Work Text:
The end of the world feels like this.
Lost Lake doesn’t live up to its name. How can it when the people he cares about the most are warm and fed and happy? The latter is a stretch in today’s fucked up world, Deacon knows that, but there’s this feeling he gets when the sun filters in through the blinds and the birds’ chirping sneak through the window left ajar and the whole cabin smells of coffee. It’s instant coffee, the cheapest-of-the-cheap kind, the one that always made Sarah scrunch her nose, but now she’s cradling that cup like it might be her last.
It won’t be. Luckily. Because in the year that has passed since Wizard Camp got blown to bits they have poured all their time and energy not only fortifying Lost Lake but filling their stock shelves too. They have picked apart what feels like every house in a five-mile radius from this little place everyone calls home. They have expanded their farming operations and guaranteed a better tomorrow for everyone. Things are not easy though—it’s hard work, often back-breaking hard even and he’s got the callouses to prove it, but Lost Lake isn’t just for the community who built it, but for every survivor riding the lonely highways.
There are signs out there. Hope for the people clutching at straws and while not everyone who shows up at their gate has friendly intentions, most have. Their numbers are climbing by the week, people from all walks of life, and while it’s getting a little crowded, they make it work. They always do.
Sarah looks up from her notebook and their eyes met across the room. She breaks a small smile and says, “Good morning.”
“Mornin’.” His voice is nothing but a sleep-thick murmur. He blinks slowly, the last tendrils of sleep withdrawing as a beat of silence passes. She looks content just looking at him. “You shouldn’t drink that,” he says.
Her brows purse but her lips curl like she expected him to say that. “It’s decaf,” she answers as she pushes herself up from the chair.
“Is that right?” he asks as she looms closer. The mattress squeaks when she sits down on the edge of the bed.
She hums. “And you know what you shouldn’t do?”
“What’s that?”
Her smile remains small, but her eyes shine bright with mischief. “Lazy around in bed like this. Do you even know what time it is?”
“Lazy around huh?” he grins, “I’m sorry miss, but if I’m not misrememberin’ someone slept until noon yesterday.”
She tries an innocent look but the grin on her face ruins it. “Maybe, but this is hard work.”
“Oh, I bet.” The covers whisper as he places a hand on the swell of her belly. She touches his arm, gently tracing the scar there, and then, after a moment of calm, of smelling the coffee, of hearing the birds chirp, he feels the flutter under his palm. Faint but unmistakably there. She feels it too, of course, and she lights up with it, smiling with her eyes and lips and soul all at once.
There’s just this feeling he gets.