Chapter 5: Discoveries
"Absolutely not," Doc Matthews declared, arms crossed as he glared at Ellie and Arthur. "Neither of you is in any condition to go on patrol. You—" he pointed at Ellie, "—have twenty stitches in your leg that are barely four days old. And you—" his finger moved to Arthur, "—have a knife wound that could reopen at any moment."
Ellie set her jaw stubbornly. "We've been cooped up for days. The patrol route is important—it checks our eastern supply lines. We need to know if they're compromised after the horde."
Tommy, who stood near the door of the clinic office, sighed. "Doc's right. It's too risky. Dina and Jesse can handle it."
"Dina dislocated her shoulder when the east tower was hit," Ellie countered. "Jesse's helping rebuild the barricades. There's no one else who knows that route as well as I do."
Arthur had remained silent during the exchange, his face impassive. But now he spoke, his voice calm and reasonable. "The supply caches need to be checked. If we lost those, winter gets a lot harder."
Doc Matthews threw up his hands in exasperation. "Are all of you determined to undo my work? Fine. You want to tear open your wounds, bleed out in some abandoned building surrounded by infected, be my guests."
"That's the spirit," Ellie quipped, earning a withering glare.
Tommy rubbed his forehead, recognizing defeat. "One day. You check the route, verify the caches, and get your asses back here. No heroics, no detours."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Ellie replied, perhaps a little too quickly.
As they left the clinic, Arthur gave her a sidelong look. "You're a terrible liar."
"What? I was completely convincing."
"Your left eyebrow twitches when you lie."
Ellie touched her eyebrow self-consciously. "Does not."
Arthur almost smiled—almost. "We leave at first light?"
"Meet me at the stables. I'll get the gear ready." Ellie paused, suddenly uncertain. "You sure you're up for this? Your side—"
"Is fine," Arthur finished firmly. "Are you? That leg looked bad."
"I've had worse." Ellie shrugged. "Besides, I'm going crazy sitting around. Joel keeps hovering, asking if I need anything, bringing me books—"
"Sounds terrible," Arthur observed dryly. "Being cared about."
Ellie flushed slightly. "You know what I mean. I need to do something useful."
They parted ways, agreeing to meet at dawn. As Arthur headed toward Joel's house—their house now, he supposed—he spotted Joel on the porch, guitar in hand, watching him approach.
"Tommy says you're going on patrol tomorrow," Joel said without preamble. "With Ellie."
Arthur nodded, climbing the steps slowly, mindful of his wounded side. "Eastern route. Checking supply caches."
Joel's expression remained neutral, but his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on the guitar neck. "Doc clear you for that?"
"Not exactly."
A ghost of a smile touched Joel's lips. "Figures. You're both stubborn as hell."
Arthur settled into the chair beside him, the evening air cool against his skin. The past few days had established a tentative routine between them—moments of shared silence on the porch, careful conversations that skirted deeper topics, the gradual negotiation of space within the small house.
"I'll keep an eye on her," Arthur said after a moment.
Joel nodded, his gaze distant. "She doesn't make it easy. Never has."
"I've noticed."
Silence fell between them, comfortable in its way. Joel strummed a few chords absently, the notes hanging in the twilight.
"That song you're teaching her," Arthur said suddenly. "Future Days. I remember it. From before."
Joel's hands stilled on the strings. "Pearl Jam. Used to be Sarah's favorite."
It was the first time Joel had mentioned his daughter without immediately changing the subject. Arthur treaded carefully. "Tess used to sing sometimes. Old songs. Said music was too important to forget."
Joel nodded, his expression softening. "She had a good voice. Better than she'd admit."
The simple observation—this small, personal detail about his mother—caught Arthur off guard. These moments were still rare, still precious—glimpses of Tess through Joel's memories, filling in the fragments of Arthur's own.
"There's a music store on that eastern route," Joel continued, returning to the patrol. "If you pass it, might check for guitar strings. Running low."
Arthur recognized the request for what it was—Joel's way of acknowledging the danger without directly addressing it, of asking them to be careful without saying the words.
"We'll look," he promised.
