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shellshocklove · 1 year ago

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does anyone know where the love of god goes? | joel miller

pairing/AU: joel miller x female!reader – post breakout & no ellie AU

summary: crossing the country alone as he searches for his brother, joel stumbles on a farm. winter is closing in, and against his better judgement he's convinced to stay. as the frost covers the land like a blanket, a warmth ignites in his heart for the young woman who's home he finds himself in.

warnings: this is an 18+ fic so minors dni!!! canon-typical violence, age gap (reader is mid to late twenties), swearing, dead animals, joel being a sad man, masturbation, no use of y/n

a/n: i soft launched this ao3 last month and it flopped lol so i'm gonna keep my expectations low for this series. anyways this has been a story i've been thinking about since probably october. this is the first part of what i'm hoping will be 3 parts. happy reading i guess

main masterlist / series masterlist / ao3 / playlist

from the river to the sea, palestine will be free 🇵🇸 this account stands with palestine. the creator of tlou is a zionist, and the second game is largly based on israel/palestine. please, everyone who interacts, educate yourself about the genocide happening right now, and support/donate.

The leaves rustled against Joel’s boots with every step he took. The sun had turned traitor cold, and he couldn’t feel its kiss against his cheek no more. The trees shivered above him in the wind – the only sound for miles except his heavy steps.

Did he still exist, with no one around? Joel had never minded being alone; after the breakout he’d found that he sometimes preferred it. People could be… well, when you’ve seen the worst of humanity, maybe it’s best to leave it behind.

And wasn’t he the worst of humanity? The things he’d done. The people he’d killed, and killed for. The people he’d lost.

But he had to keep going. For Tess. He promised.

Every night as he stared into the flames his thoughts would drift to her – the memories flickering in the fire. They should’ve never gone through that museum – it was supposed to have been empty – they should’ve never left Boston in the first place. Now Tess is gone because of him, him and his stupid plan to find his brother.

And for what? How is he ever gonna find Tommy?

Joel didn’t even know where he was. Nebraska? South-Dakota? Maybe he’d made it to Wyoming and just didn’t know it? Abe had told him ‘Cody Tower’, but Joel hadn’t seen anything other than mother nature for weeks.

Everything had started to look the same. Trees and more trees, a mountain in the distance, a grey and heavy sky above him. He’d been walking for forever. Slowly he moved west– or at least he thought he was. On the days where the sun hung high in the sky and wasn’t shielded behind a cloudy partition, he liked to watch it as it dipped below the earth. As the days turned shorter and shorter, the display of color had started to get more vivid. Joel would watch the light blue turn red and bloody, fiery tongues of flames licking over the horizon while the sharp edges of the mountains, and the triangular shapes of the trees faded into an intense black– like the shape of the mountain and the trees had been cut out with scissors. There wasn’t much to stay alive for anymore– but Joel lived for those few moments where nature painted with fire. Humanity might’ve gone to shit, but the cyclical regularity of mother nature gave Joel a small sense of peace.

But he missed the kiss of the sun against his cheek now. He’d moved into a large forest a few days ago. Tall trees hovered over him like giants and cast shadows down at him. It was colder here than out in the open country, but at least he’d been somewhat shaded from the rain pouring from the grey cover above his head the last few days.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

The sound stopped Joel in his tracks. Muscle memory worked on its own, gripping the shotgun slung over his shoulder. He listened for the sound again, to the steady rhythm echoing through the forest.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

With slow calculated steps Joel walked in the direction of the sound with the shotgun held tightly to his chest, his finger hovered over the trigger. The chopping sound got louder as he closed in on a man. He couldn’t tell his age with the man’s back turned – but he was strong – Joel could tell from how hard the man’s axe hit the tree trunk.

Taking another silent step, Joel got in position, “How ‘bout you slowly turn around and place that axe on the ground.”

Joel’s voice was hoarse after no use, but still cold and calculated as he spoke his order. He could see he’d startled the man, probably thinking he was alone, just like Joel had thought mere minutes ago.

The man obeyed, turning around slowly. He was older than Joel, maybe mid-seventies, maybe older if the wrinkles and creases around his eyes and nose were to be believed. His hair was white as snow matching his unkempt beard. Joel caught his eye. Strong and steady, no trace of fear one would think a man would feel while having a gun pointed at them.

Joel’s grip around the gun tightened. He wasn’t afraid to pull the trigger if that’s where this was headed. The man watched him calmly before he bent his knees, throwing the axe haphazardly on the ground.

“Kick it over here,” Joel commanded again, and the man obeyed, kicking the axe clumsily towards Joel.

Slowly Joel crept closer, gun still pointed at the man. He locked the heel of his shoe against the shaft, dragging the axe behind him and out of the way.

“Hands where I can see ‘em.”

“Are you going to kill me, son?”

The man’s question puzzled Joel. He said it so calmly, like how you’d ask someone to pass the salt.

“That depends on you.” Joel’s answer pulled at the old man’s lips, a small huff of a laugh escaping them.

“Well, you’re the one with the gun. I think it depends on you.”

Joel tightened his grip on the shotgun again – he didn’t know why –to frighten the man? He didn’t seem very frightened.

“Are you alone?” Joel asked.

“Not anymore,” the man answered.

“Don’t be a smartass,” Joel gritted through his teeth, “who you travelin’ with?”

“No one,” the man’s eyes never left Joel, “I live at a farm about a mile away.”

“Take me to it.”

The man walked with a limp Joel noticed. It was barely there, you wouldn’t see it if you didn’t pay attention, but it was there. The man acted tough enough, but his body revealed his weaknesses. It would be easy to kill him, Joel thought, if it came to that.

He followed the man through the trees with his gun pointed at his back. When they reached the end of the forest a clearing revealed itself. They followed a path through a field of, tall but wilted, brown grass until they reached an overgrown gravel road with a fence running along it. Looking out in the distance, Joel could see small spots of white and black wool. The gravel moaned under their feet as they closed in on a small farm. A two-story house sat in the middle of the barnyard where it was surrounded by a barn who’d seen better days, a silo, and a smaller farmhouse – a stable – Joel noticed as they walked closer.

The man trudged up the front stairs of the main farmhouse, a hand on the handrail keeping him steady.

“Put that gun away would you, son? I don’t want you frightening my wife.” The man broke the silence between them, speaking for the first time since they left the woods.

Joel’s grip on his shotgun didn’t loosen. How could he be sure that this man’s ‘wife’ wasn’t some gang of raiders hiding behind the front door? A question he asked the man through gritted teeth when he turned around to look at Joel.

“There’s nothing of the sort around here,” the man said, “we don’t even see any infected.”

When Joel didn’t say anything, and didn’t lower the gun, the man spoke again, “Who are you?”

“Just someone passin’ through,” Joel answered, making the man chuckle.

“You’re something else, passer-througher,” the old man smiled before he turned around again and stepped inside, leaving Joel on the porch alone.

Abandoned outside he lowered his gun slightly. Inside he could hear muffled voices, a deeper one, definitely the old man, and a brighter one, a woman’s voice. He listened, trying to make out their words with no prevail. The man seemed to have spoken the truth up until now. He most definitely lived on this farm – a seemingly normal farm. This man was just someone making an honest living – even after the apocalypse.

Lowering the gun completely, Joel put the safety on before he slung it over his shoulder. Taking a hollowed step towards the front door, movement in the window to the right of him caught his eye. It was there and then it was gone – just a ruffle of blonde curtains. Then, the door opened revealing an elderly woman.

The man’s wife.

“Welcome, traveler,” she greeted, stepping aside to let Joel in.

He passed through the doorway with a “Thank you, ma’am,” never forgetting his manners even after pointing a gun at her husband.

Inside it looked like a picture taken straight out of a Homes & Gardens magazine. The house was cozy, but it was small. He’d been welcomed into what probably used to be a parlor, but now served its purpose as their living room. It was hard to get a read on the house. Not like those open-floor plan houses he’d built too many of back before the outbreak – this was old, maybe hundreds of years old. The floorboard creaked under his shoes as he walked deeper into the living room, the rest of the house locked away like a secret behind three closed doors. The man was seated in a lounge chair by the fireplace, watching Joel with an expression Joel found it hard to decipher.

“Would you like some tea?” the woman asked, “It’s peppermint from our garden.”

Joel turned his head to the woman. She must be around the same age as the old man, Joel thought. He cleared his throat before he answered with a nod, “Thank you, ma’am.”

She pointed to the sofa, urging him to sit down with a smile before she disappeared through one of the doors to what Joel thought must be the kitchen. He felt the old man watching him as he slid his backpack off his shoulders, placing it on the creaky wooden floor behind the sofa. Joel hesitated for just a second when placing the shotgun up against the back, but decided he wasn’t in any imminent danger.

Joel almost groaned as he sat down. He’d been walking for so long, slept on the hard ground for months, he’d almost forgotten what a comfortable chair was. It almost felt surreal, being invited in for tea, like the outbreak had never happened. Here, it was like the time had stood still.

“So,” the man started, “where are you heading to if you’re just ‘passin’ through’?”

Joel cleared his throat again, “I’m lookin’ for my brother,” he answered truthfully, “last I heard he was somewhere in Wyoming.”

“If you’re going to Wyoming, then what you’re doing all the way up here?” The man queried with a chuckle.

Annoyed, Joel grinded his teeth, “Not many signs in the fuckin’ woods are there?” He huffed.

“I guess not,” the man shrugged, “but you’ve made a heck of a detour… where did you come from? Texas? You sound it.”

“Boston.”

“Boston?” the man didn’t hide his surprise, breathing out chuckles in disbelief, “I’ll give it to you, that’s one long trip.”

Joel only huffed in agreement, turning his head from the man to the window overlooking the barnyard.

“Well,” the man broke the growing silence between the two men, “you’re more than welcome to stay for dinner and for the night– you look like you could need a hot meal and a warm bed.”

Joel’s instinct was to say no, but before he could the front door opened, revealing a young woman. You.

You stopped dead in your tracks as you laid your eyes on Joel, “Oh!”.

The door slammed behind you. Under your arm you were carrying a metal bucket filled with apples. You were beautiful, young, but still beautiful – Joel couldn’t deny it.

“This is…” The man paused.

“Joel.” He cleared his throat, introducing himself, “Joel Miller.”

“Mr. Miller is just passing through– he’s looking for his brother,” the old man explained to you.

You nodded at the information, sat the bucket down before you reached out a hand for Joel to take, introducing yourself. Your hand in his was warm and soft while his own dwarfed yours, rough and calloused. He couldn’t help but think about what his hands had done, the people they’d killed. He shouldn’t be tainting yours, painting them red. Joel quickly drew his hand back, balling it into a fist at his side.

Joel looked over at the old man, “Your daughter?” he asked with a tilt of his head in your direction.

“Oh, no,” the man answered with a playful smile, “You’re not the first person ‘passin’ through’ who’s shown up on our doorstep.”

The door to the kitchen opened to reveal the old woman with a teapot in her hand, and a stacked tower of teacups in the other.

“Let me help you Alma,” you said, taking the teacups from the old woman’s hand before placing them on the table; one in front of Joel, a second in front of the old man, “Here you go Arthur,” and a third next to Joel.

“Did you also want some tea, sweetie?” Alma asked you as she placed the steaming teapot on the table.

“Yes, please, but I can grab a cup myself– sit down,” you smiled and padded the old woman’s shoulder, then you grabbed the bucket of apples and disappeared into the kitchen.

Alma started pouring the tea as a silence fell over the room. A small, “Thank you, ma’am,” left Joel’s lips as she moved on to pouring tea for her husband.

“So,” the man started before taking a sip of his tea, “what do you say Mr. Miller? You staying for the night?”

That night as he laid in a real bed for the first time in months, Joel had trouble falling asleep. He wasn’t used to this. Hadn’t been used to it for a while. His belly full, soft fabric against his skin, feeling warm, and clean. The old couple had offered him one of the two bedrooms on the first floor, the two mystery doors in the living room now revealed. Laying in his new bed he tried not to think about who he was sharing a wall with.

You.

You were something else, helpful and kind. Everything Joel hadn’t seen since the outbreak. At the dinner table you’d asked him questions and listened intently – even when his answers were short and brisk. There was a glimmer in your eye, and it touched something inside him he hadn’t felt in a long time. But you were young, mid to late twenties he reckoned, maybe a little older– anyways, he shouldn’t be harboring anything for you, it wouldn’t be right. Especially now, now that he’d agreed to stay.

After the dinner plates had been cleared, Arthur had folded a big map out on the table. “Here are we now,” he’d pointed a finger at the map. Montana. Southern Montana to be precise. “I’ll give it to you Mr. Miller, if you’ve made it this far on your own you probably won’t have any trouble making your way down south to Wyoming.”

“But?” Joel watched the grimace pulling at the old man’s face.

“But,” Arthur had said, “Winter is just around the corner and… well, going back out there in the wilderness alone during our winters is a dead trap, I’ll tell you that much.”

Joel had let the man go on about the far below freezing temperatures, the heavy snow, and the tough wind, but Joel wasn’t stupid. He knew the winters up here were harsh. It wasn’t even winter yet, but every day he’d felt the temperature drop lower and lower, and the last few of nights he’d even had to get a fire going, against his better judgement.

So– the deal was: Joel would stay over the winter. Just for the winter, he’d been adamant on not staying longer. He’d get a place to stay, a warm bed to sleep in, and food in his belly on one condition – he’d help out on the farm.

The fire crackled loudly, red tongues licking up the chimney as Joel fed it another log. He watched as the fire caught in the new log, devouring it quickly and with no mercy. It was really starting to heat up now. A small flicker of pride sparked in Joel chest. He’d always been good at building a fire. It was one of those things, Joel had come to learn, where you needed to pay attention, to have patience.

When he was younger, he’d take Tommy out camping sometimes, just the two of them. Mostly they’d go during the summer; Tommy wasn’t a fan of sleeping outside in the cold, though cold had meant something different back then in Texas. But Joel remembered one time he’d managed to convince him to go with him. It was right after he’d gotten his driver’s license, and his parents had given him a beat-up truck for his birthday – for sharing – they’d told him, “You need to give your little brother a ride when he needs it!” Joel wasn’t exactly thrilled about his future as Tommy’s private driver, but it didn’t mean he didn’t love his brother.

A few weeks into October he’d managed to convince Tommy to go camping. They’d packed the truck with their tents, sleeping bags, and fishing equipment, before they’d gotten on the road, driving to a lake where they knew there were fish to catch. Finding a place to camp was always difficult with Tommy. They’d parked Joel’s truck at the edge of the forest before they’d followed a hiking trail. Joel was convinced they’d walked at least three quarters of the way around the lake before they found a spot good enough for Tommy.

It had to be flat, but also shielded. There couldn’t be too many rocks, but there also had to be enough rocks to build a hearth. Tommy wanted it to be private, but he also wanted it to be open enough that he could see if someone would stumble upon their camp. Joel knew not to argue with him when he got like that, opting instead for a defeated, “Whatever.”

Setting up camp went relatively easy. They’d worked together building the tents, collecting rocks for their fireplace, and even managed to find a fallen tree to use as a bench. When the night slowly started to cover them in darkness, Tommy decided to get the fire going. Joel watched him work the logs into a pile as he started on filleting the fish they’d just caught.

“You’re doin’ it wrong,” he’d told his brother, “You’re suffocatin’ it.” He’d washed his hands in the lake, ridding himself of the slimy smell of fish, before crouching down next to Tommy.

The fire was one big bowl of smoke, and Joel caught himself wondering what messages Tommy must’ve been sending to the heavens. He removed some of the heavier logs, and the fire could breathe.

“See?” he’d looked at Tommy, “It just needed air.” Joel had shifted the smaller pieces of wood around and not long after the fire was alive.

That Joel, that green boy who liked to take his little brother camping, that Joel didn’t know how much those skills would come in handy in a few years when the world would get turned upside down.

“Do you have any mittens, Joel?”

Your question pulled Joel from his memories. He turned his head slightly, meeting your gaze from where you were huddled up in the corner of the couch. You looked cozy, but he knew you weren’t. The house was cold this morning, outside a thin layer of frost had stuck to the grass during the night. It was early too, the sun not having climbed high enough yet to peek over the mountains. You looked tired where you sat, clad in a wool sweater with a blanket pulled over your knees. Under the blanket Joel remembered you were still wearing your pajama pants, and in your hand you held a steaming cup of tea, peppermint, Joel knew, his own cup abandoned on the coffee table.

“What?” Joel answered, eyebrows furrowed.

“Do you have any mittens, Joel?” you repeated softly, like the way people tended to speak in the mornings, like they were afraid they’d wake up the world.

His calves were starting to burn from the strain of being crouched in front of the fireplace for a moment too long, and he tried his best to hide his groan, biting his teeth together as he stood to his feet, knees cracking loudly.

“Um, no,” he said, confused about your question.

“I’ll knit you a pair then,” you smiled before putting your cup down next to his.

“That’s… that ain’t necessary,” Joel hurried, but you waved him off.

“Sure it is,” you smiled again, much to Joel’s annoyance. He didn’t deserve your kindness, but you gave it away like it cost nothing. “If you’re gonna be helping Arthur out in the woods this winter, you need some mittens.”

Joel watched as you got up from your home on the couch and vanished into your bedroom. A moment later you appeared in the doorway with a basket under your arm.

“Also…” you gave him another smile as you sat back down again, placing the basket in your lap. It was close to overflowing with yarn, balls of black and white in varying sizes peeking over the top, the homespun ends fraying against the rough edges of the basket. “I’ll have something to do during the evenings,” you winked before you rummaged through the basket and fished out a measuring tape.

Joel shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he watched you. Mittens? Joel can’t remember if he’s ever owned a pair of mittens. Gloves, sure, but mittens?

You patted the cushion next to you, urging him to sit down, kind smile hanging off your lips like always. Sitting down, he folded his hands in his lap, suddenly very aware of how close you were sitting. It wasn’t like he hadn’t sat next to you before; he’d been here a few weeks now, and he was starting to know you, but for some reason, this felt different. Maybe it was the early morning, the quiet house, or the fact that Alma and Arthur were still sleeping upstairs, but it felt like it was just the two of you, alone, and Joel didn’t know how to feel about it.

You shifted towards him, the blanket slipping slightly off the couch with your movement, in your hands you held the measuring tape while you looked at him expectantly.

When Joel didn’t move, a smile quirked at the corner of your mouth before you grabbed one of his hands resting in his lap. You uncurled his fingers slowly, one by one, making Joel hold his breath.

“I need to see how big I need to make them,” you whispered, holding his hand very gently.

Joel’s heart hammered in his chest. Your hand was warm and soft, like the last time he’d touched you as you’d introduced yourself to him. Joel didn’t dare look at your face, or he’d say something stupid, so he didn’t. He looked at your joined hands, his brain trying to remember the last time someone had held his hand as gently as you did, your thumb running over the back of it soothingly.

He can’t remember. His hands are always empty.

With your other hand, a finger curled around the measuring tape, you slipped it around his wrist before leaning closer to look at the numbers.

“Is this too tight you think, or do you want them to be looser?” You asked through your lashes, eyes sparkling in the low morning light.

Joel cleared his throat, “No, that’s fine.”

“Okay,” you nodded, slipping the measuring tape from his wrist to write down the measurement. He hadn’t noticed your notebook until now. It was a little rough around the edges from use, the spined cracked and the paper a little yellow. Placing the pen in the seam, you grabbed the measuring tape again.

Loosening your grip on his hand you placed it over the thick of your thigh. Joel drew a quick breath, his heartbeat hammering in his ears, under his hand he could feel the warmth of you through the soft flannel.

You continued taking your measurements. You didn’t say anything, so neither did Joel, but you looked up at him through your lashes sometimes, and Joel thought that maybe the most useful thing one can do with empty hands, is hold on.

The creak of the stair made Joel jump, and like he’d been burned his hand retracted on reflex, as Arthur’s heavy steps got closer.

“Morning,” Arthur greeted as he ducked his head through the door to the living room.

“Mornin’,” Joel mumbled, head lowered as he gathered his hands in his lap.

“Good morning!” you smiled, always with that kind smile, “Did you sleep well, Arthur?” you got up from your seat before grabbing your teacup to follow Arthur into the kitchen, leaving the yarn and Joel.

Taking a deep breath, Joel pinched the top of his nose. He needed to get it together. You were just being your regular kind self; your soft touch was nothing more than that. Standing to his feet, Joel grabbed his own cup, trudging into the kitchen.

In the kitchen Arthur sat in his usual spot at the dining table, the chair closest to the window. “I need to get on with this barn soon,” Joel heard him say as he sat down opposite him. “It’s gonna fall apart come spring if we get as much snow as we did last year.”

Joel tried his best not to look at you as he heard you hum. You were stood at the kitchen counter slicing the bread Alma had baked yesterday, readying breakfast. Instead, Joel opted to gaze down into his teacup, where the peppermint leaves had all gathered at the bottom.

“Um,” Joel cleared his throat, “what needs fixin’?”

“What doesn’t need fixing in that barn?” Arthur sighed, peeling his eyes from out the window to Joel.

“I can uh,” Joel eyes shifted quickly to you before he cleared his throat again, “I can take a look at it, if ya want?”

Arthur’s eyebrows met in a furrow as he looked at Joel.

“I used to be a contractor,” Joel explained with a shrug, before taking a last cold sip of his tea.

“So, you know a thing or two about buildings I reckon?” Arthur asked.

“Yeah, well I used to,” Joel leaned back in his chair.

“Well, that would be very helpful Joel– I’d appreciated it!” Arthur smiled before leaning back in his chair making room for you as you started setting the table. Joel gave him a short nod in return, trying to fight the urge to look at you as you placed the food on the table.

Arthur had downplayed the state of the barn – it was a mess – it was dangerous, and had Joel told him as much. But it was nothing Joel couldn’t fix, as long as he had the right supplies, fortunately for him the forest would provide them with what they needed.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

The axe dug a deep wound into the bark with every swing. Joel’s breath was heavy, and his arms ached, but it was a welcomed form of tiredness. A month into it, he was starting to get used to the work. There was something so satisfying about manual labor, of using his hands, of making something – he’d almost forgotten.

The routine of the work felt good. Waking up at dawn, then breakfast, he could use his body for something useful for the first time in twenty years and end the day with a warm meal for supper. This new temporary life was simple, but it was strangely normal.

Originally, Joel was only helping Arthur out in the woods for firewood through the winter– but now with the barn, they’d changed course. The last few days they’d started to become more selective with the trees; looking for the tallest and straightest ones that would fall safely.

A frozen sky hovered over the men as they worked. This morning when Joel had woken up, the thinnest layer of snow had fallen like powdered sugar during the night, turning the world bright with winter. Earlier in the week the frost had perched on the farm, and Joel had known winter was closing in. He’d lost count of the days and months passing while on his own, but Arthur had told him it was late October.

“It will start snowing properly soon,” Arthur said, breaking the silence between them.

Joel hummed before taking a bite of his packed lunch. They’d worked all morning – Joel felling the trees and Arthur cleaning them up and removing the branches. Now they were sat on a fresh tree stump each, their first break of the day.

“I have an old logging sled in the barn– used to be my father’s,” Arthur explained, “I think we should leave the trees here until the snow gets deep enough for the sled and have the horses pull them back to the farm.”

“Fine by me,” Joel took another bite of his lunch.

“The logs will have to dry out over the winter,” Arthur mused, “Then come spring we can start the repairs on the barn.”

Spring. If everything goes according to plan, Joel won’t be here come spring. He needed to find Tommy– he couldn’t, and he wasn’t gonna stay on the farm for any longer than necessary. He’d already decided– when the snow finally started to melt, Joel was gone.

Joel hummed, a non-committed answer. It was easier that way, to not get Arthur’s hopes up. He liked Arthur, he was a good man, a hard worker even in his old age, and silent when Joel wanted him to be. Joel liked Alma too, but her age shined through more easily than Arthur’s. Joel couldn’t help but notice her repeating herself more often and forgetting where she put things. It made life harder for you, Joel could see it. Your responsibilities were already a lot to handle as you took care of the animals mostly by yourself, but as Joel had discovered Alma starting to struggle with the housework, he’d noticed you starting to help her more often. In Joel’s mind it was unfair to you, but it wasn’t like he could blame Alma for growing older, in this world it was a feat.

Still, he’d try his best to help you when he could, like doing the dishes after dinner as you dried them off and put them away. The first few times you were both quiet, it was strangely intimate, only the sound of splashing water filling the space between you. One night he'd gotten brave, breaking the comfortable silence and asked you ‘What you thinkin’ about, sweetheart?’ You’d looked at him with big eyes, searching his own for something, but before he could figure out what it was, you’d answered him with a shrug. It was unlike you, unlike you to be this silent, but Joel didn’t push. The next night the silence persisted, and he’d thought adding ‘Sweetheart’ had been too much, but then the next night you’d sighed quietly and whispered, “I’m worried about Alma.”

Looking down at the mittens in his lap, the guilt gnawed at him. The look of worry in your eyes, Arthur’s hopeful wishes, and Alma’s aging. Joel couldn’t have anything tying him to this place. He was supposed to find his brother.

Suddenly, a black and orange butterfly landed on Joel’s knee. Joel stopped breathing, body going rigid as he tried not to move. How the hell was this butterfly still alive? It sat quiet on his knee, wings slowly retracting and widening behind it. Memories pushed its way to the forefront of Joel’s mind then.

Sarah. Another year had gone by, and the thought made his chest tighten.

“That’s quite a sight at this time of year,” he heard Arthur say, “Beautiful, aren’t they?”

“Y-yeah,” Joel stammered out an answer, afraid his voice would scare it away.

The longer Joel watched the butterfly he found his guilt started to slowly melt away. It’s okay, dad. It was like the rustling of the trees carried her voice with them. You’re on the right path.

“I can do that f’you want, sweetheart.”

Joel’s boots creaked under him as he walked across the barnyard. You looked up at the sound of his voice, smile blossoming across your face as you tightened your grip on the shovel.

“It’s alright,” you said with a grunt as you picked up more snow, adding it to the growing pile, “Good for me to get some physical work in.”

Joel nodded as you straightened up, hand going to your hip while the other leaned on the shovel, your heavy breath curled in small plumes out of your mouth. You took him in for a second, eyes flickering over his form before they fell on the rabbits hanging over Joel’s shoulder.

“Where’d you get those?” you asked, and Joel shrugged.

“Shot ‘em,” he said simply, “they walked right by me as I was choppin’– seemed too good to pass up.”

“Not for the rabbits,” you muttered, and Joel had to fight the urge to smile.

“You a vegetarian or somethin’?” he asked with a single raised eyebrow, and you waved him off.

“No,” you said pointedly, but a teasing lilt lingered, “Just stating a fact... we don’t eat a lot of rabbit around here, is all.”

Joel nodded slightly; it made sense. He knew there was a gun in the house, but it was a revolver– too small to do any real hunting, and Joel didn’t even know if there were bullets for it. So, Joel didn't ask further. Lucky for him, you did.

“So, you just shot those?” you asked, a frown pulling at your eyebrows, “Aren’t they fast?”

Joel made a nonchalant sort of face. “Ain’t that hard when you can aim straight.”

“Well, how do you aim straight?”

“You learn to shoot.”

You let out a small laugh, one that pulled at Joel’s lips. “And how did you go about learning that?”

Joel felt his smile drop, the leather strap of his shotgun weighing heavy on his shoulder, “Practice.”

You didn’t seem to notice the change in his demeanor as you dug the shovel into the snow, so it stood by itself like a watchman. “Can you teach me?” you asked, the snow creaking under your shoes as you took a few steps closer.

His lips pulled at the corner, “No.”

Your eyes widened with disappointment, eyebrows pulling together in a frown as you asked, “Why?”

