brighttears

[brighttears]

Stranger Chapter 7

Joel Miller x f!reader

No physical description

Summary: At the end of the day, you show up nervous at Joel’s door, and he welcomes you with open arms, then holds you in them. Sleeping with you in his bed is beautiful, and it's innocent, until it’s not. Things between you shift, and he finds a new title for you—his lover. 

Word count: 7.2k

Warnings: About half of this is smut, size kink, a tiny bit of thigh riding, praise, a little rough, creampie, light christian themes here and there (fucking you is heavenly), pet names (honey, baby, sweet girl, darling)

A/n: the smut has commenced!!!! unavoidably more to come <3 sorry it took so long to post, i had a bunch already written when i started releasing this but no more is prewritten. i literally have like one day a week that i can actually just write and really have to squeeze it in otherwise, might start to get busier unfortunately :( but I don't want to let this thing die with a whimper and am starting on the next chapter now! much love to u all 🫶

series masterlist

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Sharing a table over grilled cheese and tomato soup, your discomfort seems to wane a bit, and soon enough the air is almost light—just three old friends kicking it again, and Joel begins to hope that Jackson lasts a lot longer than the time limit he had initially come up with. 

After the meal, you part ways, having your own responsibilities around Jackson, and Joel goes on a tour of the commune followed by a shopping spree conducted by his brother. In the late afternoon, he’s left to his own devices, and basks in a burning hot shower, fresh clothes, and doing what he can to fix that nail hole in his wall, before the three of you join back for dinner. Tonight is your shift on patrol, so the brothers share a short drink alone at the bar, opting to keep the conversation relatively easy, before Joel retires back at his house. Though he’s tired from the full, yet comparably uneventful day, Joel still finds himself restless in the big, empty house. 

By the time the stars have shown, he’s still wide awake in bed, when his ears perk at slow, crunching footsteps outside, and gets up to peer out of his window. Below, he spots you, looking weary as you trail your way up to your house. Despite your clear exhaustion, seeing you coming back unharmed from patrol pulls a relieved sigh out of him. 

He considers heading outside, checking in, seeing if you need anything… he can’t help but be worried, even if there isn't a trail of blood behind you. Maybe a bit lonely, too. The last time the two of you were in the same vicinity, you were basically tired at the hip, so it feels almost unnatural to not be now that you have the option. And, the feeling of having you curled against his side won’t let go of him. But, he can’t screw this up. He doesn’t want to smother you, make you feel like he’s trying to coddle you, like he thinks you can’t handle patrol when he knows you can, that you have been. So, he keeps his head, fingers twitching and tapping on the window frame as he watches you step up to your door and unlock it with a faint jangling of keys. 

As you cross the threshold and disappear into your house, he sighs, staring for only a moment longer before giving up, shuffling back to bed and flopping down onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling. Still, he can’t help but keep himself awake, just in case…

Within about twenty minutes, he hears a knock at the door, and his heart rate spikes. It’s gotta be you. Anxiety starts to rise in his chest, and he sits up quickly, hurrying downstairs. Pulling the door open, he’s met with you, relief blooming in his chest, though still thorned with worry as his eyes instinctually search for any sign of injury, and immediately notice your tense demeanor. 

“Hey, Joel,” you greet him, breaths puff of white air in the biting air, shifting on your feet, and crossing your arms, eyes darting between him and the snow dusted wood at your feet. “Hey.” He replies, brow pinching as he regards your state. 

“Um,” you start with a nervous sigh, eyes now glued to your shoes. “I, um, I was just—I wanted to, to see if, um well, if—if—” Bashfully, you glance at him again, and he can see your lips struggle as you try to find your words, and his heart aches at it. A wave of concern, along with personal anxieties, washes through him, already starting to become overrun with a thousand potential reasons you could be acting like this, fears and doubts of all kinds, and he wants to push, ask what’s going on, tell you to stop being so nervous around him, but then Tommy’s words ring in his head: ‘be patient… wait for her to come to you…’ So, he waits, keeping his expression mild. 

“Um,” you try again, scratching your head, trying to force eye contact, “well it’s just that it felt, weird, with you here—I mean, no, I was just—well, patrol was—I just—I was wondering, i-if I could, um, if you just, maybe, I mean,” you let out a huff in clear frustration at your own floundering, before finally spitting it out. “I just wanted to see if I could, stay with you, tonight, I just…”

Joel’s heart leaps and flutters, shifting in the doorframe. 

“Yeah, of course.” He answers quickly, because, of course, because there’s nothing more he wants. 

Finally, you meet his gaze, letting out a heavy, relieved sigh. 

Though he wishes you would have just waltzed right in, not even having to question if he’d allow it, want it, his heart feels lighter at your exhale, and he gives you a small nod, stepping aside to open the door. “C’mon.” He mumbles, “Get outta the cold.”

You duck your head as you come inside, shoulders still slightly hunched in remaining nerves he’d like to reach out and skim off of you as you unzip your coat. Joel wants to just wrap you up in his arms, soothe you, keep you warm, melt that unease, like he’s supposed to. 

“You alright?” He asks automatically, eyes flicking over you. He can’t help but wonder about what’s left unspoken, you wanting to stay with him tonight, sleep next to him in his bed, be close to him in such a vulnerable way again.

