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“Y’know, you and Eli would actually make great friends if you weren’t so keen on killing each other.”
Jacob can hear these words, clear as day, from you, who’d told him this at the end of a trial - your second trial, no less - his blood freezing and his brain short-circuiting because you know who the target is, what the endgame is, what the culling was for.
“As boring as your Power Point is, I did pay attention. Sort of. Either way, Ray Charles himself - blind and dead - could’ve seen that slide of Eli wearing antlers. You either want Eli to be culled or to be Santa’s ninth reindeer… For the record, you suck at subliminal messages, boss.”
Three months have passed since your face-off, since you’d spared him atop the cliff’s edge, since The Collapse had been averted because you hadn’t killed him or any of his siblings, the seals hadn’t been opened, since a “treaty” had been forged between The Resistance and Eden’s Gate, between Jacob’s soldiers and Eli’s militia.
Jacob doesn’t kidnap or brainwash citizens who don’t want to be soldiers (funnily enough, plenty of people are coming to St. Francis of their own volition, to train, to become stronger after seeing how easily they could’ve been culled).
Jacob doesn’t send his Chosen or his Judges after anyone who wasn’t part of Eden’s Gate (his soldiers have never been stronger, looking out for the people of Hope County, as opposed to trying to put them down).
Jacob, with your help, turns St. Francis into the veteran’s center it was meant to be, providing food, shelter and rehabilitation for soldiers who’d been chewed up and spit out by society, helping them get back on their feet, reassuring them that just because the government didn’t give them the thanks, recognition, appreciation they deserved didn’t mean that there weren’t people who weren’t grateful for them, who wanted to help them, who they fought for in the first place.
Three months have passed, and Hope County is more calm, peaceful, serene than it’s been in three years.
•
On the other hand, 23 days have passed since Jacob and Eli left for their camping trip, something that made you beam, like a child on Christmas morning, when he’d mentioned it in an indifferent, monotone huff over breakfast one morning (your glimmering eyes and radiant smile absolutely did not make Jacob’s heart skip a beat, that’d be juvenile, he isn’t some love-sick teenager).
That was nearly a month ago.
As it is, 17 days have passed since Jacob and Eli have been trapped inside this fucking cave and, if he could, Jacob would rewind the clock just to punch his past-self for entertaining the idea in the first place.
Even if he was the one who’d suggested it.
To strengthen the alliance between his men and the militia, not because you’ve been wanting him and Eli - “my two favorite mountain men” - to spend time together, to quit thinking about what makes them different, to look at what makes them the same.
They’d gone spelunking - for lack of a better term - down here because they’d stumbled across prepper stashes left-and-right during their trek through the mountains, from the bottom of lakes to secret hatches in abandoned cabins and, of course, the depths of dilapidated caves.
They’d thought this one would be just as bountiful.
It was not.
Not only was it empty of anything but winding tunnels and endless nightmare fuel, but when they’d tried to leave, they couldn’t find the exit for hours.
Turns out, they’d walked past it eight times, only they hadn’t realized it because the crumbling boulders above the mouth of the cave had given way, blocking their one and only exit.
Crates of dynamite are scattered throughout the cave - leading them to believe that it was likely a coaling mine before the tunnels collapsed - but the sticks were all sopping wet, not only making them useless but infuriating them both because it was as if the place was taunting them.
They only had enough rations for ten days, because the initial trip was planned for a week, and there’d been an unspoken agreement that it’s better to have too much than too little, in case of emergency.
Emergency being a few days extra, not two-fucking-weeks.
Even when being frugal with what was left, they’d run out of food nine days ago and drained their canteens of their last drops three days ago.
They wouldn’t last longer than one day, two days at most, before they’d die of dehydration.
In short, it doesn’t look good and Jacob’s coming to terms with the fact that he’s going to die in this cave.
Because he isn’t going to resort to cannibalism again.
For one, Eli looks like he’s holding up better than he is, so Jacob would most likely end-up as the cannibalized as opposed to the cannibal.
For two, he knows that killing Eli would devastate you beyond the point of no-return, because you’ve already lost too many people in your life. For all he knows, Eli’s death could be the one that breaks you.