Later that night, as Arthur checked his gear for the morning patrol, his side throbbing despite the medication, he found himself thinking of Ellie—her determination, her stubborn insistence on going despite her injury. There was something driving her beyond cabin fever, something she wasn't saying.
Sleep came fitfully, interrupted by pain and by dreams of the horde, of Fireflies in gas masks, of Ellie's blood seeping through his fingers as he stitched her wound in the forest. When he finally rose before dawn, exhaustion had settled deep in his bones.
At the stables, Ellie was already preparing the horses, her movements careful around her injured leg. She'd tied her hair back, her freckled face serious in the gray morning light.
"You look like shit," she observed as he approached.
"Thanks. You're the picture of health yourself."
Ellie snorted, passing him a thermos. "Coffee. Maria's special batch. Might keep you from falling off your horse."
Arthur accepted it gratefully, the warmth seeping through his gloves. "You talked to Joel this morning?"
"Briefly. He tried to get me to stay again." She rolled her eyes, but there was fondness beneath the exasperation. "Said we should at least take Jesse with us."
"And?"
"And I told him we'd be fine. You and me. Two functioning legs and two functioning arms between us."
Arthur almost smiled at that. "Mathematically sound."
They mounted carefully, both wincing as the movement pulled at their injuries. The eastern gate opened just enough to let them through, the guards exchanging skeptical looks at their obviously compromised condition.
"Be back by nightfall," the watch captain called after them. "Or Joel will have all our heads."
Once beyond Jackson's walls, the terrain opened up before them—forested hills giving way to the remains of suburbs that had once bordered the larger city. Snow still clung to the shadowed places, though spring was well underway, the world green and alive despite everything.
They rode in companionable silence, alert for threats but appreciative of the quiet after Jackson's constant activity. Arthur noticed how Ellie's gaze constantly swept their surroundings, missing nothing. The Fireflies would have valued her situational awareness, her natural instincts. But they'd only seen her as a cure, a means to an end.
"What?" Ellie asked, catching his scrutiny.
"Nothing," Arthur replied, turning his attention back to the trail. "Just thinking about Firefly training. You would have excelled."
"Is that a compliment?" Ellie seemed uncertain whether to be pleased or offended.
"An observation."
They reached the first cache point by mid-morning—a small hunting cabin tucked between pine trees. Arthur dismounted first, scanning the area while Ellie tied the horses.
"Looks undisturbed," he noted, examining the thin wire trap Ellie had rigged across the entrance. Still intact, still triggered.
Inside, the cache was as they'd left it—ammunition, medical supplies, emergency rations. Ellie checked the inventory against her notepad while Arthur secured the perimeter, habit driving him despite knowing Ellie had already verified it was clear.
"Everything accounted for," she confirmed, repacking the supplies. "One down, three to go."
Back on the trail, they followed a stream that wound through the remains of what had once been an affluent neighborhood. Houses stood in various states of decay, nature reclaiming wood and stone alike.
"So," Ellie broke the silence, "you never said how you knew those Fireflies were controlling the infected. The ones at the horde."
Arthur's expression tightened. "I recognized the tactics. The gear."
"From?"
He sighed, knowing she wouldn't let it drop. "There was a special division. Research and development. Studied infected behavior, tried to find ways to use them tactically."
"And you were part of this division?"
"No. But I trained with some of them." Arthur's jaw clenched at the memory. "They used sound patterns, chemical attractants. Figured out how to herd infected like cattle."
"Jesus," Ellie muttered. "And the Fireflies were okay with this?"
"The leadership was divided. Some thought it was necessary—fighting fire with fire. Others saw it as crossing a line." Arthur glanced at her. "The Salt Lake division—Marlene's people—they were against it. Too focused on the cure."
"On me, you mean."
Arthur nodded, watching her reaction carefully. "Once word spread about what Joel did in Salt Lake, some of the more radical elements broke away. Guess they've been looking for revenge ever since."
"And they followed you to Jackson," Ellie concluded. "Used you to find us."
"Yeah." The admission was bitter on his tongue. "I should have been more careful. Should have made sure I wasn't followed."
"You couldn't have known," Ellie said, surprising him with the lack of accusation in her voice. "Besides, we handled it."