“Nothin’ good ever comes from it,” Joel shrugged.

“Okay,” you huffed a laugh, “that’s sinister.” Then you narrowed your eyes at him, gearing up for an argument no doubt with the way you rested your hand on your hip. “What if I also wanted to go hunting?” you posed, and Joel shook his head.

“That ain’t happenin’, sweetheart.”

“Okay, but now you’ve brought us rabbits– and what if I end up really liking rabbit?” you bit down on your bottom lip, unconsciously showing off you own rabbit teeth.

Cute.

“Then I’ll shoot as many rabbits as you want,” Joel countered with a teasing smile before tightening his hold on the rope slung over his other shoulder (the one he’d tied the rabbits to), and walked towards the kitchen door at the back of the farmhouse.

He heard you huff in defeat behind him, your creaky steps following him up the stairs and inside. Walking into the kitchen Joel placed the rabbits on the table before he pulled at his mittens, stripped off his jacket, and hung it neatly over the back of one of the dining chairs. Grabbing one of the rabbits he brought it to the kitchen counter to start dressing it, fighting the urge to turn his head as he heard you enter the room.

“Come on, Joel,” you whined, “Why won’t you teach me?”

“Told you already,” Joel replied, “Nothin’ good comes from learnin’ to shoot things.”

Shifting the rabbit around on the counter he reached for the butcher knife in the knife block.

“You know, that’s a really stupid way of saying you don’t want to spend the time,” you told him, your voice closer now as you leaned against the kitchen counter.

“When exactly did ya hear me sayin’ I don't wanna spend time with you?” Joel asked, his eyebrows pulled together in a frown.

“You won’t teach me to shoot,” you teased, and Joel could hear the smile in your voice.

Joel huffed out a laugh, “Damn right I won’t.”

He heard you let out a whiney huff, before you turned on your heel, muttering out a curse under your breath when you accidently bumped your hip into the counter and Joel couldn’t help the smile teasing at his lips. You sat down with an overdramatic sigh, and Joel still didn’t look at you – he knew he’d cave eventually if he did, say yes against his better judgement – so he kept his eyes on the knife in his hand.

“How’s Arthur?” Joel asked as he worked.

“I don’t know,” you sighed, “The same I think– Alma was up there looking after him last time I checked.”

This time Joel allowed himself to look at you. You sat sideways on the wooden chair, legs crossed and tucked under your chair with your head hanging, eyes glued to your lap. Gone were the teasing, and gone were the smiles.

“He’ll be fine,” Joel said, his eyes back on the rabbit, “it’s just a cold.”

“Yeah… but he’s been getting sick a lot more often,” your voice was low, like you didn’t want them to hear you upstairs, “you can’t help but think the worst you know?”

Joel put the knife down and moved over to the sink. He quickly washed his hands before grabbing a towel to dry off, twisting it in his hands as he approached you. Placing the towel on the counter, he hesitated for a moment as he watched you, watched the way you twisted your hands in your lap with no sense of purpose or intent. It was like the worry dripped down your body. Pushing off the counter Joel knelt in front of you, a grunt escaped him as his knees clicked loudly, his balance slightly off on his haunches.

“Shit,” Joel huffed out a laugh, and you followed. Your palms landed on his knees to keep him steady, warmth spreading like jolting electricity.

“Sweetheart, I’ll tell you what–” he stopped himself when you looked at him through your lashes, trying to ignore the way your eyes focused on his mouth as he spoke. “’s just a cold, he’ll be up ‘n walkin’ tomorrow– man’s got gumption.”

“Yeah?” your eyes flickered upwards, meeting his.

Suddenly, under your gaze Joel felt brave. His hand moved on its own accord, cupping your cheek in his hand. He let his thumb ghost over your skin, still cold under his fingertips from being outside, but warming under his touch.

“Yeah, sweetheart.”

You didn’t say anything for a moment, you only watched him with glimmering eyes, like you were under a spell. Maybe he was too.

“Still,” you sighed, “Would be better if I could pick up more of the slack around here... Arthur does a lot, and I wish I could do more to support them.”

“Like what? You take care of the animals all by yourself– that’s more than enough.”

“Well, I could learn to shoot rabbits,” you told him, before the corners of your mouth pulled into a pleased smirk as he rolled his eyes at you.

Reluctantly, he pulled his hand away, making a move to stand when you grabbed his wrist, stopping him.

“I’m kidding, Joel,” you smiled, before a more serious look washed over your features. “I mean it’s… It’s gonna be empty here without you,” you said, “I’m starting to really like having you here, Joel.”

Joel turned his hand to rest the back of it on your thigh, your hand fitting in his.

“I uh,” his eyes fixated on your joined hands, then he cleared his throat, “I’ll stay as long as you need me to. I’m not leavin’ you alone, sweetheart.”

Your eyes lit up at his words, smile growing large across your face. Joel’s heart drummed in his chest as your eyes flickered down to his mouth again.

“Thank you,” you said in a low voice, and then you did something Joel thought was gonna make his heart stop beating. You leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. It bloomed against his skin, and made wings flutter against the walls of his stomach.

“You’re a good man, Joel Miller,” you whispered before you pulled away, looking at him with kindness in your eyes.

If only you knew, Joel thought, if only you knew the blood on his hands.

He couldn’t look at you when you looked at him like that. Like you believed your own words. So, he cleared his throat awkwardly and stood to his feet, his knees clicking as your hand slipped from his movement. He walked back to the counter, fingers grabbing the towel with no other purpose than to calm himself down.

After placing the towel back where it usually hung, he grabbed the knife again, turning his attention back to the rabbit, allowing himself to steal a few glances at you where you sat looking out the kitchen window.

“Hey, uh,” Joel broke the growing silence after a few minutes, “how ‘bout rabbit stew for lunch?”

Your head snapped to look at him as he spoke, a smile ghosting over your lips as you said, “I’ll go get some vegetables from the cellar.”

Joel wouldn’t necessarily call himself a good cook – he wouldn’t even call himself a cook in the first place. Back before the outbreak he’d been forced to learn the basics as a fresh single dad, but he’d never been able to provide Sarah with gourmet meals very often, and when Sarah had gotten older, he’d been embarrassed to say that her food was always better than his – eggshells and all. One summer he’d bought himself a nice grill– one of those way too expensive gas grills with too many fancy accessories for Joel to regularly use. He’d had a job that ended up paying well, some rich guy’s mansion that needed renovating, and decided to treat himself for once. That summer all their meals had come from that grill, well mostly, and afterwards Joel looked at himself as a pretty good griller, if nothing else.

You on the other hand, you knew what you were doing, it was clear in the effortlessly way you moved beside him as you got the vegetables ready for the stew. Joel seared the meat to the best of his abilities, making sure it was properly browned on both sides before setting it aside. After that, it was clear that you were in charge, and Joel let you boss him around and tell him what to do. It made his heart warm around the edges, watching how you put so much love and care into everything you did.

An hour later you finally sat down to eat; two hearty bowls of stew each as light snowflakes covered the world outside. You’d let the pot simmer on low over the heat as you’d wanted to bring up a bowl for Arthur and Alma later.

“So…” you started, watching as Joel dug into his bowl, “How’s the stew?”

“’s good!” Joel nodded through a mouthful, and he wasn’t lying. It was good, really good in fact.

“Yeah?” you bubbled through a smile, before you dug into your own bowl to see if he’d spoken the truth. He watched as you face brightened as you chewed, nodding your head to confirm his verdict.

“I think I really like rabbit, Joel,” you said through a teasing smile, and Joel couldn’t fight the chuckle from spilling.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, teasing smile not going anywhere, “So… when are you teaching me to shoot?”

“Shut up.”

The living room was quiet, safe for the cracking of the fire. It had almost died out when Joel had stepped out of his room. He’d been twisting and turning again, counting sheep, but nothing had been able to pull him under the blanket of sleep. He was plumb tired too, that was the worst part. The embers hummed with a low light, and with a small stick Joel had spread them out before placing a small piece of wood on top. No less than a minute later the fire fed on the log.

Taking a seat and leaning back in the lounge chair, Joel looked out the window with tired eyes. The moon looked down on him, big and bright, it shone its white light over the barnyard like a spotlight. His thoughts were clouded over as he gazed up. A billion little lights turning into bright spheres in the sky.

On nights like this, Joel felt like he was barely breathing at all.

His thoughts didn’t stray for long before they found you again. Lately, you were always on his mind. He thought about how you’d looked mere hours ago, when he’d sat in this same exact chair, only this time it was facing towards the sofa and not the window.

You’d been sat curled up in the corner, blanket thrown over your lap with a book in hand. You’d told him you’d read all the books in the house already, but it didn’t stop you from coming back to your favorites. Joel had been reading his own book, an old western he’d found in the bookshelf in the upstairs hallway a few days ago. It was entertaining, but not enough to hold his attention. He found his eyes had a mind of their own, slipping over the top to steal a peek at you as you read, feeling a smile tug at his lips at the barely there furrow of concentration between your eyebrows.

“Joel.”

Joel perked up at the whisper of his name, the memories fading like ripples in still water. He looked around the room –nothing. He sat quietly in his chair for a moment, listening, as his heartbeat quickened in his chest. It had been your voice, hadn’t it? Or was he starting to lose it? His eyes fell to the door of your bedroom. He hadn’t noticed it until now, but he could see it was slightly ajar.

“Joel.”

The voice was louder this time, almost strained, but it was yours. A thousand scenarios flashed before his eyes then at your tone. Was there someone in your room? Were you in danger? Seconds later Joel crossed the room, a mix of fear and protectiveness overcoming him.

Leaning up against your door he listened for the intruder as he readied himself. The soft crinkling of your sheets combined with your strained whimpers was all it took for him to push the door open, fearing the worst.

And…

It was empty, your room, you were alone. Joel immediately felt stupid– the only intruder here was him.

He was about to step out, embarrassed at his actions, when he heard it again, his name falling from your lips. It was all Joel needed to finally take in your body, squirming under your sheets, still asleep. The realization of what he’d just walked in on made Joel’s eyes widen.

Laying on your back, the duvet had slipped down your torso from your movements to reveal the thin t-shirt you wore to bed. Like this he could see your perked nipples through the fabric, as your chest quickly rose and fell, making Joel’s imagination start to run wild.

“Joel.”

In his pajama pants, Joel could feel his cock come alive from the soft whimper that left your lips along with his name. He couldn’t move, like some farm elf had glued his feet to the floor while he wasn’t looking. He watched as you scrunched your face together in pleasure, another whimper falling from your lips, and all the blood in Joel’s body rushed down south.

As if the soundwaves from your voice had broken against him, he took a step backwards, and then another, and another until he crossed the threshold of your door. He tried his best to be quiet, to not wake you and have you catch him in your room in the middle of the night.

The image of you squirming under your sheets, dreaming of him, didn’t leave him as he closed the door to his own room. With a sigh his head fell against the door, a strong hand gliding down his front to hover over his aching cock.

Joel Miller was no saint, but what he was doing– what he was about to do, was bad.

“Shit,” he quietly hissed, running his hand up his clothed cock. He hadn’t touched himself properly in a long time, not since he left Boston.

His cock reacted to his touch, growing harder and harder until he couldn’t take it anymore. He hooked his finger around the hem of his pajama pants, pulling them down to the thick of his thigh, freeing himself. He hissed at the cold air hitting his length, as it bopped with the movement of being freed. Bringing his hand to his mouth, Joel spat, before he wrapped his spit-soaked hand around himself.

His mind found you again as he started stroking himself, slowly at first, pumping himself with a practiced hand, squeezing himself at the base before bringing his hand up to thumb at the tip. Joel couldn’t get the way you sounded out of his mind. Couldn’t forget how you were squirming in your bed, dreaming of him. Couldn’t shake the thought of pulling those moans and whimpers from you with his hands, and his mouth, and with his cock.

“Fuck.”

Joel tried to be quiet, but he couldn’t fight the moan from slipping from his lips. Fuck, he wanted you. He wanted his hands all over you. Closing his eyes his mouth dropped open as he imagined what he was dying to do to you.

How much he’d wanted to help you out of your t-shirt, run his hands over your breasts and tease your nipples. Take his time to pull those moans and whimpers from your soft lips as he teased you with kisses down your body, down the valley of your breasts, your tummy, down to you to your–

Another low moan fell from Joel’s lips. He squeezed himself tighter as he jerked himself off, precum pearling at the tip, and slipping down his length, mixing with his spit.

The sound of the slick rhythm of his hand filled his bedroom as he increased the pace of his strokes. He had to bite down on his lip to strangle a groan when thoughts of getting between your legs, spreading them open and getting his mouth on you filled his head. He fantasized about how you’d taste falling apart on his tongue–Fuck, how you’d sound falling apart around his cock.

His eyes fell shut as he fisted himself faster. Joel could feel his orgasm quickly building, coiling tight in his tummy. With his free hand he cupped his balls, and then he couldn’t help but imagine it was you, a picture of you on your knees before him flashed behind his eyelids, your tongue lapping at his balls while your hand pumped his cock.

“Shit.”

With a strained groan, thick ropes of cum spilled over his knuckles and down his length, coating him in his release. His breath came out ragged, as he continued his strokes, milking himself of the rest of his release.

Fuck.

His cock softened in his hand as he calmed down from his high. With a quiet groan he pushed himself off the door, looking around his room for something to clean himself up with.

The guilt of what he’d done washed over him quickly, settling in his chest like a heavy weight. You were so young, and beautiful, and Joel just an old man. He shouldn’t want you like this, shouldn’t want you this much.

Climbing under the covers, Joel couldn’t shake his thoughts of you, of you dreaming about him in your bed, about your smiles, and your touch. A supercut of you rolling like a tape in his minds eye. A supercut of you bundled up under a blanket on the sofa, knitting him his mittens. Of you, your own knitted hat pulled tightly down over your ears as you stepped out into the snow to check on the animals. Of the way you’d looked at him for the first time, with the bucket of apples under your arm, and the sweet taste of them as you’d offered him one later, after dinner.

Finally, Joel could breathe.

next part -> here! i hope someone liked this? if you did a comment, reply or an ask is always welcome and they make me super happy <3 other than that thank you for reading!!

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fanfic #joel miller smut #joel miller angst #joel miller fluff #tlou smut #tlou fanfiction #the last of us smut #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal

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holdmytesseract · 7 months ago

Text

moodboard by @chennqingg | divider by @fictive-sl0th

Biker!Daryl Dixon x fem!Reader | No Outbreak AU

Warnings for this Chapter: alcohol, smoking, thirst, flirting? Daryl (yes, he's a warning and OOC), suggestive smut? brief mention of an accident and loss of parents

Word Count: almost 2.5k

a/n: Enjoy the kick-off into my new series! 🍾 I hope you're gonna love this as much as I do! 🙏🏼

Also, we got a few guest appearances of some familiar faces...

《M a s t e r l i s t》

《 Chapter Two 》

Chapter One...

... in which you stumble upon a handsome biker - twice - and discover a new side of yourself.

《 musical inspiration 》

I recommend listening to this song before you read this chapter - if you wish.

Get your motor runnin'

Head out on the highway

Lookin' for adventure

'Born To Be Wild' by Steppenwolf

Life on a ranch wasn't always easy.

Life on a ranch a day after a storm, which caused a lot of damage, was even less easy. It honestly sucked – at least that was what you thought. The whole day after was only spent with getting things right again, cleaning up, clearing fallen trees out of the way, mostly fixing fences, and catching eloped cattle and horses. It was exhausting and incredibly tiring. But once all the work was done, you often found yourself on a ride out with your palomino Mustang stallion Arrow in order to take some time off and relax. Just like on this pleasant Saturday in spring...

The surprisingly pleasant warm Montana sun was shining down on you, as you rode down the mostly untrafficked road; past endless meadows and fields - always following the Yellowstone River. It was quiet and peaceful; all you could hear were the sounds of nature and the click-clacking of Arrow's hooves - until a rather disturbing... noise cut through the air and urging to your ears.

Motorcycles.

It was a rare thing that even cars drove down that road; trucks even less and now bikes? You scrunched your nose and gently guided Arrow to leave the road and continue the journey through the meadow.

The sounds of engines got closer and closer, until you saw about five or six bikes pulling up beside you in the corner of your eyes.

Must be a biker group or something...

They slowed down; almost coming to an halt beside you. "Hey!" A voice called suddenly out, causing you to stop Arrow in his movements and look to your left. One of the bikers had pulled off his sunglasses and was looking up at you; both feet planted firmly on the ground beneath him. Muscular arms led to gloved hands, which held on tightly to the handle grip; sunglasses dangling between deft fingers.

You adjusted the cowboy hat on your head; looking down to meet the man's - admittedly - stunning blue-grey eyes.

"Uh, hey," you called back. "Can I help you guys out?" The biker nodded. "Hope so. We got a lil' lost on our way," he explained in a very thick southern accent; voice a little muffled by his black helmet. You shrugged your shoulders; smiling. "Well, I can try. Where were you guys heading?" "Planned ta go to Billings, but kinda landed 'ere." You nodded; still smiling. "Ah, I see. Should've took route 94. This one won't lead you to much. You need to circle back and drive past Miles City."

The man - most likely leader of the biker group nodded. "How far from 'ere ta Billings?" "About 140 miles. If you're lucky, you can make it in two and a half hours." "A'right," the man nodded and put on his sunglasses again. "Thank ya." You gave him another smile. "No problem."

He gave you a last look, before he revved the engine of his bike and signalled his group to circle back. They followed his command and off they went. Your gaze followed them for a moment, before you gently nudged Arrow's sides. "C'mon, buddy. Let's head home. It's almost time for dinner."

You and Arrow made your way back to the Willow Creek ranch - owned and run by your aunt and uncle. Having lost both your parents when you were small due to a car accident, you and your older sister - Tess grew up on the ranch and were working there. Well, Tess longer than you; given the fact that you finished college not that long ago.

After taking care of your animal best friend, you joined your family for dinner.

"You coming later with me, sis?" You swallowed down the remaining food in your mouth and looked over to your big sister. "Where to?" She rolled her eyes in return, but smiled. "You know where, Y/N..." You sighed; poking around in your peas. "Tess... How often have I told you that-" "This isn't your thing, I know... But you have to try it first, right? How can you say you don't like it, if you never tried?"

You grumbled under your breath. Unfortunately, was Tess right.

"Yes, you should really accompany your sister, Y/N," acknowledged your aunt suddenly; agreeing with her. "You barely leave the ranch, honey. It will do you good." You sighed, but for the first time gave in; tired of all the constant discussions. "Alright, fine. I'll go with you - but if I don't like it, I'll leave immediately!" "Yess!" Your sister cheered. "You'll love it, I promise - but yeah, fine." You scoffed. "We'll see about that."

Partying and alcohol had never been one of your high interests and certainly not on your bucket list - yet, here you were standing now in front of the best bar in Miles City - according to your sister; located at the outskirts of the city... 'The Rowdy Racoon'.

You sighed; eyes directed at the building, while Tess just giggled. "I can't believe I'm doing this..." You moaned; already regretting your decision. Your sister was quick to grab your hand, "C'mon, sis... Loosen up a little and have some fun! It's Saturday night, for God's sake!" before you were able to cop out. You groaned again, but let yourself get dragged towards the entrance of the bar; past several vehicles and over the large porch, on which several men and women stood with drinks and cigarettes in hands; talking, laughing and having fun.

Loud music urged to your ears as you stepped inside. 'Born To Be Wild' by Steppenwolf - and just in that very moment, you felt like there wasn't a more fitting song on this whole planet for the scenery you walked in...

The bar was almost filled to the brim with people. Some of them were sitting at the large counter in the middle. Others were seated on some tables all around the big room. The rest of them was dancing, playing pool or tried their luck at the Pinball machines. It was loud, wild and crazy.

You hadn't even the chance to look fully around, since your sister dragged you further on to the bar counter. "Time for a drink, sis!" She announced in a sing-song voice; ordering two Whiskey Cola's. "We'll start slow," Tess said with a smirk; handing you the glass. You gave her a small smile. "Thanks." She clinked her glass against yours and took a sip. "Here's to an awesome night!"

Your sister's so-called 'awesome' night started surprisingly good - like you had to admit. Sure, you had to get a little comfortable first and getting used to being at a bar; warm up a little, but at some point it was really okay. Unfortunately, though, the tables turned after an mere hour. Friends of Tess had decided to come around as well and in the end, you sat alone at the counter on the bar stool; staring at your almost empty glass of Whiskey Cola.

This definitely wasn't how it was supposed to go... Not at all. It caused your mood to drop, of course; feeling alone and kinda betrayed. Tess invited you; took you here and now she had run off with her friends. You couldn't even leave, because you took Tess' car and she had the keys and certainly wouldn't let you drive. Great...

You sighed; turning the now empty glass in front of you in a circle, until...

"Thought I wouldn't see ya again, 'n certainly not 'ere," a familiar voice suddenly urged to your ears from behind you. You frowned and turned in your bar stool, only to meet the same blue-grey eyes you gazed into earlier this evening. It was the biker - but this time, he wasn't wearing a helmet. Chestnut brown hair reached in soft waves his shoulders; paired with a black baseball cap he wore backwards on his head. His chin and a little bit of his cheeks were covered in a slightly grey goatee, which fitted him perfectly.

You swallowed; couldn't help but to stare at him for a moment. He was downright attractive.

"Y-Yeah, uh, same," you stammered out, but quickly got your shit together again. "Didn't find your way to Billings yet?" The stranger chuckled and shook his head. "Nah. We decided ta spend the night in Miles City 'n head for Billings tomorrow." You nodded; smiling politely. "Wise decision." "Yeah," the man said and lifted his hand to scratch his beardy chin as if in a thinking manner. You noticed the tattoo on the back of his hand... A skull and... stars? Then he nodded at your empty glass. "You gonna let me buy ya a drink? Some credit fer ya help earlier. 'S the least I can do. 'Nother Whiskey Cola?"

You felt a slight blush on your cheeks. "Um, yeah, thanks." He gave the bartender a sign, who immediately worked to replace your empty glass with a full glass. "I have ta thank you," he answered; then looked behind at a bar table to where a few other people sat. His group, you thought. "Wanna join us? Ya seem a lil' lonely." You giggled dryly. "Yeah, my sister dumped me for her friends." You gestured at the dance floor; the biker's eyes following. "Kinda rude if ya ask me... C'mon, join us."

You swallowed; hesitating for a moment. You were a cautious person. After all you didn't know these people.

The man could seemingly read your mind. "They ain't bitin', I swear. All of 'em are very nice." "I-I, uh... I don't even know your name." He smiled crookedly, "'M Daryl." and walked towards his group again. Only now did you notice what he was wearing... Dark, slightly ragged jeans with a red rug stuffed in the left back pocket, a black, washed-out shirt and a angel-winged vest. Leather, as it seemed. Admittedly, you had a really hard time not to stare.

You hesitated for another few seconds and threw a look over to your sister again as well; noticing that she was still completely ignoring you and instead partied with her friends. Therefore, was your decision made. You slid off the bar stool and made your way over to Daryl and his gang.

An hour and another Whiskey Cola later, you had learned that they were indeed a biker group - from Georgia - making a road trip through America. You got to know the whole group as well, of course. There was Rick and Carol, which were Daryl's best friends. Glenn and Maggie - a young, kind couple living on a farm had joined the gang as well, just like Negan - a slightly annoying, but funny gym teacher. It was a crazy, but also perfect mix - and they all shared one passion... Motorcycles.

For an absolute non-expert in this new territory, you were absolutely fascinated. The stories they told you; the things you learned - it was fun and exciting.

Daryl and Negan invited you to a round of pool then; Rick and Maggie joining in as well. It was the best evening you had in a long while - but when the alcohol you had consumed slowly started to course through your veins and the music and chatter of the people became suddenly so very loud, you knew you needed a break. You were definitely not quite used to this, after all.

Stepping out of the bar and onto the porch, you took a deep breath; inhaling the fresh, chilly night air.

Yeah, the alcohol was present. You definitely felt a bit tipsy, but you were still fully aware of your words and actions, which was a good thing - and a stop sign you didn't plan to ignore.

"Ya good?" There it was again. That voice out of nowhere. His voice.

You looked to your left; seeing Daryl casually leaning against the railing with a cigarette dangling between his lips.

You nodded. "Yeah, just needed a break and some fresh air." The man took a deep drag; puffing out a cloud of smoke mere seconds later. Your eyes were still fixated on him - and you swallowed.

Hot... Why was that so hot? Him smoking?

"Me too. Needed a smoke." Daryl took another drag and stepped closer; hand fumbling in his trouser pocket. "Want one?" He asked then; fishing out a slightly squashed box of cigarettes and holding it out to you. "Um, I, uh..." You stammered; cheeks already turning red. "I dunno." "Ya ever had one?" You shook your head; biting your lip. The biker stepped even closer to you then; his body barely inches away from touching yours. "Ya wanna try?" Daryl took another drag, then held his cigarette in front of your face.

Hesitatingly, you leaned forward and took the little mouthpiece between your lips to take a drag. Feeling the smoke fill your lungs, you immediately started to cough and back up. A small smirk tugged at the corners of Daryl's mouth as he watched you; taking the cigarette back between his lips. "'S a normal reaction. Once you'll get used ta it, it won't happen again."

A short moment of silence passed, while you replaced the smoke in your lungs with fresh air and Daryl's eyes travelling up and down your body.

"Hey, uh, ya wanna get outta 'ere?" The man opposite you boldly asked with a charming smile; hands grasping the wooden beam above him. It caused the black shirt he wore to ride up and reveal some skin of his stomach; alongside a dark patch of fine silken hair.

For the second time this evening, you had a hard time not to stare and instead to focus on his question - which left you just as breathless; given the fact that you knew exactly what he insisted.

Before your brain was even able to ponder thoroughly over his question, your mouth answered with a quick, determined 'Yes' - which kinda shocked you yourself. Usually you weren't the one who gave in so easily and willingly to a one-night-stand with a 'stranger'; and yet here you were. Was the way he made you feel the reason? Or was it his kind, flirty and charming personality? Perhaps it even was his good looks. You didn't know; couldn't put a finger on it. All you knew was that he attracted you like a damn magnet. You weren't thinking about your sister or the others in that moment. The tall, handsome biker with his rough redneck edges was all you had in mind.

Daryl's smile widened at your consent. He took a last drag of his cigarette, before he stubbed it out in the little ashtray on the railing. "C'mon." The man walked past you, down the few steps and towards his bike.

Elegantly swinging one leg over to sit down on the vehicle, he replaced his baseball cap with his helmet. His fingers worked to start the engine. "You comin' or wha'?"

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daryltwdixon · 5 months ago

Text

Summary: There is no choice, not really—just the weight of a decision that will haunt him for the rest of his days. Joel moves forward, because he has to, because stopping means losing, because if he looks back, he might see what he’s done.

warnings: psychological warfare and im really sorry. read with caution. Ellie hospital scene. It's a long one!

Joel

Joel gasps in a ragged breath as he breaks the surface, lungs burning, throat raw from swallowing half the damn river. His body is done, legs barely kicking, arms aching from the weight of what he’s dragging with him. The current fights to pull him back under, but he fights harder. He has to.

When he reaches the work ramp, the water slows, lapping lazily at the concrete as he collapses onto solid ground. His knees hit hard, pain ricocheting up his legs, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except the two unmoving bodies beside him.

Neither of you are breathing.

His hands tremble as he leans over both of you, chest heaving, mind spinning. Water drips from your clothes, puddling around you, your faces too still. Too pale. His heart is hammering against his ribs, panic flooding through his veins like a sickness.

He needs to move. He needs to do something, he can’t fail, he won’t fail. There's only so much time the brain can handle without oxygen.

