Forty and Thirty-Seven catch Naila's scent soon after they crest the hill, but she doesn't smell like an ordinary human. Like Missy, there's something earthy about her, telling that she hasn't spent much time around other humans. Her house seems to materialize out of the woods, more Spanish moss and climbing ivies than side paneling. Forty stares awkwardly at the screen door separating an old, scratched-up door from the outside.

"This is our... safe house?" Thirty-Seven says in disbelief, pointing at the crumbling shingles and cracked concrete walkway.

"It's definitely unobtrusive," Forty states. At least the house doesn't draw any attention. It looks similarly to Paul's, though much older, and blends in with its natural surroundings like a cabin should. Forty steps up to the main door, jabbing her thumb into the rusted doorbell.

The pair wait for only seconds before the door whips open, revealing a statuesque dark-skinned woman with the most vibrant hair Forty has ever seen. Sure, Jane liked to dye her hair at the compound, but only in pre-approved colors. This woman, who looks to be in her early fifties, sports an array of pinks in her sleek hair, each braid decorated with a variety of beads and hanging jewelry. The adornments clink like music notes when she gives Forty and Thirty-Seven a once-over, then her face splits into a knowing smile.

"You two must be my runaways," she says, her voice deep and warm. Forty nods dumbly, too busy taking in the sharp contrast between her plain house and her colorful style.

"You're Naila," Forty says back, just to make sure. The woman nods, stepping sideways from the door to let the two of them in.

Inside, the house looks completely different from the rustic exterior. It's impossibly cozy, no surface left without a doily, blanket, or decorative pillow. Forty thinks she could spend hours exploring the room and still not find everything. A large green couch borders what must be the living space. Forty knows humans tend to design their houses in similar ways, and Naila is no different in this aspect. Next to the living room, a small kitchen and single-seater table takes up the other half of the main space. A hallway off to the front of both disappears into darkness.

"You have a monitor?" Thirty-Seven asks warily, pointing at a large computer screen in the living room. Forty bristles immediately, wondering if after all this time Dr. Zapata has led them into a trap.

Naila lets out a hearty laugh. "Oh god, no! That's a TV." She reaches over to a table beside the couch and punches a few buttons on a remote. The screen lights up, showcasing some humans talking around a coffee table. "You don't know what a TV is, though, right?"

Thirty-Seven shakes his head dumbly, completely captivated by the screen. Forty is too occupied by all the questions running in her head to join him. "Is it safe to have that?" she asks. Surely any type of technology could give away their location.

"Well, it doesn't really matter if anyone can find this place, because you're not staying here," Naila chuckles, gesturing for Forty to follow her. She gently herds Thirty-Seven in the same direction as well, and Forty is surprised to see the man go with little argument.

The dark hallway ends in a bedroom. It is inarguably Naila's, as it looks like the living room turned up to eleven. Stacks of books and magazines crowd floor space, and tiny crafts and trinkets decorate every empty surface. It is undoubtably a home, not just a house. Naila sidles up to her bedside, clearing off a pile of coupon stacks to reveal a candle in a baby blue jar. With little hesitation, she grasps the wick firmly and pulls. Instead of a wood chip, she produces a key.

"I had to be a little theatrical with all of this," she says. "You never can be too careful with breaking the law." Despite her age, she walks like a much younger person, her musculature similar to that of someone a decade younger. She pulls a heavy trunk away from a corner of the room, revealing blank carpet underneath. "There's layers to this, like an onion," she chuckles, then proceeds to rip up a corner of the floor.

Finally, Forty sees it. A small door is hidden underneath the wine colored carpet. Naila unlocks the door with the key, revealing a safe. She types in a long password, and with a hiss the door opens.

"I don't know if Jo told you," she begins, making to climb down a ladder. "But the compound didn't used to be so... techy. While he was hired for genetic monitoring, I was brought in for electrical engineering." She pops her head out of the safe door like a gopher, motioning for Forty and Thirty-Seven to follow. She does, albeit reluctantly. "Those fancy doors and antibacterial systems? That's all me."

"You designed the ventilation network?" Forty asks, taking ginger steps down the ladder. The room beneath is brightly lit but rather empty. She feels unsettled by it in comparison to the rest of the chaotic house.

"Well, more or less. I made the system in the nineties, but I left before I implemented the purifiers. From what Jo tells me, they used my work anyway," Naila harumphs, thinking of the memory bitterly. "You see, I had certain moral dilemmas with working for a company that experimented on people, so I left quite early."

"Why did you go in the first place?" Thirty-Seven asks. He looks oddly annoyed at Naila, though Forty can kind of understand. It's the same way she felt about Dr. Zapata when he wanted to get her out. Too little too late.