They crested a hill, and the city proper spread before them—tall buildings jutting like broken teeth against the sky, streets choked with abandoned vehicles, the detritus of a civilization gone in an instant.
"Second cache is in the library," Ellie said, pointing to a stone building with classical columns. "Then the fire station, then the music store Joel asked about."
As they approached the outskirts, Arthur's instincts sharpened. The city was never safe—too many places for infected to nest, too many blind corners, too many opportunities for ambush. He drew his pistol, keeping it ready as they dismounted and secured the horses in a defensible position near the library steps.
"We go in quiet," he said, voice low. "No unnecessary risks."
"I know how to clear a building," Ellie replied, drawing her own weapon. Her injured leg made her movements less fluid, but no less determined. "I've been doing this since I was fourteen."
"I know." Arthur met her gaze. "Just... be careful. Doc will have my head if those stitches tear."
"Aw, you do care," Ellie teased, but the look she gave him held something genuine beneath the sarcasm.
The library proved mercifully empty of infected, though signs of recent movement—scattered books, fresh claw marks on the walls—indicated they had been present not long ago. The cache, hidden behind a false panel in the reference section, was intact.
"Looks like the horde didn't make it this far into the city," Ellie observed, checking the supplies. "Lucky break."
"Or they had a specific target," Arthur countered. "Jackson."
The implications hung between them as they repacked the cache and secured it once more. By unspoken agreement, they moved more cautiously as they approached the fire station, the third checkpoint.
Here, their luck ran out.
"Runners," Arthur whispered, ducking behind an overturned car as they spotted movement through the fire station's broken windows. "At least five, maybe more inside."
Ellie assessed the situation, her expression calculating. "We can go around, use the back entrance. The cache is in the captain's office, second floor."
They circled the building, avoiding loose debris that might give away their presence. The back entrance was partially blocked by a collapsed ceiling, but they managed to squeeze through, finding themselves in what had once been the firefighters' break room.
Arthur went first, knife drawn for silent kills if necessary. They navigated the ground floor carefully, freezing when a runner shambled past the doorway they hid behind. Once clear, they found the stairs and ascended slowly, mindful of creaking steps.
The second floor appeared vacant, but Arthur knew better than to trust appearances. He gestured for Ellie to stay close as they moved toward the captain's office at the end of the corridor.
Inside, the cache was hidden beneath a loose floorboard—more ammunition, water purification tablets, a first aid kit. As Ellie crouched to check it, Arthur's attention was drawn to movement in the courtyard below. Through the dirty window, he spotted more infected converging on the building—drawn perhaps by some sound they'd made, or simply migrating through their usual patterns.
"We need to move," he said quietly. "More coming in from the street."
Ellie nodded, hastily repacking the cache. As she stood, her injured leg buckled momentarily, sending her stumbling against a metal filing cabinet. The resulting clang echoed through the quiet building like a gunshot.
Below, the infected responded immediately—shrieks and clicks, the sound of running feet.
"Fuck," Ellie hissed, drawing her pistol.
"This way," Arthur directed, already moving toward a door at the opposite end of the corridor. "Service stairs. Should lead to the roof."
They ran as best they could with their injuries, the sounds of pursuit growing louder behind them. The service door was jammed; Arthur drove his shoulder against it, ignoring the flare of pain from his wounded side. It gave way on the third attempt, revealing a narrow staircase.
"Go!" he urged, letting Ellie pass before pulling the door shut behind them. No lock, but he wedged a broken chair beneath the handle—it wouldn't hold long, but might buy them precious seconds.
They emerged onto the roof, blinking in the sudden sunlight. The fire station overlooked a commercial district, flat rooftops stretching before them like stepping stones.
"We can cross to the next building," Ellie said, already moving toward the edge. "There's a plank—"
The door behind them burst open, the chair splintering as three runners poured onto the roof. Arthur shoved Ellie toward the building's edge.
"Run!"
They sprinted across the narrow wooden plank that bridged the gap between buildings, neither looking down at the thirty-foot drop below. Behind them, one runner attempted to follow, its decayed sense of balance failing as it plummeted to the street with a sickening thud.