But how is he supposed to choose? Who does he reach for first, who does he save first? It’s a paralyzing thought as he looks between you.

Ellie . She’s immune, she’s the only hope left for the world. What started as a promise to Tess, the reason Henry and Sam died, the reason he’s still moving after losing everything. If she dies here, if this is where it all ends, the Fireflies won’t have a cure. Humanity won’t have a chance.

But then there’s you.

And if he loses you, if he watches you slip away under his hands, he doesn’t know if there will be anything left of him to keep going.

The thought digs into his ribs, carves something hollow and aching in his chest, a terror deeper than anything he’s felt in twenty years. You aren’t just another person he’s had to protect, another responsibility thrown on his back. You’re something else entirely—something he wasn’t supposed to have, wasn’t supposed to let himself care about, but he does, God, he does.

His breath catches, his hands hovering, twitching, desperate to do something.

He has to pick. He has to pick.

And he doesn’t know if he can live with his choice.

There isn’t a clear path here, no choice between right and wrong anymore. His chest tightens as the seconds bleed away, each one too precious to waste. Then, finally, he moves, pressing his hands down, forcing his hands into the chest cavity. It’s robotic at this point, panic melting into auto pilot, too sick to his stomach to think about what he’s doing.

“Hands in the air!”

The voice barely registers.

“She’s not breathin’,” Joel mutters, barely aware he’s speaking. His hands don’t stop, pressing harder, trying to force the chest beneath his palms to rise again.

“Hands in the fucking air!”

Boots slam against pavement. Rifles shift. He doesn’t stop.

“Come on,” he pleads, voice raw, broken, desperate. “Please, please—”

The footsteps close in. He refuses to look up. Someone moves fast, a shadow rising over him.

The weapon swings.

There’s a bright light above him the next time his eyes crack open, stark and unforgiving. For a moment, he wonders if this is it—the moment they all talk about, the light at the end, the peace after all the hell. Maybe this is where it ends.

Then his mind catches up.

It slams into him all at once—your lifeless body, Ellie’s motionless form on the cement, the desperate press of his hands, the gasping prayers caught in his throat. His breath hitches, his body jerking like he’s still trapped in the current, still fighting to pull you both to safety.

His eyes snap open fully. His pulse pounds against his ribs as he scans the room, unfamiliar walls closing in around him. The air smells too clean. The sheets beneath him are stiff and thin, the bed hard and unforgiving. There’s a deep, pounding ache in the back of his skull, his limbs heavy in a way that makes his gut twist. Something isn’t right.

He looks to his right, and sees someone that, for all he knew, was dead.

“Welcome to the Fireflies,” Marlene says, sitting beside him in a chair, legs crossed, her expression unreadable.

She gives him a moment before saying, “Sorry about the…” he points to her head, reminding him of the source of the thrum in his skull, “They didn’t know who you were.”

Joel barely hears her. His throat is dry when he finally asks, “Ellie?”

“She’s alright. They brought her back.”

His stomach knots. He inhales, but the breath feels shallow. “And…?”

Marlene’s expression flickers—regret, maybe, but it’s distant, weighed down by something else.

“They were only told to bring in you and Ellie,” she says. “By the time I heard there was another girl… they told me she wasn’t moving, Joel. I’m sorry.”

His body stiffens, his back pressing against the hard mattress as he takes it in. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. The words are there, clear as day, but his brain refuses to take them in fully.

You were already gone when they got there.

His hands curl into fists, nails digging into his palms, but the pain doesn’t pull him out of it. His mind lingers in the space where you might have had more time, where if someone—anyone—had just tried a little harder, you might be here. If he had just worked faster. If he had made the right call.

But Ellie is alive. Ellie made it.

Marlene’s voice cuts through the fog, like she’s trying to process it all herself. “You came all this way… How’d you do it?”

“It was Ellie,” he mutters, his voice hollow. “And…her. They fought like hell to get here.”

“Maybe it was meant to be…” He whispers it more to himself than her, like if he says it enough times, he’ll believe it.

Joel pushes himself up, ignoring the way his body protests, but then he realizes—there’s a guard by the door.

Marlene exhales, shaking her head. “You were the one person I never wanted to be in debt to.” She doesn’t look at him when she says it, just stares ahead, like she’s still working through the reality of it all. “I pretty much lost everything. Most of my crew died getting me here. And then you show up, and somehow we find you just in time to save her.”

Not in time enough. Not for both of you.

Joel squeezes his eyes shut.

Marlene glances at him, voice softer. “Maybe it was meant to be.”

The words don’t feel right coming from her. They don’t feel right at all.

Joel swings his legs off the side of the bed. “Take me to her.”

“You don’t have to worry about Ellie anymore,” Marlene says. “We’ll take care of her—”

“I worry,” Joel snaps. “Just let me see her. Please.”

Marlene’s arms cross over her chest. Her eyes flicker to the guard. “We can’t. She’s being prepped for surgery.”

Something sharp lodges itself in Joel’s gut, cutting straight through whatever daze had been dulling his senses. The exhaustion, the grief, the weight of loss—all of it clears in an instant.

His voice is tight. “The hell you mean, surgery?”

“The doctors tell me that the Cordyceps, the growth inside her, has somehow mutated. It’s why she’s immune.”

Joel feels the guard shift behind him, closing in, but he barely registers it.

Marlene doesn’t flinch. “Once they remove it, they’ll be able to reverse engineer a vaccine.” She exhales, like she’s still convincing herself of the importance of it all. “A vaccine, Joel.”

His mind stumbles over the words, trying to put the pieces together. “But it grows all over the brain.”

Marlene just looks at him.

“It does.”

A thick silence settles between them.

His chest rises and falls, the pieces of the puzzle clicking together with sickening clarity.

“Find someone else,” Joel demands, voice cold.

“There is no one else.”

“Listen,” he growls, teeth clenched, hands curling into fists. “You’re gonna show me where—”

The guard moves before he can finish, slamming him down, pinning his arms behind his back as his chest hits the floor.

Joel grunts, pain sparking across his ribs.

“Stop,” Marlene says, and as Joel groans, pressing against the cold tile, she continues, “I get it. But whatever it is you think you’re going through right now is nothing compared to what I have been through.”

His jaw clenches so tight he feels his teeth creak.

Oh , fuck her .

Didn’t she get it? He was losing both of you. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

“I knew her since she was born,” Marlene’s voice cracks, just slightly, but she keeps going. “I promised her mother I would look after her. No one understands more than me.”

Joel barely hears her over the blood pounding in his ears.

“Then why are you letting this happen?” His voice is hoarse, nearly pleading.

“Because this isn’t about me,” she says, jabbing a finger into her own chest, anger flashing across her face. “Or even her. There is no other choice here.”

Joel exhales slowly, shoulders rising and falling as he pushes himself up just enough to sit back on his heels. His voice is dark, low, edged with something dangerous.

“Yeah,” he growls. “You keep tellin’ yourself that bullshit.”

Marlene straightens, glancing at the guard without a second thought. “March him out of here. He tries anything, shoot him.”

Joel doesn’t move, doesn’t fight, just glares at her from the floor.

She watches him for a moment, something almost unreadable flickering in her expression before she turns to leave. Just before stepping through the door, her voice lowers.

“Don’t waste this gift, Joel.”

Then she’s gone.

Joel stands there, Marlene’s words ringing in his head. Don’t waste this gift, Joel. Like this was some grand gesture, like they were offering him something instead of taking everything from him. Like he had a choice.

But what other fucking choice was there?

Going back to Jackson alone? Failing the both of you? Failing everything he had fought for, everything he had clawed his way through hell to protect? He couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t.

The guard orders him up. Then a second time, the barrel of a gun pointing down at him.

Joel obeys, moving slowly, forcing his mind to focus through the pounding in his skull. He needs time. He needs his weapons.

The gun shoves harder into his back now, an irritated breath hissing through the Firefly’s teeth. "Give me an excuse."

Joel tilts his head slightly. "Which way?" His voice is quiet, measured, just enough distraction.

The man jerks his gun to the left. Joel follows.

The hospital is dim, the only light flickering weakly over the center desk. It looks abandoned, half-dead already. But something catches his eye as he passes—a bag. His bag. His weapons.

His fingers twitch. He watches them until the wall cuts off his view, then slows his pace, working it through in his head.

The Firefly bristles behind him. "What the fuck are you doin’? Keep walkin’."

Joel doesn’t answer. He waits.

The second the guard’s gun nudges his back again, he moves.

It’s fast—an elbow thrown back, a sharp crack as it connects. The gunshot rings out, echoing through the halls, but it slams harmlessly into the wall. Joel is already turning, wrenching the gun from the Firefly’s hands, twisting his arm, shoving him back. The man grunts, dazed, and Joel slams the barrel against his face. Once. Twice. The Firefly’s head snaps back, blood splattering the wall.

Joel shoves his forearm into his neck, pinning him, pressing the gun to the man’s groin.

"Where’s the operating room?" His voice is low, controlled, cold.

The man grits his teeth and stays silent. Joel exhales through his nose, then pulls the trigger. The Firefly howls , sagging against him, body crumpling.

" Where ?" Joel growls again.

Still nothing.

Joel squeezes the trigger again.

"WHERE?"

The man’s head lolls, breath ragged, face twisted in agony. His knees buckle, Joel’s arm the only thing keeping him upright.

"Top floor," he chokes out. "Far end."

Joel lets him drop. A moment later, he doesn’t hesitate, firing a final shot into the man’s skull.

He grabs his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder, hands locking around his rifle just as the sound of footsteps barrels down the hallway. More Fireflies. More obstacles.

Joel doesn’t think. He just moves .

He pushes forward, steps calculated, rifle raised. The first Firefly barely sees him before he drops. Then another. And another.

One by one, he clears them.

His mind is razor-sharp, focused, his grip steady, his body moving on instinct. But your face keeps creeping at the edges, pulling at his resolve, yanking him back to the cement, to the cold water pooling beneath you, to the way your hair had fanned out, damp and lifeless, as he made his choice.

He shakes it off. He has to. He can’t lose both of you. He has to get to Ellie.

More bodies fall, but he doesn’t care. He isn’t leaving until he finds her. If he couldn’t save you, he would save her. He couldn’t leave alone.

His boots pound against the linoleum, moving faster, fueled by something deeper than adrenaline, something darker. The halls flicker in and out of shadow as the emergency lights struggle to stay alive. He follows the signs—pediatrics—how fucking ironic that they’d still use the same rooms meant for saving children, even now, in this ruined world.

It’s quieter here. The distant echo of gunfire fades, replaced by the steady, rhythmic beeping of machines. He moves down the hall, toward the bright glow spilling out from the small glass window of a red door. His stomach twists as he swallows thickly. The scrub-in room is sterile, lined with sinks, the scent of disinfectant cutting through the blood drying on his skin.

Ellie is on the operating table, too still, too pale, wires and tubes snaking around her small frame. His chest tightens. She looks lifeless. Just like—

No. Not now. He shuts it down.

There are voices. A murmur of surprise and confusion as he steps inside. The second the door swings open, the surgeon’s head snaps up.

“What are you doing?!” the man exclaims, instinctively moving back. His hands fumble for something, grabbing a scalpel—a scalpel , like that could stop Joel now.

He pushes through.

“I won’t let you take her!” the doctor shouts, voice cracking with desperation. “This is our future! Think of all the lives we’ll save!”

But those lives won’t be Ellie’s. They won’t be your life.

Joel moves forward, slow, measured. The surgeon bristles, stepping back until there’s nowhere left to go.

“Don’t come any closer! I mean it!”

Joel barely hears him. There’s only red. The bright light of the room turns crimson in his vision, flooding everything. His body moves before his mind even registers it.

The scalpel is in his hands. Then it’s in the man’s neck.

A sickening gurgle fills the air as the doctor stumbles, hands flying up to the wound as blood pulses between his fingers. He slumps to the floor, his body twitching before going still.

“No!” a nurse screams, voice sharp with horror. “You fucking animal!”

Another one hisses at her to shut up. Joel doesn’t care.

He’s already at Ellie’s side, unhooking her, pulling tubes from her skin, tossing aside the oxygen mask suffocating her small face. His hands are shaking, but he works quickly, murmuring low as he cradles her limp body in his arms.

"Come on, baby girl. I got you, I got you."

Then the alarms begin to blare.

A loud, shrieking wail rips through the hospital, the red emergency lights flashing in jagged bursts. Shadows move beyond the glass doors—flashlights cutting through the darkness, the rapid stomp of boots, Fireflies closing in.

He needed to move. Now.

With Ellie secured against his chest, Joel turns and runs.

You

It’s warm.

Not just warm—golden, like the kind of sunlight that filters through leaves in late summer, shifting and flickering in the breeze. The air is soft, thick with something comforting, familiar, wrapping around you like a heavy blanket. You hear the faint rustling of trees, the slow hum of cicadas in the distance. Somewhere close, a creek bubbles, the gentle rush of water against stone.

You’re lying in the grass, the blades tickling your skin, the warmth of the sun pressing against your cheeks. You should get up. You know that. But your limbs feel heavy, too relaxed, too comfortable.

Then, fingers brush against your temple.

A slow, careful touch, tucking the loose strands of hair behind your ear. It’s gentle, warm. Safe.

“Hey,” Joel murmurs, voice low and steady. “Come on now, sweetheart.”

You hum, eyes fluttering, but they don’t open. Not yet. Just a little longer. Let me sleep.

His thumb trails lightly across your cheek. “Need you to wake up, baby.”

Something in his voice makes your chest ache. There’s something wrong there, something pleading beneath the softness.

You want to stay here. You want to keep breathing in the warm air, feeling the sun, listening to the steady rhythm of his voice.

But then his hand is slipping away.

No.

You reach for him, but the warmth starts to pull back, the golden light fading . The sound of the creek dulls, the hum of cicadas fading into something else—something colder.

“Joel,” you murmur, voice thick, slow, like you’re trying to hold onto something slipping through your fingers.

“Wake up,” he says again, but his voice is changing, shifting, deeper now, rougher.

Then everything disappears.

Suddenly it’s freezing.

Your body seizes as cold slams into you, sharp and biting, cutting through the softness in an instant. Your chest tightens, lungs spasming, and then—

You’re coughing, choking, water spilling from your mouth as your body jerks violently, muscles convulsing as you fight for air. Your fingers scrape against rough cement, nails dragging as you push yourself onto your side, gasping, spluttering, your throat raw, your ribs aching.

You blink, forcing your eyes open, the dim light of the tunnel swimming in and out of focus. Your limbs feel leaden, frozen through, but you push up onto shaky elbows, sucking in a breath that burns all the way down.

Your heart is pounding.

The warmth is gone and so is Joel. Where was he? Where was Ellie?

Your stomach knots, panic rising through the exhaustion. You scramble up, your body swaying, head spinning as you look around, searching for them.

But the tunnel is silent, just the sound of water lapping against the cement of the tunnel. You grab your backpack, thankfully still here with your bow and arrows, and begin to move.

Then you see it, a glint of metal in the grass. Your breath catches as you stagger forward, fingers wrapping around it before you even register what it is. Ellie’s pistol. Your grip tightens around the handle, stomach twisting. She wouldn’t have left this, not on purpose.

Your breath comes quicker now, uneven, your pulse thrumming against your skin as you turn, eyes lifting toward the skyline.

The hospital stands in the distance, stark and still against the gray sky, its windows shattered, its walls stained. They had to be there, didn’t they?

The wind is sharp as you move forward, pushing through the lingering dampness clinging to your skin. Each step is heavy, sluggish, but you force yourself to keep moving, the weight of exhaustion trying to drag you down. The hospital looms in the distance, cold and silent.

You keep your grip firm on Ellie’s pistol, fingers tightening and loosening as you scan the building for movement. Nothing. No signs of people except the lights glowing in the upper windows. No signs of Joel or Ellie. But they had to be here. They had to be.

The place is too quiet, too still, but that only sets your nerves on edge. Then you hear the voices.

You freeze, pressing yourself behind an abandoned car near the entrance, listening.

“…can’t reach anyone upstairs.” A man’s voice, low and tense. “All units should be responding, but I don’t know what the hell’s going on up there.”

“There were gunshots. You think it’s them?”

“I don’t know, but keep your eyes open. If they’re here, we put them down.”

Your pulse spikes. Joel.

He’s still inside. He’s fighting. Why is he fighting? What went wrong?

You duck lower, peering through the broken-out window of the car. Two Firefly soldiers stand near the side entrance, rifles ready, scanning the area. They’re blocking the way you were planning to go, and you know you aren’t strong enough to take them both in hand-to-hand combat. You barely have the strength to hold yourself up, let alone fight someone trained.

But distance. Distance you can work with.

You ease Ellie’s pistol into your waistband, keeping your breath steady. If you miss, you’re dead. If you alert the other Fireflies, you’re dead. There’s no second chance.

Carefully, you pull your bow from your shoulders, fingers brushing over the few remaining arrows. Not much left. You grab one, nock it, draw back.

The first man drops before his partner even registers what’s happened. A clean shot, straight through the throat. His body crumples soundlessly to the ground.

The second turns, eyes going wide, mouth opening to shout—

You loose the next arrow before he gets the chance, and the thud of his body barely makes a sound.

You don’t wait to see if anyone heard. You run. More voices crackle over their walkies, static-filled and frantic.

“ —we need backup now! He’s got the girl—”

Gunfire erupts from inside the building, but you keep moving, ducking low, keeping to the perimeter as you round the building. You’re almost to the parking garage when something grabs you from behind.

A thick arm wraps around your throat, yanking you backward, your vision tilting as you struggle. Your lungs seize, hands clawing at the arm crushing against your windpipe. He’s strong, too strong , and panic explodes in your chest as you thrash, kicking wildly.

Then you remember your knife.

Your fingers scramble for the handle strapped to your hip, yanking it free and plunging it backward, twisting the blade deep into his thigh.

The man startles, his grip loosening just enough for you to tear free, stumbling backward as you gasp in air. He’s still moving, staggering, reaching for you, so you don’t hesitate. You grip the knife tighter and slam it into his throat.

He gurgles, then slumps to the pavement.

You shake out your trembling hands, yanking the blade free, wiping the blood on your jeans. Your breaths come sharp and ragged, but you don’t stop to dwell on it. You won’t let the haze that had covered you for weeks in guilt come over you now.

The parking garage entrance is open, a long ramp sloping downward into the dark. You slip inside, sticking to the walls, careful to avoid making noise. The air is heavy, thick with the scent of oil and damp concrete, the overhead lights flickering dimly.

Somewhere above you, voices echo.

You follow them.

The stairwell is narrow, the metal steps cold beneath your fingers as you climb, moving slowly, cautiously. The closer you get, the clearer the voices become.

Then you hear him. The voice you would follow anywhere, even if it was into the dark.

Your stomach knots as you reach the top landing, peering through the crack in the door. He’s there, moving steadily, his arms wrapped around Ellie’s limp form as she wears a thin, blue covering, holding her close to his chest. Her head rests against him, her body slack, and something deep inside you twists so hard it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.

Then you see the gun in the woman’s hand. It’s trained on him, steady and unwavering.

She stands just a few feet away, her stance firm, both hands gripping the pistol as she keeps her aim locked on Joel.

Your breath catches, the weight of the moment settling over you like a vice, pressing down on your ribs, squeezing your lungs. You swallow hard, moving to switch your bow for Ellie’s pistol, gripping it tightly in your hands as you desperately try to work out your next move.

“It ain’t for you to decide,” Joel growls.

“It’s what she’d want,” the woman says, circling him. You push deeper into the shadows, but she doesn’t see you, her gaze is locked on him, “You can still do the right thing here.” the woman says, holding her hands up, the gun beginning to point away from him.

And then you step out of the shadows, and pull the trigger. The shot rings out, splitting the air like a crack of thunder.

The woman stumbles, a sharp, gasping breath hitching in her throat as the bullet tears through her shoulder. She lurches forward, her pistol clattering to the ground as her hands fly to the wound, crimson blooming against her shirt.

Joel jumps back, and you can see the panic flare. He’s ready to fight anyone who comes in his way. He shifts away from Marlene, gripping Ellie tighter to himself, and grabbing his own gun and pointing it out from under her knees.

He twists around to face the threat, and his gaze lifts and meets yours.

For a long, few heartbeats, he doesn’t move. He just stares at you like he’s seeing a ghost, like he’s trying to convince himself you’re standing there, real and breathing. His chest rises and falls in ragged, uneven breaths, his arms locked around Ellie, his body trembling with something too big for words.

Your name slips from his lips, barely a whisper, his voice hoarse, breaking on the syllables like it physically hurts him to say it. His knees threaten to buckle, like his body is giving up on him, but he forces himself to stay upright, forces himself to hold onto Ellie because he has to.

Your eyes narrow on him, had he thought–

“What the hell is going on?” you whisper, stepping toward him, heart hammering.

Your eyes drop to Ellie, her small, limp frame cradled against him, her face pale beneath the flickering parking lot lights. Panic claws its way up your throat as you reach for her, your hands hovering over her body, searching for signs of injury.

“She—she’s okay,” Joel breathes, like he can barely believe it himself.

“She’s not supposed to be.”

The voice comes from behind you, sharp and raw with pain.

You turn to see the woman on the floor, her hand clutching her bleeding shoulder, her face twisted in something between agony and fury.

“He’s killing everyone,” she rasps, glaring up at you.

Your stomach tightens. You look at her, then at Joel. He shakes his head immediately, a storm building behind his eyes, anger and pain clashing so violently across his face that it scares you.

“He’s stealing her because he’s a selfish animal,” the woman spits, voice cracked and ragged. “He’d rather save her than the entire world.”

Joel only looks at you.

“Baby,” he whispers, his voice desperate, pleading, willing you to listen to him . You swear you can almost see tears in his eyes now, “Please. They were going to kill her. You have to understand.”

Your breath catches. Your throat feels tight, dry, like the walls are closing in around you. “Kill her?”

He nods, but the woman speaks before he can.

“It’s what she would’ve wanted, Joel, and you know it,” she says, her voice raw. “She would’ve wanted to save everyone, even if it meant sacrificing herself for it.”

Your head spins, everything shifting at once.

Ellie…Ellie would’ve had to die to create a cure?

You look down at her again, at her peaceful, unconscious face, your hands tightening into fists at your sides.

Disbelief and desperation crash into you like a tidal wave. You’re not entirely sure who the whirlwind of feelings is pointed towards at the moment. Joel was taking her. Taking her from her life’s purpose, from what she was meant to do, what she had fought so hard to become. They were going to make a cure. They were going to save everyone.

But to do that, they had to kill her.

Your pulse pounds in your ears as you look back at him. His grip on Ellie is ironclad, his knuckles white where they clutch at her shirt. His jaw is clenched, his entire body coiled so tightly you think he might snap apart.

And suddenly, you see it.

The way his breath shudders, the way his fingers tremble against Ellie’s skin, the way his eyes shine with something close to madness—he couldn’t lose her.

Not again. Not after Sarah. This wasn’t just about Ellie. It wasn’t just about a cure or a choice. This was about a father who had already buried one daughter and refused to bury another.

Your stomach twists. Your chest tightens. You don’t know what to feel.

But you know what to do.

“Get her in the car,” you say, pointing to the truck behind him.

Joel doesn’t hesitate.

He moves, carrying Ellie toward the vehicle, his arms still locked around her. You don’t look at him. You don’t let yourself think.

“No!” the woman cries from the ground, her bloody hand reaching toward you, desperate, grasping at anything . “Please, don’t—”

But Joel doesn’t let her finish. He sets Ellie down and turns, moving so fast you barely register it, “You’re just gonna come after her.” he says with eerie quietness.

Then the gunshot shatters the silence, and the woman’s body jerks, then slumps, her outstretched hand falling limp against the blood-slick floor.

Joel exhales, shoulders heaving, his grip tightening around the gun as if it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His chest rises and falls in sharp, ragged bursts, his head tilting back as he drags in a breath like he’s trying to steady himself. But there’s nothing steady about him right now.

He turns to you.

His eyes are wild, his face drawn tight with something raw, something too big, too heavy to carry alone. The way he looks at you sends something sharp through your chest, something painful, something close to grief.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes, his voice breaking, barely more than a whisper as he reaches for you.

And then his arms are around you.

It’s not gentle—it’s desperate, crushing, pulling you so tight against him that for a second, the air is knocked from your lungs. His fingers dig into your back, gripping you like he’s trying to convince himself you’re real, that this isn’t just another cruel trick of the world taking from him again. His breath shudders against your hair, his whole body trembling with something he can’t name, something he doesn’t even try to hold back.

“I thought—” His voice catches, cracking in a way you’ve never heard before. “I thought you were gone.”

Your chest clenches. You don’t know what to say, don’t even know what you can say. So you don’t. Instead, your arms wrap around him, pressing your face into his chest. He’s warm, so warm, his heart pounding hard beneath your cheek, his entire body still coiled tight like he can’t fully let go. Your fingers fist into the back of his jacket, holding him just as much as he’s holding you.

Neither of you move.

Then you hear more voices. They cut through the moment, distant at first, but quickly getting closer. Heavy boots against pavement. Shouting. Orders being given.

Joel stiffens, his arms tightening around you for just a second longer before he pulls back, his hands lingering on your arms like he doesn’t want to let go. His eyes dart past you, his expression shifting instantly, something hard and determined settling over his face.

“We gotta go,” he says, voice low, urgent.

You nod, stepping back, wiping a shaky hand to your tear streaked face as you turn toward the truck. Joel is already moving, carefully setting Ellie’s legs up in the backseat, his jaw tight as he checks her over one last time. The sound of approaching voices is growing louder, closing in fast.

Your fingers fumble as you grip the passenger door handle, heart hammering as you climb inside. Joel slams the driver’s side shut just as he twists the key in the ignition, the truck sputtering to life. Thank god it runs.

Joel is throwing it into gear suddenly, the tires screeching against the pavement as you speed out of the garage. The hospital vanishes behind you, swallowed by the night.

Joel’s hands grip the wheel, knuckles tight, his eyes locked on the dark stretch of road ahead. The truck hums beneath you, the only sound cutting through the thick silence that’s settled between you.

You sit stiffly in the passenger seat, arms crossed, still chilled to the bone, but you can’t tell if it’s from the cold or from everything that just happened. Your fingers twitch against your thigh, your mind racing in circles, trying to grasp the full weight of what you just walked into.

Joel exhales sharply, rubbing a hand down his face, the muscles in his jaw twitching. His body is wound tight, like he’s still ready for a fight, like he hasn’t let himself breathe since the moment he ran out of that hospital with Ellie in his arms.

You glance at her now, curled in the backseat, her chest rising and falling with steady breaths, unaware of what’s just happened. Of what Joel has done to keep her here.

The road stretches ahead, endless and empty.

Whatever it is, whatever he’d done… it would change everything, but it wouldn’t change this.

You shift slightly, leaning toward him. For a moment, he doesn’t react, his mind still miles away, lost in thoughts you can’t begin to unravel. But then, after a beat, he exhales, his grip on the wheel loosening just enough. His arm lifts, hesitates, then opens to you.

That’s all you need.

You move into him, pressing against his side, wrapping your arm around his middle. He’s warm, solid, the heat of his body seeping into your frozen skin, grounding you like it always does.

Joel sighs, the sound low, tired. His hand comes down to rest on your back, wide and steady, fingers pressing into the fabric of your shirt like he needs the reassurance that you’re really there.

“Joel?” Your voice is small, uncertain.

“Hm?” he grunts. Then, like he only just realizes you’re talking to him, he pulls in a breath, his palm splaying flat against your back, holding you closer.

“Yeah, baby?”