"It's not advertised as a medical testing center," Naila spits. "I didn't know they were using y'all as specimens until I got there, and by that time it was too late." She stretches, popping her back and groaning. "It was a real pain in the ass to get out of there."

Thirty-Seven goes quiet, chastised. Forty reaches over to pat his shoulder, but stops halfway there. She doesn't want him to start acting weird like he did when they woke up together.

She tries to ease the tension with Naila. "Thank you for helping us," she says, meaning it. "We... I don't know where we'd be without you."

"I know you two don't think much of humans," Naila says, meeting Forty's eyes with a discerning look. "But I deeply regret having any involvement with Project Chupacabra. When Jo reached out to me, I said yes immediately. No one deserves to go through what you two did."

"Have you always had this bunker here?" Forty asks, ignoring the sentiment. She knows Naila is right, but thinking about it hurts. She settles on taking in the heavily insulated walls and the metal door at the end of the hall.

"When you piss off a government running a secret experimental operation violating many human rights, you have to be prepared to go into further hiding than usual." She knocks her hand against the walls, the echo of her fist reverberating throughout the space. "They'd have to bring the nukes out to penetrate this bunker. I took some... unsavory steps to make sure I was safe. There's nowhere else in the world you will be more hidden."

She leads them to the door, again typing in a passcode. "The key is 7131969," she says. Forty logs the number quickly in her brain.

The door parts to reveal another living space, this one much more modern and clean. It's basically a smaller model of Naila's above ground home, sans all the personal touches. "You have a kitchen, a living room, a bedroom, and a bathroom." She looks them over from head to toe. "Though I don't think you'll use the kitchen much."

"Unlikely," Thirty-Seven grunts. Forty chuckles.

"When I heard y'all were coming, I stocked up." Naila wanders over to the fridge, swinging the door open to reveal it's completely stocked with blood bags. "I hope you two aren't picky. I've got everything but the kitchen sink in there. Jo was able to smuggle me some of that medical grade shit y'all have at the compound, but the rest I got through hunting and raiding stockpiles. A lot of old blood was thrown out after the second wave of infection, but there was still some left in hospitals. Now, they toss it out freely. I just recycle." She smiles, patting the fridge door.

Closing the blood back up, she walks over to the door leading into what must be the bedroom. "This was supposed to just be for me when I originally built it," she says, opening the door to reveal a small room fitted with a dresser, bedside table, and one queen bed.

"One bed?" Forty asks nervously. Waking up together is not their thing.

"I mean, one of you could take the floor," Naila chuckles. She whisks her hand at the bed, pointing at a pile of folded clothes and wipes. "I'm still working on installing an antibacterial shower so you can get properly clean, but for now you have to use the wipes. I'll let you two get comfortable and check back at dinner."

She makes to leave the bunker area, then hesitates by the door. "If you... if you ever want to talk with me, you can," she grits out, looking straight at the two of them. "What happened at the compound was wrong. Always remember that."

Naila doesn't leave room for argument before she shuts the door, leaving the two of them completely alone six feet under her house.

☠️☠️☠️

After the events of the crash and all the hiking they've done, Forty and Thirty-Seven are incredibly sore and dirty. They look, feel, and smell vile. An unfortunate side effect of leaving the compound is that all the creature comforts made to accommodate Chupas are gone, and in their place uncomfortable substitutes attempt to fill the gap. The wipes may clean them and make them feel free after the weeks of grime buildup, but they are still wet.

The dampness is enough to set Forty's teeth achatter, and her hands shake as she works in broad swipes to get the job done. Thirty-Seven punches a trembling fist into the bed as he works one down his back, full out whimpering when it gets stuck on his mid torso. Forty plucks it off and slings it across the room before it triggers anything.

When they dry, the feeling of fresh air hitting their skin almost makes the torture of the wipes worth it. The clothes Naila left are thin, meant to function well in the heat, and most importantly clean. Forty holds the shirt up to her chest, trying to picture what it will look like on her before she puts it on. Instead of the long tank top and boxer shorts she's used to, Nalia provides standard hipsters and a sports bra, which is much tighter than Forty is familiar with.

She finds that though the shirt and shorts are comfortable, the underthings make her want to rip her skin off. She tamps it down– after all, it is better than the bloodied and half-tattered t-shirt and men's jeans currently laying in an odious pile by the door.

When she turns, Thirty-Seven is pulling on a navy shirt, his bunching muscles illuminating the bruises and cuts he sustained in the car crash. Forty wants to reach out and touch them, make him stop pulling the shirt down halfway and examine him like a pinned frog, pick apart the wounds and hurts and maybe figure out how to sew them back together. Instead, she lets her eyes travel over him, taking in the renewal of his skin but also the uncovered, bone-deep exhaustion written across his face. He must feel her eyes on him because he turns, a small grin on his face.

