Chapter Text
i.
Their camp is large enough that this shouldn’t keep happening. Bitters should not keep ending up with this idiot beside him when there’s plenty of other people to work with. He glances at the guy out of the corner of his eye, at the way the fool is balancing on his toes, shifting his weight, never standing still. His hair is a mess, clinging to his forehead. He catches Bitters looking and a grin spread over his face. A stupid, lopsided grin. Bitters makes a disgruntled noise and sighs. Great. Caught his attention.
“This’ll be fun,” he says, and it’s obvious he means it. He speaks with a certainty that everything will end up fine. He speaks as if they aren’t living in a world covered with zombies. “Don’t you think so?”
And for some reason, that annoys Bitters to no end. Can’t ignore the zombies when every time they leave the camp the fucking things are there, but goddamn if this asshole acts like they don’t exist. Bitters says, “No. I don’t think it’ll be fun. I think it’s going to fucking suck. Because the last five times, it sucked. It never changes, it’s not fun.”
His name is Palomo, and his grin falls when Bitters speaks. It’s replaced by this quizzical look that comes complete with a head tilt, his eyes boring into Bitters’s skull. He lets a breath out in a way that sounds like he’s laughing and Bitters rolls his eyes. “Man, you’re so cranky today,” Palomo says. “I’m sure this is gonna rock. We’ll be like superheroes.”
Bitters glances over at him and sees that Palomo is grinning again. He looks away quickly, back to where the group they’re with has gathered. They’re going on a hunt, the two of them and four others. The only reason they were brought into this group is because the people in charge want them to get more experience. The argument is that, with Bitters about to turn twenty and Palomo being nineteen, they should be qualified to take care of themselves.
Bitters can take care of himself. He may not have the best aim, but he shoots zombies more often than not. Even if it’s just a bullet to their knees, the bones of the dead shatter easily, and he can reduce them to crawlers and save his life if he has to. But he’s also been charged with Palomo, his so-called partner, and Bitters can’t wait to see how this goes down. The answer, he’s sure, is that it’s going to end terribly.
It starts off well. Palomo follows the main group and Bitters follows him, making sure to keep an eye out for any animals they can eat as well as any walkers. It’s mid summer, and it’s hot, growing hotter the longer they’re out there. It isn’t long before a gunshot goes off and soon, the group has a whole family of rabbits to take back. For a camp as large as theirs, five rabbits isn’t much. They walk through the trees, ducking beneath low-hanging branches, ignoring the heat and searching. It’s an hour in when they spot deer and two of the guys nail one - in the legs. Bitters curses under his breath, watching the thing writhe and hearing it scream.
It’s Palomo that fires the bullet that splits the deer’s skull. Fucking Palomo, the guy who misses more targets in practice than anyone else, and here he is. Taking out a deer. But the damage has been done. The other deer have run off and when Bitters turns back to search the woods, he’s sighing. The heat is making him annoyed and losing deer isn’t helping. It’s a fucking luxury now because no one can seem to catch enough.
But then there’s walkers in the woods and one of them is so obscured by the branches that he doesn’t notice it until its nasty fingers are reaching for Palomo. It’s instinct that drives Bitters then, instinct that has him reaching out and snagging Palomo’s arm, yanking him back out of reach. Then he’s stepping forward and slamming the gun’s stock into the walker’s arms. He hears the bones crack and pulls back just to drive the butt of the gun into the zombies head again, and again, and again. It stops moving and Bitters is breathing heavily, glaring at the thing, cursing it for nearly snatching this stupid noisy kid.
He glances back at the others, sees most of them taking care of other walkers that heard the deer’s cries. He catches Palomo’s stare, the wide eyes that are watching him. He says, quietly, “What…?”
Palomo smiles. It lights up his face and Bitters’s frown deepens automatically. “Thanks,” he says. “I didn’t even see it, hah…”
“Yeah, whatever.” He wishes that Palomo would stop with that stupid fucking look. It’s starting to make him uncomfortable, making him feel like maybe he shouldn’t have gone so overboard on the zombie. “Pay more attention next time.”
It’s only one zombie but Bitters still finds himself keeping a closer eye on Palomo the rest of the time they’re out there.