You hesitate, feeling the weight of what you’re about to ask settle thick between you. The warmth of his body, the way he’s holding you, it almost makes you want to let it go. To pretend, for just a little while longer, that you don’t want to know the answer.

But you need to hear him say it.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?”

His body stiffens against you. His eyes flicker down, just for a second, before returning to the road ahead. His grip tightens just slightly against your back, and you can feel the shift in him, the way he withdraws just a little—not from you, but from the moment.

You don’t let him retreat.

“I want the truth,” you say, firmer this time. “I can handle it.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, his jaw working, but he doesn’t answer right away. The silence stretches between you, tense, filled with all the things he isn’t saying.

Then, slowly, he leans his head down onto yours. His breath is steady, but the weight of him resting against you feels different than before—like an apology, like a confession without words.

“I know you can,” he murmurs, voice rough, low.

You wait, holding onto the warmth of him, listening to the hum of the tires against the road, waiting for him to speak again.

When he finally does, it’s quiet.

“I saved her,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

But somehow you know that’s only the half of it.

You watch him for a long moment before you say: "From the beginning,"

The road stretches endlessly ahead, bathed in the soft light of morning. Hours have passed in near silence, the weight of everything settled heavy in the truck. Your hands grip the wheel now, your body aching from exhaustion, but the need to keep moving outweighs it.

Joel sits beside you, his posture slack but tense in ways only you would notice. His head rests in his hand, elbow braced against the door, his eyes a thousand miles away like he’s trying to keep his thoughts from spilling over. You glance at him, and he exhales deeply, the sound barely audible over the hum of the truck.

Then, a rustling from the backseat.

Your breath stills. Your fingers flex around the steering wheel.

Joel hears it too. His head lifts immediately, eyes flickering over his shoulder before shifting back toward Ellie, something raw and bracing settling in his expression.

Behind you, Ellie stirs. She groans, shifting sluggishly against the seat.

“The hell am I wearing?” she mutters, her voice groggy.

Joel turns in his seat, his voice softer than you’ve heard in days. “Just take it easy,” he says. “The drugs are still wearing off.”

Ellie blinks sluggishly, disoriented, her limbs heavy from whatever they pumped into her system. You can see it in her face, the confusion settling in, the questions forming.

“What happened?” she whispers.

The air in the truck shifts. You knew it was coming, knew the second she woke up she’d ask. But hearing it out loud so soon sends a sharp twist through your chest. Your gaze flickers to Joel. He’s looking down at his seat, his fingers twitching before he forces himself to sit forward again, watching the road like it might give him the right words.

Then, he speaks.

“We found the Fireflies,” he says, voice steady, measured. “Turns out there’s a whole lot more like you, Ellie.”

The words settle like a stone in your gut.

“People that are immune—dozens of them,” he continues, pausing briefly. “Ain’t done a damn bit of good… They just—”

He hesitates. Just for a second.

Then he turns back to her, eyes softening, but his voice firm.

“They stopped lookin’ for a cure.”

You squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, inhaling through your nose before focusing back on the road. You can’t bear to look at her, can’t bear to see the way she processes it.

She turns slowly, facing the rear of the car, her back now to both of you.

You swallow thickly, shifting in your seat, the weight of it pressing harder into your ribs.

“We’re headed home now,” you say, voice quieter than you meant it to be.

Joel looks back at her, something unreadable in his expression. A long silence stretches between you all, the hum of the tires on the road the only thing filling the space.

Then, his voice—low, almost inaudible.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

But Ellie doesn’t turn back.

The car hood slams down with a sharp metallic clang, echoing through the empty stretch of road. You scoff, wiping your hands against your jeans, smearing grease and dirt into the fabric. The truck had held out for as long as it could, but after hours of hard driving, it had finally given up on you.

“Looks like we’re walkin’ the rest of the way,” you say, shaking your head.

Joel comes around the front, glancing at the road sign half-covered in ivy. Jackson City, next right. The paint is weather-worn, but the words are still clear enough.

“Should be a straight shot through, anyway,” he says.

You nod, adjusting your pack as he takes the lead, stepping off the abandoned road and into the thick woods beyond.

The transition is instant; gone is the cracked pavement, replaced with the uneven, damp earth of the forest floor. The trees are massive, their trunks stretching high into the afternoon light, patches of blue sky barely visible through the tangled branches. A mix of pine and bare oaks crowd the space, the ground littered with dead leaves, rotting wood, and scattered patches of bright green moss. The air is cool, crisp with the lingering bite of winter, but there’s a freshness to it, the first hints of spring creeping back into the world.

As you walk, the sounds of civilization disappear entirely. There’s no hum of an engine, no wind rattling through empty cars. Instead, it’s just the woods, the crunch of boots against damp leaves, the distant rush of a river cutting through the valley below, the occasional rustle of a bird taking flight from the canopy above.

The trek is slow, the terrain uneven, but Joel moves with ease, pushing past overgrown ferns and low-hanging branches like he’s done this a thousand times before. You follow close behind, stepping over fallen logs, climbing small rocky slopes, your boots sinking into the soft patches of dirt still thawing from the last snow.

After a while, you find yourself walking alongside Ellie.

She’s been quiet for most of the trip, but when she finally speaks, her voice is so soft, so uncertain, that you almost don’t catch it.

“Were you there?”

At first, you don’t react, thinking she might not be speaking to you at all. But when you glance at her, she’s already looking at you, waiting.

There’s something in her expression—not just curiosity, but something deeper. A challenge. A plea. Like she’s giving you the chance to be honest before she even knows if she can trust the answer.

Your breath tightens in your chest.

You shake your head. “When we went underwater in those tunnels, I think I almost drowned. I don’t really remember much.” You keep your voice light, simply recalling everything that she knew, like the weight of this conversation isn’t pressing into your ribs. Stepping carefully over a patch of exposed roots, you sigh. “Then I woke up and the two of you were gone.”

Ellie listens. Hard.

Her boots scuff against a patch of damp moss, but she keeps her gaze ahead, her fingers curling into the sleeves of her jacket. You can feel her hanging onto every word, studying the way you say it, the space between the things you do and don’t tell her.

Your hands ball into fists at your sides as you glance up at Joel ahead, weighing the right words.

“I found you when Joel was already getting you into the car,” you say carefully. That much is true. And right now, the truth—or at least, parts of it—is all you can allow yourself to give her.

Ellie nods slightly, absorbing it. Then, after a pause—

“Did he tell you what happened?”

You hesitate for just a second before nodding. “Yeah, yeah. I met…” you pause, not even knowing the woman’s name that you shot, “I met a someone there. She was with him.”

Ellie’s face shifts with recognition, “Marlene?” she asks. “She knew my mom too.”

You glance at her, watching how carefully she’s watching you.

“Must’ve been her then, yeah,” you say, choosing each word with painstaking precision. “Joel said she was—is—the leader of the Fireflies.” The correction slips out, accidental and you hope she doesn’t catch it.

Ellie doesn’t press you further.

Instead, she just nods, pulling her jacket tighter around herself as she steps over a fallen branch. Quiet again.

The two of you keep moving, the only sound between you the rustling of wind through the leaves, the distant trickle of a stream winding somewhere nearby. The trees seem to stretch on forever, the mountains looming in the distance, their peaks still dusted in winter’s last snow.

Joel remains ahead, moving with a silent focus. And Ellie stays beside you, thoughtful, distant.

You don’t know if she believes you.

You come up upon a crest in the hills, where the trees thin out, and the view opens wide. Below, the valley stretches out beneath you, Jackson nestled safely between the mountains. Smoke curls from chimneys, dotting the landscape with the unmistakable signs of life.

Joel exhales beside you, the tension in his shoulders loosening just a little as he takes in the sight. His voice is softer when he speaks.

“You know, I used to take hikes like these with Sarah all the time,” he says, his eyes still on the town below. “I think you both would’ve liked her.” There’s a pause, a faint, almost wistful breath before he adds, “She would’ve liked you.”

Your eyes find his, and you can’t help the small, warm smile that tugs at your lips. He’s letting you in. Talking about Sarah like this, openly, with both of you, it means something. A comfort settles deep in your chest, softening the sharp edges of the last day and a half.

“Yeah,” Ellie says, her voice quieter. “I bet we would’ve.”

Joel nods, his gaze lingering on the valley a moment longer before he moves forward, leading the way toward the dam. You follow, stepping carefully over the uneven terrain, the cold, damp earth soft beneath your boots. Small streams snake through the land, feeding into the massive dam that marks the entrance to Jackson.

It’s close now. You’re so close.

But then—

“Hey, wait,” Ellie calls softly.

You and Joel stop immediately, turning to her.

She stands there, hands fidgeting together, her shoulders drawn tight, her face etched with something so raw it makes your stomach drop.

She sighs, almost more of a groan, rubbing her hands over her face before finally speaking.

“Back in Boston...back when I was bitten. I wasn’t alone.”

Your brows furrow as you listen, feeling something shift in the air, something heavy.

Ellie keeps going, her voice steady but distant, like she’s pulling the words from somewhere deep inside herself. “My best friend was there. And she got bit too. We didn’t know what to do so… she says, ‘Let’s wait it out, y’know? We can be all poetic and lose our minds together.’”

She pauses, swallowing hard, her fingers curling back into fists.

“I’m still waiting my turn.”

Joel takes a step closer, his expression tense. “Ellie—”

But she isn’t done.

“Her name was Riley, and she was the first to die.” Her voice hardens, gains strength, even as pain flickers behind her eyes. “And then it was Tess. And then Sam.”

The words drive a splinter deep into your gut.

Tess.

Your breath catches. Your mind reels, searching through old conversations, through Joel’s words back at Bill’s, in the kitchen, arms crossed, walls up. He hadn’t told you the truth. He never told you she died. But what had he said? Your brain tries to search for it, for what he told you that had happened, but for all you know it was a made up story.

You glance at him now, looking for something, for anything, in his expression. But he doesn’t look at you. His eyes stay on Ellie, his jaw clenched tight.

Ellie lets out a slow breath, eyes burning.

“None of that is on you,” Joel says firmly.

Ellie shakes her head, frustrated. “No, you don’t understand.”

Joel folds his arms over his chest, his voice gentler now, but still steady. “I struggled for a long time with survivin’,” he tells her, his expression softening. “And you. No matter what, you keep findin’ somethin’ to fight for.”

His arms unfold, his fingers brushing over the broken watch strapped to his wrist. Ellie shifts slightly, already turning away, but he isn’t done.

“I know that’s not what you wanna hear right now, but it’s—”

“Swear to me.”

Ellie’s voice cuts through his, stopping him in his tracks.

She turns back, eyes burning into his, demanding,“Swear to me that everything you said about the Fireflies is true.”

Joel shifts on his feet, and you watch him carefully, your heart pounding hard in your chest.

And then he looks her in the eye and says: “I swear.”

The silence is thick, stretching too long. Ellie’s eyes flicker to you, searching, waiting.

Your throat is dry, your pulse hammering, but you force yourself to nod.

“I promise. ”

It feels like acid on your tongue.

Ellie doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Then, after a long moment, she nods.

“Okay,” she says.

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darknight3904 · 16 days ago

Text

Every Breath You Take

Chapter Sixteen- Lincoln

Tommy Miller x Reader, Slowburn!Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: You get to know your cargo, Ellie as Joel leads the way to Lincoln.

Warnings for this part: Canon typical violence, themes, language, gore, and horror.

Word Count: 2.4k

Previous Part / Series Masterlist / The Last of Us Masterlist

August 2023 Outskirts of Boston

Your boots crunch on the forest floor. Joel’s broad back stares at you as he stands next to a river, eyes fixed on something you couldn’t see. The kid, Ellie, was sitting propped up against a tree, silent for once as she picked at her nails.

Birds flutter overhead as you stare up at the blue sky, mind racing to replay the events of the day. Another person you knew was gone. Tess got bitten in a fucking musuem and the Fireflies had been attacked at the State house.

Tess had used herself as cannon fodder against the hoard of infected that had sensed your presence after Ellie stepped on one of those damn chains of cordyceps. Joel had been entirely unreadable the moment Tess pulled her shirt away from her collarbone, showing him the difference between her bite and Ellie’s arm. You barely knew what to do as she spoke, trying to convince you and Joel Ellie was the real deal, telling you to get her to Bill and Frank’s.

Before you knew it, Joel was grabbing Ellie and yelling your name to get you moving as Tess declared she was going to blow the State Building sky high with the fuel the Fireflies left behind. Your head had whipped around, shooting her a lingering look as Joel told you to move quicker, the distant sound of infected filling your ears.

Tess had given you a nod, a firm one, that was the last image you had of her. She didn’t even look scared, of course, when was she ever? She’d always known just what to do, giving you and Joel orders like she knew the future somehow.

You sigh deeply, there was nothing you could do about it, you’d have to move on, another person you knew who was dead now. Your gaze turns to Ellie, who has Joel’s brown coat draped over her legs. You don’t know when that happened, but it’s kinda…sweet almost that he’s letting her keep warm with it.

The sound of snapping twigs has Joel turning, head on a swivel as his eyes meet yours. You freeze for a second before walking up to stand beside him, staring out at the flowing water and the way it sparkles when the sun hits it just right. Your eyes fell to the small rock tower he’d built, it was something stupid really; no tower of rocks was going to reverse the past few hours.

“I’m sorry.” You softly say, “I know you and Tess were…close.”

The words Joel tries to conjure up die on his tongue, and he simply nods, eyes barely meeting yours before they fall back on the water that gently splashes over both your boots.

“We’re headed to Bill and Frank’s. Figure they might know what to do with her.” Joel finds himself saying. Right to business, it’s easier than thinking too much about what he could’ve done back in the city to keep her from being bitten.

You nod and he’s grateful that you’re not pushing him to talk about his feelings or whatever bullshit shrinks do. Not that you’re a therapist or anything…he just doesn’t want to discuss what happened to Tess, how he might’ve been able to stop it from happening.

“So, you think she’s the real deal?” You ask, referencing the girl behind the two of you

Joel glances over at Ellie, who is already staring at your turned backs.

“I dunno.” He sighs tiredly. This day feels like it’s been a thousand years long, and it’s barely even noon

You return to Ellie and your bags, Joel cautiously staring at her.

“There are more bugs out here than I thought,” Ellie says suddenly, referring to the tall trees

You gave her a look from your place behind Joel, she was poking the bear with this small talk of hers.

“I was thinking-” She starts

And here it comes.

“I don’t want your sorrys.” Joel cuts her off

“I just,” Ellie says, “Wanted to say that no one made you guys take this job, you made this choice, the three of you did.”

You watch her carefully, not sure what her point is in telling you and Joel this.

“I don’t want to be blamed for something that isn’t my fault.” She finishes

You look over at Joel. Of course, Tess isn’t her fault, she knew the risk of the open city, you all did. Joel gives Ellie a nod, ah yes the trademark Joel Miller communication. Don’t feel like actually talking? Just give a nod or a grunt and your message has been conveyed.

“How much longer?” Ellie asks next

“Five-hour hike,” Joel says, glancing in the direction of the road that will lead to Lincoln.

Ellie nods, her arms swinging at her sides as she hands Joel his jacket back, “We can manage that.”

The three of you walk beside each other, shoes making soft stomping sounds as Ellie takes in her surroundings and asks you and Joel just about every question in the book.

“How long have you been in Boston? Are you guys related? Are you guys from Boston?”

“Been here about 18 years, we’re not related, originally from Texas. That’s-”

“I know where Texas is.” She cuts you off

Great. Fedra makes their kids study geography, the world is saved. A singular minute of silence before she’s talking again. Thank god there weren’t many infected out here.

“I feel like I know you.” Ellie says, “Your face is familiar.”

You look over at her, scanning her figure as you try to think about where you might’ve seen her. At first, your brain is empty, you don’t hang out with kids, and your only friends are Tess and Joel. Technically, Ophelia too, but she didn’t really like you; you were just forced coworkers in the orphanage.

The orphanage. This is the little shit who knocked over the mop bucket like four years ago!

“You’re that kid I reported.” You blurt out

“Reported?” Joel asks

“She fell into a bucket while Ophelia and I were mopping. Apparently she’d done it like a zillion times before that, too.” You say

“Okay, it was like five other times, not a zillion.” Ellie defends herself, “Second, you two were taking up wayyy too much room in that hallway.”

“We were doing our jobs.” You point out shooting her a glare

“Yeah, well…”Ellie trails off

You roll your eyes. What an idiot.

“When we get to Bill and Frank’s, I’ll make you mop their floor.” You hum

Ellie’s nose wrinkles at the thought of chores, “Are they nice? Bill and Frank?”

“Frank is.” Joel says, “Bill is…”

“Well, he’s Bill.” You finish for Joel, unsure of how to describe Bill. Total hardass? Evil overlord? Yeah, they fit the description, but there was more to him.

You think about Bill and Frank, it’s been a bit since you last saw them. Back in June was the last time you’d been in Lincoln. Frank wasn’t doing well, and it had nearly made you cry the way he struggled with even the simplest of tasks now.

“You’ll like Frank.” You declare, “Frank likes everyone, he’s like…a golden retriever.”

“What’s a golden retriever?” Ellie asks

“It’s a dog who loves everyone and everything.” You say, “When we get you to the Fireflies, maybe Marlene can find you one.”

Ellie scoffs but doesn’t comment on your explanation.

“So, how long have you two been together?” She motions to the two of you, Joel on your left while she’s on your right.

Joel clears his throat almost nervously, “We ain’t together.”

“No like…working together or whatever it is you guys do.” Ellie clarifies

“We’ve known each other since before the outbreak.” You say honestly

“Ohhhh…wait, how old are you?” Ellie asks, looking at you as if she can’t decide if you’re 70 or 17.

“You talk a lot.” You sigh, normally you weren’t one for prolonged silence but this kid was seriously talkative

“Are you like 50?” Ellie asks

Fifty?! Were you that washed up already?!

“I’m 39.” You huff, “I’ll be 40 at the end of this month.”

Ellie nods, whispering, “Ancient.”

You roll your eyes at her comment, “Yeah, well, if I’m ancient, then Joel here is prehistoric.”

Joel says your name, his voice deep and gruff as he nudges you with his elbow, it’s a warning to knock it the hell off before he gets upset.

“Oh, and how old are you then?” Ellie asks quickly

Joel glares at her for a moment, you can tell he’s debating answering, “56.”

“Oh yeah, prehistoric.” Ellie agrees with you and you snicker. Maybe she wasn’t so bad.

You reach the old gas station in good time. Joel and you begin shifting old shelves around trying to remember where the stash was. It’d been awhile since you’d been here, where the hell did he hide the supplies?

Ellie wanders off into the back office ignoring you as you tell her not to go far. All this work for a truck you couldn’t let her die in a run down gas station.

“Fuck…” Joel curses, surveying the ground, great he’s as clueless as you

The two of you continue to struggle and you ask after another three minutes, “Is there even anything here?”

“Yes, there’s something here.” Joel says, “I know it.”

You roll your eyes, oh of course because he knows it, it has to be true. A loud clang sounds from the office and you turn your head to the half closed door, Joel approaching it cautiously as he calls Ellie’s name. You expect the worst as you hear shuffling, expecting to see Ellie stagger out, half eaten by an infected. Instead, she cockily waves a box of tampons in Joel’s face.

“Picked over my ass.”

Ellie requests the gun Joel’s leaving behind. She’s been denied twice by you and Joel. The two of you are working well together, keeping this kid in line so you can get out to Wyoming. You didn’t know what you’d find there. Joel was going for Tommy, but what were you going for? Tommy as well? That didn’t seem right. Who knows if he’d even want to see you? You sigh and your feet drag a bit, you think of the warm shower that will await you in Lincoln, and the conversation you’ll be able to make with Frank and the glare from Bill you’ll get after cracking a stupid joke. At least you’ll have that before embarking across the damn country with Joel of all people.

“Holy shit!” Ellie exclaims, stopping suddenly to stare into a big open field where the wreck of an airplane from twenty years ago rots away, “Either of you ever fly in one of those?”

“Few times.” Joel says

You nod, thinking of the tikes you’d flown to Disney World with your parents and the time you’d visited your Aunt Helena in Maine one summer.

“Lucky…” Ellie declares

You think back to the uncomfortable mess that was traveling in an airplane, the limited leg room and shitty snacks, not to mention how bad it’d be to get stuck in the middle seat.

Joel scoffs, voicing your opinions out loud, mentioning the overpriced sandwiches they sold and the lack of room.

“You got to go up in the sky.” Ellie points out, not buying your or Joel’s misery for one second

“Yeah, well, so did they.” He points out morbidly

Way to be a ray of sunshine, Joel.

By the time you’re within one mile of Lincoln, Ellie has officially exhausted your social battery. You can tell Joel’s tired of her too, neither of you are used to talking to a stranger this much, most interactions with them were all business. It’s not like you hated her…you just needed a bit of silence. Instead, you found yourself answering questions about the outbreak and what life was like before to a curious fourteen-year-old. You even accounted for what homecoming dances and pep rallies were. Ellie declared them dumb, and you and Joel agreed as you thought about how bad your butt had hurt after sitting on the gym bleachers for hours while the cheerleaders flipped around on the mats.

By the time you reach the gate to Bill and Frank’s, you can tell something is amiss. Normally, Bill’s sensors and cameras would pick you up and have the old man waiting for you on the other side of the gate. In recent years, he’d waited on the porch, unwilling to leave Frank alone in the house.

Instead, nothing but the scuttle of fallen leaves greets you. Joel punches in the gate code and the three of you slip inside. You stare at the dead flowers outside the house, Frank would never let them go like that, Bill kept up with all the aesthetics just to keep Frank happy. He worked to keep their house a home.

When Joel finds the front door unlocked, you begin to worry. Sure, it was entirely plausible they were somewhere together, maybe out back or perhaps in the middle of a midday nap. But leaving the door open? Bill would never.

“Wait here.” Joel points to the dining room table, which has an abandoned set of plates, rotten food atop them

You follow Joel to the bedroom, his knuckles have barely brushed the door when Ellie calls both your names, her loud voice bouncing off the walls of the silent home.

She reads the letter slowly, her soft voice filling your ears as you tighten your hands into fists, your nails biting into your skin as you let your eyes flutter shut. Bill and Frank, both of them dead, are lying in their bedroom down the hall. You swallow thickly as if your saliva is beginning to choke you and glance at Joel whose face remains unreadable, the same face he’s worn every day for the past twenty years without Sarah.

Joel takes the letter, skimming it over before turning on his heel and disappearing outside. You point at the chair, wiping a tear off your face,

“Stay.” You tell her

You find Joel in the garage, hands planted on the hood, his head down. He turns to look at you, eyes filled with something you can’t make out, sadness perhaps. Maybe remorse.

“Battery will be done in a couple of hours, let’s stock up on some stuff,” Joel says quickly

“What’re we doing with her?” You ask your voice barely a whisper

“Take er’ with us. Maybe Tommy is still in contact with some Fireflies.” Joel guesses

You nod, turning around and leaving the garage. Outside, you take a deep breath, trying to calm your mind and give Bill and Frank a proper mental goodbye. By the time Ellie has made it off the first step of the porch, you’ve pulled yourself together, leading her back inside to gather supplies for the journey ahead.

Next Part

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nymika-arts · 3 months ago

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like a river runs

chapter 10 of 10, 3.3k read on ao3 | read from the beginning

It's dark when Eddie wakes again, in part because of the heavy grey clouds that have rolled in, shrouding the blue sky in their own misery. He stays where he is for a few minutes, taking stock of all the pieces of his ruined life. Pieces that he broke.

He should have known it would end this way. Hindsight is a hell of a thing.

But no amount of wishing will undo what's been done, so eventually he stands, and makes his way back to the scorched earth of the rest of the house. There's still a light glowing in the main room at the end of the hall.

"You're still here," Eddie says quietly.

Tess lifts her head, red rimmed eyes carving into him. "I didn't want to leave it like that."

They look at each other for a long moment.

“So it's over then, huh? Just like that.”

"Eddie, it was over the day that plane landed. We both knew it, I just didn't want to admit it.” She stands, glancing away, and she looks… different. Exhausted. “You were staying because you thought you were supposed to, and I was staying because… I was hoping you’d choose me in the end, I guess. We were kidding ourselves."

She hugs herself and bites at her cheek, just like she always does when she's trying not to cry. He wraps his own arms around himself to keep them from reaching out to her.

"I was never gonna be your first choice, Eddie. I mean, he was dead and he still came first half the time.” She laughs humourlessly. “And I ignored it before because I thought you loved me, but—I don't know. Maybe you never did.”

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#911 abc #911 fic #buddie #evan buckley #eddie diaz #buddie fic #911fic #911 on abc #manifest au #nymwrites #there is an epilogue to be posted still but this is the last full chapter of the fic #enjoy! <3

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sallie-nathalies · 3 months ago

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Bachelors and bachelorettes naming their children.

Which names they will suggest if you ask?

Shane after Jas' parents or Marnie. Examples: anything you headcanon, freestyle. I particularly headcanon they were named Jack and Tess.

Elliott after his favorite literature authors or things related to the sea. Examples: Meredith (lady of the sea) , Dylan (son of the sea), Gabriel (García Márquez), Emily (Bronte).

Harvey he would like to name them after something related to birds or sky. Examples: Phoenix, Starling, Arnvald (eagle), Robin.

Sebastián he would like to name his children after stuff related to water bodies (like the lake he used to smoke or the sea) where he used to smoke and talk with you. Examples: River, Marina, Kai, Brooke.

Sam after rock songs or his own parents. Examples: Layla (Eric Clapton), Gloria (Patti Smith), Bobby Jean (Bruce Springsteen).

Alex after her mother and some famous Gridball player (I headcanon Gridball is like Rugby). Brian (O'Driscoll), Dan (Carter), Francois (Pienaar).

Penny after children literature heroes that inspired her when she was younger. Examples: Matilda (Roald Dahl), Harry (Potter, J.K Rowling), August (Pullman, R.J.Palacio), Anne (Shirley, L.M.Montgomery).

Maru after famous scientists or foreigner names with special meaning (Japanese, Indian, Latin...). Examples: Mae (Jemison), Richard (Feynman), Ananya, Aurelius.

Haley after flowers for girls and trees if they are boys, or after both of you. Examples: Ash, Delilah, Rowan, Violet.

Emily she will look for unique names, with unique meanings. Again, freestyle. Agatha, Orion, Seraphina, Jovian.

Leah after things related to the forest, by meaning. Examples: Sylvia (woman of the forest), Yannick (man of the forest), Hazel, Alder

Abigail after national heroes. Examples : Joan (of Arc), Audie (Murphy), Alexander (Surovov), Boudicca.

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messitydepressity · 17 days ago

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Banger TLOU fics that I’ve read recently.

No real rhyme or reason to this list, just a handful of fics that have grabbed my attention lately and I’m not always best at articulating my adoration for them.

Most are newer and some are throw backs, but they all deserve a little love. 🖤🖤

Hope you find one you like .

—

Hold Back The River - by sporadicallyceaseless (unsure of tumblr handle)

"Maria's gonna be a little late tonight, she’s busy yelling at some kids that got caught jumping off the dam.”

Stunned, Joel eyes the puddle slowly forming under her feet with quiet horror. “But you were smarter than that, right?”

“Or faster?” Tommy cuts in hopefully.

“Both,” Ellie agrees. Then, with a wince, “But also…neither.”

A dangerous dare and a nasty sickness rock the Miller household on an already emotional week. Joel and Ellie learn that something always lurks deeper than the surface

Frayed Cords - by @bumblepony

What does she do? She doesn’t know what to do.

“What-what do I do? Hey, hey…” Ellie turns to the girl, her eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling, and begs, “What do I do now? Please, I don’t know what to do.”