“Mhm.” You reply, nodding as you shrug off your coat, and he watches as you turn to hang it up on the peg, right next to his. “I just um,” you begin to explain, sounding almost small again. “I guess… I’m just, used to sleeping in the same room as you, when you're around, you know? And I… you know, it just felt weird, and I guess I just… missed you…” 

“Yeah.” Joel nods, voice soft and quiet. “Yeah, I get it.” It’s touching, knowing you want him, want to be near him, with him, and because you missed him, too. You’re still connected. He’d been laying awake, because he knew you were going to knock on his door. Because you still don’t know how to be apart from each other. Because there’s still some magnet, you could never let go of each other, you still can’t. A house away is too far. 

You nod back, still visibly relieved, before bending to untie your boots. You look so exposed, small and precious, and he wants you tucked under his blankets, wants to watch you fall asleep, hear your breaths slow and even, see how your lashes rest over your cheeks again. Wants to see you relaxed like that again. He wants to fall asleep next to you, and not worry about it. Know that he’ll wake up and everything will be okay, you’ll be there, still tucked in, warm, and safe, and with him. 

“I—Did I wake you up?” You ask softly as you toe off your shoes and push them next to his. “No.” He shakes his head, “Couldn’t get any sleep yet.”

“Oh.” You nod, turning to him. “Good. I mean, not that you couldn’t sleep, just—”

Joel can’t help a soft chuckle, shifting forward a step to gently touch your arm. “It’s okay, Y/n.” He assures you in a gentle murmur. Glancing up at him, you nod, letting out a breath, and he watches you, eyes flicking to every subtle shift and twitch of your gaze. You’re still guarded, but he knows you want it off, so, after a silent beat, he offers a hand out to you, cocking his head towards the stairs with a quiet, “C’mon. Let’s go to bed.” As he turns and starts for them, he feels your hand slip loosely into his, and he holds onto your fingers to lead you behind him. 

It’s strange, a mix between deep recognition and something novel—your nervousness, being in pajamas, the clean and numbered blankets awaiting you; while this is just another added to thousands of nights he’s shared with you, every other has been not much more than a shuffle into a prayed for break from exhaustion, and this feels like some sort of event. 

Despite how sharp you’ve made yourself out to be, despite how sharp you believe you are these days, your hand has never felt this fragile in his. And last time he held it, it was connected to the arm you’d lost a bucket full of blood from. But, last time, your hand felt assured in his, you had gripped his back; now, it’s timorous. He pulls a slow breath into his lungs, urging himself to be softer with you now than he’s ever been, and to not think about the last time, not overdose on guilt, because this isn’t fucking about him. You’re nervous, you’re vulnerable, and you came to him for comfort and for warmth, and it’s late, you’re tired, and he's the one you’re looking to. So he's going to take care of you. He’s going to give you what you need, and it’s not his guilt, it’s not his sorry, you don’t want it, and the words mean nothing. You need kindness, and warmth, you need your rock. You need the comfort you’ve only ever found in him. He can do that. He is that. 

In his bedroom, Joel pulls back the covers on, murmuring gently, “Crawl in,” as he slips under them himself. As the bed shifts, the only sound the soft shuffle of blankets, Joel’s heart flutters again, perking with happiness, to have you here, with him, in the safety of night, where silences don’t fall and stretch but pool and settle, and there’s no rifle to be had ready in his hands, no dark woods to watch or pulls of exhaustion to will himself away from, and there’s no crucial conversation to be had, nothing to think to say—he can just lay here, with you curled up next to him, and look at you, looking at him, with your nose tucked under the blankets.

“Feel better now?” He whispers, gentle and affectionate. You nod. The silence stays for a moment, before you whisper, “Do you remember that night, Ohio, in the winter?” 

He hums. “Yeah. Can’t forget it.” 

2015, the first coldsnap of the year—ruthless, the kind of air that hurts, wind so hard in your face it’s hard to breath, and the snowflakes were fat and just wouldn’t stop fucking falling. It was the dead of night when you finally stumbled on the farm, the only structure within miles; you’d had to just keep walking until you found something, you’d die if you didn’t, but even under the layers of hay that you’d buried yourselves in, exposure was a looming threat in the derelict barn. 

You were shaking like a leaf. He’d never held you before, but that night, he did, because he was so scared. And it was that night that started to realize how much you were starting to mean to him, how precious you were, how special his heart had come to hold you. He needed you to live. He needed you to be okay. There wasn’t another option.

“I don’t know how we survived that night.” You whisper. “It was so cold.”

“I know.” He whispers back. He remembers how you shook, how his muscles strained against the cold shuddering his own bones as he pulled you closer. He remembers how the fear kept him up all night. “I thought you were gonna freeze to death.” 

“Me too. Or that I’d have to crack your arms off from around me in the morning.”

Your quiet words make his heart ache, imagining the horror of waking up to the embrace of a corpse. He blinks, sighing to brush the thoughts away, because you’re here now. “Well… we both survived. We always do.” He murmurs, and you nod. 

Though tonight, it’s warm in this house, and you’re safe in Jackson, you look just as vulnerable, as raw now as you did then, and he feels a familiar tug to pull you closer. 

He shifts, tugged further, needing to feel your breathing again, feel your skin be warm, and extends his arm, gently placing it over your waist. You shift into him, nestling in against his chest, and he lets out a long sigh as he gathers you into his arms. It feels natural, the reciprocated maneuver to fit against each other, to feel you close, to keep you close. A wave of deep comfort washes over him followed by a bloom of contentment as you wrap your arms around him. 

For a moment, it’s just the two of you, nothing else. Your warmth, the feel of your form under his fingers, brushing them idly up and down your spine with the other cradling your waist, the tickle of your hair on his chin, quiet breath skimming over the skin of his neck. The air is your smell. Filled with your presence, he closes his eyes. 

