Jesse's funeral brought Jackson together in solemn unity. The entire community gathered to pay respects, their collective grief tempered by the quiet determination that characterized survivors in this harsh world. Dina stood at the forefront, her composure remarkable despite her devastating loss, supported by Ellie's unwavering presence at her side.
Arthur watched from a slight distance, standing beside Joel and Tommy, the latter confined to a wheelchair with his heavily bandaged leg extended before him. The shotgun blast had destroyed Tommy's foot and much of his lower leg, Doc Matthews managing to save the limb but not its full functionality. Tommy had insisted on attending despite his condition—both to honor Jesse and to demonstrate to the community that their leadership remained intact despite the WLF attack.
"He was a good man," Tommy said quietly as the service concluded, people moving forward to place tokens of remembrance on Jesse's grave. "Steady. Reliable. The kind you want beside you when things go sideways."
"Jackson's poorer without him," Joel agreed, his expression solemn beneath his graying beard.
Arthur nodded, his own memories of Jesse flashing through his mind—Jesse's initial wariness giving way to cautious acceptance, then genuine camaraderie during patrols; his quiet competence that required no boasting; his unwavering support of Dina and Ellie regardless of their complicated history together.
"We'll make it right," Tommy stated, the cold certainty in his voice drawing Arthur's sharp attention. "Abby. The WLF. All of it."
Joel's hand settled heavily on his brother's shoulder. "Not today," he said quietly. "Today we remember Jesse. Strategy comes later."
The rebuke was gentle but firm, and Tommy subsided, though the determination in his eyes remained undiminished. Arthur understood—revenge provided purpose, direction for grief that might otherwise consume. He'd seen it countless times during his Firefly years, survivors channeling loss into action, whether constructive or destructive.
His gaze found Ellie across the gathering, noting the rigid control in her posture as she stood beside Dina. Since learning of her pregnancy three days ago, her behavior had become increasingly unpredictable—moments of eerie calm alternating with flashes of rage that seemed to startle even her. The hormonal changes combined with grief and stress created a volatile mixture that Arthur watched with growing concern.
As the ceremony concluded and people began dispersing, Arthur approached Ellie and Dina with measured steps. Dina looked up at his approach, her eyes red-rimmed but dry, exhaustion evident in every line of her body.
"We're heading back," Ellie informed him before he could speak, her arm supportive around Dina's waist despite the sharp edge in her voice. "Dina needs to rest."
Arthur nodded, understanding their need for privacy, for female solidarity in shared grief. "I'll check in later," he said, the simple statement containing layers of meaning that Ellie acknowledged with a curt nod.
He watched them walk away, Dina leaning heavily on Ellie despite being the taller of the two. Their shared circumstance—both newly pregnant, one having lost the father of her child before ever telling him—created bonds of understanding no one else in Jackson could fully comprehend.
"Give them time," Joel advised, appearing at Arthur's side with quiet steps belying his size. "Some things women need to process together."
Arthur accepted this wisdom with a slight nod, recognizing that Joel's years with Ellie had taught him when to offer support and when to create space. It was a balance Arthur was still learning—the distinction between protection and suffocation, between care and control.
"Tommy's taking it hard," Arthur observed as they walked back toward the central square, where Maria was organizing increased security patrols in the wake of the funeral.
Joel's expression darkened. "Blames himself. Was his idea to check those WLF reports, his decision to take just Jesse along."
"Not his fault," Arthur stated firmly, his imposing height and broad shoulders seeming to emphasize his certainty. "WLF had clearly planned this. If not that patrol, they would have found another opportunity."
"You know that. I know that. Tommy knows it too, somewhere underneath the guilt." Joel sighed, lines of fatigue etched deeply around his eyes. "But knowing and accepting are different things."
It was perhaps the most insightful thing Arthur had heard his father say—a glimpse of the wisdom Joel typically concealed beneath gruff practicality. Another reminder that there was more depth to Joel than most were permitted to see, layers carefully protected by years of necessary emotional armor.