"This is comfortable," he says, picking at the t-shirt. "Light, soft, not hot. I like it."

Forty nods, running a hand over her own shirt. It's a pretty light coffee color, somewhere in between the brown of Dr. Zapata's eyes and the warm tint of Forty-Five's skin. Forty wants to be buried in it.

"The bed isn't gray," she says, staring at the light blue covers, the garish coral sheets.

"Right, the bed," Thirty-Seven grumbles, looking down at it as he tugs on a pair of soft socks. He flexes his ankle and toes when they're on, trying to catalog their texture.

"It will be fine. We slept in the same area at the campsite," Forty says after a quick once-over of the room. She walks over to the side of the bed where a little table waits and busies herself with running her hands over the ornate woodwork.

Leaves and vines decorate the edges of the tabletop and dull gold knobs adorn the drawers. It looks out of place amongst the simplicity of everything else in the room, and seems to be empty. Forty abandons it but lays on the side of the bed it stands beside, a ripple of pleasure making her shiver as she feels the cool softness of the sheets below her. The comforter is downy, a little heavy, and when she pulls it over her shoulders it's a pleasant weight on her chest. She wiggles her feet under the blanket, relishing the whisper of air that passes between the layers of the bed.

"Thirty-Seven! This is great," she mumbles, rubbing her cheek into the puffy pillow behind her head. The whole room smells dusty with disuse, but the sheets have a pleasant floral smell and sun warmed scent that makes Forty sink further into the mattress.

"It's okay?" Thirty-Seven questions, pointing at the empty spot on the other side of the bed. He's got that irritated look on his face like he wants to crawl out of his own skin, and Forty doesn't know if it's because of her or the pink bedsheets. She nods anyways, scooting to the very edge of her side to allow him more room.

"If it helps," she says, flipping onto her other side to watch as he gingerly sits down on the bed, "just picture it's two beds put together."

Thirty-Seven glares at her as he settles back against the pillows, not quite laying back. He opens and closes his legs over the comforter, creating a soft whooshing sound. He chews on his bottom lip, his natural fangs worrying the edges of his mouth.

"Comfortable?" Forty asks, smiling, resisting the urge to reach out and push his shoulders against the mattress. A low growl crawls out of throat, and Forty can't help the laugh that leaps from her chest.

"I've never... slept with someone, at least in the same bed," Thirty-Seven says, lowering himself down against the mattress like he's trying to avoid piercing his skin on the threads. Forty scoffs at him, though she finds his out of character embarrassment a little amusing.

"You think I have?" she asks, turning back onto her other side to give him privacy. She doesn't bring up the night before, when they woke up in each other's arms. She guesses that technically doesn't count. The leaves they slept on don't count as a bed.

"Do you want to?" Thirty-Seven presses, a swallow catching in his throat. He coughs.

"Want to?"

"Sleep with me?"

Blood rushes to Forty's face, and she stutters for a moment before remembering Thirty-Seven wasn't exposed to the same things she was and has no idea what he's implying.

"I don't mind sharing a bed," she tells him instead of saying yes, then slings an arm around and pats the space between him. He flinches, though continues his nervous descent into a sleeping position. Here, Forty can't tell what time it is. Of course she knows it's almost night time because it was late evening when Nalia led them down, but the cool blackness of the room seems to speak of eternal twilight.

Only the light from the lamp illuminates the room, sending harsh shadows across the wall. It makes Thirty-Seven's eyelashes look like black scratches across his cheekbones, the little point of his fang a dark smudge over his lip. He lays straight as a board, arms at his side, and as still and uncomfortable as Forty is used to him sleeping. None of the open comfort from last night remains. She wonders why he doesn't give into the softness of the sheets like she does, why he isn't fighting sleep off after the many early days and late nights. Her bones feel like jelly under the blankets, and laying here she can pinpoint each cut and bruise from the journey.

It's a long time before Forty can feel Thirty-Seven relax, pulling his knees up to his chest and flipping onto his side. She reaches over to pull the blanket over him, not missing the way his back leans into her hand when she tucks the edge under his side. His breath stutters when her fingers brush over a bruise on his ribs, mouth clicking shut when she apologizes softly.

Forty knows he isn't used to this treatment, even though touch has become something normal between them, whether it is to help each other through the brush or tend to wounds after crashing a semi truck. But, and Forty can sense it too, the domesticity of the bed makes the touches feel more intimate, more violating. The alien sensation of aggression crowds at the edges of her vision, but she finds she doesn't want to attack Thirty-Seven. Rather, there is an urge from the tips of her toes to the top of her head that wants to wrap her arms around his chest and pull him back, tuck his head against her shoulder like he did so many months ago. There's so much she wants to say and do now that they're in a safe place, but an invisible force holds her back, a transparent wall like the one from the first time they'd spoken to one another.

