It was hot, hotter than she remembered it ever being.

The saferoom was too quiet, the silence broken only by hushed whispers between Nick and Ellis, both of which seemed to think she was stupid or sleeping. She heard Nick distinctly purr out 'overalls' and Ellis let out a little squeak afterwards. They were doing something in their corner, something she normally would have been mildly interested in. But even her insatiable curiosity was dead tonight as she shared shelter with six complete strangers.

The other 'survivors' as they had dubbed themselves seemed like nice people, and it was comforting to know there were other people out there, going through the same things she and her group did. They were haggard and tired and banged up just like them, even more so after the loss of the old man, Bill they'd called him. They'd found him, back set against the wall, gun empty but still clutched in his hands. Ellis had burst into tears right there, and even Nick had shut his hateful mouth for the moments they'd worked to get across the bridge.

Coach had curled up on the floor when they found their way into the series of rooms the other survivors had secured and promptly falling into an open mouthed sleep that had yet to leave him. Nick and Ellis had distracted themselves with procedure until the lights went out and were now doing some variety of nasty in corner. Zoey and Louis had curled on the couch together, cuddled up like tuckered out puppies. Both of their eyes were puffy and red.

She hadn't really considered any of them dying, but hearing about and seeing how Bill had gone…it made her wonder which of their group would be the first if such a thing were too happen. Nick wouldn't put his own hide on the line for anyone but Ellis, but Ellis would probably put himself in danger for anyone of them, if Nick would let him. Coach was their equivalent to Bill, he would do it without a second though. Herself? She hadn't decided yet. She didn't want to think about it…would she die for them?

She stood up, shuffling quietly across the linoleum and towards the door that lead to the next room. The other survivor, Francis, had disappeared in there a while ago, growling out that he was going to find beer. She hoped he'd found some…Rochelle had never passed up a beer. She pushed the door open, slender brown fingers working the cold knob. She glanced over her shoulder, cocking a brow at the rhythmic movement occurring between the two silhouettes in the corner. Nick's white back was clenching and tightening as he threw his hips, Ellis' dirty hands were buried in the conman's greasy hair. She blinked once, twice before shutting the door behind herself.

Francis was settled contently into a folding chair, bare feet propped up on the card table in the corner of the room. He held a beer bottle in one hand and what appeared to be a silver chain in the other. Rochelle realized slowly that the chain had two dog tags attached to it. She cleared her throat to announce her presence, wiping the sweat from her forehead as she approached the older man.

He cracked an eye, his hand disappearing into his vest pocket as she sat adjacent from him, placing her head in her hands briefly. He leaned down and dug a beer from the case on the floor, placing it in front of her. She took it silently, glancing at him through tear dampened eyelashes. He swallowed, large hand landing on her shoulder before he could get nervous. She placed her thin fingers over his, swallowing, saying she was sorry with her eyes. He had never been good at reading people, but grief was something universal, it transcended language, race, time, and even having known each other for precious few hours. Comradery in crisis was something far deeper than normal friendship, it was animal instinct. Pack instinct. Draw the strong close and protect the weak for as long as you could.

She wrenched her eyes from his, opening the beer and taking a long swig. He watched her long, dark neck as she gulped thirstily, stretching tendons and delicious chocolate skin. Pack instinct also made hormones run rampant. Stay awake, fight or flight…mate. He would have wanted her anyway, but he wasn't the fumbling idiot he normally was around beautiful women now. He didn't want to talk to her. He didn't want her number, didn't want her to bat long lashes at her. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and make love on the cold floor in the heat of the summer.

Rochelle glanced up, meeting his pale brown eyes. Her gaze floated down, pausing on his mouth, his jaw, his throat, his exposed chest, all those tattoos, his made Ellis' simple tribal design look like magic marker. Her eyes flicked back up at his face and for just a moment Francis saw fireworks and blossoming flowers and lipstick stains in her black eyes. Neither of them realized they were kissing until they ran out of air.

Francis swallowed and pressed his mouth against her full lips once more. She found herself getting into his lap without being prompted. His hands ran silently down her sides, fingers tips searching for the edge of her shirt. She put her hands on his broad shoulders and pushed at his vest, shoving off of him hostilely. She did hate that damn thing after all. They separated just long enough for him to pull her grungy shirt over her head, revealing the stupidly impractical polka-dot bra she'd put on the morning of the infection. She sneered when he smiled, biting his lip as he unhooked the garment, burying his face in the soft flesh that was revealed.