Their conversation paused as Maria called Joel over, needing his input on perimeter reinforcement priorities. Arthur took the opportunity to check the armory, where preparations for potential WLF aggression continued regardless of the day's solemn observances. Jackson had learned through hard experience that grief couldn't be allowed to interrupt vigilance.
The day passed in practical activity—weapons maintenance, patrol rotations, defense planning—the community's way of processing loss through increased determination to protect what remained. By evening, exhaustion had settled over Jackson like a heavy blanket, residents retreating to homes earlier than usual, emotional depletion adding to physical fatigue.
As darkness fell, Arthur made his way to Ellie's cabin, knowing she'd returned there after spending most of the day with Dina. A light burned in the window, the soft glow a beacon in the gathering night. He knocked gently, receiving no immediate response.
"Ellie?" he called, concern mounting when silence continued to answer him.
He tried the door, finding it unlocked—a rarity given Ellie's habitual caution. Inside, he found her sitting at her small table, a half-empty jar of Tommy's moonshine before her, her expression distant and hard in the lamplight.
"You shouldn't be drinking that," Arthur said, closing the door behind him. "Not with the pregnancy."
Ellie's head snapped up, her eyes focusing on him with sudden, sharp intensity. "Fuck off," she replied, the words slurring slightly. "I don't need another lecture."
Arthur recognized the dangerous edge in her voice, the raw emotion barely contained beneath brittle control. Instead of arguing, he moved closer, pulling out the chair opposite her and sitting down, his large frame making the small furniture seem even more diminutive.
"Bad day?" he asked simply, no judgment in his tone.
"You could say that," Ellie replied with bitter humor. "Buried a friend. Watched his girlfriend—who's also pregnant, by the way—fall apart. All while trying not to puke every five minutes from whatever's happening inside me." She gestured vaguely at her midsection. "So yeah, bad fucking day."
The raw honesty in her assessment, stripped of her usual attempts at stoicism, concerned Arthur more than the drinking. Ellie rarely expressed vulnerability so directly, typically hiding pain beneath layers of deflection and dark humor.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly, meaning it. "About all of it."
"Are you?" Ellie challenged, anger flaring suddenly. "Are you really? Because everything that's happening—Jesse, Tommy, the WLF—it all traces back to Salt Lake City. To the Fireflies. To what Joel did." Her eyes fixed on him with uncomfortable intensity. "To what you were part of, before you came here."
The accusation struck deep, reaching for guilt Arthur had thought resolved during his integration into Jackson. He absorbed the blow without retaliation, recognizing the pain driving her words.
"You're right," he acknowledged evenly. "The Fireflies, the WLF, what happened to Jesse—it's all connected. And I was part of that world before Jackson."
His calm acceptance seemed to inflame rather than soothe her. Ellie stood abruptly, the chair scraping harshly against the floor. "Don't do that! Don't just... accept it! Aren't you angry? About any of this?" Her voice rose, hands gesturing expansively. "Jesse is dead! Tommy might never walk right again! And somewhere out there, Abby is planning how to kill more of us, because of something that happened years ago!"
Arthur remained seated, his size and stillness providing counterpoint to her agitated movement. "I am angry," he replied, his voice low and controlled. "At the WLF. At Abby. At the whole broken system that created this endless cycle of violence. But anger without direction is just self-destruction."
"Fuck your philosophy," Ellie spat, slamming her hand on the table hard enough to make the moonshine jar jump. "I don't want wisdom. I want—" She broke off, seeming unable to articulate exactly what she wanted, rage and grief colliding into incoherence.
In the charged silence that followed, Arthur rose slowly, his height allowing him to look down at her despite her standing position. Instead of confrontation, however, he simply opened his arms—an invitation, not a demand.
For a moment, Ellie remained rigid, fury radiating from her slight frame. Then, like a dam breaking, she moved into his embrace, her body trembling with emotion too complex for simple categorization. Arthur's arms encircled her, solid and secure, offering shelter without constraint.
"I hate this," she muttered against his chest, the words muffled but distinct. "Feeling like this. Out of control. Angry all the time."
