The clinic was quiet as Doc Matthews finished dressing Arthur's wounds, the old man's touch surprisingly gentle despite his perpetual grumbling.
"Three cracked ribs, twelve stitches across your back, contusions everywhere," he recited, securing the last bandage. "And you want to go on a mission in six hours? I should declare you medically unfit for duty."
Arthur remained impassive. "But you won't."
Doc Matthews sighed, removing his gloves with a sharp snap. "No, I won't. Because you'd go anyway, and probably tear everything open in the process." He handed Arthur a small bottle of pills. "Antibiotics. Take them. Pain meds if you want them, though I suspect you'll say no."
"I need a clear head," Arthur confirmed, accepting only the antibiotics.
"Thought so." Doc shook his head wearily. "Kids these days. Too stubborn to live, too tough to die."
As Arthur pulled his shirt back on, wincing slightly as the fabric settled over his fresh bandages, Doc Matthews turned to Ellie, who had been waiting quietly by the door.
"And you," he said, pointing an accusatory finger. "Don't think I haven't noticed you favoring that leg. The stitches holding?"
"Yes, sir," Ellie replied, the uncharacteristic deference a sign of how much she wanted to avoid being benched for the upcoming mission.
Doc narrowed his eyes suspiciously but didn't press further. "Keep it clean, both of you. Try not to die. I'm running out of suture thread."
With that parting advice, he retreated to his office, muttering about the impossibility of keeping people alive when they seemed determined to throw themselves into danger.
Arthur stood carefully, testing his balance. The injuries were painful but manageable—he'd functioned through worse during his years with the Fireflies. More concerning was the bone-deep fatigue from his infiltration mission, the extended high alert status that had left him running on fumes.
"He's right, you know," Ellie observed as they stepped outside into the early morning light. "You look like shit."
Arthur raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement breaking through his stoic expression. "Thanks."
"Just saying," Ellie shrugged, falling into step beside him as they made their way through Jackson's streets. The settlement was already buzzing with focused activity—defensive preparations underway, weapons being distributed, strategic positions being fortified. "You should rest before the mission."
"I will," Arthur assured her, though they both knew whatever rest he managed would be insufficient. "You too. You're not as good at hiding exhaustion as you think."
They walked in companionable silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts about the coming confrontation. The weight of what lay ahead—the risk, the stakes—hung between them, unspoken but palpable.
As they neared Joel's house, Arthur hesitated, then changed direction slightly. "Not yet," he said in response to Ellie's questioning look. "There's something I want to check first."
He led them toward the eastern section of Jackson, to a small storage building tucked between larger structures. Ellie recognized it as one of their secondary armories, where specialized weapons were kept separate from the main arsenal.
"What are we looking for?" she asked as Arthur unlocked the door.
"Something specific for tomorrow," he replied, scanning the shelves methodically. "The WLF containment methods for infected are vulnerable to the right tools."
The armory was dim, the only light filtering through small, dust-covered windows. Arthur moved with purpose despite his injuries, examining various weapons and equipment until he found what he was searching for—a case tucked beneath a workbench.
"Here," he said, satisfaction evident in his voice as he pulled out the case and opened it. Inside lay specialized explosive devices, compact and precisely engineered.
"Remote detonators?" Ellie asked, examining one of the devices. "Where did these come from?"
"Tommy and I have been working on them," Arthur explained, carefully repacking the case. "For situations exactly like this. The triggers are adjustable—can be set for remote activation, proximity, or timer."
Ellie studied him in the half-light, noting the focused intensity beneath his exhaustion. "You've been planning for something like this since you arrived, haven't you?"
Arthur met her gaze steadily. "I've learned to prepare for the worst. It usually happens."
The cynicism in his voice was tempered by something else—a determination that went beyond mere survival. Ellie recognized it because she'd seen it in Joel, in herself. The drive to protect what mattered, whatever the cost.
