Chapter Text
“You’ll have to forgive Tasha if she’s a bit…untrusting.” James speaks to you without hesitating, gesturing you closer. “She lost her…partner, Clint, to the Walkers a month ago. He got bit, and she had to put the bullet through his head herself. To stop him from changing, you know?” He explained, cringing slightly at the mere thought of it. “So what happened to you?” He changed the subject smoothly, taking your shoulders in his hands, looking you up and down critically. You flinched away from his touch, but if he noticed, he didn’t let on.
“I lived out in the Suburbs.” You told him flatly. “When the disease broke out, my family and I were far enough away from the city that it didn’t hit us until roughly thirty days in. When it finally hit though, it hit hard. My folks were gone in two days, my neighbors in even less. I only survived because I was hidden up in the attic.” James huffed out a breath, and nodded you back towards the table.
“Must have been a rough time, being out there on your own.” He commented as you pushed yourself up on to the table he indicated, arms shaking from the effort.
“It gets easier.” You told him quietly, not bothering to let him know that you, in fact, hadn’t been alone the whole time. “You stop craving companionship after a while. You just want to survive.” You shrugged halfway as he stuck a washcloth under a tap, wetting it. You eyes bulged slightly at the sight. Real running water. You hadn’t seen anything like it since you left your old home.
James noticed your stunned expression, and laughed—a soft, barely-there laugh—as he began to wipe the cloth over your face, scraping the guts and blood away.
“Tasha and Sharon—you haven’t met Sharon yet—are kinda smart.” He explained, his tone indicating quite clearly that they were much, much more than “kinda smart”. “We had Maria too, early on, but she went down in the first…month, I think…” He trailed off, brow furrowed as he tried to remember. “Anyway, the three of them were the brains. They managed to get the water working again-I don’t think they’re even sure how. They’ve been keeping up with my arm too.” He said, lifting his left arm, which you could now see was prosthetic, made out of metal, and appeared—strangely—to work exactly like his flesh and blood one.
“I got bit day one—can you believe it?” He snorted quietly, as though he were half-disgusted with himself. “They amputated the whole goddamn thing and stuck this hunk of metal on instead—we found a doctor, but I was unconscious for most of it…” He shook his head slightly, putting the washcloth back under the tap and starting on your arms. “After I woke up, everyone else was telling me all these crazy-ass stories about our lovely doctor. How he gave me a fully functioning metal arm that scared the crap out of everyone, and then tried to stick me in a freezer and shit. Apparently he wanted to “save me for science” or some other weird bullshit.” He shrugged, his face scrunched up in mild distaste, stopping his talking for a moment, as he scraped at a particularly difficult patch of zombie brains in the crook on your elbow, but started talking again the second it was gone.
“Peggy killed the psycho doctor apparently. Shot him right in the face, and shoved him in his own dumbass freezer.” He paused when you frowned at the name “Peggy”. “She’s gone too.” He said quietly, addressing your confused expression. “She was Steve’s fiancée. We lost her after the first two weeks. A group of stupid bandits drove by in their truck looking for food and such, and attacked her when she was out with Clint, Tasha, and Steve, looking for supplies, and…they all fought back of course, and they managed to chase the bastards off too, but Peggy got a bullet in her belly. She was gone in minutes. “ James pressed his lips together in a hard line, sticking the cloth under the tap again, starting on your other arm.
“He was real busted up over it, Steve was. He hasn’t really been the same since—none of us have. We picked up Sharon maybe…a week after Peggy went down, and pretty recently, her and Steve have been getting real close, but…I don’t know…you can see it ain’t the same for him. I think he really does love Sharon, or is getting there at any rate, but....” He shrugged, picking up your fingers, washing each one individually.
“She’s not Peggy.” You said softly, finally speaking again, to finish his sentence. “You know, I had someone too. Early on.” You admitted quietly as he wet the cloth again, starting on what was exposed of your legs. You weren’t one hundred percent that you really should be telling him a bunch about your past, but you figured if was telling you his groups past, you might as well. It’s not like it was anything dreadfully important now anyway.
“Yeah?” James asked, encouraging you to go on, nose wrinkled slightly as the guts fell off in clumps.
“Yeah. Evan.” You said his name carefully, trying it out again. You hadn’t had any reason to talk about him in months.
“Boyfriend?” James asked after a moment of silence, wetting the washcloth again, moving down to your shin. You shook your head.