After a moment, you pull him in a little closer, and he wraps his arms further around you, pulling you in until there's barely a bit of space between you at all, and in that moment, he feels you relax, warm and solidly pressed, a soft sigh leaving your lips. 

Safe. Soothed. Protected. 

“You warm?” He whispers after a moment. 

“Yeah.” You mumble back, and he can feel the smile pulling your cheek against his chest. “Are you?”

He hums, mumbling into your hair, “I dunno, I think I could use a blanket.”

Your chuckle rumbles through his chest. “Want me to go get you one?”

He huffs, smiling wide and whispering back, “No, I think you’ll do.” You chuckle again, and warmth spreads through every part of him. “Stay.” He whispers, muffled in your hair, “stay right here.”

“Okay.” You whisper back. 

Okay. That quiet sound. 

You sound happy. 

Okay.

The sound of the smile in that word waltzes through his brain, slow, cast in faint moonlight, lulling his breaths to slow, the gentle rhythm of your breaths, chest gently expanding and relaxing under his arms relaxing his weight, the faint beat of your heart against his chest like a soundless lullaby, easing him into a dreamless sleep. 

He doesn't wake, doesn’t stir once, and in the morning, when the light streaming in from the windows makes its way past his eyelids, he finds that you haven’t moved at all, all night. Your arm is still draped over his side, the other still fitted between your chests, hand curled around the curve of his neck to rest in the hair on the nape of it. You’re the perfect mold against his body, under his arms, his hands. 

Warm. Safe. Protected. Sound in your sleep. Everything is okay. 

It’s perfect. Every bit of it.

You asked for this, requested to sleep in his bed with him, wanted for his closeness and went to him, to feel him in the night. You remembered that first time he held you, when you needed it most. He hadn’t thought about it that way—that maybe you needed him last night. And he was there. 

And he was there. 

As the thought hits him, he feels his heart flutter and skip, and he lets out an inadvertent, deep sigh. At that slight movement, he notices your eyes shift under the lids before they flutter, stirring from sleep. Watching the moment, Joel tries desperately to commit it to memory, the way you look tucked so tightly in his arms, etch the feeling of your unconscious clinging into his mind, the way your face is still so relaxed, so utterly at peace in his embrace. And in that moment, he feels himself fall just a little bit harder for you. 

Your eyes crack open, just barely, and he watches you register the sight of him, a lazy hand brushing up his back. It’s a sight for sore eyes, you in the morning. The sun filtering through the curtains brings out the color of your eyes, strings of hair highlighted in its light. He could count your eyelashes this close. He soaks it up, with your fingers brushing over the curve of his spine, the faint shuffle of blankets the only sound in the room. It’s so peaceful, so simple, so domestic. A small, gentle smile brings itself to his lips, and he watches you watch it, eyes still sleepy, only half open, and then you bring your hand out from between your chests to trace a lazy finger over the corner of it. He melts, physically feels his insides turn to mush, smile pulling further. 

This is the first glimpse he’s gotten to that gentle side of you you used to wear on your sleeve around him. It feels like pulling the curtain back, like there’s not a wall left between you, and it's so soft, and god he loves you, god, he adores you, and god does he want to kiss the fingertips dancing right in the corner of his lips, god does he want to kiss you, after all this time, all the times, he wants to know, wants to know how it would feel.

For a moment, your eyes trail up to his, before they return to his lips, tapping them lightly, almost absently. 

He’s a mess. You were always so soft when you were sleepy, and it always made him weak. Right now, he’s completely lost in it, spellbound, and the whispered words slip right now. 

“You’re so beautiful.” 

Your eyes move to his again, and he can almost see them register, and as they do, your fingers leave his lips to instead slip over his jaw, but before he can think about it, your eyes are fluttering shut and your leaning in, and then he can’t breathe, because you kiss him. 

He lets out a nearly stuttered sigh, body reacting immediately, hand splaying over your back, leaning his lips back against yours as his brain explodes into a kaleidoscope of butterflies. It’s soft, and gentle, he can feel the slight chap of your lips, and he’s never had that feeling he’s heard of in movies and from luckier friends back in the day, about how it just feels right, how it’s natural, effortless, like a gentle current, but at the same time, he’s lightheaded and the swarm is only growing bigger. He could drown in it, the sensation of you so close, the sound of the breathes leaving your nose and a quiet smack as your lips dance, and he can’t stand the thought of it ending, not yet, not yet, so he slowly, tenderly, tilts his head to press a little closer, sliding his hand to cradle your jaw, trading the other to hold your back, keeping you close. Just a little while longer, and a little while longer, to soak up the gentle embrace, he can’t stand to part, but then he gets a real taste of your spit, and he knows he needs to pull back, just for a moment, because he feels a switch flip in his brain at it. 

He parts only a couple inches, letting out a quiet breath as his eyes flutter open again.

Very quietly, you whisper, “Was that okay?” You sound so small, and there's another beating of velveteen wings, and he replies, low and gentle, sweeping his thumb over your cheek, “Yeah, honey. You can kiss me whenever you want, darlin’. I’m not gonna complain.” 