Rochelle shivered, groaning softly as he wrapped his rough mouth around her breast, arching into his sucking. She dug her fingers into the back of his neck; he sucked harder, tongue lapping at the soft tip of her breast. She watched him, face flushed and hot, lips parted as she softly panted. He pressed her down on the table, knocking both beers to the floor without a care. In a flurry of movement both of their pants were on the floor, followed by Francis' shamrock boxers. Rochelle ran her eyes hotly over the man hovering over her, fingertips trailing over his hard chest, brushing over the hair that grew just about that, which was impressive all on its own.He growled softly as he assessed the soft contours of her thin body, all smooth skin and soft flesh.

Francis brushed his fingertips over her wet core, earning a mewl of impatience from the reporter underneath him. She grabbed his face, nails biting into his jaw as she crushed her mouth against his, tongues tangling in a hot mess of passion and bitterness and incredible stress. That kiss was a catharsis, a release, a medley of miseries, a sharing of stories. He pressed her long legs open gently, she opened them wider. He pressed his face into the soft crook of her neck as he positioned his manhood at her entrance; she licked his ear in encouragement. Rapture overtook him as warmth and tightness and wet muscle surrounded him, and a low moan escaped his chapped lips. Rochelle shut her eyes tightly, a shuddering cry of pleasure falling from her mouth. They drew closer, her arms and legs wrapped neatly around him as he cupped her hip in the hand he wasn't propped on.

He rocked into her, kissing her mouth, her chin, her jaw, her throat, anything that came close to his mouth. She arched into him, velvety skin molding against his, sending shivers up and down his back. She urged him to go harder, with her hips, grinding into his thrusts insistently. He obeyed but surrendered to the delicious slowness of their act, the aspect of their act that made this moment more than a fuck, more than desperate hormonal instinct, this was love making, something neither of them were familiar with. Sex and emotion rarely tangled in lives like theirs, but this was something more, something intimate. Something that made Rochelle not want to think about leaving in the morning. Something that made Francis clench his eyes shut.

Their climaxes came together, leaving Rochelle breathless after her first orgasm since her first time…and this one was so much sweeter. He lay on top of her, not pulling out, not rolling off of her with a sarcastic comment like he would have any other woman. She held onto him like he might, and he held onto her like she might slip right through his finger tips. He didn't ask if she was on the pill, she didn't mention it. They lay there like that, sometimes sleeping, sometimes just curled tightly against one another. The sun filtered in hours later stinging Francis' eyes and making Rochelle uttered a swear, the first word the two had exchanged throughout their private escapade.

They dressed in silence, helping each other, taking their time. Neither wanted to walk out and grab a first aid kit, or pick out a gun, or stock it full of stolen ammo, or look at the writing of the wall. Neither of them made any move to, Rochelle with her head pressed into Francis' collar bone, Francis with his arms wrapped tightly around her. She could have died like that, never moving out of those strong, inked arms. He would have died for it.

Zoey pressed open the door sleepily, Nick pushed her out of the way like the prick he was. She murmured angrily at him, both missing the couple's slow release of one another. Nick took one of the warm, unopened beers, eyebrow cocking at the broken bottles under the table. Zoey smiled cheerily and gestured and Francis over her shoulder.

"Me and Louis are ready when you are."

She smiled shyly at Rochelle for a moment before leaving the room to check on her fellow survivors. Rochelle could hear Coach's booming voice going on about his wife's chicken and waffles, Ellis' sweet drawl diving into 'One time my buddy Keith and I' story and Nick's groan of annoyance. Francis squeezed her hands briefly before gradually turning towards the door. She followed him silently as the teams packed up and readied themselves to move on, one to New Orleans, one with no direction at all.

As Ellis climbed into the passenger seat, he caught Rochelle again offering the other team to join them to New Orleans. She was met by a polite refusal from Louis and a cheerful goodbye from Zoey. She sulked down the stairs, earning a snort from Nick which then earned him a swift kick to the back of the passenger's seat by coach. Their female companion climbed into the back seat and settled against the window, already searching for a comfortable position to sleep in.

They all exchanged shouts of goodbyes and promises of seeing each other again as the car started down the road. Rochelle bit into her lip, wiping a fresh layer of sweat from her forehead. She glanced over her shoulder, waving at Francis alone, though his companions seemed to think they were all included. Just as she made a move to turn back towards the road, a deep throaty voice shouted "I love you, Ro!" She whipped around and grinned from ear to ear. For just a moment she considered leaping from the car like they did into those sappy movies, but this was her group…and traveling with him would just get them both killed. She couldn't be gazing into his eyes while a horde overwhelmed them. They couldn't share passionate kisses while the world burned around them…she wasn't as strong as Nick. She couldn't hide affection like that until the lights went out.

But just you wait 'till all this shit was over. Her ass would be right after that man until she found him. And she would.