"I know," Arthur replied, one hand moving to stroke her hair with surprising gentleness for his size. "The pregnancy—it changes your body chemistry. Doc Matthews says mood swings are normal."
Ellie pulled back slightly, looking up at him with a mixture of surprise and lingering irritation. "You talked to Doc about it?"
"After you nearly took my head off yesterday for breathing too loudly? Yes." A hint of humor touched Arthur's expression. "Wanted to understand what was happening. Why you went from calm to apocalyptic in seconds flat."
The assessment, accurate but delivered without judgment, drew a reluctant half-smile from Ellie. "Was I that bad?"
"Worse," Arthur confirmed, his tone gentle despite the honest assessment. "But it's not you—it's hormones, stress, grief, all of it combined. Your body's trying to grow a human while processing Jesse's death and preparing for whatever the WLF is planning next. That's a lot for anyone."
The simple validation seemed to reach her where reasoning couldn't have, some of the terrible tension leaving her posture. She leaned against him again, accepting the comfort his solid presence offered.
"I shouldn't be drinking," she admitted quietly. "I know that. Just... needed something to dull the edges tonight."
"There are better ways," Arthur suggested, still holding her close. "Ways that don't risk the baby."
Ellie nodded against his chest, the agreement more significant than verbal acknowledgment would have been. After a moment, she pulled away, exhaustion evident in every line of her body now that anger had receded temporarily.
"I should sleep," she said, the simple admission revealing how utterly drained she felt.
"I'll stay," Arthur replied, the statement both offer and gentle insistence. "Been worried about you out here alone."
Ellie's independence might have prompted resistance on another night, but the combination of emotional depletion and physical exhaustion seemed to override her usual defenses. She nodded again, moving toward her narrow bed without further discussion.
Arthur extinguished the lamp and settled onto the bed beside her, his large frame making the small furniture seem even more inadequate. Ellie curled against him instinctively, seeking warmth and solidity in the darkness.
"I'm sorry," she murmured, sleepy but sincere. "For what I said. About the Fireflies."
"You weren't entirely wrong," Arthur acknowledged, arm curving protectively around her. "But we're not defined by our pasts. Not anymore."
No further words were necessary, exhaustion claiming them both as the day's emotional toll demanded its due. They slept twined together, momentary peace in a world determined to deny such respite.
Morning arrived with unwelcome abruptness, Ellie bolting from bed to retch violently into a basin kept ready for this now-familiar routine. Arthur was immediately alert, supporting her as the sickness ran its course, offering water when she finally straightened, pale but composed.
"Every fucking morning," she muttered, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "How is this creating life when it feels like dying?"
"Nature's cruel joke," Arthur replied, the wry observation drawing a wan smile despite her misery. "Feel up to eating anything?"
Ellie considered, then shook her head. "Not yet. Maybe later."
The domesticity of their exchange—concern about meals, shared understanding of physical needs—contrasted sharply with the previous night's emotional volatility. This rhythm had established itself over the days since Ellie's pregnancy was confirmed, morning sickness followed by tentative recovery, physical symptoms intertwined with unpredictable emotional fluctuations.
"I need to check in with Joel," Arthur said as Ellie moved to wash her face in the small basin by the window. "Security council meeting this morning about next steps."
Ellie nodded, her expression sobering at the reminder of ongoing practical concerns beyond her physical discomfort. "I'll join you after I check on Dina. She's having a hard time keeping food down too."
The parallel experiences of the two pregnant women had created unexpected bonds—shared symptoms providing common ground even as their emotional circumstances differed dramatically. Dina grieved the father of her child while facing impending single parenthood; Ellie grappled with unexpected pregnancy amid renewed threats to the community. Different paths, similar physical realities.
"Meet you at the hall later?" Arthur suggested, respecting her need to support her friend while ensuring they reconnected before the day's crucial discussions.
"I'll be there," Ellie confirmed, some of her usual determination reasserting itself after the night's emotional turbulence.
Arthur departed with lingering concern, making his way toward Joel's house where he'd maintained a room despite spending most nights at Ellie's cabin. The split arrangement was practical rather than symbolic—allowing both of them necessary space while keeping resources and clothing distributed for convenience.
