The boys didnt trust you. Not in this world. Who would? You, with an unknown name, known only to them as Miss Delerium, the once drug fueled manic Rockstar that rivaled their band back when the world wasnt overun with Zombies and a contagious vampiric disease. You, with guns for hire and a knack for destruction. You, quick to bite the blade and kill anyone who crossed you.
Except for one. One boy trusted you with his life behind closed doors. Frank.
He never understood the past rivalry. You matched his guitar skills and Gerards vocal abilities, so why didn't Gerard let you tour with them? Not that it mattered now. Music was a thing of the past. All that mattered now was survival.
They needed you as the muzzled guard dog. The final line of defense. The first one to sacrifice, the first one to desert and leave dead in a gunfight or to the undead hoarde.
But you were untrusted. The loose cannon according to Mikey. Too elusive and too prone to violence, according to Ray. Only good to save their asses, according to Gerard.
But to Frank? He was falling in love. Hard, fast and brutally.
He watched how you flinched away from touch when you were assumed to be the first for violence. He learned your real name, keeping it a secret behind his teeth. He watched how soft you became when you were alone, how you played gently with stray animals and brought them inside to keep them safe. He fell in love with the hands that could bend metal back into place and endure every cut, while not being strong enough to brush your own hair.
He knew why you stayed. You hated the thought of being alone, so playing the act of the loose cannon and the willing sacrifice was an easy cost if it meant simply not being alone when you died; even if those you died beside hated you. And he respected that.
Night had fallen over the house. The windows had been bolted with planks of plywood, and the doors barricaded with nails and chains. Everyone was fast asleep except for him. He found himself sliding out of bed, pulling his hood down in the cold of the hour in an attempt to not look like a lingering shadow as he made his way to the kitchen where he knew you were. And you were there, silently seated at the counter, reloading the guns and sharpening the blades. The same ones that would be your demise at the hands of those you now lived with in the event of their choosing.
"When the dog you adopted bites, you put it the fuck down. That's how it works. If she fucks up, she's dead." Gerard had once said to Frank and Mikey, a memory that lingered within Frank's mind like bile in his throat - burning and ill set, something that should never have been said. He had to agree, not because he truly agreed, but to save face.
Frank stood there for a moment behind you, before making his way quietly around the counter and sliding you a vape that he found earlier that day. One of your vices he had payed attention to. His left hand came to raise one of the freshly loaded guns, practicing his aim lazily at the cabinet before setting it back down.
"You're good at that. Maybe you could teach me how to fix those." He said quietly, resting his elbows on the counter as he watched you meticulously re-bind the handle of a blade that had broken a few days before.