“Best friend. He lived near me in the suburbs, when we were kids. Both of us were just visiting home. It was July, so we both had time off from work, and wanted to spend some time with our families.” You sighed wistfully. “Anyway, we found each other after it all went to hell. I had a frying pan, and he had a kitchen knife.”
James snorted softly, lips twitching up faintly.
“Impressive weapons.” He commented quietly, reaching your ankle, scrubbing at it. You shrugged, cracking a small smile.
“It’s what we had.” You sighed, “ He got bitten two months in. We walked right into a big pack of Walkers. I just got covered in guts, but they got him with their teeth. I pulled him out of there, but it was too late. He…he wanted me to kill him so that he wouldn’t turn, but I…I couldn’t.” You flicked your gaze down to your boney knees, taking a slow breath. “He eventually wound up…stabbing himself through his chest when I wouldn’t. Then he woke back up anyway, as a Walker—that’s what happens if you don’t get them in the head.” You added, and James nodded. You could have guessed he probably already knew that.
“He walked straight past me.” You continued. “I was covered in congealed guts from the fight with the Walkers that got him, and he went straight past me. I figured it out later on, how the guts hide you.” You stopped talking, staring at your knees blankly as he rinsed the washcloth and started up on your other leg. “How long were you on your own?” He asked after another brief silence.
“I don’t know. I lost count of the days. Maybe…I don’t know…five months?” You tried, face screwing up in an effort to remember. He let out a low whistle, finally moving on to your feet.
“Well, considering you seem fairly sane so far, I’m impressed.” He commented. “I would have gone completely batshit crazy within the first week if I didn’t have Steve and Tasha.” You noticed he hadn’t mentioned Sam, but didn’t bring it up. Perhaps he wasn’t as close with Sam as Steve and Tasha seemed to be.
“Steve met Sam overseas.” You jerked out of your semi-reverie, stared at him with a frown, trying to make sense of the information he’d told you. “Huh?” You asked dumbly.
“Steve and Sam were both in the Army. That’s how they met. “ He explained. “I was at West Point with Steve—we were childhood friends, and we both decided to go for it.” He shrugged. “We got different assignments once we were put into combat. Steve and I got separated. Steve went overseas, worked his way up to being a Captain over there, on the front lines. Met Sam. I dropped out of the army later—it wasn’t my forte, I guess. I joined the CIA after that. Met Tasha and Clint. We were partners, Tasha and me. We got assigned together a lot, whenever she wasn’t working with Clint. Maria and Sharon worked there too, apparently. I never saw them, but it was a big place, so that makes sense, I guess.”
“A spy, huh?” You cracked the tiniest of smiles. “Aren’t you supposed to keep that sort of thing a secret?” He flashed a small, hesitant grin back your way, glancing up at you as he tossed the washcloth into the skin and opened the medical kit.
“Shirt off, if your don’t mind too much. So I can check for injuries.” He requested. “And it doesn’t matter much now, does it? Me being in the CIA and all. Not like you can betray my identity to the Walkers. All they care about is their next meal.”
“I suppose not.” You agreed, jerking the filthy shirt off over your head, setting it beside you on the table. James retrieves a new, clean washcloth, wetting it and setting about cleaning off your torso as best as he could, being gentle around the cuts you had from God-knows-where.
James cleans off your torso surprisingly well, leaving nearly no grime behind, dressing all of your cuts with antiseptic, and bandages, before leaving briefly, asking you to wash your hair and any other place he’d missed while he went to get you some new clothes. You complied as soon as he left, deciding that it would serve your best interests to not grab the medical scissors and attack him when he returned. You scrubbed you hair wish dish soap, grateful that it was hacked short—you’d done it with a pair of safety scissors when it kept getting stuck on branches and fences.
You wriggled out of your cut off shorts—or the scraps of material that used to be cut off shorts—and dumped them to the side, scrubbing at your thighs furiously with James’ washcloth from earlier.
“Hey, Zombie Guts Girl?” You whirled around to the door to face the source of the voice—James, it turned out—eternally relieved that your underclothes were still fully intact. “I brought you some clothes.” He muttered, staring at the wall above you, tossing the bundle of clothing in your general direction. “Sorry to walk in on you like that.” He coughed out, edging backwards, out of the room. “I’ll just…ah…wait outside.” He backed out fully, snapping the door back shut as he went.