Joel was on the porch when Arthur arrived, seeming unsurprised by his son's return after a night away. No questions were asked, no explanations demanded—another aspect of their evolving relationship that Arthur appreciated. Joel's respect for boundaries extended to all areas, including Arthur's connection with Ellie.
"Tommy's already at the hall," Joel informed him, passing over a mug of what passed for coffee these days. "Maria's called in everyone with security experience. Sounds like decisions are being made today."
Arthur nodded, accepting both the drink and the information with equal appreciation. "About time. We need coordinated strategy, not just reactive measures."
They walked together toward the town hall, the early morning sunlight casting long shadows across Jackson's awakening streets. Residents nodded respectfully as they passed, the combined presence of Joel and Arthur representing significance beyond their individual roles—leadership, protection, continuity in a world determined to destroy all three.
The security council, when they convened, consisted of Jackson's most experienced survivors—Maria at its head, Tommy contributing despite his injury, Joel and Arthur representing tactical expertise from different backgrounds, plus a handful of others whose survival skills had proven exceptional over years of testing.
"We have confirmed reports of increased WLF activity to the east," Maria began without preamble once all were seated. "Multiple patrols, equipment movement, communication lines being established. This isn't reconnaissance anymore—this is preparation."
"For what?" Tommy demanded, his usual patience eroded by pain and anger. "Direct assault? Another targeted strike?"
"Unknown," Maria admitted. "But whatever it is, their timeline appears to be accelerating. We need to decide on our response now, not when they're at our gates."
The room fell silent as this assessment settled over them, each person calculating implications according to their experience and perspective. Arthur found himself automatically analyzing options with the tactical precision his Firefly training had instilled—defense capabilities, resource allocation, strategic vulnerabilities. Joel was likely doing the same, though his methodology would differ based on his smuggler background rather than military training.
"We have three options," Arthur stated, breaking the silence with characteristic directness. His height and broad shoulders seemed emphasized as he stood, commanding attention without effort. "Preemptive strike to disrupt their preparations. Full defensive posture while gathering intelligence. Or evacuation to fallback positions until we better understand their capabilities."
The clinical assessment, devoid of emotional coloring, provided framework for meaningful discussion rather than reactive planning. Maria nodded appreciation for the strategic clarity.
"Evacuation is last resort only," she stated firmly. "Jackson represents years of building, resources we can't easily replace or transport. And winter's coming—relocating now means risking exposure during the harshest season."
Agreement rippled through the room—the practical reality of their situation overriding any idealistic notions of strategic retreat. Jackson was home, investment, security—not easily abandoned regardless of threat level.
"Preemptive strike has appeal," Tommy admitted, the aggressive option clearly aligning with his current emotional state. "Hit them before they're fully prepared, disrupt whatever they're planning."
"And risk pulling their full force down on us before we're ready?" Joel countered, the voice of experience tempering emotional satisfaction with practical concerns. "We don't know their numbers, their weaponry, their timeline. A failed strike just accelerates their response."
The debate continued, options weighed against limited intelligence and resource constraints. Throughout, Arthur observed dynamics as much as content—the respect accorded Joel's experience, the authority Maria commanded without requiring volume, the emotional undercurrents guiding ostensibly rational assessments.
When Ellie slipped into the room midway through discussion, Arthur noted her improved color, the steadier movements suggesting morning sickness had receded temporarily. She took position near the wall, listening intently without immediately contributing—another evolution in her typical approach, patience replacing impulsive participation.
"Full defensive preparation with enhanced intelligence gathering," Maria decided finally, ending debate with the decisive leadership that had kept Jackson viable through countless threats. "We fortify walls, establish secondary defensive positions, double patrols but with stricter engagement protocols. No direct contact with WLF unless unavoidable. No solo missions." This last with a pointed look at Tommy, whose expression suggested he'd been considering exactly that.