For three, he swore to himself that he’d never hurt you again - physically, emotionally or mentally - because you aren’t just his perfect soldier, you’re his…
His…
His.
It isn’t until Eli’s umpteenth time of fiddling with the radio (the thing had more life than they did, but they haven’t gotten as much as a crackle of reception in the depths of this forsaken fucking cave, an actual Pit of Tartarus) that the reality of their situation settles like a boulder sinking to the bottom of the ocean, heavy and final.
When Eli clicks the radio off, it reverberates through the cave like the nail hammering their coffin shut.
Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe it’s the dehydration. Maybe it’s the starvation, his brain eating away at his muscles after nine days without food, draining him of his energy and stoicism.
Maybe it’s a combination of all three that leads him to asking the man who’d been his sworn enemy not three months before a question that he’d been keeping to himself for months, that comes out in a quiet rasp that slices his vocal cords viciously.
“… Do you think she could have loved me?”
There’s a moment of silence, to which Jacob thinks that Eli didn’t hear him, that he’d drifted off, passed out, died because God knows there was fuck-all else to do down here.
But then Eli’s asking quietly, “… Rook?”
Jacob doesn’t say anything, but that in-and-of itself speaks volumes.
“You can’t be serious.”
Eating Eli doesn’t sound nearly as inhumane as before, a sneer curling Jacob’s mouth, baring his teeth.
Of course it was a stupid question.
Eli, however, doesn’t seem to think so, as he’s quick to balm his initial, incredulous statement.
“No, no, no. I didn’t mean it like that. What I meant is… Do you seriously think she doesn’t love you?”
Had he the energy, Jacob would’ve hit him.
“Why the hell would she, Palmer?”
A noise escapes Eli’s throat, something disbelieving, as if he’s a teacher whose student can’t see that two-plus-two does, in fact, equal four.
“For the smartest man I know, you can be impossibly dense. You’re a logical person, Jacob, so I’ll give you three facts about Rook and you can reach your own conclusion.”
“One, she didn’t kill you. Everyone in this damn region wanted your head on a spike, your body crucified to a billboard, your veins emptied of every last drop of blood for all the lives you’d taken - but she refused. Even after you’d starved, tortured and brainwashed her… She couldn’t kill you. She wouldn’t kill you.”
“… She didn’t kill Faith, John or Joseph either.”
Eli sighs.
Even though he can barely make out his face in the dark, Jacob can hear him pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.
“Fine. Let’s move on. Two - weeks after peace was restored to Hope County, when Eden’s Gate and The Resistance came to a truce, when she easily could’ve left the county - shit, the state, and God knows no one would’ve blamed her - she chose to stay. More than that, she chose to stay in The Whitetails.”
“Because of you.”
Eli growls, a sharp and irritated sound.
“Jacob, she drops by The Wolf’s Den a few times a week. Which brings me to three — Rook is never happier than when she’s with you. Training the soldiers, helping out the veterans, fixing the place up so that it isn’t just a compound but a home. She doesn’t have to do any of that, she doesn’t owe you a damn thing. She does it because she wants to. Because being with you makes her happy.”
Jacob can’t respond to that. He’d never questioned it because he didn’t want to take you for granted. Didn’t want you to think that he didn’t enjoy having you around, because the reality is, you’re what gets him out of bed in the mornings, what brings him out of his nightmares, what makes him smile.
“You don’t see the way she looks at you, do you? Like you put the stars in the sky. Like you’re brighter than the sun. Like you’re what makes life worth living.”
There’s no way that’s true…
Right?
“To answer your question… No, Jacob. I don’t think she would’ve loved you. Because I already know she does. So quit talking like you’re going to die because we both know Rook’d find a way to bring us back just so she could kill us herself for giving up in the first place.”
•
He’s dead. He must be, because your angelic voice is in the distance, calling out to him.
“— wake up. Baby, don’t do this to me. Open your eyes. Come back—“
He does. Peels them open, despite how heavy his eyelids are, how tempting it is to sink into the abyss. Only because your voice is so sweet, so dulcet, so scared.