He’s used terms like that very sparingly—it always felt wrong, either condescending or just too far over the made up line, too close for comfort, but he feels out of his wits in a way, floundering under these new circumstances. He doesn't know where the ground is, but apparently neither do you, and after only a beat, you kiss him again, and he feels his brow pinch, and he wants it and he has it, and it’s so warm, and when he pulls you in you shift right into his arms, as if you’d done this a thousand and one times, and he wants it again and again and again. He drinks it in, the warmth, the softness, the feeling of your torso in his hands. He’s selfish, he’s greedy, he’s needy. With each small break before going right back in for another, he thinks, wait, because he wasn’t done, he needs more, more to hold onto, as if every slight repositioning of lips is a chance for you to slip away into dream world and he’ll wake up and see you again, and wonder all over again what your lips feel like. 

As the moment goes on, his heart only beats faster, need slowly overcoming him, his hands moving over more of the expanse of you, your sides, your neck, your jaw, with your touch on his face, in his hair, his shoulders, arms, back, and he wants it, wants to be enveloped in it, he wants you to touch him and kiss him until he can’t think, until he’s incapacitated and all he can sense is you, like this, in this moment, in the morning, where nothing else exists. Not his wrongs, not the pain, not time, not memories, just the feeling of you, the taste of you, the sound of you as a soft breath leaves your lips—a small, quiet moan. 

The sound surges him, arm automatically snaking around your waist, his fingers weaving into your hair, holding the world in his hands with your legs tangling themselves with his, hooking your ankle around his calf to pull his thigh between yours—god you’re somehow still being so soft and gentle and it’s starting to feel like his brain is melting, all he is is nerves and the feeling of you. And then you squeeze him, kissing him a little harder, a little messier, and there’s something so vulnerable about it, so needy but loving. God he wants you. He wants you he wants you he wants you. He wants you to have him, just let you have him, do what you please, he wants to please you, feeling the affection and desire wash over him like being pulled under the tide as his hands slide over your body, feeling the way your ribs meet your waist, your jaw to your neck, your shoulder blades, learning these things he’s never quite gotten the chance to before. The taste of your spit. The taste of your skin as he presses his lips along your jaw, slow, tender, making his way down to your neck, and then there’s that sound again, a little more breathless, and he pulls in your scent through his nose, shifting until he’s almost on top of you. 

He wants you to know how much he wants you, how his pulse quickens, how his body heats up, how much he loves you, needs you, wants to show you, show you just what you mean to him. He kisses your skin softly, lips lingering as they press over the muscles of your throat. Another soft sound, just a breath of a moan, falls out of you again, and he squeezes his eyes shut. Every press, every movement, he wants you to feel the affection, the care he puts into it, like he could have you absorb all these things he doesn’t have the words for. With his lips on the underside of your jawline, you shift closer, a silent request, the way you pull and push, and he needs to give you the closeness you’re asking for, show you he’ll give you anything—he wants to, he’ll give himself to you willingly. He loves you desperately, wants you to take him, hold his heart in your hands, ride his cock like it’s a fucking toy until you cum, and then cum again, until he’s got nothing left, and then take more. It’s all for you. 

He lets his lips part, pressing his tongue right between your ear and the corner of your jaw, just close enough to whisper something, but the words escape him as you let out a near whimper, and he knows the message is received as you move against him, pulling his leg until his thigh is right in between yours, and he feels his jaw go slack for a moment until his teeth reconnect with your skin, and, “Ah,” God. Without a second thought, he slides his thigh against you, fitting it where you need the friction, and you squeeze, and whisper, “Joel,” and his eyes nearly roll back in his head. 

He wants to make you cum, to make you tremble, whimper and whine and moan until your throat’s fucking raw, and he’ll lick it like a wound as he fucks you or fingers you or just uses his fucking leg, whatever you want. Whatever you need, whatever you want. He wants you to know how good this is, feel what you’re doing to him, like honey in his veins, swelling his cock, so he moves his hips, the bulge pressing against your stomach, and your breath hitches, and the moan is involuntary, and the rest of the world is lost to him. He hardens more just at that, from a chub to something that tents his sweatpants in about four seconds. Your warm hands slide down his sides, slipping under the hem of his shirt and starting to push it up, touch running over his skin, warm and buzzing. He’s on fire.  He wants you all over him. He wants your touch. Needs it. 

Hurriedly, he takes his hands off of you just long enough to pull his shirt over his head, discarding it somewhere, and in the time it takes for the fabric to pass over his eyes your shirt is being thrown after it, and his jaw nearly drops. 

He can’t help the way his hands press, sliding over your bare skin, he can’t help being so needy, he needs you more every second, feeling the curve of your breast, your nipple hard under his palm, the flesh of your waist under his fingers. Your arms nearly fling around him to pull him back in, meeting in a messy, heated kiss.

Every sense is lit in flames, and he slips his tongue against your lips, and you part them for him and fuck it’s so hot, feeling your tongue press back against his, your leg over his waist pulling him closer and his cock is straining as it presses against you and you moan in unison and fuck he needs to get you naked. 

It’s nice to know you’re on the same page, by the way your hands fall down to the buttons of your jeans just as the thought enters his head. He curses under his breath, keeping one arm braced beside your head, struggling with his haste to pull his sweatpants and boxers down. His legs wrestle under the sheets to use his feet to strip them off, and it’s a quick shuffle to ditch the layers before hot skin meets hot skin again, and precum is already beading at his tip by the time his length is pressed at the seam of your stomach. 

“Oh my god,” you whisper in a breath, right before smashing your mouth against his, and he moans, low and muffled, every part of him practically singing like a discorded chorus. He loves you. Adores you. Wants you. To love you like this. To dote on you. Worship you To fuck you, feel your sweet slick around his cock, feel your squeeze, make you whimper and moan and cum until you see stars. 