"Arthur, I want you working with Joel on fortification priorities," she continued, assignments flowing naturally from decision. "Tommy, coordinate our scouts—you know the territory better than anyone. We need eyes on their movements without revealing our own preparations."
The clear directives, coupled with respect for individual expertise, exemplified Maria's leadership style—collaborative but decisive when necessary. As the meeting concluded, participants departed with specific responsibilities and renewed focus, crisis transforming potential panic into productive action.
Arthur remained behind, sensing Ellie's intention to speak with Maria privately. His intuition proved correct when Ellie approached the older woman once others had departed, determination evident in her posture despite her recent physical discomfort.
"I want to be useful," she stated without preamble. "Not sidelined because of..." She gestured vaguely toward her midsection, the pregnancy still invisible beneath clothing but increasingly central to decisions regarding her role.
Maria studied her with the penetrating assessment that had evaluated countless community members over years of leadership. "No one's sidelining you, Ellie. But your condition requires adjustment, not ignorance."
"I can still fight," Ellie insisted, the edge in her voice suggesting this represented deeper concerns than mere assignment preferences. "Still shoot, still patrol, still contribute."
"No one's questioning your abilities," Arthur interjected gently, approaching to stand beside her without crowding. His towering presence provided support without dominance, physical proximity without constraint. "But tactical assessment includes all factors—including protecting the next generation."
The appeal to strategic thinking rather than emotion seemed to reach Ellie in ways direct prohibition wouldn't have. She glanced up at him, conflict evident in her expression before reluctant acceptance settled.
"Fine," she conceded. "But I need to do something. Can't just sit around waiting while everyone else prepares."
"Training," Maria suggested immediately. "The newer residents need combat instruction from someone with your experience. And logistics coordination—your memory for inventory and distribution patterns is better than most. Both crucial, both protected within walls."
The compromise seemed to satisfy Ellie's need for meaningful contribution without triggering her resistance to perceived coddling. She nodded once, accepting the assignment without further argument—another evolution in her typically more combative approach to perceived limitations.
As they departed the town hall together, Arthur placed a hand lightly on Ellie's shoulder—subtle support without implying weakness. "You okay with this?" he asked quietly once they were beyond others' hearing.
"Not really," Ellie admitted with characteristic honesty. "But I get it. Logically, at least."
"The pregnancy doesn't make you less capable," Arthur assured her, understanding the deeper concern beneath her surface frustration. "Just creates different priorities temporarily."
"Easy for you to say," Ellie muttered, though without real heat. "You're not the one puking every morning and crying over nothing every afternoon."
The self-awareness in her assessment—acknowledgment of emotional volatility she'd previously denied—represented progress Arthur noted without commenting directly. Instead, he simply matched his stride to hers as they walked toward the training grounds where Ellie would begin her new assignment.
"I want you to move in with me," he said after they'd walked in silence for several minutes. "At Joel's. Your cabin's too isolated, too vulnerable if they try another targeted attack."
Ellie's steps faltered slightly, surprise evident in her expression as she looked up at him. "What?"
"Tactical efficiency," Arthur explained, framing the suggestion in terms she would find difficult to dismiss. "One location is easier to secure than two. Three people watching each other's backs are stronger than individuals separated. Especially now, with increased WLF activity."
The strategic reasoning was sound, but Arthur knew Ellie well enough to anticipate her automatic resistance to anything that might feel like surrendering independence. Her cabin, small and isolated though it was, represented autonomy hard-won after complicated history with Joel.
"I've been taking care of myself for a long time," she replied predictably, tone cooling. "My cabin is fine."
"It's not about your capabilities," Arthur clarified immediately, understanding her instinctive defensiveness. "It's about resource allocation, strategic positioning, maximizing security with limited personnel."
The appeal to tactical considerations rather than protection instincts was deliberate—Ellie responded better to logic than anything that might suggest weakness or need for coddling. Still, he could see resistance in her expression, reluctance to relinquish the independence her separate living space represented.
"There's more to it than that," Arthur continued, deciding complete honesty was the most effective approach with someone as perceptive as Ellie. "I want you close. Both for practical security and because..." He paused, searching for words adequate to express feelings he was still learning to articulate. "Because having you nearby matters to me. Especially now."