"Joel doesn't know about these," she realized, gesturing to the explosives.
"He knows," Arthur corrected, securing the case. "He helped with the design. Said they reminded him of things he used to make, before."
Before the outbreak. Before everything changed. These glimpses into Joel's past were rare, each one a small revelation about the man who had become her surrogate father.
With the explosives secured, they continued to Joel's house, the streets growing quieter as they left the busier sections of Jackson. The adrenaline that had carried Ellie through the night was beginning to fade, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Beside her, Arthur moved with the careful precision of someone managing significant pain through sheer willpower.
The house was empty when they arrived, Joel presumably still coordinating defenses with Tommy and Maria. Ellie watched as Arthur set the case down gently beside the couch, his movements betraying the toll his injuries were taking.
"You should lie down," she suggested, concern overriding her usual reluctance to fuss.
"In a minute," Arthur replied, his gaze meeting hers with an intensity that made her breath catch slightly. "First, there's something I need to say."
The seriousness in his voice triggered a defensiveness in Ellie—a reflexive protection against whatever vulnerability might follow. "If it's about tomorrow, I don't need a pep talk. I know the risks."
"It's not about tomorrow," Arthur said quietly, taking a step closer. "It's about what happens if tomorrow goes wrong."
Ellie tensed, recognizing the direction of his thoughts. "Don't," she warned. "We're not doing goodbye speeches."
"Not goodbye," Arthur clarified, another step bringing him within arm's reach. "Just... clarity. In case."
"In case we die?" Ellie challenged, the bluntness a shield against the emotions his proximity stirred. "Like I said, I know the risks."
Arthur studied her for a moment, seeing through her defenses with unsettling ease. "That's not what I meant," he said, his voice dropping lower. "I meant in case we survive. In case there's an after."
The implication hung between them, heavy with possibility. Ellie's heart rate accelerated, a mixture of anticipation and apprehension coursing through her. This—whatever was forming between them—was uncharted territory.
"Arthur—" she began, unsure what she was even going to say.
He closed the remaining distance between them, one hand coming up to cup her face with unexpected gentleness. "I've spent my whole life with nothing that was just mine," he said, the raw honesty in his voice cutting through her defenses. "Nothing that mattered beyond the next mission, the next fight. Until you. Until this place."
The confession left Ellie momentarily speechless. Arthur had never been one for lengthy declarations, his usual communication consisting of terse observations and practical statements. This vulnerability was new, disarming.
"It's not that simple," she managed finally, though she made no move to pull away from his touch. "Everything's complicated. Joel, Jackson, the WLF, my immunity—"
"I know," Arthur acknowledged. "But the one thing I learned in that WLF camp is that waiting for the right time means waiting forever. There is no perfect moment, no break in the storm."
His logic echoed her own thoughts too closely for comfort. How many times had she held back, waiting for some mythical "after" that never arrived? How many connections had she left unexplored because the world kept throwing new dangers, new reasons to postpone anything resembling normalcy?
Arthur's hand slid from her face to her shoulder, then down her arm, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. He twined his fingers with hers, the simple contact somehow more intimate than their previous moments together.
"I'm not asking for promises," he said quietly. "Just acknowledgment that this—" he squeezed her hand gently, "—is real. That it matters."
The intensity in his eyes was almost too much to bear. Ellie looked away, conflicting emotions warring within her. Part of her wanted to lean into this connection, this rare offering of something beyond survival. Another part—the part shaped by loss and betrayal—recoiled from the vulnerability it represented.
"Stop," she said suddenly, pulling her hand free. "This isn't the time. We have a mission in a few hours. People are counting on us to focus, to be ready."
Arthur didn't retreat, his gaze steady on her face. "There's never a right time, Ellie. That's the point."
"Well, this is definitely the wrong time," she retorted, stepping back to create distance between them. The familiar pattern of pushing away comfort when she needed it most reasserted itself—a defense mechanism honed through years of loss. "We need rest, not... complications."