And fuck, you move for it first, reaching down to take him in your hand and slip him up and down your cunt until he’s right where he wants to be, but he still doesn’t move, waits for you to bring him inside, relishing in the feeling of your hand around him, the hand he knows so well on a part of him you’ve never touched before. Both of your mouths are dropped open at this point, eyes half lidded, but he takes care to watch your face as his tip finds its way between your folds, taking in the expression, a rough moan falling from his lips because you’re already so wet. 

“So wet.” He murmurs, faces so close it’s as if you’re trading breaths. “You want it, baby?” He asks, needing to hear you say it, to know that you do, and to hear how your voice comes out when you have his cock in you. “Yeah,” you reply, like an exhale as you move him deeper inside, and he exhales a moan in response, gripping the sheets in a vice, other hand a little more gentle on your waist. Slowly, so fucking slowly, he presses into you, inch by inch, feeling himself twitch with every one, your warmth pulling him in. As he bottoms out, he lets out a rough moan, and kisses you again, tongue licking into your mouth. Your touch is hard and tight as it travels over his sides, up his back, grasping at him, and he can’t help but bite your lip, more turned on than he was when he was a fucking virgin because god damn it it’s been a fucking while, and he loves you and has been pushing down how fucking horny you can get him for fucking years now, and here you are, naked, underneath him, wrapping your legs around him and moaning into his mouth. 

He tenses, crooning with the urge to fuck you like his body is disposed to, deep and hard like a fucking animal, because god damn it has been a while and you’ve gotten him wound up like a fucking toy box, but no, that’s not how he wants this to go. No. Gentle. Slow. Loving. Until you’re begging for it. 

The kiss is loud and messy and wet, one rolling into the next, but he moves his hips slowly, filling you up, relieving the pressure, then doing it again, keeping an easy pace. He’s gotta find what you like. What tempo. What pressure. Where all your sweet spots are. If you like it when he kneads your tits, pinches your nipple, presses his hand where he can feel himself through your stomach. But his hands won’t touch your throat. Won’t grab your hair. He won’t bruise you. Not even with his mouth on your neck. He can’t help but lick it though, wanting you to know just how fucking bad he wants you, long and flat, almost panting against the wet line, feeling like a fucking animal but still enough of himself to keep it fucking slow. Angels sing in his ears in your moans, breathy and soft, and yes, you can leave all the marks you want on him, drag your nails, squeeze him until he’s bruised if you’re so inclined. All he wants is you. Whatever you want to do, whatever you do. 

He kisses the corner of your mouth, your chin, your jaw, his knees planted in the mattress so that he can slide his hands along your sides, hold your body in his hands, know what the weight of every bit of his desire feels like, know what the clouds in heaven feel like under his fingers. He wants to know what the waters up there feel like up there, so he reaches a hand down, digits swirling your clit, and they’re warm and drooling, and the sound of the pearly gates opening are in the moan that almost trills from your throat. His mouth falls down to your skin again, tasting what the gods eat with his lips on your collarbone. Heaven is filling you up, thumb on his base, feeling every inch sliding in and out with his index and middle playing with you, testing out spots and rhythms to make you sing. 

He wants to make you feel good, so fucking good, with his fingers and his mouth and his dick. Wants you to feel loved by him, taken care of by him. Desired and needed, but cherished. Gentle, until you ask for more, if you want it. He can fuck you slow, too, grip the reins to keep himself under control. Still, the sounds that come out of him are desperate hums that are almost groans as your nails scrape down his back, leaving the muscles underneath them humming in their wake. With his lips mouthing along your shoulder, he hears your head hit the pillow, he hears the whimper. 

Electrified, he husks, hot against your skin, “That feel good?” 

“Yes.” He hums, deep and low, pressing soft kisses up the side of your neck until they reach your ear, “You like how I fill you up?” Though he keeps it measured, he presses a little deeper, almost just to show you what he can do, and it pushes another soft moan out of you. “Yes.” 

Perfect, so fucking perfect for him, like a sheath, so slick and easy to fit into. “You like how this dick feels?” Tying your ankles around his back, urging him in deep again, you moan, “Yes,” 

“Fuck,” He swears under his breath, sliding his palm back up your side, drinking up the way every touch makes your breath change. He stops at your chest, slowly enclosing your breast with his hand with his fingers still twirling your sensitive bud as he whispers, “You want me to fuck you?” The word leaves you in a whimper, “Please.”

“Fuck, Y/n.” Joel moans, hips pressing you into the mattress, grip back around your waist, fingers denting your flesh as he holds you to take him to the hilt, reveling in your moaned sigh. “Tell me how you want it,” It’s a shameless plea in your ear as he leans over you; he wants you to know he’s for you, all of him, it’s for you, his heart, his soul, his cock, his hands, his lips; his body, mind, and soul, just the way god intended.

“Harder.” You whimper. 

“Harder?” He repeats lowly, forehead against your temple to keep his whisper steadily in your ear, feeling his gut burn. 

“Yes.”

His hips twitch in a quick jolt before he can start his own rhythm, barely in control of himself when he gets the chance to fuck you how he wants, like its the last thing he’ll ever do on this earth, thwaps of meeting hips filling hitting the walls, each tight thrust pushing a breath out of you like he’s giving you fucking CPR, “You want it like this, baby?”