She doesn’t know how to do this. She’s alone, and she doesn’t know what she’s doing. She hears voices and looks up as Tommy and Jesse come into view.

“Oh god.” Tommy breathes.

“Jesus… what…” Jesse stammers.

“I don’t know what to do,” Ellie pleads, holding up the still, blue baby, “Help, please, I don’t know what to do.”

IE: What if Ellie actually did what Mel asked her to do. Or Ellie and crew accidentally acquire a newborn.

The shirt off his back - by @barlowstreet

“Your clothes,” she says. “I don’t mind them.”

“Well, they’re all yours,” he says. “Whenever you want.”

In the moment, he’d carve out his actual heart and give it to her if it made her feel better. His clothes are nothing compared to that.

Or: 5 times someone stole Joel's shirt + 1 time they didn't

Or honey, hope (even on this side of the grave) again - by @captainredspade

While on a FEDRA mandated job, Ellie is paired with a grumpy old man who doesn't talk. Not a single word spoken aloud. No one seems to get exactly what his deal is, but Ellie, she spends one day with the dude and understands him just fine.

Next of Kin - by @ketchupchipsaregross

“Wow,” Ellie breathed, her face turned up to the triceratops skeleton, “It’s super big.”

“His name is Cliff,” Tess read off from the plaque, “He’s 65 million years old.”

“That’s not as old as sharks,” She said.

“Not quite,” She agreed, “But it’s still cool.”

Ellie nodded, still transfixed, “Super mega cool.”

(gender equality dictates that sometimes Tess has to be the semi-unwilling foster parent)

These Violent Delights - by @hypnotisedfireflies

It’s 2006. Tess, Joel and Tommy face threats in the open country and grapple with the moral chasm opening between them. Survival must be earned. Evolution cannot be walked back.

Or: Everything wants to kill them and the brothers want to kill each other.

Joel dove off the bridge.

He was enveloped with a sharp, sudden slap. The water was shockingly cold. Murky sunlight streamed through the surface and lit upon rusting cars and mossy debris. Joel pumped his legs and thrust up to fresh air like a cork. He sucked in a breath. Tried to orient himself. The river was moving faster than it looked and the bridge was already shrinking. He needed to find Tommy, but before he could do that he had to get control of his own body because right now, the current was in charge. If he didn’t figure it out, he was going to break an arm.

Or he might drown, too.

Copper - by @two-birds-alone-together

"What do you mean, ‘usual headache’? How often does that happen?" She’d never mentioned having headaches, but he supposed that years of having ‘minor’ illnesses and injuries overlooked in favor of toughening up child soldiers had trained minor complaints out of her.

Her eyebrows furrowed. "I dunno, man. It’s like your knee. Always hurts but once you get used to it you don’t even feel it any more."

(Ellie and Joel have been in Jackson for a few months when Ellie develops migraines.)

—

If y’all have any recs of your own, throw ‘em at me.

#I’ve also reread a ton of Pen fics recently but what’s new #queue #the last of us #tlou fanfiction #joel and ellie #joel miller #ellie williams #ao3 #fic recs

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gullemec · 4 months ago

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Responsibility

Bitten - Part IV

Bitten Masterlist ao3

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: A glimpse into the beginning of your working relationship with Joel. Rare moments of relief scattered amid pain. You try to break through the impenetrable forcefield that is Joel Miller.

Warnings: canon-typical violence, gun use, description of injuries, Tess is here <3 (and a little mean but she's allowed), 24/7 365 ANGST, blood

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 8.3k

A/N: I'm going to try and get these chapters out on a more reliable schedule going forward! I just finished golden cage so of course i have to start another series alongside this one lol. big love to everyone who's commented/liked/reblogged or otherwise shown love for this series!

You squint against the sunlight reflecting off the painfully bright glare of fresh snow. The first snow of the season. The stark white landscape stretches out around you, broken only by the dark skeletons of bare trees clawing endlessly up into the pale blue sky.

A bonafide Montana winter.

It’s beautiful in a way that feels cruel, indifferent. The kind of beauty that doesn’t care whether you live or die.

Your fingers tremble as you unfold the map in your hands, the stiff paper crackling in the stillness. You trace the crisscrossing roads and the snaking blue lines of rivers, trying to pinpoint your location. If your navigation is correct, and there’s a decent chance it isn’t, you’re a couple of days’ hike from the Wyoming border.

You huff out a breath, the air materializing in front of you in fleeting clouds before dissipating into nothing. The cold bites at your exposed skin, seeping through your mismatched layers of clothing.

Joel walks a few steps ahead, his broad shoulders cutting a path through the snow, his rifle slung low across his back. The weight of his presence is as steady and unyielding as ever. It’s a quiet sort of reassurance, even now, even after everything.

You’d left the cabin early this morning, Joel sufficiently convinced that you’d healed enough to travel again. The weight of your pack digs into your shoulders with each step, the dull ache in your side a persistent reminder of how fragile you still are. But you don’t say a word about it.

You can still feel the way Joel’s hands had ghosted over your side earlier, inspecting your stitches, his touch tentative and fleeting as he helped you prepare for the journey. It sent shivers down your spine, a sensation that was both delicious and unbearable.

In another life, that touch might have meant something different. Something softer. The way a lover might gently wake you, their fingertips trailing over your skin with reverence. But here, now, it’s tainted. Blood-stained. An act of survival, not intimacy. Of necessity, not affection.

The pain flares again as you shift the pack on your shoulders, but you stifle the wince before it can reach your face. You grit your teeth and force yourself to keep moving, one foot in front of the other.

Because you know Joel would stop if you asked.

He’d find you both a safe spot to rest, grumbling all the while about how you’re slowing him down, about how daylight’s burning. But he’d do it. Without hesitation, without complaint that mattered.

And that’s exactly why you don’t ask.

His care, however gruff and begrudging it seems on the surface, is a kindness you’ve decided you don’t deserve.

You glance up at him again, his figure framed against the stark white of the snow. He’s quiet, as he often is, his focus ahead as though the horizon holds all the answers. There’s something almost comforting about the way he carries himself, all rugged determination and quiet strength.

Your North Star. Strong and dependable and a thousand miles away.

The space between you feels lighter than it did before you reached the cabin. Ever since the night he held you after your nightmare, the tension had eased. The conversations felt lighter, his gaze less accusatory. Still, there is an undeniable distance here that neither of you knows how to cross.

The fresh snow crunches underfoot, the only sound in the otherwise silent wilderness. You focus on it, on the rhythmic sound of your steps and his, on the steady cadence as you push forward. Anything to distract yourself from the gnawing ache in your side and the heavier ache in your chest.

Your eyes drift back to the map in your hands, the lines and symbols blurring as your eyes readjust. Wyoming is out there somewhere, a distant promise of… what? Safety? Redemption?

You’re not sure.

It was what all the rumours said, what you’d heard from fellow QZ residents.

Heard they’ve got a place out in Wyoming. Some kinda safe haven. No FEDRA, no ration cards. Just people lookin’ out for each other.

"Sounds like a fairy tale,” Joel had said when you first told him about it.

And it had seemed like a fairytale back then, but it was enough. Once upon a time, it was enough.

…

You were perched on an overturned crate, tucked in the shadows of the alleyway behind Joel’s apartment. The cold, wet air seeped through your patched coat and settled in your bones. You were distantly aware of the distant hum of generators, the barking shouts of FEDRA soldiers. Always in the periphery. Never for a moment were you allowed to forget where you were, this hellscape of endless grey. The skies, the crumbling building facades, the soot-streaked faces and desperate eyes of the people you passed on the street. It all faded into the same monotonous shade of fucking grey.

You inhaled deeply, your lip curling with the rot and diesel that constantly tainted the air around you. A woman down the alley cursed as she spilled water from her ration jug. The sound of a scuffle broke out somewhere further down the street. Life in the QZ was a constant grind, a relentless struggle just to eke out another day of painful existence.

That was why you were there that day. A promise of something better, if only marginally. A tiny spark of something new, something exciting, to disrupt the miserable monotony.

You hunched forward, rubbing your gloved hands together for warmth. Your fingers traced the map Joel had sketched for you earlier. Routes through the city, marked with coded notations on where and when to avoid FEDRA patrols. It was all a blur of lines and numbers you still hadn’t fully decoded.

The sound of boots crunching on debris pulled your attention. You tensed automatically, only relaxing when Joel stepped into view. His presence was steady, familiar, despite everything. Your newfound friendship, if you could even call it that, was barely a few months old, but he put you at ease regardless. He didn’t speak right away, just tilted his head for you to follow as he strode toward the mouth of the alley. His hand rested on his hip near his pistol. Always prepared, always scanning.

“Let’s go,” he said gruffly, glancing back to make sure you were keeping up.

As you rounded the corner, you saw her. Tess. She leaned so casually against the brick wall, but there was nothing relaxed about the way she watched you. Her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her eyes scanning you from head to toe. She radiated a cool, unspoken authority, and you immediately felt like an intruder in a sacred space.

She eyed you up and down, the mask of cool indifference never leaving her face.

Then she turned to Joel, like you weren’t even there.

“You serious? What the hell is she doing here?”

Joel huffed. “She’s resourceful,” he said. “‘Sides, we need an extra pair of hands.”

“An extra liability, more like,” she snapped back.

Joel didn’t flinch under her scrutiny, but his jaw tightened. “She’s good.”

She turned her full attention to you then, and the weight of it made your stomach churn. “What’s your story, then? Joel might think you can handle yourself, but I don’t work with people I don’t know.”

Her words were biting, but it was the way she said Joel, so casually, so familiarly, that caught your attention. You weren't sure why it stung, but it did. Like you were peeping through a window, trespassing into something you didn’t fully understand.

“I can hold my own,” you said quickly, straightening your spine. You tried to keep your voice steady, to sound confident, in spite of the heat rising in your cheeks. “I’ve been outside the walls before. I know what I’m doing.”

Tess arched a brow, clearly unimpressed. “Is that so? And if things go sideways, what then? You planning to scream and hope Joel comes running?”

You opened your mouth to retort, but Joel cut in before you could speak.

“She ain’t some kid,” he said. “She’s tougher than she looks.”

Tess’s lips pressed into a thin line, and she shifted her weight, clearly biting back whatever barbed remark she wanted to throw at him. Instead, she turned to him, voice dropping to a clipped tone. “You’re really putting a lot of faith in someone you just met.”

“She’s earned it,” Joel replied, leaving no room for argument.

There was something unspoken in the way they looked at each other, a brief but loaded silence that spoke of history and mutual understanding. It wasn’t lost on you, and though you didn’t want to dwell on it, you couldn’t help the tightness in your throat.

Tess finally sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. “Fine. But if this goes south, it’s on you.”

Joel gave a curt nod, and the tension between them seemed to ease, though Tess’s wariness didn't disappear entirely. She turned back to you, her expression still hard, but her tone less biting.

“Stick close. Don’t do anything stupid. And for God’s sake, don’t get us caught.”

You nodded quickly, your pulse still racing. “I won’t.”

And you didn’t. For a few good months, the three of you managed to function as a team, A tense, fragile team, but a team nonetheless.

You tried to find your place in their dynamic, but you always felt like you were treading on thin ice. Tess’ coldness toward you never thawed, her clipped words and skeptical glances a constant reminder that you were an outsider here. And Joel… Joel never wavered in his defense of you. At first, it brought you comfort, but with time it only seemed to aggravate the rawness you felt, a constant reminder that you were an intruder here.

You watched them carefully, studying their rhythm, desperate not to disrupt the well-oiled machine of their partnership. Tess moved with a confidence that came from years of experience, efficient, calculating, always one step ahead. Joel was her counterbalance, quieter but just as capable, following her lead without question.

So where did that leave you?

You noticed the subtleties between them, how Tess would already be at Joel’s apartment when you arrived at the crack of dawn, leaning casually against the counter like she belonged there. The way her hand would brush his arm as they planned jobs, the easy familiarity in their movements. The quiet, murmured exchanges you weren’t meant to hear, their words too low to catch but their meaning clear in the way they glanced at each other.

At first, you ignored the uneasy twist in your stomach, brushing it off as your misplaced sense of intrusion. After all, they had history. You were the newcomer, the outsider trying to wedge yourself into a partnership that didn’t have room for a third wheel. It made sense that Tess would resent you, that Joel’s defense of you would only deepen the divide.

Later, with the gift of hindsight, you would realize that what you were feeling was jealousy, pure and green.

You hated yourself for it, for the bitterness that crept into your thoughts, for the way you resented their bond even as you relied on it. But the feeling was there, buried deep, a quiet truth you couldn’t bring yourself to face.

Whatever semblance of teamwork and trust the three of you built together came crashing down on a grey, overcast winter day.

You were in Quincy, delivering goods to a warehouse. It was a beast of a thing, a decaying skeleton of its former self, all broken windows and rusted metal and cracked concrete floors. You stuck to the shadows, three sets of boots crunching softly along the concrete. Tess led the way, her gun drawn, eyes sharp as they scanned the interior of the warehouse. Joel trailed just behind you, close enough that his presence felt like a shield at your back.

The buyer, a sketchy looking man named Lyle, stood at the center of the warehouse, flanked by two burly men.

“Right on time,” Lyle said, his voice carrying a false cheer, grating against the tension in the air. His hands fidgeted at his sides, his fingers drumming against his thighs. “Tess. Joel. Nice to see you. And… your friend.”

Tess didn’t respond, stepping forward to place the duffel bag on the table with a thud. “Let’s just get this done,” she said curtly, unzipping the bag to reveal the neatly packaged supplies inside. Pills, antibiotics, ammo. The usual.

Lyle whistled appreciatively. “Looks good. Real good.” He waved a hand toward his men, who stepped forward to inspect the goods. Tess’s hand twitched near her holster, but she didn't draw. Her entire body was rigid, her eyes watching vigilantly.

Joel shifted beside you, his eyes scanning the shadows. He spoke low as he leaned toward you. “Keep your eyes open. Somethin’ feels off.”

Your grip tightened on the pistol in your hand, the weight of it uncomfortable in your hand. You've always been better with a blade, but they'd insisted on you taking a firearm. You nodded silently, your heart thudding in your ribcage as you followed his eye line.

The tension in the air snapped like a rubber band breaking when one of Lyle’s men drew a knife from his belt.

“Don’t move,” the man snarled, lunging toward Tess.

Chaos erupted instantly, everything happening before you in slow-motion. Tess ducked and slammed the man’s wrist against the edge of the table, the knife clattering to the floor. Joel pulled you behind a cinder block pillar, his rifle already raised as gunfire rang out. The second bodyguard fired blindly into the shadows, his bullets sending sparks flying as they grazed the metal beams.

Lyle scrambled backward, shouting orders at his men, but Tess was already moving. She drew her pistol and fired once, twice, dropping the knife-wielding man where he stood. Blood sprayed across the table as Lyle dove for cover.

“Move!” Joel barked, pushing you toward the side exit as gunfire erupted at your back. You ducked, your pulse roaring in your ears as you sprinted across the open space. Tess followed close behind, firing off shots to cover your retreat.

A bullet whizzed past your shoulder, causing you to stumble, your breath catching in your throat.

“Joel! Grab her!” Tess shouted.

Joel grabbed your arm, steadying you as he fired a shot over his shoulder. The echoing crack of the rifle drowned out the chaos for a moment, your vision narrowing on Lyle collapsing to the ground.

The three of you burst through the side door into the cold night air, your lungs burning as you ran toward the tree line. The warehouse disappeared behind you, the sound of shouting and gunfire fading away like a spectre.

By the time you reached the outer fence of the Boston QZ, your breath came in ragged gasps, your limbs heavy like lead. The distant glow of the QZ’s lights were a beacon of safety, but the nearby cacophony of a FEDRA patrol sent a chill down your spine.

“Shit,” Tess muttered, her face flushed from exertion. She glanced at Joel, her eyes narrowed. “We can’t go through the main gate like this. They’ll search us.”

Joel nodded grimly, eyes scanning the perimeter. “There’s a blind spot near the east fence. Should still be clear.”

The three of you crept along the fence line, your movements slow and deliberate. A soldier came scarily close, his flashlight sweeping across the ground. You held your breath, pressing yourself against the cold steel of the fence until it was gone.

Joel pulled out a pair of wire cutters from his pack and quickly cut a gap in the chain-link. He motioned for you to go first, his eyes flicking between the fence and the empty street behind you.

You crawled through the gap, wincing as the rough edges scraped against your coat. Tess followed, her movements quick and efficient. Joel came through last, yanking the cut section back into place before leading you both into the shadows of the QZ.

By the time you made it back to Joel’s apartment, the adrenaline had worn off, leaving exhaustion in its wake. You slumped into a chair near the table, your body trembling from the cold and the strain. Tess, however, was far from calm.

“What the hell were you thinking?” she snapped, rounding on Joel as soon as the door closed behind him. “Bringing her into this was a mistake.”

Joel stiffened, his jaw tightening as he set his rifle down. “She did fine.”

“Fine?” Tess let out a bitter laugh, throwing her hands up. “We almost got killed out there. You think that’s fine?”

“You don’t think I know how close that was?” Joel’s voice rose, frustration spilling over. “It was her first time gettin’ caught up in anything like that.”

“She shouldn’t have been there in the first place!” Tess shot back. “You’re too damn soft on her, Joel. It’s going to get us all killed.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut, and though neither of them looked at you, their argument made your face feel hot. You sat frozen in the chair, feeling like a scolded child.

“Enough,” Joel said, his tone warning, dangerous. “This ain’t about her and you know it. We got the job done. That’s what matters.”

Tess shook her head, her lips pressed into a thin line. “You’re blind when it comes to her. And one day, it’s going to cost you.” She grabbed her bag and headed for the door, pausing only to shoot Joel a look filled with equal parts anger and disappointment. “Don’t call me for the next one.”

The door slammed behind her, leaving the room in heavy silence. Joel didn’t move for a long moment, his hands braced against the table as he stared down at the scratched surface.

You cleared your throat, your voice shaky. “I’m sorry.”

Joel looked up, his expression unreadable. “Ain’t your fault,” he said gruffly. But the weight in his voice told you he didn’t entirely believe it.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

Joel glanced at you, his dark eyes shadowed and unreadable. For a moment, you thought he was going to brush you off, the way he usually did, but instead, he straightened up, moving to sink into the chair across from you. He looked tired, more tired than you’d ever seen him. It tugged at something deep inside you.

“Should be askin’ you that,” he said gruffly, leaning back and rubbing a hand over his face. “Wasn’t exactly a smooth run.”

“I’m fine,” you replied quickly, though the tremor in your voice betrayed you. “Shaken up, maybe, but… it could’ve been worse.”

Joel’s gaze lingered on you for a beat too long, his brow furrowing like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Finally, he nodded, though it felt more like he was convincing himself than agreeing with you.

“Tess didn’t mean what she said,” you offered, though you weren’t entirely sure you believed it. “She was just… angry. Scared, maybe.”

Joel let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Oh, she meant it. Ain’t no sugarcoatin’ when it comes to Tess.” He shook his head, his jaw tightening. “She’s right, though. I shouldn’t have brought you along.”

The words hit like a small blow, even though you knew he wasn’t trying to hurt you. “I can handle myself,” you said quietly, your words as weak as you felt.

“I know you can,” he said, a surprising gentleness in his tone that caught you off guard. “Doesn’t mean I like seein’ you in danger.”

The way he said it made your stomach twist, not with guilt, but with something else. You glanced away, unsure how to respond, and your eyes landed on his hands, still resting on the table. They were scarred and rough, calloused from years of hard living, but they seemed to tremble as he flexed them.

“Joel…” you began, but you didn't know where you were going with it. You just knew you didn’t want the conversation to end here, not with so much unspoken between you. “Do you ever think about… leaving? The QZ, I mean.”

His eyes snapped up to yours, startled, and you wondered if you’d pushed too far. But then he leaned back in his chair, his arms crossing over his chest as he considered your question.

“More than I’d like to admit,” he said finally. “But it ain’t exactly easy, headin’ out there on your own.”

“Not on your own,” you said before you could stop yourself. “I mean… if you had someone with you.”

Joel’s eyes narrowed, studying you. You could see the wheels turning in his head, the way he weighed what you were saying in his mind. “Wyoming,” he said after a moment, almost a whisper. “You said before that there’s a place out there. Safe. Quiet.”

The idea still sounded too good to be true, and yet you felt a flicker of hope ignite deep inside you. “Do you think it’s real?” you asked, leaning forward.

Joel shrugged, his shoulders rising and falling wearily. “Don’t know. But…” He trailed off, his eyes dropping to the table between you. “Might be worth findin’ out.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke, this new idea settling between you, fragile and precious. The idea of Wyoming felt like a tiny light in the vast darkness you’d been living in, and you could tell Joel felt it too, even if he wouldn’t say it outright.

“Would you… go?” you asked hesitantly. “If you had the chance?”

His eyes lifted to yours, and there was something in his eyes that made your breath catch. “Only if I had a damn good reason,” he said softly.

You didn’t know what to say to that, the implication of his words weighing on your mind. He looked at you like he was about to say something more, his lips parting, but then he stopped himself, his jaw clenching as he leaned back.

“We should get some sleep,” he said abruptly, his voice taking on that familiar gruffness that felt like armor. “You should stay here tonight, s’past curfew.”

You nodded, the sudden shift leaving you feeling unbalanced. As you stood and moved to Joel’s couch, you could feel his eyes on you, the weight of his eyes on you heavy and lingering. But when you glanced back at him, he’d already turned away, his shoulders hunched as he stared down at his hands.

As you pulled a blanket over yourself, you couldn’t help but think about the way he looked at you. Like there was something he wanted to say but couldn’t. You didn’t know what it meant, not yet, but the thought of Wyoming and the small glimmer of hope it brought was enough to let you close your eyes with a little less dread.

Weeks later, the three of you stood in the shadows of a decaying old workshop on the edge of the QZ, a chain-link fence separating safety from the chaos awaiting you just a hundred feet away. The night air was heavy with the smell of oil and rust, the distant sounds of dogs barking and the creaking of a loose gate in the wind.

Your nerves were on edge.

Tess pulled the strap of a worn, overstuffed pack off her shoulder, thrusting it toward Joel. “Here,” she said curtly. “It’s not much, but it’s what I could scrape together.”

Joel took the bag without a word, his face unreadable in the dim light. He rifled through the contents briefly — a couple of cans of food, a few water bottles, a box of ammo, and a battered first aid kit.

“Should get you through the first few days,” Tess added, crossing her arms. Her tone was brisk, but there was an edge to it, like she was biting back something more.

“Appreciate it,” Joel said, his voice low.

Tess’s eyes flicked to you then, her expression hardening. “You’d better know what you’re getting yourself into,” she said, her words directed at you like a warning. “This isn’t a walk in the park. You screw up out there, and it’s not just your ass on the line.”

“I know,” you replied softly, swallowing the lump in your throat.

Tess huffed, shaking her head as she took a step back. “You’d better,” she muttered, more to herself than to you.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on all of you. Tess’s eyes lingered on Joel for a moment, her jaw tightening. “This is stupid,” she said finally, voice cracking just slightly. “You know that, right?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was quieter, his whole demeanour was quieter. “Yeah. I know.”

She exhaled, her frustration palpable, but there was something else in her expression, something softer, something she was trying not to let slip. “Fine,” she said, her voice hard again. “Do whatever the hell you want.”

She turned away then, but before she left, she paused, looking back at Joel, her eyes narrowing. “She’s your responsibility, Joel. Don’t forget that.”

Joel met her gaze, and for a moment, the two of them seemed locked in some silent conversation, something beyond your understanding. Finally, he nodded, the movement barely perceptible.

“I won’t,” he said..

Tess looked like she wanted to say more, but she just shook her head and walked away, her boots crunching against the gravel as she disappeared into the shadows.

You and Joel stood there for a long moment after she was gone, the night suddenly feeling colder and quieter. He shifted the bag on his shoulder and glanced at you, his expression unreadable.

“You ready?” he asked.

You nodded, though your heart felt heavy. “Yeah.”

Without another word, the two of you slipped through the hole in the fence and into the darkness beyond, leaving the QZ, Tess, everything behind.

…

Joel sidles up behind you, arm reaching around you to splay his thick fingers against the map. The sudden proximity jolts you. You didn’t even notice him moving closer.

“If we head West, we should hit Laurel by tomorrow afternoon,” he says, his finger tracing a path across the creased paper.

Your heart stutters against your ribs, caught off guard by how near he is. You barely manage a huff in response, unsure whether it’s meant to acknowledge his words or simply expel the air that had caught in your lungs.

The two of you had always avoided cutting through towns if you could help it. Towns and cities meant more infected, more danger. But supplies were running low, the strain of your injuries and convalescence having burned through food and medicine faster than either of you had planned. There wasn’t much choice left.

You fold the map and tuck it into your pack, slinging the strap over your shoulder with a grimace you do your best to hide. Joel’s eyes flick toward you but he doesn’t comment. He just turns, leading the way through the snow laden forest.

The crunch of your boots is crisp in the soft powder, cold air biting at your cheeks. Joel keeps a few paces ahead, shoulder squared and posture tense as he scans the treeline. You trail behind, just focusing on placing one foot in front of the other, the ache in your side having grown less angry, but no less prominent in your mind. You grit your teeth and push on, refusing to let yourself slow him down.

Joel stops suddenly, raising a hand to signal you to halt. Your body tenses, eyes shifting around, scanning for danger. Your ears strain for the telltale sounds of crunching snow that don’t belong to you or Joel, or worse, the dreaded chatter of a clicker.

Instead, he gestures toward a tree to your right. Frowning, you follow his line of sight.

There, perched on a low-hanging branch, is a cardinal. Its feathers are vibrant, blood-red against the oppressively grey sky. The bird tilts its head, its black eyes sharp as it seems to observe the two of you.

“Pretty, ain’t it,” he murmurs.

You blink, caught off guard by the simplicity of his observation, the softness of his voice. The gruff, angry man beside you, the man who had seen and done more horrible things than you could ever fathom, was captivated by something so small, so fleeting. All you can do is nod.

For a moment, the weight of everything fades. The two of you stand there in silence, watching as the cardinal flits from one branch to another, its red wings fluttering like a heartbeat against the pale backdrop. The world is quieter, softer, like the forest itself is holding its breath with you.

“Used to see these all the time back in Texas,” Joel says after a beat, and he seems distant. “Sarah… she loved ‘em. Used to try and draw ‘em in with feeders she’d make outta old milk jugs. Never caught one up close, though. They’re too skittish.”

His words hang in the air. He rarely shares these memories with you, and you hang on to every word when he does. He’s mentioned his daughter to you before, always in brief moments like these. You get the sense that she’s always there for him, her presence on his mind like sunlight glittering on the surface of water. He doesn’t need to say it outright for you to know this is why he keeps himself locked up so tightly. You don’t blame him. All the same, you soak up these moments, eager for any glimpse at the man behind the mask.

You glance at him, your throat tightening at the wistfulness in his expression. He isn’t looking at the bird anymore but somewhere far away, lost in a past you don’t dare intrude upon.

“Sounds like she was creative,” you offer tentatively.

Joel’s lips twitch, not quite a smile, but something close. “Yeah,” he said softly. “She was.”

The cardinal takes off then, its wings beating a hurried rhythm as it disappears into the trees. The spell breaks, and Joel clears his throat, his face hardening as he turns back to the path. “C’mon. We’ve wasted enough time.”

You press forward, the jagged outline of a town materializing on the horizon. It jostles something in you, the sharp edges and uniform structures standing in stark contrast to the gentle, organic lines of the wilderness you’ve grown used to. Civilization, or what’s left of it, always feels wrong somehow, an intrusion into the quiet simplicity of nature you’ve grown accustomed to.