The group heads back to camp nearly three hours later with the rabbits, some birds, and three deer they managed to catch. Might have been the same group of deer as before, but who the fuck could tell? They make Bitters lug one of the deer; Palomo has the birds in his hands, walking beside Bitters and talking nonstop. It’s annoying and Bitters thinks that if he didn’t have the deer in his hands, he would tackle the fool into the dirt and punch him until he shut up.
At the camp, Bitters is tired and he wants nothing more to retreat back to his bed and go the fuck to sleep. Instead, he and Palomo are ordered to clean the deer. Palomo acts like skinning it will hurt him, shying away from the carcass. Maybe it’s too gross for him or something. Whatever his deal is, it ends up with Bitters pulling the pelt back and Palomo handing him tools. It’s such an involved task that Bitters’s irritation at having to do it is fading as he works.
Palomo, of course, is talking. With that stupidly upbeat voice. He says, “Man, I’m getting so good at this zombie killing stuff,” and Bitters thinks back to the zombie that nearly grabbed him. Of how those fingers had scraped the back of Palomo’s shirt.
Palomo says, “I bet one day I could take on an entire horde!”
Bitters snorts. When he looks up at Palomo, the idiot’s watching him with this goofy grin on his face, one that radiates in the sunlight. It’s an expression that’s somehow managed to look confused and elated at the same time. Bitters says, “Palomo, what the fuck? You could not take on a horde.”
And Palomo’s grin settles into pure happiness. It’s the stupidest grin Bitters has ever seen. “Yeah,” he says sheepishly, bringing a hand up to run through his messy hair. “You’re probably right.”
That night they eat dinner together, and when Palomo sits down next to him the following night, Bitters only moves over to give him enough room.
Palomo is still his training partner which means Bitters gets to watch him improve on a day to day basis. They sit at one of the camp’s outer walls today under the command of the best zombie killers at the camp. Every so often, this zombie killer walks past, making sure they’re still working. Bitters is watching Palomo for now, watching him aim and shoot, watching him kill the zombies that creep out of the woods. He is getting better, hitting the head often now. He acts like each shot is a victory, turning to Bitters with an expectant grin as if Bitters should shower him in praise. Instead, Bitters turns back to shoot at the next few shambling zombies that stumble out of the woods.
There’s this bad habit that Palomo has where he leans in close as if he’s trying to peer through the sights of Bitters’s rifle. Today, Bitters can feel Palomo pressing against his shoulder and has to resist the urge to snap at him about personal fucking space. It’s distracting him, pulling his attention away as he tries to focus, and the bullet he fires slams into the zombies shoulder instead of its head. Palomo makes a noise of disapproval, and Bitters can swear he feels the kid shift even closer.
He fires again and hit its between the eyes. And he doesn’t smirk at that, and that smirk certainly doesn’t morph into a smile when Palomo whispers “Nice shot” next to him.
It’s not even three minutes later before he’s fed up with Palomo. He’s tired of the kid pushing into him, tired of him making those noises whenever Bitters misses. When Palomo says, “Dude. You missed,” in a dry tone, Bitters throws down his gun. He turns, grabbing Palomo by his collar and has enough time to see the look of surprise on his face before he throws the idiot to the ground.
Bitters is on top of him them, hitting Palomo anywhere he can reach, and Palomo is reacting with loud ow’s and grunts that are higher than his regular voice. But then… then Palomo reaches up and slams a fist into Bitters’s jaw and he’s surprised enough for their position to reverse. For Palomo to take him by the shoulders and push him down, and then Palomo is hovering over him, a wicked grin cut across his face. He says, “Used to wrestle with kids at my old camp,” and Bitters is struck by the fact that he had forgotten that they had picked Palomo up. That Palomo hasn’t always been here, following him around.
Whatever his old camp was, whatever happened, it didn’t matter right now. Palomo was fighting back and it had been a long time since Bitters had actually fought anyone. He’s stronger but Palomo’s quicker. The zombie killer that’s training them wanders by a couple of minutes later and Palomo is still on top of him. He’s got one knee jammed into Palomo’s gut, pushing him up, and then there’s a voice snapping at them - “What the hell are you two doing? Pay attention! This is serious, you need to focus!”
Palomo crawls off of Bitters immediately, reaching forward to smooth the wrinkles out of Bitters’s shirt as he sits up. Bitters glances down at the hands on his chest, then up at Palomo, and there’s that goddamn grin again. That stupid grin. It’s wider than ever, brighter, like fuckin’ Palomo has absorbed the entire sun and exudes it in silly grins. His eyes are bright, damn near glittering, and Bitters finds a grin growing on his own face as well.