You had a feeling that he was no blushing virgin by any stretch of the imagination, but still—you appreciated that fact that the guy (who probably hadn’t slept with anyone, or even seen a woman undressed since the apocalypse started) was at least being respectful, which was a lot more than you had honestly expected.
You changed, pulling on new underclothes that he’d procured from somewhere—probably from Tasha, or the Sharon-lady that you hadn’t yet met—and a pair of jeans that were a little baggy, but still fit with the help of the belt James brought. You squeezed the water out of your hair, and then pulled on the t-shirt he brought you—it looked like some New York baseball team shirt , but the lettering was so faded, you could hardly tell—and socks and combat boots that fit surprisingly well, along with a hooded black sweatshirt, which you were immensely grateful for, since the last few nights out there in the woods, you’d spotted frost gathering on the grass and leaves.
“James?” You called, sticking your head out the door, looking for him, finally locating him, sitting on the floor, a few feet away.
“You ready for some food?” He asked good-naturedly, hauling himself back up onto his feet. You nodded quickly, your stomach growling loudly at the mere mention of eating. He shooed you back the way you had come, into the kitchen, gesturing for you to sit down at the table. He lit a lamp—it was getting late, from what you could tell from the window—and turned to the cabinets, pulling out a bowl and a can of peaches, pouring a quarter of the can in, and handing the bowl to you with a spoon, grunting the words “Eat slowly or you’ll throw up.”, before digging into another box, filled with bottles of purified water—easy to get if you were smart enough to boil it—and simply handed you the bottle, letting you drink your fill.
You ate slowly, setting down your spoon after each bite, chewing the peaches, swallowing, breathing in and out a couple of times, and then lifting your spoon again. You finished all of the water—probably a bit too quickly—but only managed to swallow down a few spoonfuls of peaches before you felt too full to function—an odd feeling, since you’d been utterly ravenous only five minutes ago, but James put the bowl away under a piece of plastic without blinking an eye.
“It’s probably because your body’s used to little to no food.” He explained as he stored it away. “Your stomach shrinks down when you eat less, I think, so your body expects less.” He shrugged. “ You’ll be hungry again in a few hours, and then you can eat again then.” He assured you calmly. “For now, we should probably go see Steve again, so he can decide what to do with you.”
Decide what to do with you.
That made it sound like you were a tool, or some pesky small animal. You hated the insinuation, but you brushed it off without a word, and followed him out, down the hall, and into another room that appeared to be the living room.
It was becoming pretty obvious pretty fast that this group had scored a nice apartment—probably some relatively rich business person’s home by the looks of it. The couch was made of dark leather, and was situated beside a matching set of chairs, across from a massive television screen, with a dark, polished wood coffee table set in the middle of it all.
It all looked innocuous enough—nothing that you wouldn’t normally find in a living room—all except for the massive shot gun on the mantelpiece, the roughly five handguns occupying one armchair, a sniper gun on the other, both surrounded by a few odd scattered bullets, and gun magazines, along with a bow that looked extremely high-tech, accompanied by a quiver of equally impressive arrows sitting on the coffee table. The couch was occupied by various sharp objects—throwing knives, daggers, an axe, which was sunk halfway into the couch cushion, a couple of longer knives that you didn’t know what to call, and a long, curved, sword-like thing…a scimitar?
Steve leaned against the back of the couch, his fingers drumming the material lazily, while Tasha and a blonde woman that you guessed to be Sharon sat on the floor, sprawled out gracefully, Tasha loading up a few of the various guns, Sharon running a rag over a huge, round….was that a shield?
Your attention was called away from the shield by the sound of Steve clearing his throat, and you snapped your gaze up to him immediately. You’d long since ruled out any idea of fighting against them, and that opinion had just thoroughly solidified at the sight of all of the weapons they had.
“She’s been fed, Steve. Cleaned up too, like you asked.” James told him, sauntering over to the taller man. Steve nodded, raking a hand through his short blonde hair.
“Thanks, Bucky.” He grunted. You were confused briefly, but, gathering from how James responded so easily to the name--nodding and clapping Steve on the shoulder, before heading over to the women to help with the weapons—it must have been a nickname of sorts, though you couldn’t fathom why anyone in their right mind would want to be called Bucky.
“You.” Steve was looking at you again, eyes hard, any of the slight relaxation he’d had around James—Bucky?—vanished. “What’s your name?”
“Kate.” You answered stiffly, fingers knotting nervously in front of you. He was intimidating, this Steve guy, but you supposed that was what he was probably going for.