“Yes, God, ah,” your hands grip his biceps, flexed like every other muscle in his body, every bit of testosterone pumping out in the sweat starting to slick his skin. “That feel good, honey?” He thrust the answer out of you, a breathless, “Yes,” and he feels like a god now. To be able to get these sounds out of you, to get you all breathless and flushed with your legs spread open for him. “You like how my cock feels?” His voice is a deep, low hum, honeyed and hot, met with a lighter, breathless, “Yes, fuck me, fuck,” 

That phrase hits a nerve, and he moans like he’s being beaten, but the blood tastes so sweet in his mouth. 

The bed is starting to shake a little at the rhythm of his hips, knees dug into the bed, fingers swirling your clit in the way that has you trilling like a hungry cat with his other hand holding your waist to keep you in place as he stays just a step away from pounding the shit out of you. He’s never been the type to pride himself on his length or girth—he’s not in college anymore—but he’s hitting your cervix, loading himself into you, and its just as tight as if it was his hand, but it’s Y/n’s cunt that he’s fucking right now, and the cum is stringing his cock, making a mess where your hips meet when he looks down and does nothing less than gawk, the sight making a moan crawl out of his throat and fuck he feels that hot coil, and flings his hand out to grip the headboard, because not fucking yet god damn it, because you’re begging, voice almost shrill, “Please, don’t stop, just like that, fuck right there, right there,” and he shuts his eyes, caught between memorizing the moment and trying to keep himself from cumming first because he wants to feel you, and pump you through it, and yes he’ll do whatever you want but god how he would love to watch you whimper and squirm as you take him, he wants to have you until you’re spent, he wants to make you cum again and again and again, until the sheet is soaked through and you’ll both just have to sleep the rest of the day again, stay in this bed together, and he’ll fall alseep and wake up again to the smell of you, the taste of you. 

“Fuck,” he pants, willing himself to look down at you again, and he can tell before he even asks, almost cooing, “you close, darlin’? Gonna cum soon?”

You nod, face twisted up in sweet pleasure, breaths becoming more stuttered with the force of his hips, “Yeah.” Your hands, before loosely on his hips, slipping in and out of grip as he pressed them down again and again, are now nearly clawing, nails scraping against the muscled bone, mewling, “Yeah,” 

With a harsh moan, Joel brings his face right down over yours, panting against your lips, “Yeah? You gonna cum on my cock? That’s how good it is, baby?”

“Yes, fuck,”

“You like how I fill you up to the fuckin’ brim?” He murmurs, “You like feelin’ me in your guts? You have no idea how good it feels, baby. Love feelin’ how your pussy squeezes my cock.” Nearing pussy drunk, he starts to ramble, almost smothered under the sound of the creaking bed and skin slapping skin and the moans that march from your throat, “Takin’ me so fuckin’ well, Jesus Christ, Y/n, you’re sending me to heaven, baby. You sound like the angel’s fuckin’ singin’, Y/n. Make me feel so good. I wanna make you cum, baby. Wanna feel you fuckin’ cum for me. Cum on my cock, cum for me, honey.” 

“Oh, fuck, fuck me like that, yes,”

“So fucking pretty like this, baby,” his voice stays a soft murmur, more breathless by the second, “you got no idea. So fucking beatiful. Yes, baby, yes, I know, I know you’re so fucking close, cum on it, baby, lemme fuck you through it.”

“Oh fuck,” 

“Yes, yes, yes,” he ruts, thumb twirling around your clit as your thighs clench around his waist, mouth in a perfect O, pouring out moan after shaking moan, brows titled up, lashes fluttering, “keep cumming for me, baby, fuck, fuuuck,” he pants, moaning almost just the same, barely an inch making it out before he plunges back in, fucking you into the bed, and the way you’re hanging onto his hips almost ensures it, “god you’re takin’ me so good, so good, baby,” both hands grasp the headboard now, hanging on by a thread as your pussy grips and quivers around him, so tight in its convulsions he could swear he can feel every ridge of his cock slipping in and out. 

“Oh, God, Joel, fuck,” you’re almost incomprehensible, with the way your body is being jolted into the bed and the way every word is jumbled with a moan, “don’t stop, don’t stop, please,”

“So god damn good, baby, yes, keep cumming for me, feels like fuckin’ heaven, Y/n. Gonna make me cum, fuck, fuck, ‘m gonna fill you up with my cum, sweet girl. You want that, baby? Wanna take my cum?” He coos, moaning, dumb on it, “I wanna fuck my cum into you. You gonna take it? Gonna let me? Show you how much I fuckin’ love you? How you fuckin’ get me?”

Sounds loudening, quickening, you brace your hands on the headboard, tits on display as they jump under his force, stomach muscles clenching and tremoring, “Fuck, yes, yes,”

Joel falls back over you, snaking his arms under your back, cradling your waist as he pumps deep inside you, fucking like an animal. “Yes, yes, yes,” he calls, forehead in the pillow, “keep cumming for me, baby, that’s it, keep goin’ for me, feels so fucking—” his words drop off in a deep, desperate moan, movements fast and harsh, stuffing you up, wet squelching in a mix of cum. “Oh, fuck, I love you,” he lilts, seeing white as he pumps his cum into you, hips jolting hard, holding you tight against him with his arms encircling your waist. Your nails are in his back, heels at the base of his spine, locking him in, taking it, trilling, “Yes, yes, yes,”

Joel’s moans are harsh breaths breaking out from his throat, eyes screwed shut as the primal sensation washes through him, a deep seated desire to profess his need, his love, his devotion as his hips stutter, fucking his seed as deep as he can into you. The aftershocks feel like the moment you see that white tunnel, and he’s reduced into a state of stupid pleasure, lazy sounds falling from his lips as you milk his cock, each ridden out twitch causing his hips to swing again, until he finally stills. 