The remaining infected pulled up short at the roof's edge, pacing and shrieking in frustration. For the moment, they were safe.
"That was close," Ellie panted, leaning against an air conditioning unit as she caught her breath. Sweat beaded on her forehead, her face pale from exertion and pain.
Arthur checked her leg, noting with relief that the bandage remained clean—no fresh blood, no torn stitches. "You good?"
"Yeah." Ellie straightened, wincing slightly. "You? That door hit..."
"I'm fine." It wasn't entirely true—his side burned where the wound had been pulled—but it wasn't severe enough to mention. "We should keep moving. Those runners will find another way across eventually."
They navigated from rooftop to rooftop, using planks, pipes, and maintenance ladders to cross the gaps. The urban landscape spread around them, beautiful in its desolation—trees growing through cracked concrete, vines claiming brick walls, nature slowly erasing humanity's mark.
"Look," Ellie said, pointing ahead. "Music store. Fourth cache is in the basement."
The store's faded sign still hung above its entrance, though the display windows had long since been shattered. They descended a fire escape to street level, alert for infected, but the immediate area seemed clear.
Inside, the shop was a time capsule—dusty instruments hanging on walls, shelves of albums warped by years of humidity and temperature fluctuations, a grand piano in the center of the showroom floor, its lid propped open.
"Joel's strings first, then the cache," Ellie said, heading for a display case of guitar accessories. Most had been picked clean by previous scavengers, but she found a pack of strings tucked behind a fallen shelf. "Score."
Arthur moved through the space cautiously, checking corners, securing the entrances. The silence was oppressive, making every small sound—their footsteps, the creak of floorboards—seem unnaturally loud.
"Basement access should be behind the counter," Ellie said, tucking the guitar strings into her backpack.
They found the door, its surface covered with faded employee notices and schedules from twenty years ago. It opened with a protesting groan of hinges, revealing concrete steps descending into darkness.
Arthur went first, flashlight in one hand, weapon in the other. The beam cut through the gloom, illuminating a storage area filled with shipping crates and old instruments too damaged to sell. Water dripped somewhere in the distance, the steady plink-plink echoing in the confined space.
"Over here," Ellie directed, leading him to a section of wall that appeared unremarkable. She pressed a specific brick, and a small panel slid aside, revealing a compartment.
"Tommy's design," she explained, pulling out a waterproof bag. "He set these up when Jackson was first getting established, before I got here."
Arthur watched as she checked the contents—more supplies, a map with alternate routes back to Jackson, a battery-operated emergency radio.
"Cache is intact," Ellie confirmed, but her attention had shifted to something else—a door at the far end of the basement, marked 'Staff Only'.
"What's through there?" Arthur asked, noting her interest.
"Not sure. This is Dina's usual route with me. She said we should check it out sometime, but we never got around to it."
There was something in her voice—curiosity, a hint of challenge. Arthur knew they should head back, report on the caches, minimize their risk as promised. But the look in Ellie's eyes...
"One quick look," he conceded. "Then we go."
The door was locked, but yielded to Ellie's lockpicking skills—another talent that impressed Arthur despite himself. Inside, they discovered what appeared to be an employee lounge, surprisingly well-preserved. A kitchenette, a worn couch, a table with chairs. But it was the door beyond that drew their attention—heavy metal with a combination lock.
"Now that's interesting," Ellie murmured, examining the lock. "Why secure an empty break room?"
"Could be anything. Storage, safe room, owner's private stash."
Ellie was already working on the combination, ear pressed to the dial as she turned it carefully. Arthur's instincts prickled—they'd been in the basement too long, exposed, with limited escape routes.
"We should go—" he began, but was cut off by Ellie's triumphant whisper.
"Got it!"
The lock disengaged with a solid click. Arthur stepped forward, positioning himself between Ellie and whatever might be on the other side as she pulled the door open.
What greeted them was unexpected—a small, comfortable space that looked like it had been converted into a personal sanctuary. The walls were soundproofed, a generator hummed quietly in one corner, and memorabilia covered every surface—concert posters, album art, vintage instruments.
"Holy shit," Ellie breathed, stepping past Arthur into the room. "This is... someone's hideout."