Like Palomo’s stupid happiness is infectious. They’re laughing together quietly, shoulders shaking, as they’re left alone again.
ii.
The new guy shows up only two days after zombies make their way into the camp. The damn things made their way inside in the middle of the fucking day, and pretty soon they’re everywhere. Biting, feeding, and screaming those horrible guttural screeches. By the time all of them have been killed, the decision to move has been made. So they take everything they can, the group splinters, and everyone leaves. They pile into cars, and Bitters finds himself in the back of a truck driven by people he only knows by name. He watches the other cars pass by from where he sits, spotting a few people he can recognize. He doesn’t see Palomo and as he relaxes back in the bed of the truck, he wonders if the kid got himself bit.
The place they make their new camp is a few hours down the road. The main base is set up in a ruined old gas station There’s not too many of them there and he spots Palomo immediately. Palomo with his persistently messy hair, grinning at him from across the parking lot. Bitters sighs. He doesn’t move. He waits for Palomo to hoist his belongings and jog the distance between them, practically screaming his name as a greeting. Bitters winces. “Will you shut up? What’s the point in that?”
Up close he can see that Palomo’s grin has lost that spark it usually has. He says, “Just glad you’re not dead, that’s all…”
Bitters’s anger crumbles and he sighs. “Yeah.” His gaze lingers on Palomo’s face and in the autumn sunlight, he can see freckles splattered across Palomo’s tanned skin, flaring across his cheeks.
Since there’s only thirteen of them, they can all fit in the gas station for now. It’s stuffy and Bitters hears people coughing while they sleep, rolling over, making noise. Palomo is asleep next to him, snoring softly, and Bitters goes to sleep with a vague sense of annoyance at the noise everyone else is making.
But then.
There’s this guy.
He comes out of nowhere, just shows up one afternoon, standing by an old car and tilting his head while he looks at it. He’s dressed in this full body suit that has to be too warm to be wearing. It’s autumn, but the temperature rises during the day, and this guys’ outfit is entirely black. There’s a few stripes of orange decorating his jacket, tracing out contours on his helmet - other than that: black. There’s a bag and a rifle on his shoulders and a knife strapped to each side of his belt. He greets them with a loud, carrying voice that rolls with confidence. He says, “I don’t know where you guys came from, but I get the feeling something happened here.” He speaks in a way that makes him seem trustworthy, coercing information from them without anyone even thinking it’s a bad a thing.
They tell him about the zombie attack, about how the survivors of the group splintered and left. About how this is likely a temporary home.
He says, “Oh, it has to be a temporary home. You’ll never survive out here - no offense, I mean… I’m sure you could, but this… This is not a good place to stay.”
Someone agrees with him and the sentiment spreads. They aren’t in a good place. The defense aren’t good. There are no walls to protect them.
Bitters sits on an empty concrete slab that once held a gas pump. Palomo is to his right, feet splayed out in front of him. He’s leaning against Bitters again. There’s a girl with them as well - her name is Jensen, he thinks, and she’s watching this guy talk to them with uncertainty all over her face. Bitters can understand that.
The guy, this newcomer, this helmeted man - he talks well. He sounds professional, like someone they can depend on, someone who means every word he says. He says he knows somewhere safe, that he’ll take them, that he’s just waiting for a ride to come pick him up. He says that someone was supposed to meet him here and when that person shows up, that he will convince them to take all thirteen of their group on. “It’s a hell of a ride,” he says. “It’s in Canada, just over the border. But this camp - and trust me on this - It’s the best camp out there. All of you can live there, I promise you.” He says he’s heading that way himself and he knows it’s a long way away, but it’s safest place to go. He convinces them to let him stay for a while.
He never gives a name.
He never removes his helmet.
It should have been so fucking obvious, but when the gunfire started, no one expected it. It’s in the dead of the night, and Bitters is inside, sleeping underneath a shattered window. He jolts awake with the first scream that shatters the night and what he sees when his eyes snap open is that fucking guy. He watches as this man yanks a girl up by her throat, watches as he spins a blade in his fingers before slamming it into her skull.
And then there’s a rifle in the man’s hands and he’s firing into them with no hesitation. He’s taunting them, asking if they still want to go with him - he stops firing to say, “I said I’d help you! Ohhhh, don’t tell me you’ve all changed your minds? That’s so upsetting.”