Something shifted in Arthur's expression—not hurt, exactly, but a certainty, a decision made. Before Ellie could react, he closed the distance she'd created, his hands coming up to frame her face with a gentle firmness that startled her.
"Tell me you don't want this," he challenged softly, his face inches from hers. "Tell me honestly, and I'll step away."
Ellie opened her mouth to do exactly that, to push him away with words as she'd done physically, but the lie wouldn't come. Instead, she found herself frozen, caught between the desire to flee and the equally powerful urge to surrender to the connection they'd been circling since that night in Tommy's hideout.
Arthur saw the conflict in her eyes and made his decision. He leaned forward, capturing her lips with his own, the kiss neither gentle nor forceful but something in between—an assertion, a claiming, a statement of intent.
For a heartbeat, Ellie remained rigid, her instinct to resist warring with the longing she'd been suppressing. Then, like a dam breaking, her resistance crumbled. Her hands came up to grip the front of his shirt, pulling him closer despite everything in her that warned against this vulnerability.
The kiss deepened, urgency replacing hesitation. Arthur backed her against the wall with sudden intensity, his body pressing against hers with a weight that drove all thoughts of tomorrow from her mind. One hand tangled in her hair, gripping firmly enough to tilt her head back, exposing her neck to his mouth. His other hand moved to her breast, the touch possessive yet restrained, commanding yet careful.
"Arthur," she gasped, the sound somewhere between protest and plea.
He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, his gaze dark with desire but watchful, making sure he hadn't crossed a line. "Too much?"
"No," Ellie breathed, surprising herself with her honesty. "Not enough."
Something primal flashed in his eyes at her words. He claimed her mouth again, harder this time, his body pinning her more firmly against the wall. Ellie matched his intensity, her hands exploring with growing boldness, one sliding between them to touch him through his jeans. Arthur's sharp intake of breath against her lips told her everything she needed to know about the effect of her touch.
"Bedroom," she murmured, the single word carrying all her intention.
Arthur responded by lifting her, her legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he carried her down the hallway. Her back met the bedroom door, Arthur pressing her against it as he fumbled for the handle, their bodies moving together in a rhythm that promised more.
Once inside, they tumbled onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and urgent hands. Clothing became an unwelcome barrier, discarded piece by piece between heated kisses. Arthur's mouth traced the line of her throat, the curve of her shoulder, each touch igniting her skin like a match to dry kindling.
The air between them grew heavy with anticipation as Arthur positioned himself above her, his eyes never leaving hers. There was a moment of perfect stillness—a silent question, a final chance to reconsider.
Ellie answered by pulling him down to her, her body arching to meet his. The wooden bed frame creaked beneath them as they came together, the sound oddly grounding in the midst of sensation that threatened to overwhelm. Arthur's movements were controlled yet urgent, tender yet demanding, each thrust drawing sounds from Ellie that she'd never made before.
Ellie panting in a mix of pain and pleasure under the manly figure of Arthur slight moans where leaving her mouth, Arthur seeing her in pain locked his hands to her's and held it tight .
Ellie clearly feeling Arthur's unexpectedly huge dick inside her .
"Ughh" scaped from Ellie's mouth
"Slower," she whispered, suddenly overwhelmed by the intensity of their connection. Arthur immediately responded, his pace changing, his eyes studying her face with an attentiveness that made her feel both vulnerable and powerful.
The rhythm of their bodies filled the quiet room—the soft creak of the bed frame, their mingled breathing, Ellie's soft gasps and Arthur's deeper sounds. Outside, Jackson prepared for war. Inside this room, they created something else entirely—a sanctuary of sensation and connection.
Ellie's hands gripped Arthur's shoulders, feeling the play of muscle beneath scarred skin as he moved. Her eyes remained locked with his, the intimacy of that unbroken gaze almost more overwhelming than their physical connection. There was nowhere to hide, no barriers left between them—physical or emotional.