And when his eyes focus, when he sees you, you are so very beautiful.
“… Rook?”
“There he is,” you laugh, voice thick with something Jacob can’t identify, your hands cradling his scarred cheeks with the reverence of a sculptor with their statue.
Despite it all - the likelihood of this being nothing but a beautiful hallucination, that this was his life flashing before his eyes, that death had given him a small mercy and let you be the last thing he sees, hears, feels before he dies - Jacob can’t help himself.
“Didn’t think… This place was real.”
“What place, baby?”
Jacob brings a hand to rest against yours, holds it against his cheek, turns his face so he can press a kiss to your palm.
“Heaven,” he sighs into your calloused skin, before exhaustion, starvation and dehydration snare him into the darkness again, your voice echoing in his ears, a cracked smile across his lips.
•
Jacob wakes to the potent stench of bleach and rubbing alcohol burning in his nostrils.
More so than that, there’s something in his left hand.
Fingers twined with his, tightly, like the person holding his hand is threatening to fall off the edge and he’s the only thing keeping them grounded.
He’s in The Wolf’s Den, that much is certain by the faint, distinct chatter outside his door, the glorified cement block of his room, but his stomach doesn’t ache like it’s digesting itself and there’s an IV in the crook of his left elbow, steadily pumping him with what he’s assuming is a concoction of water, vitamins and painkillers, so he isn’t complaining anytime soon.
Especially not when he finds you asleep by his bedside.
Speaking of which… Had you slept at all while he and Eli were gone?
The bags under your eyes aren’t promising, worry pooling in his stomach, the thumb of his free hand brushing against the dark, sunken skin.
Though something in his chest thrums at the thought of you worrying about him, looking for him, refusing to rest until he’d been found.
Your hands are twined, but more so than that, your head is resting above his belly.
His hand slowly drifts from your face to your hair, his fingers gingerly carding through the dark strands.
He freezes, a deer caught in headlights, when you shift, but then your lips are parting in a contented sigh at his touch, burying your face into his stomach, your fingers tightening in his.
Jacob’s glad that your head wasn’t resting above his chest, because his heart is jackhammering against his ribs with an intensity that threatened to break the bones.
This is a feeling he could get used to.
•
“Idiot. You fucking idiot.”
“You’re the one who wanted us to bond.”
“Yeah, I wanted you to bond, not forge a fucking suicide pact!”
Jacob opens his mouth to snark right back - God, he could’ve lost this, could’ve lost this banter, this sass, this wit, could’ve lost you before you were even his to lose - but you’re out of your chair before a word can leave him, hugging him with a ferocity that steals the air from his lungs.
“… Rook?”
“You can’t… You can’t scare me like that, boss… When you didn’t come back… I thought… I t-thought…”
You can’t finish that thought.
Jacob has a feeling it’s because your cracking, watery voice wouldn’t let you.
He tangles the fingers of his free hand in your hair, rests his forehead against yours in the one affectionate gesture he knows, hopes it conveys the apology that’s broiling in his throat but couldn’t make it out of his mouth when he sees the tears gleaming in your eyes.
“Can’t get rid of me that easy, pup.”
You laugh, hoarse but authentic - relieved - and Jacob smiles at the sound.
Only for you to separate the few inches left between you, kissing him breathless.
Jacob Seed isn’t a sap, isn’t a romantic, isn’t a poet - but he swears that his heart stopped in that split second that your lips met.
Only to kick back into high-gear, full-throttle, thundering against his chest, hammering in his ears as his smile widens, as he brings you closer, as he kisses you with every raw emotion he’s stifled for months.
God, you taste better than he’d imagined.
“For the record, you’re banned from camping for the rest of our lives, Jacob Seed,” you murmur between kisses, your lips soft - addictive - against his.
Our lives.
He doesn’t bother stifling his grin.
He likes the sound of that.
Jacob curls an arm around your waist, hoists you into bed with him, humming the affirmative against your lips, doesn’t want to waste a single second more without this, without you - by his side, in his arms, on his tongue.
“Yes, ma’am.”