molten glass, broken car windows catching fire in their shattered edges.

It didn’t look like the end of the world anymore. It looks like a world still trying, still alive.

Collie froze mid step. His arm is still looped around Barkovitch’s waist, but his grip slackens. Barko tilts his head back, blinking up at the explosion of color above them. His mouth opens like he might say something, but no words came out.

They didn’t need words.

For a long moment, none of them spoke. Even Hank, who’d spent the last three hours alternating between complaining and cursing, went quiet. Richard stands with his jaw slack, his hand pressed to his chest as if the sight itself hurt. Stebbins touches his shoulder, grounding him again, and Richard’s lips tremble, not quite a smile, not quite grief, but something human caught in between.

Ray exhales softly, a sound closer to awe than anything else. "Worth it," he murmurs.

Peter squeezes his hand, leaning into him just enough to share his warmth.

Barkovitch finally finds his voice. "It’s… it’s fucking gorgeous." The words are half whisper, cracked from lack of sleep, but his eyes are wide, shining.

Collie turns to look at him, rainwater still dripping from his hair, his face pale with exhaustion but alive in a way Collie hasn't seen in days. His chest tightens.

"You look ridiculous," Collie says, voice flat but not unkind.

Barkovitch smirks, weak but there. "You love it."

"Yeah," Collie admits softly. "I do. More than you know."

The silence stretches, filled only by the chorus of morning: the hiss of the wind, the distant call of crows, the squelch of water dripping off twisted signs. Their shadows grew longer as the sun climbs, painting them in firelight.

For a few fragile minutes, they aren't survivors. They aren't half dead guys trudging toward a city. They're just people standing in the dawn, remembering what it feels like to be alive.

But exhaustion is merciless. The wonder slowly dulls into a haze of fatigue. Their legs shook, their packs drag, their heads nod forward.

Richard stumbles first, his prosthetic catching on a crack. Stebbins caught him instantly, holding him upright until the spasm passes. Richard clenches his fists tight, fighting off the phantom pain rippling up, his breath rags. Stebbins wraps both arms around his shoulders, steadying him. Richard presses his forehead against Stebbins’ collarbone until the storm of it passes.

Hank rubs his eyes furiously. "I can’t… I can’t keep moving."

Ray’s voice came low, firm, but even he sounds close to collapse. "Just a little further. Then we stop."

Collie nods, tightening his hold on Barkovitch, who's swaying dangerously again. "You heard Dad," he mutters. "A little further guys."

Barkovitch’s head drops onto his shoulder again, but this time his eyes stays open, fixed stubbornly on the sunrise. His lips curve, a faint and tired smile. "If I die," he says, "bury me facing east. Wanna see that again."

"You’re not dying," Collie says. His voice cracked a little, but he didn’t care. He tugs Barkovitch closer, their shoulders pressed, his cheek briefly brushing damp hair. "Not on my watch."

The road ahead gleams in morning light, shining like a promise. And so, step by step, they follow it, not because they had strength left, but because the sun had reminded them why they're still walking.

The Chili’s sat slumped against the side of the highway like a drunk that had fallen asleep on the curb. Its neon sign is shattered, only the metal skeleton left, and the red paint on the walls had peeled into pink scabs. Windows are broken, the glass scattered like ice on the sidewalk, and the door sags crooked on its hinges.

It's the most beautiful thing the Nomads had seen all day.

"Home sweet home," Ray mutters, voice hollow with exhaustion but tinge with relief.

"Bed," Barkovitch croaks, barely lifting his head from Collie’s shoulder. "I don’t even care if it’s the booth or the bathroom. Bed."

"Not yet," Collie says, firm even though his legs shook. "Safe first."

The "safe" ritual is muscle memory by now. Ray pushes the door open with his boot, flashlight beam sweeping through the shadows. Two shapes stir inside, gray, dripping, jaws snapping. Zombies.

They're slow, sluggish, as if even the dead couldn’t be bothered at this hour. Peter and Hank move forward with the efficiency of men too tired to care, blades flashing. The fight is over in seconds, the bodies dragged out into the wet grass. Nobody even flinches anymore.

Inside, the Chili’s smells like mold, dust, and something burnt that had long since gone cold. Booths sat ripped open, stuffing spilling out. Menus curled and yellowed lay across sticky tables. The bar is overturned, bottles shattered across the floor. But the roof held. The walls stood. And it's dry.

That's enough.

The moment Ray mutters "clear," the group disintegrates into chaos.

Peter stole Ray’s blanket. Ray protests, but his voice lacks any real authority. Hank collapses into a booth and immediately starts unlacing his boots, muttering curses at the knots. Art claims the nearest table, laying his head down like he meant to die there.

Richard lowers himself carefully to the floor, grimacing as phantom pain knifes through him. His hands tremble, clenched white. Stebbins didn’t even ask, he just sat behind Richard, pulling him back against his chest, and wraps his arms tight around his shoulders until the trembling eases. Richard’s jaw unclenches, his breath finally evening out, though his face is damp with more than rain. Stebbins presses a brief kiss against his temple. Richard didn’t push him away.

Collie, meanwhile, is waging war against Barkovitch’s hair.

"Sit," he orders, dragging Barko down onto a chair. Barkovitch slumps bonelessly, eyes barely open, looking more like a drowned cat than a human.

Collie pulls a brush from his pack, waterlogged but functional. Without ceremony, he attacks the snarls.

"Fuck! Ow!" Barkovitch yelps, jerking forward. "Are you trying to kill me?"

"Hold still," Collie snaps, yanking through another knot with the kind of precision reserved for mothers and executioners. "If I have to look at this rat’s nest another day, I’ll actually go insane."

Barkovitch whines and kicks his feet weakly. "I’m delicate."

"You’re pathetic," Collie corrects. He pulls back and tied his own soaked hair into a rough knot at the base of his neck, and shook it once like a dog shaking off water. "Better. Both of us."

Barkovitch glares, but the glare melts as soon as Collie’s hand brushes against his cheek, pushing stray strands away. Barko leans into it before he even realizes, his eyes sliding closed again.

Around them, the Chili’s descends into something between a camp and a madhouse. Hank has stolen Art’s jacket. Art retaliates by throwing a salt shaker at him. Peter and Ray bicker over socks like a married couple on the verge of divorce. Richard mutters about the floor being "too hard," and Stebbins wordlessly hands him his own jacket to use as a pillow.

"God, we’re a disaster," Collie mutters, more to himself than anyone else.

"A sexy disaster," Barkovitch slurs.

Collie smirks despite himself. "Sure. Keep telling yourself that."

Eventually, the storm of petty thefts, arguments, and muttered curses ran out of steam. One by one, they collapse into a pile near the center of the dining room, where the floor is at least mostly clear of glass. Blankets, jackets, and bodies tangle together until it's impossible to tell whose arm or leg belongs to who.

Collie ends up on his back, Barkovitch sprawled across his chest like a second blanket. Barko’s hair smells faintly of mildew and rain, his breathing heavy but steady. Collie wraps an arm around his waist, half conscious but unwilling to let go.

Ray curls against Peter. Hank ends up tucked under Art’s arm. Richard and Stebbins lay side by side, close enough their foreheads brush.

The Chili’s is silent but for the sound of exhausted breathing, the occasional snore, the whisper of rain still dripping through holes in the roof.

For the first time in two days, the Nomads sleep. Not neatly, not cleanly, but deeply, a puppy pile of survivors in a broken restaurant, clinging to each other against the world.

Morning light pours through the shattered windows, but none of them stir. The wasteland could wait.