When close to cumming Arthur pulled out at the last moments as he didn't want to trouble Ellie with a child in these harsh situations they were facing
he controlled himself, at least for now.
When release finally came, it washed over them like a wave, leaving them breathless and transformed. Arthur collapsed beside her, gathering her against his chest as if unable to bear even inches of separation. Ellie curled into him, her head tucked beneath his chin, listening to the gradually slowing beat of his heart.
For a long moment, neither spoke, the silence between them more eloquent than any words could have been. Ellie traced abstract patterns on Arthur's skin, memorizing the topography of scars and muscle beneath her fingertips, committing to memory this moment of perfect connection amid their dangerous lives.
"We should sleep," Arthur murmured eventually, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Few hours before..."
"Before we go fight the WLF," Ellie finished when he trailed off. Reality was beginning to reassert itself, but strangely, she felt more equipped to face it now, as if their connection had fortified something essential within her.
"Yeah," Arthur agreed, his arms tightening around her slightly, a possessive gesture that Ellie found she didn't mind. "Few hours of peace before that."
They shifted to get more comfortable, limbs tangled together, Ellie's head on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy circles on her bare shoulder. The intimacy of the moment—not just physical but emotional—should have terrified her. Instead, she found herself sinking into it, accepting the vulnerability with a strange new courage.
"Whatever happens tomorrow," Arthur said softly, his voice thick with approaching sleep, "this was worth it."
Ellie raised her head to look at him, studying the features that had become so familiar in such a short time. "Just make sure you stay alive," she replied, trying for lightness but hearing the undertone of fear in her own voice. "I'm not done with you yet."
A smile touched Arthur's lips, his eyes already closing as exhaustion claimed him. "Yes, ma'am."
Within minutes, his breathing had deepened into sleep, his body finally surrendering to the fatigue and pain he'd been fighting. Ellie remained awake a little longer, watching him with a mixture of wonder and apprehension.
This—whatever it was between them—complicated everything. It gave her something else to lose, something else to fight for. It created a vulnerability she'd tried so hard to avoid. And yet, she couldn't bring herself to regret it.
Eventually, sleep claimed her too, her body curled against Arthur's warmth, one hand resting over his heart as if to reassure herself of its continued beating. Her last conscious thought was a defiant challenge to whatever forces might try to take this from her—be they WLF, infected, or the cruelty of fate itself.
Not this time. Not him.
Joel returned to the house shortly after noon, his movements heavy with fatigue after hours of coordinating Jackson's defenses. The quiet inside was a stark contrast to the controlled chaos beyond the walls, and he paused in the entryway, savoring the momentary peace.
His eyes fell on the case beside the couch—Arthur's specialized explosives, left where they'd been set down hours earlier. A smile touched Joel's lips briefly as he remembered working on the designs with his son, the shared focus that had allowed them to connect without the complications of words.
Moving through the house with the quiet tread that had kept him alive for decades, Joel checked first his own room, then the kitchen, finding both empty. He paused outside Ellie's closed door, listening for a moment before carefully turning the handle to peer inside.
The sight that greeted him was both expected and somehow still surprising—Arthur and Ellie asleep on her narrow bed, their postures speaking of an intimacy that went beyond simple companionship. They were both fully clothed now, but Joel wasn't naive enough to miss what had likely transpired.
A complex mixture of emotions washed through him—protectiveness, resignation, and a wistful recognition of youth persisting even in this broken world. In another life, in the world before, he might have objected, might have played the role of stern father figure. But that world was gone, and with it, the luxury of traditional concerns.
In this reality, where each day could be their last, denying moments of connection seemed not just futile, but cruel. If his journey with Ellie had taught him anything, it was that attachment—dangerous as it might be—was what made survival worthwhile.
He closed the door quietly, retreating to the kitchen to prepare something for when they woke. They would need strength for what lay ahead—the strike against the WLF, the confrontation with Abby, the fight not just for Jackson but for the future they were trying to build among the ruins.