The simple truth, offered without manipulation or pressure, seemed to reach her where sophisticated arguments might have failed. Her expression softened slightly, defensive barriers lowering incrementally.
"What about Joel?" she asked, practical concern replacing immediate resistance. "It's his house. He might not want—"
"It was his suggestion," Arthur interrupted, stretching the truth slightly but in service of greater clarity. Joel hadn't explicitly suggested it, but his approval had been immediate and genuine when Arthur raised the possibility. "He wants you there too. Wants us together, under one roof."
Ellie's surprise at this was evident. "He said that?"
"In his way," Arthur confirmed with a small smile, both of them familiar with Joel's characteristically indirect expressions of emotional preference.
Her resistance visibly wavered, practical benefits and emotional considerations competing with ingrained independence. Arthur remained patient, allowing her to work through implications without pressure, respecting her need to reach conclusions without coercion.
"What about my stuff?" she asked finally, the question suggesting her objections were weakening.
"We'll move it," Arthur replied simply. "Today, if you want. Make the space yours too, not just a place you're staying."
The distinction seemed important to Ellie, her expression indicating she understood what he was offering—not mere shelter or protection, but shared space, shared life, shared future. After a moment's further consideration, she nodded once, decision apparently made.
"Okay," she agreed, though not without a final assertion of independence. "But I'm keeping my weapons organized my way. Joel's system makes no sense."
The small joke, typical Ellie deflection when emotions threatened to become overwhelming, brought a smile to Arthur's face. "Deal."
With that settled, they continued toward the training grounds, the conversation shifting to practical details of the move. Arthur noted the subtle relaxation in Ellie's posture—tension he hadn't fully registered until its absence revealed how deeply the situation had affected her. For all her fierce independence, recent events had created understandable desire for connection, for security that extended beyond physical protection to emotional anchoring.
The rest of the day passed in separate but coordinated activities—Ellie conducting training sessions with newer residents while Arthur worked with Joel on fortification planning. By evening, they reconvened at Joel's house, where the process of integrating Ellie's possessions had already begun—Joel having taken initiative in preparing space without being asked, his support manifesting through practical action rather than verbal declaration.
Dinner that night felt different—not just shared meal but symbolic acknowledgment of changing family structure. Joel's taciturn presence provided steady counterpoint to Ellie's occasional sharp observations, Arthur's measured contributions balancing both. No grand declarations marked the occasion, no formal recognition of its significance, yet all three understood something had shifted—temporary arrangement evolving toward permanent connection.
After the meal, as Ellie retired early, fatigue from pregnancy and emotional adjustment claiming its toll, Arthur found himself joining Joel on the porch in what had become their informal tradition. The night air carried autumn's first hints—cooler temperatures suggesting summer's end approached with its promise of changing seasons and new challenges.
Joel produced a bottle from beside his chair—actual whiskey, not Tommy's moonshine, the amber liquid catching lantern light with warm promise. He poured modest measures into two glasses, passing one to Arthur with wordless offering.
"Special occasion?" Arthur asked, accepting the drink with appreciative nod.
Joel's shrug conveyed both casualness and acknowledgment of significance. "Seemed appropriate."
They drank in companionable silence for a while, the rare luxury of genuine pre-outbreak whiskey demanding proper appreciation. Around them, Jackson settled into evening routines—guard shifts changing, lights appearing in windows, the community preparing for night with practiced efficiency that belied underlying tensions.
"She's doing better than she lets on," Joel observed eventually, gaze directed across the settlement rather than at Arthur directly. "Ellie. Tougher than most, even on her worst days."
The assessment, offered without prompting, suggested Joel had noticed more than he'd commented on—Ellie's mood swings, her struggles with the pregnancy's physical demands, her frustration at perceived limitations. Nothing escaped his attention where she was concerned, protection manifesting through observation rather than interference.
"She is," Arthur agreed, respect evident in his tone. "But it's a lot to handle all at once. The pregnancy, Jesse's death, WLF threats. Anyone would struggle."
