Gabriel.
Blake missed him too. He missed those first nights they were at the motel. Nights they would spend getting to know each other, staying up until the dawn colored the sky, and the exhaustion was worth it. When Blake would read to Gabriel from whatever book he could find, and Gabriel would try to guess the end. Or when Gabriel grew quiet and talked about the thingsthat showed up in his official reports as thick black lines. He missed the sparkling pride in Gabriel’s eyes when he made an observation, and the quick kiss he earned himself after when he would call him a superhero.
Back when they were a team. WhenI believe in youwas enough to make Blake believe in himself, too.
Now Gabriel was just a figure in the doorway, walking away on another mission. A smudge against the skyline, indistinguishable from the rest.
And every time Blake felt that bitterness, he hated himself. Gabriel had skills. He needed to go, to save people and find supplies. Information. He had an important role to play. Blake wasn’t selfish enough to be angry that he’d left. It wasbeingleft he struggled with.
Gabriel was off making a difference, while Blake was here, holding the hand of an old woman whose cough turned into pneumonia. Or standing helpless while a man had a heart attack. Watching a group of soldiers blink up at him, not understanding how they could be cold when they’d been burned so severely.
People who should have lived.Couldhave lived if Blake knew more. If he had the right supplies.
Swallowing thickly, he pushed their faces from his mind. His failures clung to him like a second skin, clammy and cold. Sometimes he woke up at night and stared at the empty space beside him, wishing he could go back to those first nights. When their touches were all-consuming. When Gabriel’s kisses felt like a baptism, and his belief was palpable. Back when Blakebelievedeverything would be okay.
Swallowing thickly, he nodded. “Me too.”
He left before Tommy could say anything else, making his way to the lobby. He nodded to whoever was on watch—they were so bundled up he couldn’t tell who they were—and made his way to the lobby.
The Potomac View Motel had a drive that circled under an overhang. Through two sets of what were once automatic glass doors, the front desk was on the left. Behind it was the office Irving had commandeered. To the right, past a couple of fake potted plants, their glossy leaves dull with dust, was the breakfast nook. At one point, it had served typical economy motel fare: powdered eggs, stale cereal in maddening twist machines, a waffle maker with crusted batter leaking around the hinges. Now it served as their makeshift eatery.
Sabrina was on kitchen duty today. She was a local and joined them when she got tired of huddling in her house with her sister’s family. They’d long since moved on, seeking something better at the border. But Sabrina stayed. Blake never asked her why.
She had the back door propped open, a grill smoking in the doorway where she was cooking some kind of meat, probably deer, over smoky coals. She had a pot of water beside her, boiling what he thought were probably the last of their potatoes.
Leftovers from breakfast were still scattered on the yellowed vinyl counter. He snagged a can of peaches with a pop top, stuffing it into his jacket pocket before tossing a cold hot dog onto a plate and a dollop of oatmeal that hadn’t quite congealed into a brick yet.
Food was hit or miss. It largely depended on what they could scavenge. Tommy and Irving were working on plans for gardening, but nothing could be done until after the ground thawed. There were a few farms around, but most of them were still occupied, and as desperate as they were, they had a moral code.
So old hot dogs and oatmeal it was.
Biting into the hot dog, he grimaced at the texture. Everything tasted like smoke. It filled his mouth; the fattycylinder of meat getting stuck between his teeth. Maybe Tommy had the right idea.
Saving the oatmeal for Graves, he grabbed some coffee. It was hot, unlike the cold instant stuff they’d drunk in the basement apartment all those months ago. They’d come a long way—Blake just wasn’t sure if it was forward or not.
He’d never admit it out loud, mostly because he thought it would make Tommy cry, but sometimes he wondered if it wouldn’t be better to let the aliens take them out. The movies and books always made survival out like it was some kind of big, noble concept.Survive because we must.
But survival was ugly. It was horrifying and stark. It was blood in his fingernails and ash in his mouth. It was loneliness and indignity. It was making choices that would never scar, just keep bleeding.
Knocking back half his coffee, he held the ceramic mug up to his cheeks and tried to leech some of its warmth. He’d been so busy with Graves, trying to stuff years' worth of med school into a brain which was better suited for pop culture trivia—that he hadn’t been eating much, and his stomach cramped painfully as it began digesting the hot dog.
Looking down at his mug, Blake realized he’d been slacking off. It had been a long time since he’d boiled water or washed dishes. It was the little things that kept this place going, and he should be pulling his weight.
If Graves was still sleeping, he’d go get some more firewood later. Or maybe help clean the grill or something.
As he was leaving, juggling his coffee cup, plate, and trying to tug his beanie down over his ears, he nearly ran into Alvarez as he strode into the building. The man didn’t even break stride, his dark eyes casually glancing at Blake before nodding once, tersely.
Blake took a step back, waiting a breath before Beaumont appeared, a little breathless but right on Alvarez’s heel, as usual.
Beaumont smiled at Blake, light blue eyes crinkling as he shuffled a step back, holding the door open.
“Thanks,” he muttered, looking over his shoulder to see what Alvarez was doing.
The dark-haired soldier’s back was straight as he rounded the reception desk to pound on Irving’s office door. He didn’t wait, pushing in. Over Alvarez’s shoulder, Blake could see Irving look up; surprise only evident in the twitch of one of his eyebrows.
Alvarez had been at the motel nearly as long as Blake, Tommy, and the rest of Team Oh Shit. He’d come striding in wearing hiking boots and a scowl. Through the grapevine—Tommy mostly—Blake had found out that Alvarez was a career soldier. He’d been on leave hiking part of the Appalachian Trail when everything went down. By the time he got out of the woods, his base had been destroyed. He’d followed the smoke to the city and then to a refugee center. He’d formed the same opinion of the place as Irving and Gabriel and then ended up here.
He was a handsome man, his face smooth from years of not smiling or making any kind of expression besides mild distaste. Judging by the Cuban flag tattooed on his bicep, Blake assumed his family was Cuban, though his accent suggested somewhere north, maybe Philly.