As he worked, Joel found himself reflecting on the strange family that had formed around him—Ellie, fierce and damaged and loyal beyond reason; Arthur, the son he'd never known existed, so similar to himself it was sometimes like looking into a mirror of the past. Both of them willing to risk everything for what they believed in, for the people they cared about.
Both of them ready to confront Abby and the WLF, to stand against the vengeance that had been building since Salt Lake City.
The weight of responsibility settled heavily on Joel's shoulders. All of this—the danger to Jackson, to Ellie, to Arthur—stemmed from his decision years ago. His choice to save one life at the potential cost of many. His refusal to sacrifice Ellie for the possibility of a cure.
He would make the same choice again, without hesitation. But the consequences continued to ripple outward, touching lives beyond his ability to protect.
Tomorrow would bring those consequences to a head, one way or another. Tomorrow would determine whether his growing family would remain intact or be torn apart by the past he could never fully escape.
For now, though, they slept—these two fierce survivors who had somehow become the center of his world. And Joel kept watch, as he always had, as he always would, for as long as breath remained in his body.
Ellie woke to the smell of cooking, her mind momentarily disoriented before memory returned. Arthur's arm was still draped across her waist, his breathing deep and even in continued sleep. The light filtering through the curtains suggested mid-afternoon—they'd slept longer than intended, exhaustion claiming its due.
Carefully, she disentangled herself, moving slowly to avoid waking him. He needed the rest, his body still recovering from the injuries sustained during his infiltration and escape. As she slipped from the bed, he stirred slightly but didn't wake, his features softer in sleep than she'd ever seen them in wakefulness.
The sight stirred something in her chest—a warmth, a protectiveness, a determination that went beyond her usual stubborn resolve. This was something else, something she wasn't quite ready to name but couldn't deny either.
Pulling on her boots, Ellie made her way to the kitchen, unsurprised to find Joel at the stove, stirring something that smelled better than their usual fare.
"Hey," she greeted, aiming for casual despite the awkwardness she felt. Did he know? Had he seen them? The thought brought heat to her cheeks.
"Hey yourself," Joel replied, glancing up briefly. If he had any thoughts about where she'd been or who she'd been with, his expression revealed nothing. "Thought you two could use some real food before tonight."
The simple acknowledgment of Arthur's presence, without judgment or questioning, eased some of Ellie's tension. Joel had never been one for unnecessary conversations, especially about personal matters.
"Smells good," she commented, moving to help set the table.
They worked in companionable silence, the familiar routine requiring no discussion. Ellie found herself studying Joel's profile surreptitiously, noting the deepened lines around his eyes, the silver threading more prominently through his beard. The years in Jackson had softened some of his harder edges, but the core of him remained unchanged—the survivor, the protector, the man who would do anything for those he considered his own.
"Arthur still sleeping?" Joel asked eventually, his tone deliberately neutral.
"Yeah," Ellie replied, matching his casualness. "Doc says he has three cracked ribs, among other things."
Joel nodded, unsurprised. "He push himself too hard, trying to get back here with the intel."
It wasn't a question, but Ellie answered anyway. "Yeah. Seems to run in the family."
A small smile touched Joel's lips at that, acknowledgment of the trait they all shared—the willingness to endure pain, to push beyond normal limits, for the sake of those they cared about.
"The strike teams are ready," Joel informed her, shifting to practical matters. "Tommy's got the northern approach planned out. Jesse's prepped for the southern with you. Equipment's distributed, routes confirmed."
"And the western team? You and Arthur?"
"All set," Joel assured her. "Maria's keeping a defensive force here, in case any WLF are already positioned for their original plan."
Ellie absorbed this, mentally reviewing her own responsibilities for the mission ahead. The southern containment area would be the most isolated, which presented both advantages and risks. Less WLF presence meant easier access, but also less backup if things went wrong.