Joel stays like that, locked deep inside of you, panting against your neck. You’re both sweating, and his animal brain brings his tongue to your skin, lapping up the salty taste. One last breathy moan falls from your lips, and he sighs, long and shaky. 

Finally, he floats back down to earth, sighing, “Shit.” You hum in response, a breathy, almost sleepy sound, and he slowly releases you from his near primitively possessive embrace, your body slumping back down on the bed. Taking in the sight below him, he supports himself over you with a hand planted on the bed, slipping out of you, leaking over the sheets. Your skin is glistening, chest rising and falling gloriously with your breaths. 

He’s never seen anything more beautiful in his life, beauty that stuns him, stupefies him, locks time, eyes traveling over every inch of your skin. Your thighs still rest on either side of his waist, the curly mess between your legs drooling and beaded in cum, a trail of his oozing out to drip onto the white sheets. A strip of sunlight casts a line over your chest, like a blessed spotlight to highlight the curve of your waist, the way your breasts lay, the bend of your neck from your collar. Your face is still flushed, lips parted, eyes half lidded, but he can see something in them, something else. 

This changes things. 

He feels tethered to you now, tied, his beautiful girl, his woman. His right hand, his best friend—his lover. 

The term sounds right. You're the one he loves, in every way he can, now, like this. Giving you pleasure like that, seeing you, hearing you, raw, making your nerves scream in rapture. From him. Another thing he can give to you. 

His lover. 

[brighttears]

smut in the chapter im writing rn (late sorry i'll have it out tmrw) but this is Joel when he fucks you because of course

[brighttears]

hi!!! I meant to write and release more last weekend but life got in the way, hoping on being able to have at least one more chapter out Sunday! Thank you for everyone reading and interacting with this fic happy to see people enjoying it <<<3333

[brighttears]

Stranger Chapter 6

Joel Miller x f!reader

No physical description

Summary: There’s a small struggle after you gather yourself, but the two of you quickly fall back into comfortability with each other, sharing, at last, a peaceful moment, and some much missed laughter and fun. Joel remembers that you're a goofball.

Word count: 6k

Warnings: This is pretty much just fluff, brief mention of child death (very brief, talking about a movie), brief negative self talk from reader

A/n: lets go happiness, yeehaw 

series masterlist

—

“Thank you.” Is your quiet reply, hands slowly enclosing the fabric of his shirt into fistfuls.

“It ain’t hard to do.” He whispers back. He knows you won’t quite believe that—he wouldn’t either—but he tells you anyway. 

“Yes it is.”

“No. It’s not.” He presses gently, and you’re quiet, and he knows then that he’ll have to convince you, that it’ll take time, and that he’ll spend the rest of his life doing it, if that’s what it takes. 

There’s a long, still silence for a moment, and Joel basks in the peace of it, before you quietly speak up, “I—I wanna get up.”

“Alright.” Joel mumbles, granting himself a short pause before he releases you from his embrace. You get up quickly compared to him, but there’s a winning lack of hesitation in how he offers his arm out and you catch his hand to hoist him to his feet. The comfortability is relentlessly short lived once you’re back on your feet, though, a sudden awkwardness back in the air as you stand there, wiping under your nose and across your eyes before putting your hands on your hips, passing a fleeting glance at him before you instead set your gaze at the floor. 

He feels lost again, and can’t find anything else to say quicker to stop the quiet other than a tentative, “…You alright?”

Nodding quickly, you glance at him again, answering, “Yeah, you?” As if you hadn’t just completely shattered in his arms, and it sounds almost like the same kind of interaction you used to have after facing some impossible situation and coming out the other side by the skin of your teeth; almost comically casual. The corner of his lips twitch before giving a nonchalant answer back, “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.” 

You nod again, twisting your lips to the side, and he feels a need to fight to keep stringing the conversation along, to not find himself in a sudden out to have you ask him to leave.

“You,” he begins, clearing his throat softly, “you wanna sit down, or somethin’?”

“Um, sure.” You reply quietly, turning to glance at the couch, then sniffing and wiping your nose again before moving to sit down. He sits on the opposite end, a good couple feet of space between you, staring down at folded hands, the silence screaming again. 

“So,” you fortunately break it after a few awkward beats, turning your head to him, “what do you think about Jackson?”

Joel is thankful for the question, a normal question, one that won’t involve feeling like he has to skin himself to answer. “It’s uh… different.” He nods, turning to you and watching you nod back. “It’s not like the QZ’s.”

“Nothing like the QZ’s, thank God.” You respond. “No curfew, shit actually works, it’s clean, we’re not shoved together like sardines. I can actually take a shower and feel clean afterwards. They actually care about people.” 

“Yeah.” Joel nods again. “It’s nice.”

“How long do you think it’s gonna last?” You ask abruptly, and he can’t say he blames you for the leeriness, the question having popped pretty quickly into his head during his introduction to the place. 

“I’d give it… a few more years.”

“It’s been around for seven, apparently.” You shrug, “I give it five more, tops. Tommy’s more optimistic. Most people here are. I’ve had some people give me the dirtiest looks when I ask them that question.” You sound relieved to be able to speak your mind about this with him, and it makes his heart perk—finally, it’s a peaceful conversation, just sharing ideas with one another, like you used to, for hours on end. “It’s so strange here, Joel.” You say after a pause. “I still can’t really tell how I feel about it.”