As you approach a wide, frozen stream, Joel barely hesitates. He steps onto the ice, the frozen surface groaning ominously beneath his boots. He mutters a string of low curses under his breath, each step calculated, his weight shifting carefully as he crosses. When he reaches the other side, he turns back to you, leaning down and extending his hand.

“Here,” he says.

You hesitate, staring at his outstretched hand. There’s a flicker of doubt in your mind, about the ice, about touching him again, but it disappears as you meet his steady gaze. You take his hand, his calloused palm warm against your cold fingers.

He pulls you forward with surprising ease, your feet barely skimming the fractured ice before you’re safely on solid ground again. For a moment, you’re both still, the sound of cracking ice behind you the only reminder of what you just avoided.

“You’re not exactly light on your feet,” you say, the words slipping out unbidden, a teasing edge to your tone.

Joel’s brow quirks, his expression hovering somewhere between amused and unamused. “Careful,” he says dryly. “Or I’ll make you carry my pack.”

The faintest twitch of a smile plays at his lips, and before you can stop yourself, you laugh, a real, genuine laugh that feels strange and foreign in the cold, bleak air. The sound surprises you, catching in your chest like it doesn’t quite belong, but it feels good too, like a tiny spark in the frost.

Joel glances at you then, and for a moment, something in his face softens. His eyes linger, almost like he’s startled by the sound you’ve made, like he’s pleased to have coaxed a laugh out of you in spite of everything. It’s fleeting, but it’s there, a sliver of warmth piercing through his usual stoic exterior.

It’s only then that you both seem to realize he’s still holding your hand. His grip is firm but not uncomfortable, his fingers rough and steady around yours. The air between you shifts, quiet tension creeping into the space where laughter had been just a moment before.

For a second, a single, fragile heartbeat of a second, neither of you moves. The world seems to still around you, the weight of his hand grounding you. Your heart stumbles against your ribs, and you wonder if he feels it too, this strange, magnetic pull between you.

But then Joel clears his throat and lets go, the moment snapping like a thread. He steps back and turns on his heel, grunting as he throws the weight of his pack over his shoulder.

“C’mon,” he says, already walking ahead, all clipped and businesslike again. “We gotta find a place to hole up before the sun sets.”

You linger for just a moment, your hand still tingling with the memory of his touch. Then you follow, trudging after him as the skeletal remains of the town grow larger in the distance, your laughter left suspended behind you in the quiet hush of the snowy woods.

…

After another hour of walking, a house emerges from the shadows of the trees like a ghost, its silhouette solid against the gray afternoon sky. From the road it's nearly invisible, its walls obscured in a cocoon of bare branches and evergreens.

It’s a small, squat thing, but it's far more intact than other buildings you’ve found. The doors hang evenly on their hinges, and thick wooden boards cover the windows, their nails weathered and rusted but sturdy. The yard is overgrown, wild grass and weeds creeping up the sides of the structure, but the way the house seems untouched by chaos makes it feel eerie, like the world forgot about it.

Joel tests the front door, his hand on the knob as he presses his shoulder into it. It resists at first, the wood swollen with age, but eventually gives way with a loud groan. The air inside is stale and heavy, a mix of dust, old wood, and trapped moisture. You step in behind him, your boots stirring motes of dust in the dim light.

Everything is quiet. Too quiet.

The house’s interior tells its story in whispers. The furniture is faded, but still arranged neatly, as if the people who lived here meant to return at any moment. On the mantle above the fireplace, you notice a line of framed photographs. You brush the dust from one and see the faces of a family — two parents and two children — smiling wide in a life that feels impossibly distant. One of the frames lies face down on the mantel, as though someone had grabbed it in haste but abandoned it at the last moment. You don’t lift it up. It doesn’t feel right.

In the kitchen, Joel checks the cupboards. Most are empty, but a few hold scraps of a previous life. A half empty can of powdered milk, long expired, a rusted tin of coffee grounds, a jar of pickled vegetables gone cloudy with time. The table is small, meant for four, and one of the chairs is tipped over on its side. Still stuck to the fridge is a child’s drawing, its colors faded but still vivid enough to make out, a stick figure family standing in front of the same house you’re in now, the sky above them filled with round, yellow sun.

“People lived here for a while,” Joel mutters, running his fingers over the table's edge. His voice is quiet, like he’s trying not to disturb whatever ghosts still linger here.

In a small bedroom down the hall, you find more signs of hurried departure. A child’s bed is unmade, the blanket half-dragged to the floor. A teddy bear lies abandoned in the corner, one of its button eyes missing. A suitcase sits on the bed, half-packed with clothes. Joel picks up a shirt from it, holding it up to the light. It’s small, too small for an adult. He doesn’t say anything as he sets it back down, but the look on his face is heavy.

In another room, the master bedroom, you find a calendar still hanging on the wall. The month is January, the year faded but unmistakably long past. A series of dates have been circled in red, the ink and smudged. On the dresser sits a journal, its pages yellowed and curling at the edges. Joel opens it but flips through it quickly, not stopping to read the words. He mutters something about not wanting to pry, but you catch glimpses, notes about food supplies, weather conditions, and, in the margins, small, hopeful scribbles.

Made it another week.

Still safe.

Might try for the city tomorrow.

The bathroom is where things went wrong. The mirror is cracked, shards of glass scattered in the sink. A first-aid kit sits open on the counter, the contents rummaged through. Dried blood stains the edge of the sink and the floor near the tub. Whoever had lived here fought hard to stay alive, but the obvious suddenness of their departure fills you with unease.

As you and Joel reconvene in the living room, the weight of the house’s story presses down on both of you. It’s clear that a family had tried to make this place a haven, holding on for as long as they could before something — Infected? Raiders? Pure desperation? — forced them to flee. Dust and decay have claimed the house now, but the traces of the life lived here remain like ghosts.

Joel moves toward the boarded windows, peering through the cracks at the encroaching dark. “This’ll do for the night,” he says finally. “Better than sleepin’ out in the open.”

You nod, but your eyes linger on the family photo still sitting on the mantle, the faces smiling back at you as if to say, We tried. We did our best.

You wonder if that’s all anyone can do anymore.

The two of you make quick work of clearing the house. It was a process you and Joel have done so many times it’s practically second nature now. Every door cracked open with cautious hands. Every corner checked with calculated, trained eyes. In the end, the place is wholly abandoned, untouched for years except by the slow creep of decay.

You settle on staying in what must have been the parents’ bedroom for the night. The windows were already boarded up, and Joel adds a thick blanket over them to keep out any sliver of light. He pushes the sagging mattress against the door, reinforcing it with a dresser he drags across the floor with a grunt.

Now, he’s sitting against the wall, his rifle disassembled in his lap, your lantern’s weak orange glow glinting off the polished metal as he works. His movements are methodical, his focus trained on the task like it’s the only thing keeping him in the present moment. You sit against the opposite wall, knees pulled to your chest, staring at him. You’ve been staring for what feels like forever, the words you need to say swirling in your head, their weight pressing against your chest like a stone.

And maybe it’s the brevity you felt earlier, or maybe it’s the way these walls feel protective, like the love that filled this house once upon a time has lingered, but something pushes you to test him.

Finally, you take a breath, steeling yourself. “Joel,” you say softly.

His hands pause briefly, but he doesn’t look up. “Mm.”

“Can we… talk about what happened? Back in the woods?”

His jaw tightens. His hands resume their work, but there’s a stiffness in the way he slots the bolt back into place. “Ain’t nothin’ to talk about,” he mutters. His guard is completely up.

You knew he’d respond like this, knew he’d deflect. But you’re not letting him off that easy, not again.

“You know that’s not true. I almost — I should’ve died that night, Joel.” You say. You’re getting frustrated now.

Joel doesn’t respond, his face tight, his hands working with a little too much force.

The words float in the stale, dusty air. His jaw works, and though his hands keep moving, they’re rougher now, more forceful. You wait, but he doesn’t respond, the silence stretching long and thin like a thread about to snap. So you fall back to that old, reliable method for forcing Joel to talk to you, the foolproof way you coaxed him out of his shell all the way back when you were barely more than strangers in the QZ.

You piss him off.

“You promised me. If it came down to it… You wouldn’t let me turn.”

That does it. His head snaps up, and his eyes meet yours, a storm brewing in them. “And you’re sittin’ here breathin’, ain’t you?” He’s being defensive now, but you know, you know, it’s an act. He’s trying to cover up what he really feels. “What’s there to say?”

You don’t flinch, holding his stare defiantly.

“And what about what I said?”

He freezes, the pieces of the rifle stilling in his hands. For a moment, he looks like he’s been struck, his shoulders tense and his breathing shallow. Slowly, he sets the rifle aside and runs a hand down his face.

“You were bleedin’ out,” he says quietly. “People say all kinds of things when they think they’re dyin’. Don’t mean nothin’.”

The cadence of his voice hits your ear first, the way his Texan accent filters in more strongly when he’s angry. But then his words settle, and they sting.

“Don’t mean nothin’?” you echo, an edge creeping in. “You think I didn’t know what I was saying? That I didn’t mean it?”

“You didn’t,” Joel snaps, raising his voice now. “You were scared. Hell, you were half outta your head from blood loss. You —” He cuts himself off, shaking his head as if trying to physically push the memory away.

“Don’t tell me how I feel!”

You’re on your feet before you even realize it, the surge of betrayal snapping you upright like a bolt of lightning. The anger burning in your cheeks feels alive, a force of its own, crackling and untamed.

“You don’t get to decide that for me!” you shout, your whole body trembling. “You don’t get to act like none of it mattered!”

Joel’s eyes flash, and in an instant he’s standing too, his broad shoulders tensed and looming. “You think I don’t know what mattered?” he fires back. “You think I don’t remember every goddamn second of that night?”

“Then why are you doing this?” you demand, breaking under the weight of your frustration. “Why are you shutting me out?”

“Because it don’t matter what you said, or what you felt!” Joel yells, and you don’t think you’ve ever heard him this angry. “It don’t change what I did! I should’ve done what we agreed. Should’ve stopped it right then and there.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut, and you feel the heat of your fury drain away, leaving only an aching, hollow hurt. You stare at him, the space between you shrinking and yet feeling impossibly vast.

“You really think it was a mistake?” You feel exposed now. “Letting me live?”

Joel flinches, his expression crumpling for just a moment before he wrestles it back into something harder, more controlled. But it’s too late. You’ve seen it. He looks like a man drowning, like the weight of everything he’s carrying is finally dragging him under. His gaze flickers to the water-stained ceiling, desperate for some kind of escape, but there’s nowhere to go. No way out.

You watch him, a storm of emotions churning inside you, and for a fleeting second, hope flickers to life. Maybe he let you live because he couldn’t bear to lose you, because some part of him believed in the impossible, that against all odds, you’d survive and get a second chance.

But the memory of his face in the early morning light, when he saw you alive, pierces through that fragile hope like a blade.

There was no reverence in his expression, no relief.

Only fear. Only disgust.

The thought sinks into you like poison, twisting and bitter. Maybe he hadn’t spared you because he cared, but because he was too weak to do what had to be done. Maybe he’d been tricked, by your desperate, pleading words, or by his own fear of being alone again, of losing everything again.

Your mind spirals further, darker. If he’d known then what you’d become — this strange in-between state, not fully human, but not quite a monster — would he have made the same choice? Would he have let you live if he’d known what would become of you?

The bitterness curls inside you, ugly and hateful. At least you’d had the courage to be honest, to say what you felt, even in the face of death. Joel, for all his strength, couldn’t even bring himself to admit why he’d made the choice he did.

“You’re wrong,” you say, willing yourself not to let your words crack. “I meant what I said. I meant all of it.”

Joel finally looks at you, his expression taut, torn between anger and something far more vulnerable. His jaw tightens, and his hands ball into fists at his sides, but he doesn’t say a word.

“Don’t,” he mutters, warning. “Just… don’t.”

But you can’t stop now, not when the ache in your heart feels like it might split you in two.

“Maybe you couldn’t pull the trigger then because you didn’t see me as a monster,” you press, stepping closer to him. “But I do, Joel. I know what I am now. You can just admit it.”

He flinches, his composure cracking, his brows pulling together in a way that betrays the cool, guarded exterior he always tries so hard to maintain. For a moment, he looks like he’s been struck, like your words have landed somewhere deep, somewhere he can’t protect.

“You’re not a damn monster,” he growls, but he lacks the bite he had earlier. “Now quit.”

“Then why do you look at me like that?” you fire back, needing him to answer the question that’s been clawing at you. “Why is everything different now?”

“M’not lookin’ at you any kinda way,” he says, his tone softer than you expected but still edged with finality. “Ain’t no use diggin’ it up, talkin’ it to death. I’m here. You’re here. Let’s just leave it at that.”

His words don’t quell your hurt. They’re unsatisfying and incomplete. Your heart aches with frustration.

“That’s not an answer, Joel.”

“It’s the only one you’re gettin’.”

You don’t let up. “Why do you do that? Why do you shut me out? Just tell me the truth.”

He exhales, the sound more weariness than anger. “What truth, hm? That I messed up? That I don’t know what the hell I’m doin’ half the time? You think I got all the answers? I’m just tryin’ to keep us alive, alright? That’s it.”

“It’s more than that, Joel, and you know it.”

His eyes snap back to yours, and for a flicker of a second, you see a crack in the wall he keeps so firmly in place. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, and he’s locking himself away again.

“You’re wastin’ energy on somethin’ that don’t matter,” he says all rough, like gravel scraping across your heart. “We’ve got bigger things to worry about than what you think I’m feelin’ or not feelin’.”

For a moment, it looks like he might say something more, his lips parting as if he’s on the verge of spilling something he’s been holding back. But then, just like always, he shuts it down. His jaw tightens, and his shoulders hunch as if he’s physically closing himself off from you.

He stands abruptly, startling you. Pulling his sleeping bag from his pack, he tosses it onto the floor with a thud. “Get some rest,” he says, not looking at you as he busies himself unrolling the bag. “We’re headin’ into town tomorrow. Long day ahead.”

The lantern flickers as he reaches out to snuff the flame, plunging the room into near darkness. He climbs into his sleeping bag, his back turned to you, his silence louder than anything he could have said.

You sit there for a moment longer, your heart pounding in your ribcage, staring at his rigid form as he settles into place. Whatever you’d hoped for, an answer, a crack in his armor, anything, it feels further away than ever.

“Goodnight, Joel,” you whisper into the dark, not even sure if he can hear you.

He doesn’t respond. The only sound is the rustle of fabric as he shifts, facing further away from you, retreating into the unreachable parts of himself.

Taglist: (if you would like to be added just lmk!)

@eviispunk

@javierpenaispunk

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bluehandprint · 2 months ago

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I wrote the most cursed thing a few days ago about bishagate with @blanketforcas contribution. Once again thank you for your help with these shenanigans Tess <3

The Bewitched River

Jensen turned in his bed, sighing. He couldn't sleep. Once again he took the expensive watch he left on his nightstand and looked at the time. 11:44. Still 16 minutes left to wait. He was so excited. It had been a full year since it happened.

Tonight was the night. Three days of pure bliss, just like every year since it happened. Tonight he knew Misha was going to join him in his bed for the first time in a year. He knew it. Because this happened every year. For three full days Misha would become bisexual and then turn back straight for the rest of the year. This meant that Misha and Danneel had some fun together several times a year. But those three days? It was Jensen's turn.

Everything started 15 years ago, when they went camping in the mountains for three days in April. He felt something change in Misha during this trip somehow. They where walking on a trail and Jensen kept complaining about his knees because, as it turns out, bowlegs are not made for walking. Well, at least not 12 fucking miles. He was the first to slip, his pants ending up halfway down his ankles in the fall. He was surprised to feel his foot touch the water of a shallow stream. Misha rushed over to help him get up but he too fell into the water. That's when something changed in him. To this day Jensen swears it was because there might’ve been something in the water. Maybe it was lube just like on set. Jensen couldn't even tell the difference anymore.

Misha took one look at Jensen and immediately took his shirt off. Jensen was stunned for a second, but then joined him in the water. Forgetting about the pain, he took his shirt off too. He rushed over to him but was slowed down by the water, making it look like Baywatch. When he was close enough, he took Misha's face into his hands and just kissed him. It wasn't their first kiss, but with how Misha finally seemed into it, it may as well have been.

Jensen finally figured it out, all he needs to do is wait for those magical three days in April for all his desires to be answered.

#i don't even know how to tag this #cockles #flo's gloubiboulga #bishagate #i'm deeply unwell i know #to whoever is brave enough to read this i'm not sorry

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thelastofhyde · 9 months ago

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the likeability complex.

chapter 3. the butterfly theory.

pairing. joel miller x fem!reader

synopsis. two seasons pass before joel’s very eyes and, without the presence of his sol, neither the spring nor the summer seem to heat his aching bones. what’s meant to be a simple drop off at bill and frank’s becomes a whirlwind of events that send you barrelling right back into joel’s arms, and all it takes is one horrified shriek: otis is missing!

warnings. no use of y/n ( reader has the nickname of sol ), grumpy x sunshine dynamic, unspecified age-gap ( but i personally picture the reader to be mid-20s at this point in the story ), pining, love as obsession, mention of previous s.a. & miscarriage, death, reader is implied to have had a good relationship with her mom, smut ( handjobs, male masturbation, dry humping, joel is desperate and begging, fantasies of piv, oral sex, and anal sex, mentions of virginity loss/younger joel having been a milf lover )

word count. 14.3k

hyde’s input. instead of addressing the reasons it took so long for this part to come out, let me address this instead: joel miller is a man who loves himself some prone bone! nothing gets that old man off quite like fucking his lover down into the mattress, the carpet, the dirt-floor, full body weight pressed against them, head buried in the crook of their necks as he literally smothers them with his love. in this essay i will...

read on ao3. series masterlist. previous chapter. following chapter

Time, as a matter of fact, does not fly.

At some point, Joel may have claimed it ticked, from one minute to another, until the hours passed by and another day’s work was done. He can no longer agree with this sentiment, for a multitude of reasons. For starters — and perhaps the most obvious — a broken clock may be right twice a day, but it is eternally silent. The dials on his wrist stopped ticking long ago and, with it, so did time.

So maybe time crawls. Slow as a newborn finds its feet, over carpeted floors and through cramped spaces. It seems to do so in spring, the tease of the impending heat of a summer’s sun on his back while the fading chill of winter in the breeze messes his overgrown hair. Joel can almost feel himself bending to match it’s slow crawl, his knees aching, a few of his fingers breaking — the consequence of a sloppy punch, thumb trapped beneath his four curled fingers, thrown without a second thought at the sight of one of Robert’s lowlifes placing a filthy hand on Tess. At the very least, the asshole’s nose burst with a bloody red, a reminder of the roses in Frank’s garden.

The trading is kept to the boundaries of their gates this season and, no matter how hard he twists his neck, nor how far lets his eyes run off ahead of him, there is no glimpse of a skirt billowing in the wind, nor the sound of smile-woven words. Just Bill, face as scrunched up as a constipated hole, gruffing out the bare-minimum of words to let Tess know one of his generators is starting to fail, before handing over a list of things they’ll need to bring with their next visit.

Joel cranes his neck one last time before departing and, still, there’s no sight of you.

Summer brings a whole new meaning to things and, thus, time begins to flow, like a river swimming towards the sanction of the ocean. The days wash away, sleepless nights slip into hellish mornings. The couch is being used so much that Joel’s indent has become stained into its very fabric.

This time, they are let in. Bill needs the help, in over his head with how easily he’d be able to fix the failing generator, and so they wind up being pulled through the gates and presented with the dying power source. Bill still wears a frown, even as he thanks Joel for fixing the damned thing. The four sit and break bread at a table, that seat which sits directly across from his empty in a way that he can’t avoid or ignore. The nerves to ask why you aren’t around never quite work themselves up.

What, or better said who, he does see is Otis. And what a relief it is to be sent near stumbling to his feet, the fully grown beast’s size a laughable contrast to its excited whines and wagging tail. He lets himself be tricked into taking the dog for a walk, in which every kick of Otis’ legs reminds Joel that his sol is still here, hiding in plain sight, not a single hope in hell that you’d leave your fur-friend behind.

In Autumn, the leaves begin to fall.

Joel’s dwindling hope seems to follow.

Time has become a threat. A jagged rock clasped in the hands of a volatile assailant. It is the impending feeling of bracing for impact, only for it to never hit. Because a threat can no longer be a threat once it is enacted, and time is no longer quite time once it passes by.

In between the pause of the present and the future, that is where time sits.

And, on either side of it, Joel and Bill occupy a seat.

“‘S quiet,” Joel’s not talking about the tense silence that has blanketed the past ten or so minutes, however long it’s been since the two were left in no company but one another’s.

Bill, aware of his implications or not, shrugs. “Is that a problem?”

Joel shakes his head, and swallows down that lump he gets in his throat every time he lies. He’s been doing that more often than he’d like recently, lying.

To Tess, whenever she’d ask him where he disappears to, slipping out of their shared bed in the middle of the night. She’d not enjoy the truth of him pacing the living room and lamenting upon the cracked leather of their couch.

To FEDRA, when a group of so-called soldiers ambushed him in demands to know why he’d been spotted attempting to smuggle a dress. They’d not believed the tale he spun of it belonging to Tess.

And, to himself, when he’s searching for answers of what’s been keeping him awake at night. Between the cries of whom he lost, and the moans of who he desires, he’s a sleepless wreck.

Laughter comes from another room. The distant duo of Tess and Frank bring more life to this deadly atmosphere than either of the two tense men. Theirs is a complicated relationship. No smiles exchanged, no warmth shared. Respect seems to be the glue that holds them together, a mutual understanding between natural protectors. Just as Joel snaps his bones without hesitation on behalf of Tess, Bill double-locks the doors and secures the perimeter each night as Frank and you lay sound asleep.

With this in mind, Joel treads with care as he descends further into the topic at hand. He decides to treat his own self the same way he’d once taught a stubborn curly haired girl to swim: throwing himself into the deep end.

“Ain’t seen much of your...” He pauses, considers what word best suits Bill’s affections for you. He finds himself at a loss. “The girl. She doin’ alright?”

That’s it, he’ll keep it casual.

Passive, hardly-caring.

Totally not headache-inducing each time a new tally is added to how many days it’s been since he’d last seen you — two hundred and four, but who’s keeping count?

“She’s fine,” the answer is curt. A coughed out sort of thing, heaved out of Bill like it aches to even speak. He’s not entertaining Joel’s longing.

“That’s... good, yeah,” he’s not sure he believes his answer. Good has never sounded so distasteful. “I’ll let Tess know, give ‘er some peace of mind. She’s been wonderin’-”

“Cut the shit,” Bill barks over at him. “You aren’t asking for Tess.”

He could try lie, again. Play the innocent, shrug his shoulders or furrow his brows, an image to mock what could be confusion. But the other man would see right through him, each and every time. Joel has no choice but to surrender. “Where’s she been? Can’t remember the last time I saw her.”

“Didn’t realise you were keeping count.” Is it that obvious? Perhaps he needs to adopt a new method of going about the ways in which he approaches the subject of you. Does Bill know he’d gone back to your room that night, instead of the toilet? The man has a fondness for cameras, perhaps he set one up in your room, or all over the house. Joel’s heart-rate spikes as he wonders if there’s one in the kitchen. “She’s out.”

Out.

A simple enough word, yet it crashes down on Joel like a ten-ton bag of dynamite, imploding his thoughts and reality. Because out to Bill means something far different than merely being out of this house. Out means beyond the electrified gates. Out means danger, someplace Joel can’t stomach the thought of you being, much less if it’s without him.

“You sure that’s the right thing to do?”

“I don’t need your opinion on how I raise-” Bill cuts himself off with a deep breath. He clears his throat. “I don’t need your opinion on how I take care of my people. She’s a smart girl, and it’s not her first time. She’s been going on solo runs since the end of winter.”

An act you’d never have been able to achieve, had he not taught you how to hold your own behind the wheel. That fact alone is enough to send bile burning to the back of his throat. He’s scorned you with the ability to put yourself in harm’s way.

A question of why seems to slip past his lips as his own thoughts abuse his heart, the word sounding far too pathetic and pleading for a man of Joel’s stature, reputation and morals.

“We’re old, she isn’t. There’s gonna come a day where she’s alone and needs to choose if she wants to stay here or move on.” The other man’s risen from his seat, paying no mind to the way the legs of it screech against the hardwood floor. He speaks passively, as though he’s merely reciting the weather as opposed to speaking of the approaching closing of the curtains on his life, and where that would leave the most valuable possession Joel could only ever dream to smuggle: alone, defenceless, in need of a new home. He too could use a new home these days. “And if she doesn’t get a choice and has to run, she needs to be able to adapt. She needs to know how to survive out in that shit-hole of a world.”

Ask me, the words crack like thunder in his head and shake his very core. Ask it of me, and I’ll make sure she’s never alone.

Bill never asks.

The floorboards creak behind Bill as he makes his way to retrieve his partner, leaving Joel to his solitude without the sparing of another word.

Scanning the room, Joel lets himself indulge in the freedom to be curious, to let his eyes wander for more than a few threatened seconds in which he runs the risk of a frowning Bill ringing his neck for snooping.

The place is homey, that has never been in doubt.

The first time he ventured inside nearly left him retching on their bathroom floor, skin chilled and eyes burning as that uncanny-valley feeling overtook his guts. Playin’ house, that’s what he’d proclaimed to Tess on that first journey back to the QZ. Rest ‘f us are out here fightin’ for the right to exist, and these two assholes are playin’ house.

The misplaced anger was truly Joel’s green eyed envy.

And his own self-hatred.

Maybe if he’d been prepared like Bill, he’d have less blood on his hands. Maybe if he’d foreseen the day that shit would hit the fan, he’d never have felt how thick her blood ran, through his fingers and down his arms. Maybe if he thought smarter, worked harder, all his losses would have been nothing but a whisper in passing winds, brushing past him and taking the impending storm they promised over to the next unfortunate bastard.

A polaroid picture captures his attention, pulling him away from the edge of his mountain of self-loathing thoughts.

It lures him out from the safety of the dining table and over towards a cabinet. Meaningless memorabilia and porcelain trinkets decorate the ageing furniture, a blob of motionless browns, tans and beiges that seem to match the colourless feeling in his chest. Among it, a burst of red. Joel has it in his grasp in a matter of seconds, calloused hands likely tainting the image with his fingerprints, and blinks in an attempt to focus his ageing eyes.

When the haze settles, you greet him.

You look young, younger than you are now. Your hair seems just that tad lighter with the sun’s rays shining a spotlight somewhere off-camera to the right. There’s a cheek-splitting grin across your lips, while bags puff out from beneath your closed eyes, lines to match his own crow’s feet forming under the pressure of your radiant joy. The image cuts off just below your shoulders and captures how your two hands sit parallel at either side of your chin, the source of the red gripped in each of them: strawberries. One for each hand. The left has a chunk bitten out of it, a perfect match to the shape of your mouth and the red tint at the corner of your lips. But it’s the right hand that holds his attention, it’s grip on him as powerful as your hand on the strawberry. He imagines you were excited, buzzing with too much energy and with no place to put it, your nimble fingers resorting to burying it in the layers of the fruit, the tips of your nails stabbing into the surface of the berry.

As his gaze traces the grainy image of berry-blood pouring down your fingers and over the back of your hand, he pictures his heart in the place of the red fruit. He’d want you to squeeze tighter, dig your nails in until you’re knuckles deep and his blood paints you, dripping off your elbow.

The thought of whether you washed your hand after the image was taken, or merely shrugged and licked the juice off yourself sparks his curiosity.

He snuffs the flame out before it can make itself too comfortable.