"We hit simultaneously?" she confirmed.
Joel nodded. "Coordinated by radio. We release the infected back toward the WLF outpost, then fall back to defensive positions in case any head toward Jackson instead."
The plan was solid, as far as plans in their world ever could be. But uncertainties remained—the exact number of infected being contained, the WLF's readiness level after Arthur's escape, the wild variables that always seemed to arise in the most critical moments.
"What about Abby?" Ellie asked, voicing the question that had been simmering beneath their practical preparations. "If she's at the outpost when the infected hit..."
Joel's expression hardened slightly. "Then she deals with the consequences of her own strategy."
The coldness in his voice reminded Ellie of the Joel she'd first met—the hardened survivor who calculated threat levels dispassionately, who eliminated obstacles without hesitation. This was the Joel who had slaughtered his way through the Firefly hospital to save her.
"And if we encounter her directly?" Ellie pressed.
Joel met her gaze steadily. "We do what's necessary to protect our people. Nothing more, nothing less."
The measured response told Ellie everything she needed to know. Joel wouldn't seek revenge for its own sake, but neither would he hesitate if Abby presented a direct threat to Jackson, to Ellie, to Arthur.
Their conversation was interrupted by Arthur's appearance in the doorway, his hair mussed from sleep, his movements careful to accommodate his injuries. His eyes found Ellie's immediately, a silent communication passing between them before he turned his attention to Joel.
"Smells good," he commented, echoing Ellie's earlier observation.
"Sit," Joel instructed, gesturing to the table. "Both of you. Need your strength for tonight."
They ate together, this makeshift family bound by choice and circumstance, discussing final preparations for the mission ahead. Conversation flowed easily between them, focused on practical matters—ammunition distribution, communication protocols, contingency plans.
If Joel noticed the subtle changes in how Ellie and Arthur interacted—the lingering glances, the way they oriented toward each other unconsciously, the newfound ease in their physical proximity—he gave no indication. His concerns remained centered on their survival, on the protection of Jackson, on the neutralization of the threat Abby and the WLF represented.
As the meal concluded and they began final preparations, checking weapons and equipment, Joel paused, studying them both with an expression Ellie couldn't quite interpret.
"Whatever happens tonight," he said finally, his voice gruff with emotion he rarely expressed directly, "we stick together. We watch each other's backs. No heroics, no solo plays."
"Agreed," Arthur replied immediately, his eyes meeting his father's with perfect understanding.
"Wouldn't dream of it," Ellie added, though all three knew her tendency toward exactly such impulsive actions when those she cared about were threatened.
Joel held her gaze for a moment longer, then nodded, accepting the promise for what it was—sincere in intent, if not guaranteed in execution.
As the afternoon waned toward evening, they continued their preparations in methodical silence, each focused on the task at hand while awareness of what lay ahead slowly crystallized. Tonight would bring confrontation—with the WLF, with Abby, with the consequences of choices made years ago in a Firefly hospital.
Tonight would determine whether Jackson remained a haven or became another lost settlement, whether they continued building their improbable family or joined the countless others who had disappeared into the brutal history of this new world.
Through it all, Ellie found her gaze returning to Arthur, watching as he cleaned his weapons with practiced efficiency, as he checked and double-checked his specialized explosives, as he moved with the focused intensity of someone who had learned that preparation often meant the difference between life and death.
The memory of their earlier intimacy lingered like a warmth beneath her skin, providing not a distraction but a foundation—a reminder of what they were fighting for, beyond mere survival. A future that might contain moments of connection, of joy, of something approaching normalcy amid the ruins of civilization.
As darkness fell and the time for departure approached, Ellie made a silent promise to herself, to Arthur, to Joel, to the community that had become her home.
Tonight, the WLF would learn what it meant to threaten Jackson. Tonight, Abby would understand the consequences of her vendetta. Tonight, they would fight not just to survive, but to protect the future they were building together.
Tonight, they would face whatever came—together.