Bitters is on his feet before the girl he stabbed hits the ground. He throws his things together, shoves his shoes on as he moves. People rush by him - Jensen rushes by him, side by side with another guy - and Bitters ignores them all. His heart is pounding, adrenaline coursing through his veins, and he knows he should leave now. But he doesn’t. He scans the people left, the diminishing number of people that are moving. There’s screams hanging in the air. And then Bitters spots Palomo shoving his way past a bleeding man and two screaming teenagers.
He snatches Palomo by the arm, yanks him forward, pulls the idiot to him. Then Bitters jumps out the window he was sleeping under, glancing back to make sure that Palomo is following him. When Palomo’s feet hit the ground, Bitters reaches out, grabbing his wrist tightly. They run, and as they pass by the edge of the building, three more men come out of the night. One is tall and wears a helmet that’s similar to the one the asshole inside the station has on. This man aims a shotgun at someone thats running after them. Bitters doesn’t stop to see what happened.
There’s only one car running, one that’s moving, and Bitters watches as it jolts to a halt and the window rolls down. “Get in!” the driver yells at them.
It’s not until Bitters and Palomo are inside and the jeep is moving again that he recognizes the driver. Smith, his name is; Jensen is in the front seat with him. There are tears running down her face and she’s talking fast, too fast for Bitters to bother to listen to. He eases his grip on Palomo’s wrist and then breathes in deeply. There are supplies in the jeep, piled up on one side, pushing the two together in the backseat. Palomo rests one hand on Bitters’s shoulder, twisting around in his seat. His other hand runs slowly up Bitters arm to grip tightly and after a moment, Bitters throws a glance in his direction.
Palomo is looking at the gas station as it disappears into the darkness behind them. His features are warped in the dark, drawn together. He looks tired, upset, worried. He looks like he’s feeling too much at once and when he turns his gaze from what’s behind them, Bitters thinks he’s been looking at Palomo for too long. Palomo only says, “Thanks,” so quietly its almost a whisper.
Bitters doesn’t say anything.
“You saved me,” Palomo adds, turning back to the front. He lets go of Bitters, leaning back against the seat and sighing. Bitters releases a deep breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding.
Smith pulls to a stop a few hours later as the sun is rising. He’s driven them down twisting roads, pushing the jeep as fast as he could get it in the dark. When they stop, the first thing Smith does is set up a fire. There’s food in the jeep he telle them, lots of things that someone had stowed away in there. He says, “I think someone was going to leave.”
Bitters says, “They should have. They would have lived.” The others glance at him. Jensen’s tears have dried and the look she fixes him with is one that speaks volumes, one that says he shouldn’t have spoken at all. He rolls his eyes, turns away from her, focuses on what Smith is cooking over the fire.
Palomo has sidled up next to him, leaning in close. “Hey, Bitters?”
“Back off,” Bitters grumbles.
Palomo leans back an inch or two and says, “Do… do you think anyone else got out?”
There’s a beat where Bitters’s fingers tighten, squeezing into fists. He glances at Palomo, at the way the rising sun is pulling new shades of out his hair, making the freckles stand out on his skin. Making his eyes gleam. Bitters tenses, wanting to get away from this. He wants to tell Palomo that there’s no fucking way anyone else got out. That they’re lucky to be alive. What comes out is, “Shut the fuck up, Palomo.” There’s more anger and hatred in it than Bitters intended.
The look on Palomo’s face transforms instantly, frowning. All the brightness snaps out of his eyes. He gets up. Leaves. Settles down next to Jensen and repeats the same question. When Jensen answers, some of the life seems to come back into Palomo’s face. Bitters glares at them, then at the dirt beneath his feet, ignoring the coals of a slow burning fire in his gut. The dull flames of the anger that threatens to swarm through him. He’s not sure what he’s mad at.
God, he wants to sleep.
iii.
It’s only been a few days since then. Autumn is becoming more pronounced, leaves falling from the trees. The four of them have already laid claim to everything that’s in the jeep. All the food and water, the guns, the ammunition. All of it is theirs now. The problem lies in the fact that while Jensen and Smith get the front seat all the time, Bitters and Palomo are in the back with all the supplies. It’s a tight fit and it annoys Bitters to constantly be squeezed back there. He can understand Smith being up front. Smith is their usual driver. And, sure, he’s teaching Jensen to drive better, working all the weird issues out of her driving, but he only lets her behind the wheel when they’ve got long stretches of road in front of them. Bitters is sure they can switch. He’s positive that Jensen can sit in the back sometimes and that he can take the front seat.