Joel nodded, accepting this realistic assessment without argument. "She needs anchors right now. Stability. People who don't break regardless of what she throws at them."
The insight struck Arthur with particular force—Joel articulating exactly what he'd sensed but hadn't fully verbalized. Ellie's occasional harshness, her emotional volatility, represented testing as much as genuine anger—unconscious verification that those around her could withstand her worst moments without abandonment.
"I'm not going anywhere," Arthur stated, the simple declaration encompassing more than physical presence.
Joel studied him for a long moment, something approving in his expression. "I know," he said finally, the two words containing volumes of meaning beyond their simplicity.
Silence fell between them again, comfortable rather than strained, each man processing implications of changes reshaping their shared lives. When Joel spoke again, his voice carried unusual openness, night's darkness perhaps allowing vulnerability daylight would have suppressed.
"I never thanked you," he said quietly, eyes still fixed on middle distance rather than Arthur directly.
"For what?" Arthur asked, surprised by the unexpected statement.
"Being here," Joel replied simply. "With her. With us. Making different choices than circumstances might have dictated."
The acknowledgment—of Arthur's transformation from vengeance-seeking stranger to family member, of decisions that had prioritized connection over retribution—carried weight beyond its understated delivery. Coming from Joel, who rarely articulated emotional assessment directly, it represented significant recognition.
"I never thanked you either," Arthur responded after careful consideration, honesty meeting honesty in rare exchange. "For saving her in Salt Lake. For giving her chance at life beyond being specimen or symbol."
Joel went very still, whiskey glass halfway to his lips. This direct reference to his most controversial decision—the choice that had brought Arthur to Jackson seeking answers, that had made him target for Firefly remnants and WLF allies alike—clearly caught him off guard.
"Thought you considered that my great sin," Joel said carefully, echoing words they'd exchanged months earlier under very different circumstances. "Destroying the chance for a cure."
"I did," Arthur acknowledged without hesitation. "For a long time, that's exactly how I saw it."
"What changed?" Joel asked, genuine curiosity evident beneath caution.
Arthur considered his answer carefully, wanting to articulate the transformation that had occurred so gradually he'd barely registered it happening. "Understanding there was no perfect solution. No clean ethical choice. Just... impossible situations and human decisions." He paused, gathering courage for what needed saying next. "And seeing that without those decisions, without you choosing her life over abstract greater good, there would be no future for any of us now. Including her child."
Joel's expression transformed completely, shock replacing his usual stoic demeanor. "Her what?" he asked, his voice suddenly hoarse.
"Ellie's pregnant," Arthur said directly, watching Joel's face carefully. "About three weeks along. Doc Matthews confirmed it the day Tommy returned."
Joel set his glass down with deliberate care, as if the news required his full attention to process. For a moment, he simply stared into the darkness beyond the porch, a complicated mix of emotions playing across his normally guarded features.
"You're sure?" he finally managed.
"Doc's sure," Arthur confirmed. "Morning sickness started a few days ago. That's why she's been... more volatile than usual."
Joel ran a hand over his beard, still processing the revelation. "Pregnant," he repeated, as if testing the word's reality. "A baby."
"A baby," Arthur echoed, something warm settling in his chest at Joel's evident wonder beneath the shock.
"Grandfather," Joel said finally, testing the word as if unsure how it fit his self-concept. "Didn't see that coming."
The understated response, typically Joel in its restraint, contained hint of wonder beneath practical acknowledgment. At fifty-something, with one daughter lost to outbreak's initial chaos and another formed through circumstance rather than biology, the prospect of generational continuation represented unexpected gift in world designed to deny such possibilities.
"Life finds ways," Arthur observed, the simple truth encompassing more than biological reproduction.
Joel nodded, raising his glass slightly. "To life," he offered, the toast simultaneously simple and profound.
"To life," Arthur echoed, completing the ritual with corresponding sip.
They sat together as night deepened around them, the quiet camaraderie between them requiring no further words. From reluctant connection to genuine bond, their relationship had evolved in ways neither could have anticipated when Arthur first arrived in Jackson seeking answers about his mother and vengeance for the Fireflies.