Arthur followed, guard still up but curiosity piqued. The space was well-stocked—canned goods, water, books, even a collection of music on vinyl and cassette. A record player sat in one corner, apparently still functional.
"Look at this," Ellie called, examining a shelf of items. "Concert tickets, backstage passes. Whoever built this was seriously into music."
Arthur's attention was drawn to a photograph pinned to a bulletin board—Tommy, much younger, arm slung around a man Arthur didn't recognize, both holding guitars, both grinning widely.
"Tommy," he said, pointing to the image. "This was his."
Ellie moved to his side, studying the photo. "Holy shit, you're right. This must have been his hideout. Maybe before Jackson, when he was still traveling."
She continued exploring, opening drawers and cabinets with the uninhibited curiosity Arthur had come to associate with her. He remained more cautious, checking the generator, verifying the space was secure.
"Arthur," Ellie called, excitement in her voice. "Look what I found."
She held up a mason jar filled with a dried green substance, a sly grin spreading across her face.
"Is that..."
"Weed," Ellie confirmed triumphantly. "And it's still good. Smell it."
She unscrewed the lid, holding it out. Arthur hesitated, then leaned in, inhaling the pungent aroma. It brought back fragmented memories—Fireflies passing joints around campfires, rare moments of camaraderie in a harsh world.
"Tommy's full of surprises," he observed dryly.
Ellie was already digging through a nearby drawer, emerging with rolling papers. "We should try it."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "You can't be serious."
"Why not? Cache check is done, we're in a secure location, and it's barely noon. Plenty of time before we need to head back."
"We're injured, in infected territory, and promised to avoid unnecessary risks," Arthur pointed out.
Ellie rolled her eyes. "Live a little, Arthur. When's the last time you just... relaxed?"
The question caught him off guard. "I don't remember."
"Exactly." Ellie's expression softened slightly. "Look, one joint. Just to take the edge off. These past few days have been hell, and my leg is killing me. Bet your side isn't feeling great either."
Arthur considered it, weighing risk against potential reward. The space was secure, the doors locked, their position defensible. And beneath his practical concerns, a part of him—long dormant—responded to the mischievous light in Ellie's eyes.
"Fine," he conceded. "One. Then we go."
Ellie's grin was almost worth the risk. She set about rolling with surprising skill, forming a neat joint while Arthur checked the doors once more and settled on a worn couch opposite her.
"You've done this before," he observed.
"Once or twice," Ellie admitted. "With Dina, actually. She found a stash in an abandoned dorm when we were out scavenging." She lit the joint, inhaling deeply before passing it to him. "Your turn."
Arthur accepted it, his fingers brushing hers briefly. The contact sent an unexpected jolt through him, a reminder of how rarely he touched anyone without violence or necessity being involved. He inhaled cautiously, the smoke harsh in his lungs before he exhaled, passing the joint back.
They continued in silence for a few minutes, the joint making its way between them. Arthur felt his perpetually tense muscles begin to unwind, the pain in his side receding to a dull ache. Beside him, Ellie had settled deeper into the couch, her usual alertness softening.
"Can I ask you something?" she said, voice slightly rougher from the smoke.
"You're going to anyway."
Ellie smiled at that. "True. What was it like? Growing up with the Fireflies?"
Arthur considered the question, memories surfacing that he usually kept buried. "Structured. Military. They weren't running an orphanage—they were training soldiers."
"But you were just a kid."
"Kids grow up fast these days," Arthur replied, accepting the joint again. "What about you? Before Joel?"
Ellie's expression clouded slightly. "Military school in Boston QZ. Then I was with Marlene briefly, then Joel." She hesitated. "There was... someone else. For a while. Riley. She was my best friend. My first..." She trailed off, pain flickering across her features.
"You don't have to talk about it," Arthur said quietly.
"We got bit together," Ellie continued, as if she hadn't heard him. "Both of us. But only I was immune." Her voice hardened. "Watched her turn. Had to... end it."
The admission hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken grief. Arthur found himself wanting to reach for her—to offer comfort, connection. Instead, he passed the joint back.
"I'm sorry," he said simply.