Getting the polaroid back into place feels an impossible task, with Joel’s shaky hands and prone-to-overthinking brain not willing to work together to get it back to where it originally sat, to where Bill won’t immediately notice it’s been tampered with the next time he so much as walks past it.

His eyes catch onto the faded black marker at the bottom of the picture. Baby’s first harvest, ‘13.

It sparks a memory in him, one of hearing your overexcited whispers over the radio-com at an hour far too late to justify being awake, Tess’ figure scooted down to the bottom of the mattress in an attempt to not waken him. Strawberries, Tess, you’d gushed in excitement, voice so pure he could feel it cleansing away all the sins stained within his fingerprints. We grew strawberries! You need to come visit soon! Do you think Joel likes strawberry jam?

He does like strawberry jam.

And he’d been afraid you’d never give him another batch after his dismissive acceptance of it the first time. The growing collection of empty jars he keeps are evidence of the truth, the yearly harvest of the berries bringing him the promise of something to feed his sweet-tooth.

With a baritone growl from his stomach, Joel’s attention carries him off into the kitchen, eyes struggling to look past the spot of the counter he’d had you pressed up against. Only now, standing within the room, does he realise he’d not been in it since that night.

His mouth runs dry at the memory.

This time, it is not through messy scoops of water that he chooses to quench this thirst. Instead, he zeroes in on the large bowl of ripened strawberries that sit atop the counter and digs, till his fingers wrap around the largest, reddest, juiciest looking one of the bunch.

Heaven makes a home on his taste buds with just one bite.

Tangy, fruity, fresh. Wet on his tongue, delicious in his mouth. It paints him memories of you, hand grasping the hem of your own skirt, hips tilting ever-so-slightly back and thighs shaking under the stress of his teasing tongue.

A second bite, a whole new wave of sensations.

His body, with a mind of its own, awakens the pumping of blood down to his crotch. Replaying the sound of your knife falling from your grasp, his cock hardens within the confines of worn-out jeans.

If he were to disappear off into the bathroom to rub one out, would the others even notice?

Perhaps he could take a detour, get lost on his way to that familiar toilet. The third door. It would creak upon opening, but maybe he could cover it with a cough, or simply pray the other three remain too far away to notice. From what he can remember, he’d be able to reach your bed with four steps. Sit on your sheets, bask in their warmth, their softness, their smell of you. Wind his hand down beneath his belt, grip his aching cock as he bathes in your unpresent presence. Stain your sheets in the thick, creamy white poison that shoots out his tip. How long would it take you to notice it painted on the back of your pillowcase? Would it happen instantly, or would it be late into the night, nothing but a lamp to light up the room, as you sleepily flip it over in search of the cold side, only to lay your face back down and be met with the sticky substance against your cheek? Would you lick it clean, drag the tip of your nail through it before caressing that very same finger over your pretty clit and-

“Ok, so I didn’t manage to get, like, anything you guys asked for! But, guess what I did find?”

Joel nearly chokes on the stem of the strawberry.

That voice.

Too kind to be Bill, too lively to be Tess, too feminine to be Frank.

It’s all you, rambling over excited breaths and stumbling around your words. He can’t see you yet, and it nearly kills him to not run off in search of the sound. He needs to sit and wait, and pray the tent being pitched in his trousers deflates by the time you reach him.

You’re getting closer by the second and life grants him no relief. If anything, the pulsating ache that sits between his thighs grows stronger as your footsteps get louder. This is it, he’s really about to see you. Finally, after so long.

What will you say? Will you say anything? Will you smile at the sight of him? Have you noted the lack of him in your days, just as he’d lamented it through his nights? Have you missed him?

Mind a frenzy of questions, it steals away the joy of watching you step into the room.

Instead, you seem to almost manifest before his eyes, two steps through the door and two hands behind your back. Scanning you from head to toe — and confirming a lack of bumps, cuts or bruises — his shoulders fall slack as he reaches your face at last.

You are smiling.

At him.

“Howdy, stranger!” Normally, he’d find your attempt to mimic some poor stereotype of his accent irritating at best, infuriating at worst. Right now, however, still riddled in withdrawals of you, Joel allows a corner of his mouth to quirk up. “Long time no see!”

There’s a million things Joel thinks to say to you.

Like how your absence has been painfully noted. Or tips on the proper ways to throw a punch, lest you wind up like him, bruised fingers and all. Or like the way he’s missed tasting your cooking, and the way you standing there, lit up in the doorway, radiant smile and electric eyes, seems to be healing a little piece of his fragmented heart, yet shaking his nerve-stricken hands. None of these thoughts manage to reach the surface.

Instead, Joel inhales.

And chokes on the stem of the strawberry.

“Oh my god, Joel!” You’re quick to react, shrugging off the bag from your shoulder and rushing over to him. You clap your hand over his back several times, and perhaps it’s the heat of feeling you touch some part of him at last, that final piece of confirmation that you’re real, and breathing, and standing so close to him in this kitchen, but he continues to feign choking even moments after he rids himself of the blockage. “You okay there, big guy? Don’t go dying in this kitchen or else Bill’s gonna lose his shit!”

Big guy. That’s new. Joel’s indecisive as to how he feels about such a name.

He means to say he’s fine, but then your hand is soothing over his back in comforting rubs. And when he works up the nerve to tell you he’s okay, you’re holding a glass up to his lips and feeding him water down his burning throat.

It’s nice to be comforted.

It’s even nicer to be comforted by you.

Catching himself moments away from leaning into your touch, Joel stumbles a single step back, colliding with the very same counter edge he’d tasted you against, and looks past you. Because he can’t look at you, not when the unfocused version of you that takes up space in his peripheral seems so tangible, bright, touchable. If Joel wanted to, he’s mere inches away from being able to sink his teeth in and eat you alive.

It’s dangerous, how much he wants to.

He spies your backpack, discarded on the ground, contents from it spilling out across the tiled flooring. Most of its junk — some nuts and bolts he’s sure Bill will find a place for, scraps of papers and faded movie posters that reminisce on what the world once was, a miscellaneous cloth stained in the red ink of death that has Joel questioning just who exactly had been bleeding — but there’s something else capturing his attention.

It’s not fully out of the bag, merely a corner of it peeking out the pulled-back zipper and gifting him the view of a worn-down box he’s sure was once a colour more akin to yellow than its current rotting brown.

“‘S that ya got?” He slips past you, hands reaching out and heading straight for the obscure item. The cardboard welts under the pressure of his grip, the top of the box popping open with an uncomfortable ease.

“Oh, that’s what I wanted to show Frank-” The moment Joel’s eyes read over the faded slogan, he has no time to wait on a real answer, flipping the lid to a trash can open and dangling the box over the top. “Hey, what are you doing?!”

“Throwin’ this shit out-” You’re near him. No, next to him, body heat mingling with his own as you shoot forward and try your luck at prying your treasure out of his grip. But Joel is stronger, larger, quicker, arm stretching up above his head and holding the box out of your reach.

He doesn’t comment on the fact the little jump you give as you try to reach only invites him to ogle the bounce of your tits under your shirt.

“Why? It’s harmless,” you plead against him, with your tone of voice and your eyes of sorrow, pitiful in the way they twist up his insides and leave him craving your blinding smile. Still, he’s an immovable force, grip tightened on the box as his other hand clamps down around your wrists, prying your hands away from him. “It’s literally just cake mix!”

You fight back, wriggling and squirming, trying your best to slip through his fingers. Joel squeezes tighter, ignoring the bile that burns the back of his throat as he pictures you come sunrise, bruises of his fingerprints burnt into your flesh. A new wave of nausea follows as the familiar heat returns to his loins, a feral part of him preening at the fact you’ll own some part of him, even as he’s miles away and crawling back through the gutters of the QZ.

“Ain’t no way in hell I'm lettin’ you eat that.” He says it for your own good, your own safety.

All the same, the eerie calm that comes over you makes him feel dirty and immoral for letting such words slip out.

“Letting me?” You parrot his words. With frozen features, you seize all fighting, all resistance, hands going slack in his hold. An unsettling smile overcomes you, something malevolent lurking beneath the surface of your typical kindness. “Joel, you’re no one to let me do anything. You have no say, no control, whatsoever. Understand?”

It’s a kick in the guts.

And not because he wants to control you. Or, maybe, if he’s honest with himself, a part of him does want to. Wants to keep you wrapped under his arm where no threat can approach you, longs to spend his working days awaiting the return to safety in the shape of a bed warmed by you, him and all the delicate sins you could share. But, more-so, because it makes him feel powerless, unable to put distance between you and harm’s way.

He’d felt true powerlessness years back, blood on his hands and a lifeless daughter in his arms. A shot missed and a whole lot of sobbing later, he’d vowed to never put himself in a position to feel that again. He kept Tommy close, to an obsessive degree. And when Tess came along and he eventually let himself give into the feeling of accepting another pair of lungs into his family, he kept her closer, living a life of keeping a watchful eye and a ready hand for any moment of violence. He’d do the same with you, if you’d just let him pull you into his circle, a space freed up ever since Tommy left him with nothing but a string of curses and an I don’t ever wanna see your face again to remember him by.

Of course, Joel doesn’t tell you that.

Instead, he gives in to the irrational anger your fighting back awakens in him.

“The flour, you stupid girl, ‘s what started all this shit.” He spits the words out, mind barely registering the way you flinch back when his face inches closer to yours. “But if you wanna turn yourself into some mushroomed freak, then go ‘head and be my guest.”

It’s like a fog clears and, suddenly, your calmness feels less threatening and that tinge of whatever it was — violence, disobedience, assertiveness? — in your eyes slips away and makes space for amusement. Only, the amusement will not sit still, seeping out of you in bright eyes and poorly held-back giggles.

He’s so caught up in it, caught up in you, that he fails to register you stepping closer. It’s only when he feels the brush of your breath against his cheek, and the bump of his nose against your own as he leans down into you, that the lack of space between you sinks in.

“You don’t have to worry about me, Joel.” The biggest lie of the century. He’s well aware of your prone-to-accident self, losing count of the amount of times he’s spotted bruises all over you and listened to Frank recount tale after tale of how you’d walked into a door, and stumbled down some stairs, and tripped over your laces. If anything, you’re the only thing Joel has to worry about. Especially with how much closer you’re getting, your own breath starting where his ends, chest pulling in to inhale and make space for his exhale. Perfect sync, a flowing motion, just begging to be ruined by locked lips and urgent kisses, feaverish passion that’ll leave him at a loss of both words and breath. “Besides, this batch is harmless...”

God, you’re so close. All he can smell is you — sweat, and wilted flowers, and vanilla, and a trickle of gunpowder. He can feel you, breasts pressing against his chest, hand pressing down on his aching shoulders, mouth taunting him a hair’s breadth away from his own. What he sees of you is far more torturous, bathing him in the impurity of coy looks, and teasing smiles, and soft skin yet to be marked by time and the torture of living. If Joel could just taste you, for just a second, then all those two hundred and four brutal days and sleepless nights would suddenly feel worth it.

Your eyes level with his own as the hand on his shoulder pushes him further down. It’s going to happen, he knows this, he’s accepted this. You’re going to kiss him, and he’s going to let you, and then he’s going to spend the rest of however long it takes for you to kiss him again thinking of how your lips feel.

Just a little closer...

That’s it. Kiss him.

Kiss him.

God, please. Kiss me.

“Check the production date for yourself!” Like whiplash, you pull back and send him reeling, muscles stiffening in a rapid attempt to keep him from keening over at the loss of your supportive hold. The disappointment that follows robs him of the horror of realising he’s now empty-handed, the withered box of artificial flavours and powdery evils secured tightly in your own grip.

You’re holding it out to him, finger pointing at a faded black ink. He squints his eyes and, sure enough, there it is: Mfg. 2001.

“Still don’t mean you should eat it,” Joel’s stubborn, despite all, and can’t seem to tamper down the burning in his loins that warns him against you eating such a thing. “‘S gonna be long past its sell-by.”

“Please,” you scoff, a snark-filled smile upon your face. You seem to be enjoying this act of defiance, or perhaps it’s the helplessness upon Joel’s face you find amusement in, torturing the older man with his inability to take care of you. “Sell-bys are just recommendations for the weak-stomached.”

A disturbance comes in the sound of thundering steps. The door behind you slams open, handle leaving its indent in the wall with a brutal force.

There stands Tess, a shine of sweat on her forehead and nervous twitching in her fingers.

Something is wrong.

Joel feels sick.

Merely a moment passes before the two owners of the home join the scene, Frank’s hand nervously tugging back on Bill’s arm the moment the man notices you, Joel and the nonexistent space that lives between you both.

“Tess!” Bless, you seem unaware of the heavy atmosphere settling within the kitchen, throwing your arms out and darting forward to wrap them around the older woman. She halts you, holds you just that bit out of reach, and Joel nearly scolds her for leaving you looking like a lost puppy, deflated as your hands come to rest at your sides once more, cake-mix forgotten in your newfound disillusion and hitting the floor with a muted thud as it slips out your sweaty palms. “What’s wrong? Why are you breathing so heavily?”

“Me and Frank... we were walking...” She keeps pausing to heave in breaths. The grip she’s got on you loosens and her hands slowly come to rest on her knees as she haunches over. Joel steps a little closer to you, hackles rising at the thought of danger. “A hole... Under the fence...”

Red alert. Loud, angry, threatening thoughts invade his mind, blaring at him like a siren refusing to go ignored. He’s got his fingers wrapped around the holster that houses his revolver in a matter of seconds. The safety’s on, he’ll need to remember that before he dares use it.

“How many?” He mumbles out, in true Joel fashion, and watches Tess meet his face at last. Confusion flashes through her features. “Raiders, infected, or whatever. How many of ‘em got in?”

He can’t help the anger that rises in him, teeth grinding down to hold back the curses aimed towards Bill. He warned him, that first time they’d met, to upgrade those damn fences.

“No,” Tess struggles in another breath. Frank seems worried, but that’s not what makes Joel sick to his stomach. It’s Bill, who’s pale as a ghost and uncomfortably quiet, eyes locked on the ground, that scares him half to death. “Nothing’s got in. It’s out, something got-”

“I swear I turned my back for one second, kid,” as if everything else wasn’t enough, Bill makes himself gentle and cautious, approaching you like you’re a wounded fawn and Joel’s some menacing stag behind you, ready to stab his horns into the heart of any who mean you harm.

“What-” you start.

“The hell are you lot talkin’ about?” Joel finishes.

They exchange looks among the three of them, each one more pressing in the way they plead the other to speak up, explain the situation.

Frank takes the fall.

“It’s Otis,” he’s exasperated, exclaiming it like it’s the heaviest of burdens. Joel can’t quite see your face but he imagines whatever expression you’re wearing must be heart-wrenching, so much so that Bill can not bring himself to meet your eyes. “Otis is missing!”

There’s a sharp silence that takes over the room, scratching at everyone’s eyes and burrowing itself down your throats, making a nest that gets in the way of what’s spoken aloud.

Joel watches your head sluggishly nod. You stumble a few steps back, catching his boots beneath the heel of your own. His hands make haste with supporting you, physically and emotionally.

“He was with me this morning,” Bill picks up again, tension thick in the air as his words slice through it. He’s explaining himself, voice layered with guilt and other emotions Joel’s never imagined the man capable of. “Out in the chicken coop. Started barking at something past the fence and... none of us have seen him since.”

The revelation has Joel retracing his own steps and, indeed, no four-legged creature had launched itself at him earlier, as he and Tess entered the gates. Nor had any paw-prints followed his footsteps through the mud, and no ball had been dropped before him, followed by a demanding bark that was guaranteed to get him to give in and throw the damned thing, if only to shut the dog up. Otis has not crossed his path once, a realisation he never imagined would bring him desperation.

A deep gasp cuts through the tension.

A few deep breaths. Four, to be exact. As you attempt a fifth, you waver and your exhale grows shaky. You pull air in deeper and it doesn’t seem to be enough, forcing your mouth open. The descent into hyperventilating is quick, a path Joel’s all-too familiar with, and the panic swells through your heart before anyone can try to stop it.

Joel acts fast, instinct leading his actions. He turns you to face him, grip firm on your shoulders as he holds your attention on him, big hands on your soft cheeks and tilting your head back to find your eyes. Glassy, wide, panicked. It's the hopelessness behind them that gets the best of him though.

“He’s fine, alright? Probably just saw some rabbit he wanted to chase.'' It's hard for a man like him to sound optimistic. Were you anyone else, he’d be telling you how dumb you were to keep a pet in the first place, nothing more than another mouth to feed and another life to watch out for in an age where safety is a luxury. But you aren’t anyone else, and Joel Miller will always be partial to his Sol. “Hey, hey, listen t’me. He’s gonna be okay. Bet he’s out there right now tryna find his way back, we just gotta meet him halfway.”

You nod along to his words, as though you’re listening, but your thousand-yard-stare says otherwise, eyes gazing past his wide shoulders. Unblinking, unmoving, you seem lost in a daze of emotions Joel's never prepared himself to see on your features. It twists at his guts to watch your figure attempt to follow him in the first steps he takes away from you, halted only by his own hands clasping down on your frame, coaxing you backwards until you find grip upon the kitchen counter.

After a cautious step back, eyeing you like you’re a wounded bunny two seconds from bolting, he turns to Bill. “Give me a few hours. I’ll track the dog and bring him home, alright?”

A half hour, a packed bag, and a rifle slung over his shoulder later, Joel finds himself at the scene of the crime, chicken shit on his shoes and his usual scowl on his face. Not having even stepped a foot out of the gated paradise and he’s already encountered his first obstacle: Otis has not clawed his way out of the fence but, instead, dug his way under it.

Fresh mud lays ahead, faint yet visible paw-prints lead off into the array of woods. He grabs a hold of the fence’s newly exposed bottom and justifies the way he further destroys it, bending the metal to his will and proning his way under it, with his faith in Bill's ability to fix the hole up in the time it takes him to find the creature.

Moving to a crouch, and ignoring the crunch of his bent knees, he eyes up the prints in the mud. The sight of only one set of tracks gives him a fleeting moment of comfort, until the thought of Otis having chased after something already so far in the distance pops into his head.

Your voice calls out his name from behind.

Sweat slicked skin, your fingers grab at the wiry fence, ripping the thing up with far less care Joel had given it. Bill will still find a way to blame him for the extended damage.

“I'm coming with you,” you speak with such determination behind your voice, Joel nearly forgets to actually pay attention to what you’re saying.

His reaction is instinctual, shooting back to hold the fence down, struggling to keep you within its confines, gritting out a firm no. “You sure as hell ain’t.”

“Yes, I am.” You tug uselessly at the fence. The wires stretch a third time, until a few snap.

“No.”

He holds his ground.

“Yes.”

You wriggle a hand under the fence, an action that forces him to loosen his grip. He can’t risk harming you, not even for your own good.

“No, you are-”

“Joel, please,” there’s exhaustion in your plea. A hint of desperation, too. He catches how you glimpse over your shoulder and observes the only item you carry — a distressed looking stuffed bunny with an ear missing. You glance over your shoulder again and it hits Joel. You’re nervous, in a rush. You’re here without anyone’s knowledge, that same look of panic in your eye as a teenager sneaking out of their window. “Just- I don’t want to sit around doing nothing. I want to find Otis.”

Talking is limited.

Instead, what fills its place is the sound of crunching leaves beneath heavy boots, and birds cawing and cooing in the trees above, and your incessant need to hum along to some melody playing in your head, distracting Joel to a dangerous degree.

This distraction leads to a close encounter, one where it’s only your swallowed scream as you stumble closer to him in fear, body seeking out some form of protection — he can’t tell if you view him as a mere shield or a sworn knight prepared to draw his weapons and, frankly, he winds up too caught up in your hands grabbing at his sides and your shaken figure melting against his own to care — that clears the haze in his eyes and sets his sights straight, gun drawn and aimed directly at the infected creature running towards you both.

He misses his first shot — shaky hands, one he partially blames on your proximity and the adrenaline it brings — but makes up for it in his second one, shooting point blank range and sending the creature crumbling to the ground, a bullet-hole in its forehead.

You both wait a few minutes, listening out for anymore rustling, before Joel deems things safe enough to continue and motions you with his head to follow.

From then on, you stick closer, alternating between walking a step or two ahead or behind him. He keeps a grip on the gun, unwilling to reholster it, and wordlessly hands you a shiv he has, ignoring the way you seem to perfectly curl your fingers around the weapon and practise a swinging motion, stabbing at the air with a deadly confidence Joel's never imagined to associate you with.

It forces him to rethink everything he’s come to believe about you over the years, and requestion just how exactly you’d wound up under Bill’s roof.

You interrupt his thoughts, the first to speak as always.

“If you don’t mind me asking-”

“I do.”

Undeterred, you smile and push through with your probing. “Who taught you to shoot?”

“My old man,” it takes him a few minutes to gruff it out. Or maybe it’s a bit longer than a few minutes, the sun’s shine seeming a lot less dim from when you’d asked. You say nothing, however, don’t even gasp in surprise at his eventual answering. “Dragged me out back to where he’d tied up our dog, poor thing had been sick for a while. Told me we weren’t goin’ back in till I shot it. Must’a stood there for hours.”

And that was that.

As much as Joel had felt you wanting to say more, you’d dropped the subject — maybe you’d noticed the dullness in his voice or the way his grip on his gun had tightened — and he’d never been more grateful for your ability to read him, without him even needing to open his pages for you.

You make camp by nightfall.

A clearing amongst the wooden areas, small enough to keep you hidden yet big enough to stretch out your legs. you ask for a campfire, and Joel denies you of it. ‘S too risky, he’d explained the instant he caught you deflating his objection. Don’t need no smoke signals bringing us any unwanted visitors.

He’d given you the coat off his back instead, a token to heat yourself up with as the pair of you quietly ate away at the tin-can meal Joel had been saving for the journey back to the QZ.

Chef Boyardee has never tasted better, however, after watching you place the can up to your lips and tilt your head back, swallowing down the artificial flavouring.

You don’t seem to agree, grimacing at the taste. “I don’t know how you can eat that.”

“If you think that’s bad, you don’t wanna know what they’re feedin’ us in the QZ.” It’s a privilege you’ll never understand, this sheltered life you lead among Bill’s traps and fences. You eat fresh eggs, and cook red meat, and nurture food out of the ground, while Joel fights tooth and nail to scrape up some measly ration cards. Oddly enough, he's not angry at your lack of understanding. He’s glad, happy you have a quality of life far better than his own.

“I'm surprised they feed you at all,” for all your grimacing, you’ve yet to stop taking mouthful after mouthful of the canned food. You must not have eaten much out on your run, Joel concludes. “Considering you eat Bill out of his whole stock each time you visit.”

He wants to defend himself, tell you it’s not true. Tell you it’s only the food prepared by your gentle hands and caring soul that he devours, in chase of satisfying another hunger he should not dare place upon you. That it is nothing more than Joel settling for a piece of your love, hoping that if he takes enough bites and chews enough times, it’ll seep into his skin, his bones, his bloodstream. It’s the only way he figures he can hold a piece of your heart next to his, until it stops beating.

But that is a burden a man like him does not place on a woman like you, so he bites his tongue and swallows down the rest of his dinner.

“The hell are we, middle-schoolers?”

A squawk of birds fly from their perch in the trees above, spooked by the unexpected boom of Joel’s voice. It’s an accident, flying out of him before he can really stop it and consider the dangers of loudly proclaiming your whereabouts to anything — living or dead — within a ten mile radius to hear. But you’re being ridiculous.

Your suggestion is ridiculous.

And you’re shushing him, a giggle behind the index finger you press to your lips, eyes shooting up to where the birds have fled, catching the reflection of the stars in your pupils and knocking the wind out of his chest, momentarily, with how bright they seem to shine.

“No, we’re two adults about to engage in a serious game of 21 Questions,” you speak like you live: much softer than Joel. No creature seems to hurry away at the sound of it and, in the fading memories he possesses, he can almost picture your voice drawing in all the critters of the forest, like that Disney princess she’d loved so much. “And that counts as one of your questions, by the way."

He has no plans on entertaining your childish play. He’ll sit there, he’ll watch out for any suspicious shadow lurking about in the dark, he’ll listen to whatever ridiculous questions you throw at him, and he’ll let you talk yourself silly, going in circles as he remains mute, and observant, and completely unwilling to answer to any of your-

“Which means,” you drag out the word, a sing-songy melody to your voice. “It’s my turn to ask you something, mister.” Mister. A warmth blooms in the pits of his stomach, one that threatens to creep lower, beneath the waistband of his blood-stained jeans. “What’s your favourite colour?”

If looks could kill, you’d likely still be alive.

Perhaps a little bruised, but it’s the worst stare Joel can will himself to pin you with. No doubt, it feels more threatening to you that it truly is, splashed across his stoic face.

“What?” You question, and somehow have the nerve to laugh. “It’s like… The most common question people ask in this game. That, or who took your virginity, and I really don’t think you want to tell me-”

“I’d just gotten my first job as a pool-boy. Pay was shit, but it covered my gas and left me enough to buy a six pack and a tub of wings,” the words fly out of him with an ease they never have before. Somehow, this feels easier, less intimate than matters like his favourite colour. When he thinks that answer is enough, he finds your face, expectations written across it. You’re waiting to know more. “I ended up with a few shifts working for one of our neighbours. She was a friend of my mom’s, recently divorced, and with a whole new body she’d bought with the divorce settlements.”

A spark of amusement flares in your eyes, that pretty smile stretching over your lips. He purses his own, trying not to think of pressing them against your mouth. You’d still taste of the canned food you — reluctantly — devoured and, somehow, the thought messes his head up even more, the potential taste of the food, of the care he had been the one to provide you with.

“That sounds like the beginning to a really bad porno,” you muse. Joel watches how you sit up a little straighter, legs tucking themselves up against your chest, chin resting atop your knees, arms engulfing yourself in their warmth, nose turning to take a quick inhale of his coat. He hopes he’ll smell you on it, too, next time he does the same.

“Surprised you even know what that word means,” he regrets it the moment he says it, that sickening reminder of your youth against his own ageing disgrace. He doesn’t know the exact years, but he know the difference would surely be enough to disgust a younger version of himself, the young father who once scowled at the sight of grey-haired men trailing their eyes down the bodies of wide-eyed girls, giggling by the bar as they flashed their fake-ids and sipped their first taste of — horrifically overpriced — alcohol.

“Porno?” You cut through his train of thoughts, unknowingly saving him from the downward spiral into memories best left behind, before the world went to shit. “You’d be surprised what a little bit of courage and a whole load of ration cards gets you past FEDRA.”

That word, that name, that organisation, it sets off an alarm in Joel’s brain, red-alert and siren sounding. And it pulls forth a question, echoing in the woods before he even realises he’s speaking his thoughts aloud.

“You were in a QZ? You weren’t always with Bill?”

“Pittsburg QZ, if you want to get technical. And then Hartford. No, I wasn’t always with Bill.” He tries to picture it: you, confined to the horrors of city living, bargaining things for survival, facing the harshness of the power-tripping FEDRA officers. The thought proves too disconcerting, so out of line with the you who exists only within the confines of safety and comfort in his mind, that Joel has to stop himself from imagining more, imagining worse. You and pain do not, should not ever exist in the same space, not if Joel can do anything about it. “And those count as two separate questions, so now I get to do the same.”

He hadn’t even meant to play into it, entertain your silly game. He’d just needed reassurance, answers, to know no scars litter your skin and no wound has fractured your psyche. But you’ve given him none of that. No comfort for his ailing soul, more questions for his troubled mind.

“Was it a one time thing,” unaware, or simply desensitised to his ways, you continue on with your questions, despite the frown he feels wrinkling at his forehead. “With your neighbour?” He’s glad to see you bring the conversation back to his own debauchery.

“No.”