Now, with Ellie pregnant and the WLF threat looming once more, their shared goals transcended past grievances—protection of what they had built, preservation of possibilities for the next generation, commitment to a future neither had dared imagine previously.
Family, in all its complicated, imperfect glory.
Three months passed in careful preparation. Jackson transformed its defensive posture according to detailed plans, walls reinforced with additional materials, secondary barriers established at strategic chokepoints, observation posts constructed with overlapping fields of vision. Patrols continued but traveled in larger groups, never fewer than four experienced fighters together, engagement protocols modified to prioritize intelligence gathering over confrontation.
Through it all, the community maintained its essential functions—gardens harvested before first frost, meat smoked and preserved, supplies stockpiled for winter's isolation, children educated in limited but crucial subjects. Jackson had survived precisely because it balanced vigilance with normalcy, preparation with continuation of daily life.
Winter settled over the region with characteristic harshness, snow transforming landscapes and restricting movement beyond walls. The seasonal isolation provided both protection and vulnerability—hostile forces faced similar challenges approaching Jackson, but community resources couldn't be easily supplemented through trade or scavenging until spring thaws.
Within their shared home, Arthur, Ellie, and Joel established functioning patterns—meals taken together when schedules aligned, responsibilities divided according to ability and availability, quiet evenings spent in companionable silence or occasional conversation around the main room's fireplace. Ellie's pregnancy progressed visibly, her slender frame now supporting noticeable curve that necessitated clothing adjustments and activity modifications.
Her mood swings continued but with decreasing intensity as hormonal fluctuations stabilized somewhat. The violent outbursts that had characterized early pregnancy—objects thrown during arguments, verbal attacks disproportionate to triggering incidents, sudden floods of tears without clear cause—gradually moderated into more manageable irritability punctuated by periods of surprising gentleness.
Through it all, Arthur maintained steady presence—absorbing harsh words without retaliation, providing space during emotional storms, offering quiet support when vulnerability overcame pride. His size and strength, once intimidating to some Jackson residents, became visible reassurance against both external threats and internal turmoil.
Dina's pregnancy progressed similarly though with different emotional overlay—grief for Jesse mellowing gradually into bittersweet anticipation, her child representing both painful reminder and precious continuation. The two young women spent time together almost daily, comparing physical changes and sharing concerns unique to pregnancy in their unforgiving world.
Reports from Tommy's scouts brought troubling intelligence as winter deepened. WLF leadership had experienced significant disruption, whispered information suggesting Isaac—their longstanding commander—had been killed during conflict with another faction called Seraphites, derisively nicknamed "Scars" by WLF soldiers. Power struggles followed his death, with Abby eventually emerging as new authority figure within surviving military structure.
"She's consolidating control," Arthur analyzed when this information reached Jackson's security council. "Using vendetta against Joel as unifying cause, redirecting internal divisions toward external target."
"Us," Tommy concluded grimly, still adjusting to limited mobility months after his injury. "Making us the enemy everyone can agree on."
"Classic military tactic," Arthur confirmed, his Firefly background providing insight into organizational dynamics other council members lacked. "Create cohesion through shared opposition when internal fractures threaten stability."
The assessment carried implications beyond immediate threat level—Abby's personal vendetta against Joel now amplified through organizational imperative, making peaceful resolution increasingly unlikely. Jackson's defensive preparations, initially precautionary, became essential safeguard against potential assault once weather permitted military operations.
December brought heavy snowfall and bone-chilling temperatures, effectively pausing external threats while creating internal challenges—heating systems requiring constant maintenance, food supplies carefully rationed, medical resources prioritized for most vulnerable community members. Through these practical concerns, life continued with stubborn persistence—children still played, couples still formed, babies still grew within expectant mothers.
Ellie's pregnancy reached milestone of obvious visibility, her stomach now prominently rounded beneath winter clothing. The physical reality seemed to trigger psychological shift—abstract concept becoming tangible presence