Ellie nodded, accepting both the joint and the sympathy. "That's why I understood, you know. Why Joel did what he did in Salt Lake." She inhaled deeply. "I was unconscious. Never got a choice. But he couldn't lose another daughter. Not after Sarah."
Arthur studied her, seeing her in a new light—this fierce, wounded girl who carried so much. "Would you have volunteered? If they'd asked?"
Ellie's eyes met his, startlingly clear despite the cannabis. "Yes."
The certainty in her voice struck him deeply. This was what the Fireflies had missed, what Joel had recognized—her determination, her willingness to sacrifice. Her humanity.
"And now?" he asked.
"Now..." Ellie sighed, passing him the joint. "Now I don't know. I want my life to mean something. Want to make a difference. But I also want..."
"What?"
She gestured vaguely. "This. Moments. People." Her eyes met his briefly before darting away. "A future."
The joint had burned down to a stub. Arthur extinguished it carefully, setting it aside. The small room felt suddenly intimate, the space between them on the couch charged with something neither was quite ready to name.
"Your turn," Ellie said, shifting to face him more directly. "Question for a question."
"Alright."
"Why'd you really come to Jackson? The whole truth."
Arthur leaned back, considering his answer. The cannabis had lowered his usual defenses, making honesty easier than he'd anticipated. "To understand. To confront Joel. Maybe to kill him, I hadn't decided."
"And now?"
"That's a second question," he pointed out, a hint of a smile playing at his lips.
Ellie rolled her eyes. "Fine. Your turn."
Arthur studied her, the freckles across her nose, the stubborn set of her jaw, the depth in her green eyes. "What's going on between you and Dina? Really."
Ellie blinked, clearly not expecting that question. "Complicated. She's my best friend. She kissed me, but..."
"But?"
"But I don't know if she meant it. If it was just another Dina impulse, or something real." Ellie fidgeted with a loose thread on her sleeve. "And now there's... other factors."
"What factors?"
Ellie met his gaze directly, a challenge in her eyes. "That's another question. My turn."
Arthur inclined his head, acknowledging the deflection.
"When you look at me," Ellie asked, her voice softer, "what do you see? The cure? Joel's... whatever I am to him? Or just another survivor?"
The question was unexpected, disarming in its vulnerability. Arthur found himself answering with more honesty than he'd intended.
"I see you, Ellie. Not what you represent, not what you mean to others. Just you."
Something shifted in her expression—surprise, followed by a warmth that had nothing to do with the cannabis. The space between them seemed to contract, the air growing heavier.
"Your turn," she said, voice barely above a whisper.
Arthur hesitated. There were dozens of questions he could ask, practical things about Jackson, about Joel, about her immunity. Instead, he found himself asking, "What factors? With Dina."
Ellie held his gaze, the moment stretching between them. "You," she said finally. "You're the other factor."
The admission hung in the air, charged with unspoken possibilities. Arthur was acutely aware of her proximity, of the slight flush in her cheeks, of his own heartbeat accelerating against his ribs.
"Ellie," he began, his voice lower than he intended.
She moved closer, the space between them on the couch shrinking until their knees touched. "What?" she asked, searching his face, her green eyes clearer than they had any right to be given the cannabis they'd shared.
Arthur reached out slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wanted. His hand found hers, fingers intertwining with a gentleness foreign to his usual movements. Her skin was warm, calloused from years of survival, yet somehow soft against his.
"I don't know how to do this," he admitted quietly. "Whatever this is."
"Neither do I," Ellie replied, a vulnerability in her voice that matched his own. "Not really."
Her free hand moved hesitantly to his face, fingers tracing the line of his jaw with a touch so light it almost wasn't there. Arthur remained perfectly still, afraid any sudden movement might break this fragile moment between them.
"Is this okay?" she whispered.
In response, Arthur leaned forward, closing the distance between them. Their lips met tentatively at first, a question more than a demand. Ellie's breath caught, then she pressed closer, her hand sliding to the back of his neck, drawing him in.
The kiss deepened, caution giving way to something more urgent. Arthur's hand found her waist, careful of her injured leg as he pulled her closer. Ellie made a small sound against his mouth, somewhere between a sigh and a quiet moan, and Arthur felt something inside him break open—a dam holding back emotions he'd suppressed for years.