"Forty," Thirty-Seven says, his voice detached because Forty can't see his face. He doesn't say it like a question, more like a call, and Forty flips over and hums. He too faces her, his eyes hazy and tired in the lamplight. Forty wants to reach out and smooth the crease in his brow, unlatch his teeth from his lip, but she doesn't want to witness that weird look on his face from before, the fear and anxiety written across his features as she pulls her hand away. He is confident in all other matters but this one, and anything without violence seems to set his nerves on fire. Forty wonders if pain is all he knows, and the thought of something gentle terrifies him because that proves he's never deserved the hand he's been dealt.

"Can you... hold me?" he murmurs, voice falling off at the end. He doesn't meet her eyes and his knuckles are bone white where they're clenched against his knees. She can hear the rapid beat of his heart, the puff of his breath against the bed. His hair fans around his face like a half-halo, and Forty wants nothing more than to press her face into it.

"Like last night?" she asks, and his sheepish glance away is all the answer she needs.

Like all things regarding him, cuddling with Thirty-Seven begins with violence. There's the initial grab of his hands, a grip like iron pried apart by Forty's steady ones. He flinches when she touches him, both sure and unsure of what he wants. Forty pushes his legs from his chest and loops her arms around his back, sliding him like a rag doll across the bed and slinging him over her front.

He huffs when their chests bump, his breath slightly knocked out, and he clenches his fists against her clavicles for a few tense seconds, looking ready to flip out of her arms and flee. His face is pale and tense, and all of his muscles shake where he maintains the distance between them. Forty smiles up at him, reaching a hand from around his back to his cheek, where she traces the edge of his cheekbone.

"It's okay," she says, voice barely above a whisper. "It's just me." I want to be good for you.

When he looks in her eyes, she isn't prepared to find the beading of blood along his tear line. Through all the suffering, all the biting and scratching and bleeding, she has rarely seen him cry. Now, in the yellow light of the lamp and the short distance between their slow breaths, the crimson flows down his cheeks freely, though his face slackens. He opens it to say something, though immediately slams it shut and buries his face in the space between her head and shoulder. Forty feels his fangs wrap around the edge of her neck, and she barely flinches when he pierces her shoulder.

It has been a while since he's eaten, she thinks, blinking slowly and rubbing a gentle hand down his back. His legs lay between hers, feet wrapped up past her toes. He's pressed to her from toe to head, and between the lazy flow of her blood and the matching of their breaths, she doesn't know where she ends and he begins.

She can still feel the sluggish flow of his tears, colder than the fresh stuff that leaks from her, but he's shockingly silent, the working of his lips over her shoulder not even making a sound.  She slips a hand under the back of his shirt, warming her chill fingers against his skin, and he shivers at the touch. He stops feeding a few minutes later, making sure the small punctures have closed, but he doesn't raise his head. Instead he mumbles a thank you against her neck, sending gooseflesh up her arms.

"If things were like this all the time, I wouldn't mind," Thirty-Seven says, still not rising to meet her eye. Forty runs absent fingers against his scalp, and his exhale is shaky.

"You like touch?" she asks, trying to keep the hope out of her voice.

He doesn't answer, but the silence is answer enough. Forty wants to squeeze him so hard his ribs break. Finally, someone that craves affection as much as her. She bonks her chin against his head and he groans, rubbing the sore spot.

"Sorry," she laughs, soothing the spot with the butt of her palm. He hums against her, finally rising up on his elbows to look at her.

"I don't like touch," he says, reaching out to trace his thumb along her hairline. "But when it's with you, I don't mind."

Forty's breath stills in her chest, all synapses in her body focusing on Thirty-Seven. He looks angelic, half-illuminated by the glow of the lamp, and his face is smooth and without worry or anger for once. She wants to trace all the nooks and crannies, memorize his curves and edges so well that she could mould him out of clay blindfolded. She can't explain the primal feeling blooming in her chest, but she realizes she wants nothing more than to live in the same skeleton as Thirty-Seven, so they'd never once be one without the other.

"S'ven," she mumbles, not quite capable of full words. He looks at her curiously, the flush in his cheeks back and his eyes drooping. She doesn't know what she means to say, but it comes out as "I'm sorry, for everything."

He just nods, tilting his head further into her palm. She's already apologized hundreds of times, but it feels good to say it now, with him in her arms. It seems so long since the pain of the venom trials, even though it's only just been over a month. Forty knows there are many issues she has to address with Naila, but she shoves those out of her head for now.

After all this suffering, she is more sure than ever that she deserves this quiet moment of comfort.