“Ooh, scandalous! Joel Miller, local pool-boy turned toy-boy.” If he wasn’t so busy fighting off images of you, young and scared, standing before armed FEDRA soldiers, Joel might have found it in him to crack a half smile at the amusement the sexual endeavours of his youth seem to gift you. “Did you fuck any other of your clientele, or were you and Miss Recent-Divorcee exclusive?”

“No,” he says once more, then quickly clarifies. “I didn’t sleep with other clients. But also no, we weren’t exclusive.”

“Did your mom-”

“‘S my turn, darlin’,” Joel surprises even himself, cutting in before you can sneak a third question his way. It’s like it finally hits him, the way this game has handed him the opportunity of a lifetime to learn the answer to any question he’s ever pondered over you. But all other questions, topics, seem to slip out his conscience’s grasp, like sand slipping through fingers, as he feels himself dragged further into the fear you’ve awoke within him, a fresh layer of worry he now holds for a version of you he’d never known, a version of you he can barely stomach the idea of. “How did you meet Bill? Were you with Frank before?”

“God, you’re bad at this game! Two questions, again!” And, yet, you say it with more humour than chastisement. You turn your face, again, nose bumping against the collar of his jacket. “But no, I wasn’t with Frank. I met them both at the same time, after I spotted them through their fences. I passed out, dehydrated, and I probably wouldn’t have been brought in if it weren’t for Frank insisting they couldn’t just leave me out there to die.”

“You were alo-”

“Ah, my turn!” Your hand shoots out, index finger pointing across the space between you both. “Did your mum ever find out about you and her friend?”

“No, it ended before that could happen. She got herself a man her own age, and I…” Got someone pregnant. The words stick to his throat, refusing to come out.

Reading his closed off pages, like you always do, your voice cuts through the air before he can let himself slip too deep into the sorrow.

“I was alone, when I met Bill and Frank. But I wasn’t always.” Those four words are enough to make him ache. But I wasn’t always. Who had you lost? How long did they survive? Did you feel their blood on your skin? The questions fly by so quickly, he’s struggling to pin-point which one he wants to ask first, which ones he’s allowed to ask. “Have you ever been in love?”

That quiets his mind. For a moment, it’s a welcomed incident. Then his heartbeat fills his ears, and it’s pounding, skipping over beats of its own rhythm, threatening to spread too much of that fear, too quickly to every vessel under his skin, that Joel has no choice, he has to give you an answer he doesn’t want to, just to save himself from the impending tightness in his chest.

“Green,” the words are a struggle to get out but he manages it, watching the confusions bleed into your soft eyes. “I never answered. Before. When you asked my favourite colour. It’s green.” If you find his answer to be too late, or you’re disappointed at his clear avoidance towards your latest question, you don’t give it away. You just nod, smile softly, and wait for him to take his turn. “Why were you alone?”

“Everyone changed, got bit, or died. I didn’t want to be next.” Perhaps he’s a fool. Perhaps he underestimated the resilience you keep under warm sweaters and easy-going smiles. Because you sit there, not a tear welling in sight, and talk about the things you’ve lost like they don’t haunt you. Like you haven’t spent every waking moment since trying to find them, evidence that they were real, and that they’d mattered, and that they’d loved you. Like you haven’t drowned in grief, the way he has. You’ve swam, instead, against the current, crawled to the safety of shore. “Who’s your butterfly?”

The question catches him so off guard, so out of left field, so completely and utterly nonsensical, that he just can’t help himself. “My what now?”

"You know, the whole ‘if a butterfly flaps its wings’,” you trail off, hands curling tighter around yourself after performing air quotes. “Who's one person that changed the trajectory of your life?"

He cannot run.

He cannot repeat his earlier trick, deflecting with the answer to a previously spoken — and visibly ignored — question. Because, no matter which of your two questions he chooses to focus on, the answer remains the same. That little girl, with a smile like sunshine, sitting at the breakfast table, egg yolk on her cheek, ketchup all over her tiny, chubby, little fingers, an incoherent babble of excited squeals as he, once again, drives the choo-choo train — in truth, a fork-ful of food — towards her lips.

You’ve got him backed into a corner, no out, no escape. His mind, a cruel torturer that takes advantage of his own panic, thrusts yet another memory into the VHS of his mind, broadcasting it against the back of his eyelids, forcing him to see the granny pictures every time he blinks. Her first step. Her first day at school. Her first time trying a sip of his beer and absolutely hating it. Her. Her.

Suddenly, he’s angry. The only response he ever seems to conjure at the memory of her.

“‘S this what this whole things all about, huh?” It’s snarky, it’s cruel, and it's punctuated by a scoff. The fact you don’t even react, face unchanging beneath the shine of the moon, only seems to make him angrier, outrage for the fact you’re letting him speak to you like this, fury for allowing himself. “You want me to tell you somethin’ traumatic, somethin’ for you to pity me over? And then what, you gonna give me your own little sob story so we can have ourselves a lil’ pity party? Newshflash, princess, you ain’t special just cause your mama died and your daddy never wanted you.”

“Are you done?” You speak only after a silence has permeated the space between you for a few minutes, nothing but Joel’s laboured breaths filling the night air.

He’s not even sure when he started breathing so heavily. His heart is still working itself into a frenzy, his mind still off the rails. The eire calm that remains over your face seems to bring him momentary respite from the pain, if only to feel himself bracing for a new wave, a worse wave. One born from you. From your pain. And one that Joel’s entirely unprepared, and undeserving, to have wash over him.

"I didn't really notice it at first, you know?” You speak so softly, he almost doesn’t hear you. But he does, and it hurts. “Hell, it wasn't even really me that realised. Bill did. I’d only been staying with them three nights, just until I got back on my feet. Back then, he used to barricade my door at night, and he wouldn’t let me eat at the same table as them both, not even when Frank insisted. But, suddenly, Bill flipped the switch on me. He became apologetic, careful, asking me if I was feeling okay and actually sounding… interested in the answer.”

Much like the thought of you in a quarantine zone, the thought of Bill being anything but utterly protective and completely trusting of you does not seem plausible in Joel’s mind, no matter how much he believes you. The image, simply, will not conjure in his mind, too out of shape with the current reality he’s witnessed.

You continue talking after a pause for composure, those eyes that trap him so easily now frozen to the ground, staring at some smudge of mud on your boots.

“Frank was the first one to actually say it out loud, to ask me if I... Anyway, it was hard to tell but we all agreed, eventually, that I had to be around three or four months along. It made sense, timewise. There were some raiders, they found my camp a few weeks before I collapsed outside Bill’s gate. I… I don't even really know which one of them sealed the deal. All I know is all of them were on me, and none of them cared about how hard I could kick.”

He almost calls you by your name, then by the name he’s given you. Sol. But it’s too pretty a word, too undeserving of being tainted by the anger he feels coursing through his veins, a bloodlust like no other making home for itself in his loins.

“I didn't really care that much about it, as horrible as that makes me sound.” It doesn’t make you sound horrible, at all. Joel could show you horrible, if you just gave him a few faces and the permission to do with them, punish them as he pleased. “It was just a means to an end. A deal to keep myself safe. They'd let me live under their roof, and I'd give them the baby. We never… discussed what would happen to me, once I held up my end of the bargain. Never got the chance to, really.”

And suddenly, Joel Miller is the greatest asshole to ever walk the planet.

Not only the greatest asshole, but a hypocrite, too. You ain’t special. Well, neither is he, moping around life with a chip on his shoulder and baggage the weight of a dead daughter. He isn’t the first parent to outlive a child, to lose a child, and he won’t be the last. He’ll just be another name on the list, another poor soul.

The hoot of an owl. It’s somehow a reminder that you’re both out, huddled in the privacy of a few trees, waiting for night to pass and the search to continue.

Those tears in your eyes still haven’t fallen. My brave girl. But it feels condescending, and wrong. Not because you’re not brave. Because you’re not his girl. You’re the sun, and he’s just another planet that’s been sucked into your orbit. Dense, unfeeling, and miles away, forever circling you.

“One minute, it's just a burden weighing down on my whole body,” your voice is so soft, it’s almost a whisper. Perhaps he’ll be the one who cries. It sure feels like it, if he has to continue watching you fidget with your fingers and look anywhere but him. “And the next minute, it's screaming torture and the heartbreak of holding her barely-there body in my arms. That guilt... of not even knowing how much I wanted her until I got the chance ripped away, that’s something that never really goes away. It lingers, it changes you, forever."

God, does it linger.

He’s tried to lose track. He’s tried to make himself forget the years that have gone by, all in the hopes of getting through that September day, completely unaware of it. But he can’t.

Just like how he can’t think of what to say right now.

He knows he should comfort you.

He thinks he should tell you his own story, his own loss. Let you know that the grief you feel is not a lonesome one. But then he’d be worse than a hypocrite. He would be a liar, and that’s one thing he’s getting tired of being, especially when it comes to you.

“What,” he pulls in a deep breath, eyes flickering off you for a moment to watch figures that move in the distance. Tree branches, swaying in the wind. The temperatures are dropping even more, and he’s got no other layers to keep you warm with. “What were you gonna name her?”

You’re gracious enough to utter a name, softly, and finally your eyes flicker up from the ground and meet his own. The tiniest of smiles tugging at the corners of your mouth, the moon casting shadows down your face. You pull in a breath and stutter on its exhale, clearing your throat as if that’s enough to regain your composure.

“That’s her name. We buried her out back, under one of Frank’s flowerbeds,” there’s a sickening kind of envy that coils itself around his chest. Even if it visibly hurts, you’re talking about her, you’re honouring her enough to share something about her existence. Joel can’t do the same for his girl, a pain too harrowing, and, once more, he reminds himself that he’s the greatest asshole alive. “It’s silly but… I like to think it’s her whenever the snowdrops bloom.”

“'S a nice name," he’s a pathetic excuse of a man, no courage to pull you close and tell you it’s okay. Tell you he’s sorry, for your loss and for his earlier harsh words. Tell you about his own daughter. Would you think he’s trying to outshine you in the pity party, if he told you he doesn’t get to see what life blooms from atop his daughter’s grave?

"It was my mom's,” you snort over an unexpected laugh, as if you can’t believe you’re admitting this to him. Or maybe it’s not that. Maybe it’s a sense of relief, a lightness coming over a heart previously weighed down by grief. If he could do that for you, even if just slightly, he’d feel as though the tears shining in your eyes are worth it. “She'd have hated to see me use it, she was never a fan of it, but I couldn't think of a better name for someone I love so much."

Something awful hits him, square in the jaw and deep in the gut.

He can’t remember why he called her Sarah.

You’re sleeping next to him.

He’s spent the better half of what feels like an hour trying to ignore this fact. Stared at the sky, just to count each freckled star that shines through in the dark. Closed his eyes and tried counting sheep. Rolled over, back facing you, and tried to just fall asleep, once and for all.

But it’s sisyphus. Each time he feels himself about to slip into the discomfort of sleep, you twitch a leg or mumble something incoherent, and he’s back to being far too aware of you, squeezed in beside him in what must be the world’s least spacious sleeping bag. The worst thing is, it had all been his idea.

You’d been yawning, eyes slipping shut just to be opened in defiance by your own stubborn self, unwilling to give into the sleep you so visibly needed. He’d told you to go to sleep, the words coming out soft for once yet, somehow, still a demand. When you nodded in agreement instead of standing your ground, Joel knew you must have been exhausted.

You told him that you hadn’t imagined the search would last overnight, that you hadn’t grabbed a single thing to sleep with. Not even a blanket. Which was fine, really, because Joel had no intention of closing his eyes. He’d rolled out his sleeping bag and told you to take it, he didn’t mind. It would be one more thing of his that smells like you.

But you wouldn’t stop tossing and turning. Restless, cold, and completely distracting to Joel as he tried to will himself to focus on what was important, any approaching threat, and not the shape of you wrapped in his belongings. A fruitless endeavour, that earns him nothing but a string of words rolling off his tongue: “Move over.”

And now he’s here, regretting ever thinking he could possibly lay next to you, exchange body heat, and somehow just will himself to fall asleep.

You squirm, hand fisting at the well-used material of his sleep roll. Laying on his back, he glances over at you. The itch to snake his arm beneath your head, offer a makeshift pillow to spare you from the hard floor, grows harder to ignore the more he looks at you.

It’s not the only thing that grows harder, however.

Maybe it’s because he can smell you, all over and around him, staining your memory into the fabric of the sleeping bag so he can lament how empty it feels the next time he sleeps it in. Maybe it's because he can feel you, scattered points where the heel of your foot rests against the slope of his ankle, and the swell of your ass presses into his upper thigh, and your back brushes against his arm with every slow breath you take. Maybe it's all more simple than that, like the mere knowledge that you’re actually here, in his presence, after so many months, and Joel Miller is just a man, susceptible to the pleasures of flesh and starved of you.

Whatever the reason is ultimately doesn’t matter. Lamenting over it won’t change the stiffness of his cock as it fights beneath denim confines, an uncomfortable throb that demands his attention. And he’s trying so hard to resist, trying so hard to pretend he’s not aware of his own body and the erection it’s bestowed upon him.

But you won’t stop moving, you won’t lay still. Deep in sleep, you taunt him, unawares to the way each soft sigh sends his mind barreling down into the depths of sinful thoughts, and each wriggle, squirm, repositioning of your hips serves no purpose other than to push you closer to him, deeper against the straining fabric.

He flirts with the idea of unbuckling his belt. It would be easy, his hand already resting stiff by his side, itching to shove down layers and feel the weight of his own cock. It barely even makes a sound, a soft clink muffled beneath the blanket, followed by the pop of a button, and the zing of a zipper sliding down. He glances at you, heart rate picking up, and confirms you’re just the same as moments ago: fast asleep.

As much as he wants to peel off his layers completely, he settles for the safer option of pulling down his jeans and briefs enough to free himself, full fist wrapping itself around his base. A swift tug, a tight-jawed hiss. The thrill of it runs right up his spine, a torture that he wants another taste of.

He wants to snake his hand up to his mouth and wet the palm with his spit, but he can’t, won’t, the risk of too much movement waking you. So he settles into his fate, a series of uncomfortably dry and unfluid strokes of his cock, nothing but the drops of his own precum to lubricate his movements.

Slow, steady, he runs his palm over his length in sync with your breathing. Your lungs expands, his fingers brush the tip, they deflate and he’s down at the base, trying hard not to brush against his heavy balls. Images of you, the same ones he plays on repeat when he’s working himself to an orgasm in the safety of his and Tess’ apartment, or balls-deep in some faceless stranger, hidden in the darkness of some back alley. Breathless in the kitchen, gripping a knife like your mind grips at its sanity as he bruises his knees from drinking between your thighs. Perched atop his lap, the metal of the truck’s hood creaking with each bounce you give, fuckin yourself further down his length, forcing him deeper and deeper.

His eyes slip shut as he lets the memories take over, replaying for his own viewing pleasure. He tries to match the tightness of his hand to the tightness of your cunt, but his own touch is cold, unfeeling, dry, nothing like the sweetness of you. The version of you that lives in his mind throws her head back lips parted in a cry of pleasure. Joel, she — you — moans, gripping him tighter, pert nipples straining through the thin fabric of a shirt. His shirt. God, you looked so good, so safe in his coat, he should’ve stripped you down to nothing but it, and taken you there against the dirty woodland floor, on all fours, ass in the air, face in the dirt, Joel all over you.

Joel, he can hear it, the way you’d sink down fully to the floor, forcing him to follow you, smother you in his whole weight, hips tilted up enough for him to keep drilling himself deeper, and deeper, and deeper.

“Joel,” he hears you. Real you, turning towards him in the tight squeeze of the sleeping bag. Sleepy eyes meet his own and he sees it, the recognition. You know what he’s doing beneath the surface of the sleeping bag. Before he can fully register this, the touch of another hand — far more delicate — envelopes his own, tightening his grip before he can dare to retreat. “You should be asleep.”

“Can’t,” he grits out, powerless to the sudden movement of your hand, the slow drag in which you guide him to jerk at his cock.

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

“I do,” you admit with a soft shrug, eyes glued to his own. “Still, I wanna hear you say it.”

One glance down and he sees the way you touch him beneath the blanket, wishing he could rip it all away and watch your fingers, intertwining with his own, smother over his leaking tip, staining your skin in his pleasure.

It’s embarrassing how much of a mess he’s becoming, all at the mercy of little old you, and your sparkly eyes, and your sleepy smile, and your guiding hands. It’s embarrassing how softly the confession parts from his lips.

“Because of you.”

“Me?” You question immediately, feigned innocence striked across those tired, doe-like eyes he likes so much. “All I’ve done is try to sleep. You’re the one who can’t keep his hands from wandering. Are you really that weak Joel?”

“Yes.”

“Do I make you weak?”

“Yes, fuck!” He feels like he’s gone back in time and you’re playing with him, twenty-something questions or whatever the fuck you’d called it. Feeling his balls tighten, an urgency to touch you, feel you, make you feel good takes hold of him. “I’m gonna- Ahh, baby, let me- Let me feel you.”

But you won’t let him. Tightening your hand around his cock, continuing those up and down motions, inching him closer and closer to the orgasm he’s trying so hard to stave off.

“No, I’m too tired,” even your little whine is enough to drive him mad, a sigh out your nose as he watches you snuggle into the width of his chest, a throbbing pain taking over his heart. How can you seem so sweet with your fingers sitting tight around his cock? “Let's just lay like this, feel me like this. Let me make you feel good.”

“Tell me you’re wet,” it becomes a need, a desperation, born in his heart and spreading all throughout the rest of him, to know you’re enjoying this torture as much as he is. To know you’re not simply touching him as a means to get him off, over and done with, mind silenced to sleep by the haziness of spilling his cum.

“I am,” you soothe his minor fear, and he feels the gentle roll of your hips into his thigh, leg tangled between both of his as you grind your clothed cunt against him. “So wet. Love touching you, Joel.”

“Yeah?” He croons back, voice teetering off into literal begging, his free hand perched on the tip of your chin and tilting your eyes up to meet his. “Then let me fuck you, please.”

“No, just…” You say, shaking your head, rolling your hips, teasing at the slit in his tip with the tip of your finger. He can’t help but hiss, a grunt catching in his throat. “Just wanna focus on you. Wanna see you cum for me, Joel.”

Never have seven words been enough to make his resolve snap.

With a pathetic cry of your name, Joel feels the first rope of cum spray against his knuckles. Sticky, hot, thick, it dribbles down the cracks of his fingers onto your own, making a mess out of both of you. You’re there, closed palm, sweet lips, soothing him with words of kindness as you carry him through the motions of his orgasm, no doubt working your wrist into a dull ache as you squeeze every last drop of cum out of his weeping tip. He doesn’t want to think of the mess that awaits him beneath the sleeping bag, sticky cum staining soft skin, and rough jeans, and nylon material.

What he wants is for you to keep going, stroke him until his cock regains its full stiffness, standing to attention and ready to feel you in the ways he’d pleaded moments earlier, like he felt you months earlier.

Maybe this time he’d try your other hole. He’s wondered, on lonely nights where nothing but his hand has kept him company, how much convincing it would take until you’d bend over and present him with the pretty little creases of your puckered hole. You’d protest, he knows. call him disgusting, degenerate, dirty. Shame him for even wishing to touch you in such a vile manner. Joel could handle it. He’d always had a preference for the chase, the thrill of wearing a pretty thing down off its high horse of holier-than-thou syndrome and onto their knees before him.

He’d not be kind. No, not when the time comes. He’d ease himself in, sure, but the true battle would begin once he’s sheathed inside and the tightness of your hole hugs his cock in the warmest of embraces. He’d push, and pull, and break you down into whatever surface he takes you against. His hands would join in, bringing an electrified pleasure to your neglected cunt while his hips piston into the plumpness of your cheeks. They’d move in sync, working to ensure no second passes where you’re not full of some part of him - be it his cock in your ass or his fingers in your cunt.

Exhausted and defiled, your poor body would have nowhere else to run than to the comfort of his embrace and the sweet serenity of peaceful sleep, once he’s through with you. And, should you wake to cry of a newfound pain in your rear, Joel would waste no time in snaking his way down between your legs to mouth at your cum-stained hole, laving his tongue over you and painting your thighs in apologetic kisses until you can no longer speak of pain, his name the only word you’ll ever need to know.

But, alas, time is catching up on him and the blood refuses to return to his cock.

Exhaustion wraps you both in its blanketing warmth, melting your head down against his chest with ease, hands still missing somewhere between his thighs. Every soft breath that leaves you hits the skin of his neck, a physical, timely reminder that you’re there, in his arms, closer than you’ve ever been.

The thought is frightening, enough to get his heart racing in his chest. He can only assume you hear it, feel it beating against your ear.

“I’m sorry, Joel,” you whisper, just when he feels himself teetering towards the edge of sleep.

“Hmm?” He hums back in lieu of a verbal response, eyes he’d not even notice close peering open to look down at you.

“I didn’t mean- I wasn’t trying to make you angrier with the questions.” Angrier. That word leaves a sour taste in Joel’s mouth. “It’s just… You’re a good man. You care about others. About Tess, and Bill, Frank too. About me. But you have this chip on your shoulder… I just wanted to try to understand you better, I wanted to make you feel better.”

With your soft voice echoing in his head, he feels himself sinking into a dreamless sleep, a reply caught on the tip of his tongue.

Something wet wakes Joel.

It’s a slow return from the land of sleep, the longest that it’s taken him in years to go from peacefully resting to wide-eyed and alert to every surrounding. The first thing he registers is how warm everything feels, how cosy. How much he enjoys the weight of something in his arms, breathing softly into his chest.

Then, that something wet itches at his skin, drags across his cheek. He tries to open his eyes, only to hiss and squeeze them shut, the bright burn of the morning sun nearly blinding him. A few birds sing from the trees above, exchanging their good-mornings with the rest of nature’s critters.

A groan comes from his left, muffled against the flannel of his wrinkled shirt. He readjusts himself, pulling the weight even closer, and finds out he was right: your smell already lingers in his sleeping-bag. A third lick of wet, this one from chin to eyebrow, a cringe overcomes his tired face.

Lick.

His eyes snap open, fight against the burning of the light, and there he sees him. Otis, to the right, mouth panting, tongue dangling out his mouth, tail wagging somewhere in the background. Joel tries to move as slowly as possible, fearful of spooking the dog, and even more fearful of spooking you, eyes still shut and hand nestled atop his groin, fingers tangled in coarse hair and poking beneath the layers of his top.

“Sunshine,” he whispers, shaking gently at your shoulder, and nearly apologising as you crack an eye open and pin him with a deadly stare. You’re not much of a morning person, a fact Joel fools himself into thinking he’ll need to remember for the future. He gives your shoulder another shake, a gentle squeeze too, for extra measure. “C’mon now, gotta open those eyes properly for me. Got someone here who’s mighty excited to see you.”

That seems to entice you, eyes peering fully open and giving him a once-over before mumbling a soft, “what’re you talking abo- My baby-boy!”

No sooner than you’ve shot up straight, arms wide and reaching for the furry creature, Otis has bounded over, trampling over the mess of limbs you and Joel make up beneath the nylon. Pathetic whines fill the air, a tail that moves a hundred miles an hour, as the canine smothers his snout into you, his luscious mane shining beneath the sun’s rays.

You’re pressing kisses against the dog, tears brimming your eyes as you wrap your arms around his neck and tell him, over and over, “don’t ever do that again! I was so scared!” The happiness is contagious, spreading with a small smile upon Joel’s lips as he peels himself off the floor, chest pressing into your back and hand stretching out over your shoulder, fingers tangling in the threads of Otis’ soft fur.

“Must’a caught scent of you, followed it all the way till it brought him to us,” Joel musses, feeling you laugh as the dog licks a kiss over your cheek. “He’s a good boy. Aren’t’cha, boy?”

Neither of you mention the sticky dilemma between Joel’s thighs as you pack up. You roll up the sleeping bag while he wipes himself clean with a dirty shirt, quietly passing it your way as he slips off his belt and loops it around Otis’ collar, becoming a makeshift lead to guide the dog home with.

Though, as the four-legged creature sniffs on ahead, with the occasional pull that tests Joel’s grip on the belt, he almost seems to need no guide, leading you all in the direction of home. Your home, not Joel’s. But, what a wonderful thought that would be, if he were just a man, and you were just a woman, and you were both taking an early morning walk around the woods with your dog, catching the first rays of sun, together.

As if hearing his thoughts, Otis turns his head, looking at Joel over his shoulder, tail wagging as he lets out an excited bark. Up ahead, closer than he’d like it to be, stands the borders to Bill’s sanctuary. Up ahead, sooner than he’d like it to be, the place where you’ll part ways.

He finds himself slowing his pace. You do the same, no question, happy to simply have your fur-friend safe, by your side, the occasional brush of his snout against your upper thigh, searching for the affectionate stroke of your hand.

He needs to speak soon, act now, before it’s too late and the chance slips through his fingers. Joel clears his throat.

“My, uh,” a lump catches the words as they try to leave him. He swallows it down in a gulp, and tries again. “My daughter.”

Your face turns so quickly from the trail ahead to Joel, that he swears he hears a snap of something in your neck. Silence settles in like fog, mist on the horizon, a pause pregnant with so many questions he can see running through your pupils. You don’t speak them, however, and it strangely eases his nerves, taking away the feeling of demand to reveal his pain, leaving him to peel off the band-aid at his own pace.

“She was my… Whatever you called it, last night.” He sees you nod along, in the corner of his eye. You’ve both slowed to a mere shuffle, unaware of the three figures manifesting ahead, crowding on the other side of the fences. “The one that changed my life. She was so… bright, I used to worry one day she’d blind someone with her smile.”

In his memories, she’s always a beacon of light. Shining, even in darkness. Joel’s almost convinced glitter, or starlight must have been weaved into her skin, her eyes, her smile.

“She was everything good about me,” he says, and finds he can’t help the small laugh that claws its way up his throat, scratching as it goes. “None of the bad.”

“Can’t imagine there’s much on that list.”

“I know, ‘s hard to believe there’s even one good thing about m-”

“No, Joel,” he swears he feels his heart still at how you say his name, firm, and with conviction, like you’re trying to drill the sound into his head, remind him that he has a name, has a heart. “The bad, it must be a short list.”

Three of you — man, woman, dog — find another similar trio waiting by an open gate. Frank, Tess, Bill, each more relieved than the last to see Otis nearly pulling Joel’s feet from under him as the animal surges forward, pulling against the belt-lead with all his might. You release both man and dog from the tug of war, unbuckling the belt from the German Shepherd’s collar and freeing him to pounce on Bill who, despite the frown embedded in his forehead at the dog’s incessant licking, claps a hand over its back.

Joel feels a hand clap down on his own back, snaking its way up to squeeze at his shoulder.

"C'mon, Texas,” Tess proclaims loud enough for all eyes to fall on them. Yours included, kind and questioning, making him wish he could stay. “We're gonna be in shit if we're not back by sundown."

Bag already on his shoulder, Joel can’t feign a reason to linger a little longer.

“Wait!” You call out, parting from Frank’s side, fingers scratching at Otis’ head as you pass. Without warning, you throw yourself at Joel, arms wrapping around him and holding him close in the gentlest of embraces. “Thank you, Joel.” It’s just a whisper. He’s not even sure exactly what you’re thanking him for. Still, he lays a hand against your back and pulls you a little tighter, one last rush of your shampoo hitting his nose before you’re stepping back and parting ways. You, heading back into the safety of Bill’s gates, and Joel, walking off towards the desecrated city, back to the cold of his apartment.

When he wakes the next morning, beneath a roof and upon an uncomfortable couch, he feels time reset itself.

One day since he last seen you, who knows how many more days to go.

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