They drew apart slightly, foreheads touching, breathing unsteady. Ellie's eyes remained closed for a moment, as if savoring the sensation, before she opened them to meet his gaze.
"That was..." she began.
"Yeah," he agreed, understanding what she couldn't quite articulate.
Ellie smiled then, a genuine smile that transformed her face, softening the hard edges survival had carved into her features. Arthur found himself returning it, the unfamiliar pull of facial muscles almost startling after so many years of careful neutrality.
She shifted closer, wincing slightly as her injured leg protested the movement. Arthur's arm went around her shoulders, supporting her as she settled against his side, her head finding the space between his shoulder and neck as if it had been made for her.
They sat like that for a long moment, neither speaking, the steady rhythm of their breathing falling into sync. Arthur couldn't remember the last time he'd been this close to another person without threat or necessity driving the contact. It felt dangerous in an entirely different way than the dangers he was accustomed to facing.
Ellie's hand rested lightly on his chest, over his heart. "Your heart's racing," she observed quietly.
"Yours too," he replied, feeling her pulse where his fingers touched her wrist.
She tilted her face up toward his, and Arthur found himself drawn down to her again, their lips meeting with more confidence this time. Her hand slid into his hair, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened, becoming something hungry and honest and real.
His arm tightened around her waist, carefully avoiding her injured leg as he pulled her closer. The cannabis had lowered their usual barriers, but Arthur knew this wasn't just chemical—it was something that had been building between them since that moment in the forest when he'd carried her back to Jackson.
Ellie shifted, moving to straddle his lap despite her injured leg, her hands framing his face as she kissed him with a sudden intensity that stole his breath. Arthur's hands settled at her hips, steadying her, conscious of her wound even as desire clouded his thinking.
"Arthur," she breathed against his lips, the sound of his name in her voice sending a shiver through him.
His hands slid up her back, feeling the warmth of her skin through her thin t-shirt. One of Ellie's hands moved down his chest, hesitating at the hem of his shirt before slipping beneath it to touch bare skin. Arthur inhaled sharply at the contact, the simple touch more intimate than anything he'd experienced in years.
Their kisses grew deeper, more urgent. Ellie pressed closer, seemingly unconcerned with her injury as she moved against him. Arthur's restraint was slipping, years of careful control unraveling beneath her touch.
"Ellie," he murmured against her neck, "your leg—"
"Don't care," she replied, tilting her head to give him better access. "Worth it."
His lips traced the line of her throat, feeling her pulse quicken beneath his mouth. Ellie's hands were in his hair now, holding him close as soft sounds escaped her that made Arthur's control fray further.
She reached for the bottom of her own shirt, starting to pull it upward, when a crash echoed from somewhere above them—glass breaking, something heavy falling. They both tensed, instantly alert despite the lingering effects of the cannabis and the haze of what had just happened between them.
"Infected?" Ellie whispered, already scrambling off his lap, wincing as her weight hit her injured leg.
Arthur nodded, reaching for his weapon as he rose from the couch, adrenaline clearing his head. "Stay here. I'll check."
"Like hell," Ellie countered, adjusting her clothing and grabbing her own gun. "We stick together."
He wanted to argue, to insist she stay safe, but the determined set of her jaw told him it would be futile. Instead, he nodded once, acknowledging her choice.
They moved together through the employee lounge, weapons ready, all relaxation gone as training and instinct took over. At the foot of the stairs, they paused, listening. More sounds from above—shuffling, a low moan that could only be infected.
"Runners, at least one clicker," Arthur whispered, recognizing the distinct vocalizations. "Must have followed our trail from the fire station."
"Options?" Ellie asked, all business despite the lingering haziness from the weed.
Arthur assessed their situation quickly. "Back door? There has to be another exit."
Ellie nodded. "Storage room, other side of the basement. Emergency exit to the alley."
They retraced their steps, moving as quietly as possible through the dim basement. The storage room was cluttered with boxes and discarded instruments, making navigation difficult. Arthur took point, clearing a path while