He just wants to get away from Palomo, because Palomo has developed a new habit. He likes to drape his legs over their rolled up tents. Usually, he sits with his back against the door across from Bitters, which means the tents are between them and that Palomo can nudge Bitters with his feet at any time. Bitters thinks that Palomo does this when he’s bored or when he wants Bitters to pay attention to him.
It’s the worst fucking thing he has ever found to do and Bitters wants to break his ankles for it.
He throws Palomo a glare that’s met with one of those grins. There are variations to his grin; Bitters knows that now. Little things that show the difference between them, like the way the edges of his eyes crinkle when he’s about to laugh or the way his whole face seems to relax when he’s actually happy. There’s a glint to his features now, a slant to the way his brows are drawn together, and Bitters raises one hand to shove Palomo’s feet away.
Fuck Palomo and his stupid sly grin. He thinks this shit is hilarious.
When they stop for lunch, Bitters pushes Palomo into the dirt and yells at him to stop fuckin’ kicking him. It’s a pain in the ass, he says, but it’s not getting through to this moron. Palomo’s laughing and when Bitters finally stops, he’s leaning over Palomo, clutching at his sides, glaring. He watches as Palomo’s features soften and that grin fades into a smile. Bitters stares at him for a second longer, and then he leaves Palomo in the dirt. His stomach is twisting in ways he doesn’t care for, churning and seizing and it’s becoming a bit of a problem - Palomo grins, he smiles, and Bitters tenses up every time.
They climb into the jeep after eating, and Palomo switches his dumb routine to the other alternative. He kicks the tents back against the other door, plopping down and resting against Bitters instead. This seating arrangement is unfair, Bitters is positive about that. Smith has given the wheel to Jensen and Bitters fingers clench the seat beneath him.
Palomo’s talking quietly, about where they’re headed and what they’re going to do. He talks about how boring it is that all they do is drive, and how he wants to do something. Palomo talks a lot and Bitters isn’t really paying attention. He’s tired and suddenly a nap sounds great. The weight of Palomo on his arm is starting to bug him but he doesn’t know what to do with himself; every time the moron leans against him, Bitters doesn’t do much beyond freezing and trying not to think about it. It’s surprisingly difficult and every word he says to Palomo is short, tense.
He thinks that Palomo doesn’t even notice.
Bitters falls asleep without even noticing, and when he wakes up, he’s moved around quite a bit in the small space. His feet are propped on the console that rests between the two front seats. He’s twisted around so that he rests with part of his back leaning on the door, on the window. Palomo is still leaning against him, not talking, and Bitters realizes that he’s wound his arm around Palomo, that his hand is resting against Palomo’s waist. It chills him at the same time nerves explode in his gut, spreading to wake him up entirely. He stays where he is, trying to calm himself down, because this is stupid. This is beyond stupid, this is… this is absolutely fucking ridiculous.
Palomo shifts and Bitters can feel the fabric of the his shirt as it moves over his stomach.
More nerves flutter in his gut and Bitters yanks his arm back, straightening again, staring ahead. His arm is warm where Palomo had been moments before. Bitters catches a glimpse of Smith glancing back from the passenger seat and ignores him to look back to Palomo. Fucker’s grinning again, features lit up like Bitters is the greatest fucking thing he’s seen all day. He watches as Palomo throws his legs into the floor of the jeep, watches him sit in the fucking seat like he’s supposed to.
Palomo says, “Man, you were asleep for a while.” He even sounds like Bitters is the greatest thing in the fucking world and Bitters can feel the heat threatening to rise over his face. He looks away, out the window, tries to ignore Palomo. “Jensen and Smith are boring. They’re so wrapped up in each other, it’s weird.”
From the seat in front of Bitters, Jensen makes a noise that sounds like she can’t believe what he’s saying. She says, “I’m learning to drive, Palomo.”
Palomo ignores her to grab the sleeve of Bitters’s jacket and tug on it. “C’mon, man, talk to me! I’m dying of boredom here.”
Bitters looks back at him, at the freckles over his cheeks, and thinks that he needs to get the fuck away from Palomo because he is losing his mind.