“Kate.” Steve repeated, giving you a once over. “Where are you from, Kate?” He asked his question like a teacher would ask for an answer on a verbal pop quiz—sharp, with the indication that the wrong answer would mean your ultimate undoing.
“Suburbs of New York.” You opted to keep your answers as short as was possible—it was harder for people to get angry with you over something you said if you spoke less.
“You were on your own when we found you. How long have you been alone?” He queried, stepping out from behind the sofa, taking measured steps toward you.
“A few months. I lost track.” You recited.
He nods.
“Can you fight? Any skills with weapons of any kind?’ He halted his approach towards you, leaning against the back of the armchair that formerly held the sniper rifle, which was now in James’ hands as he cleaned it with the tender care that a mother might exhibit when bathing her children.
“I..I erm…I took archery lessons.” You offered. “From when I was eight until senior year of high school.” You shrugged one shoulder, not sure if that really counted as much of a skill. The bow they had on the coffee table was pretty impressive, but you were ninety percent sure that it was far beyond anything that you could even remotely begin to handle.
“Archery lessons?” Steve asked, raising an eyebrow. He was skeptical. He had a good right to be--Hell, you doubted yourself—but it still stung your pride a bit that he looked that doubtful of your skills. “Were you good?”
“I was…okay I think.” You hedged your bets, taking the middle ground. Your instructor had never praised you to high heaven, but he hadn’t exactly told you that you sucked either.
“You know, Kate,” Steve said, standing up straight, tucking his arms behind his back. “When I was a kid, I was real skinny. Nobody took me seriously. Buck here—“ He nodded his head at James, “Was pulling me out of fights almost everyday, when I was getting my ass beaten.” James grinned.
“Ain’t that the truth!” He called, earning a half glare from Steve, before his attention was directed back on to you.
“I tried to join the army, multiple times. They said I was too weak. I had no place. The only reason I became something was because someone—an examination doctor—was king enough to let me in, and give me a chance.” He paused again for emphasis. “The point of my story it, Kate: I don’t trust you one bit. I don’t particularly want you here. You don’t seem like you’d be a great asset to the group.” You raised your eyebrows, opening your mouth to speak, but he cut you off, raising a hand, signaling that he wasn’t quite finished speaking.
“However,” He spoke again, “I’m willing to give you a chance, if you want it. We’ve got most anything you’d need—food, water—we can train you, give you weapons even, if you prove yourself. The choice is yours. If you choose to walk away, we won’t pursue you. If you choose to stay, and prove yourself to be a good listener, and useful, you can stay in the group. If you choose to stay and don’t prove yourself, you get turned loose, no harm, no foul, But if you jeopardize the safety of the group, or betray us in any way, you’re getting a bullet in the brain, no exceptions.” His speech finished, he leaned back, his elbows resting on the armchair back, making himself comfortable. You could tell that everyone in the room had their eyes on you, waiting to see what you’d decide to do.
Your brain was spinning. Staying here, you could potentially have companionship. Many of them didn’t seem very nice—hell, Steve had even told you to your face that he didn’t like or trust you, and Tasha wanted to shoot you--, but James seemed alright, and it was better than nothing at any rate. On the other hand, it would be easier to hide if you had to if you were on your own, and a bullet in the brain for putting the group in danger—even accidentally—didn’t sound very enticing. Still…if you managed to prove yourself…
“I’ll join.” You speak finally, the sound of your voice surprising everyone--even you. You locked eyes with Steve, nodding once in confirmation of your choice. He nodded back in response, and stood up straight again once more.
“Welcome to the group, Kate. Buck, will you get her a change or two of clothes? Assign her a bed too, while you’re at it.” Steve rattled off commands like a grocery list, turning to look at James, who nodded, setting aside his sniper rifle.
“Yeah, I’ll take her. Remember though, Steve: I ain’t your housemaid. I’m not doing all the chores for you.” Steve stared at him blankly, and for a moment, you thought he was going to punch James in the mouth. Then his face relaxed into a—god forbid—easy smile.
“You’re not a housemaid, Buck.” He assured him. “Butler though—that I can see.” He shot back at James, who shook his head grinning back slightly.
“You’re a punk.” He informed Steve affectionately, walking over towards you to lead you back down the hall. “C’mon, Kate.”
“Jerk.” Steve called after him, and James just smiled, and lead the way out, into the hall.