“Well… safer than out there, at least.” He replies, and you nod, “World’s safer.”

As he watches you, a question tugs him, one he’s hesitant to get an answer to, but can’t help but ask anyway. 

“You plan on stayin’?”

Surprisingly, your answer is quick, nodding, “Probably until the bitter end.” Your voice is placid and matter of fact, despite the weight of the statement. “Tommy’ll probably be here until the bitter end. He helped build the place, he won’t let it go down without a fight. I’ll fight with him.”

Joel nods slowly, seeing the resoluteness on your face. 

He’d almost forgotten how close you are with Tommy. There’s the fact that he was your only friend here before he arrived, and Joel can gather how much you’ve needed him since then, and that he’s worked to be there for you every step of the way. But even before, when the two of them had first met you over a decade ago now, and especially in the very beginning, Tommy was much more on your side than Joel was. You could even say Tommy had taken you under his wing, training you to shoot, and sparing softness that Joel lacked in stark contrast. And while Joel was distinctly pissed when his brother decided to band with the Fireflies, and not to say you lacked in anger, you were much more doleful. And though the bond between you and Tommy could not reasonably compare to the one between you and Joel, having been mostly partnered alone for six years, he can’t deny it. But Tommy is Joel’s brother, so when you ask your next question, Joel is just as quick to answer. 

“What about you? You staying?”

“Yeah.” He nods, then pauses. “I just got you two back. I’m not going anywhere.” 

Looking down, you nod, and Joel’s suddenly unsure if he should have expanded there, if he’s allowed to say that, about you. 

“Yeah.” You say, “I doubt I’d still be here if it wasn’t for Tommy. Probably would have just taken the opportunity for some rest, get my strength up, put together some resources, wait out the winter, and be on my way. No reason to stay and see how long until it burns. But,” you sigh, “Now I’m here.” There’s a short pause, eyes still downcast, but then the corners of your lips tug up, “Trying to get back into reading.” You say it almost bashfully, and Joel has to pull back a grin. He’s relieved by the slight change of subject, but his curiosity is also piqued, and he shifts in nervous excitement to hear about your life here, to actually know something about you other than how ‘damaged’ you are. “Reading, huh?” He presses, a small smile dancing on his lips. 

Still bashful, you smile and shrug, “Well there’s a ton of fucking downtime, so get read to that,” you shoot him a glanced smile, and he chuckles lightly, “and they have a library. Small, but it’s there. So I just figured I might as well.”

“Library, huh?” Joel echoes again. “Shit, they got everything here. Movie nights, libraries. You gonna tell me they have a fuckin’ computer lab next?” The genuine chuckle that brings out of you suddenly has Joel damn near giddy, a full smile on his face and a flutter in his chest. He can’t help himself from trying to do it again. “You know, get a LAN party started. You remember those?”

“Not really.” You chuckle, raising your eyebrows as if he should have known that. With a soft, huffed chuckle, Joel shakes his head. “Well, you missed out.”

“Yeah.” You say, eyes falling to the floor, the small smile starting to fade from your cheeks. A somber tinge suddenly befalls the air, and he immediately regrets his comment. He himself doesn’t like how it feels to think about all the things that you never got a chance to really experience, all the things you’ll never get to, even something as simple as a stupid fucking LAN party. He hesitates, searching for something else to say, going back and forth between trying something to comfort you, tell you that it’s fine, they were stupid anyway, or change the subject entirely, maybe make another joke, but the sudden guilt paralyzes him, and he can only let out a short, heavy breath through his nose, damning this second wave of awkward silence. 

“So, um, are you gonna go to the movie night on Friday?” You ask, voice still carrying a bit of awkwardness, but at least it cuts the silence.

Swallowing, Joel nods, too anxious to continue the conversation to really consider if he actually will be attending before answering, “Yeah, might as well I guess. What’s the movie?”

“Stand by Me.” 

Slightly surprised and slightly amused, he lets out a soft huff. “Stand by Me, huh?” It’s a movie he knows well, actually the movie he used to use when he needed a good cry. “I always had a soft spot for that one.”

“Really?” You reply. “I always hated it.”

“Hated it?” He chuckles, looking at you, “Why?”

“It freaked me out.” You shrug, “It’s freaky. And sad.”

The idea of Stand by Me freaking you out makes him chuckle, a small grin slowly pulling to his face as he watches you. “Stand by Me… freaks you out.”

“Well,” you throw your hands up defensively, “it did when I was a kid. I haven't seen it since then, but still, I'd rather not watch some sad shit like that. Why do you like it?”

Joel shrugs back, a small grin still pulling at his lips, “I dunno, I guess it was just… comforting.”

“Stand by Me was your comfort movie? Jesus Christ, you’re heartless.”

“Oh yeah. Absolutely heartless. My favorite scene was actually the one where they find the dead kid. Always brought a smile to my lips.”

You snort a laugh back, that familiar ‘what the fuck is wrong with you’ scrunch to your face, and it almost overwhelms him, because that’s it, that’s what he’s been aching for, a glimpse into those old days that he thought were long fucking gone, that ash and dust isn’t ash and dust, there you are, sitting next to him, there you are. 

He stares, eyes crinkled with the smirked grin on his face, a feeling of deep relief easing through every tinged muscle. “I missed you.” He says without thinking. 

Immediately, you smile, cheeks plump with it as you look down at your feet. “I missed you too.” You reply, and by god the heavens have opened up. The pang of anxiety that had hit him as soon as the words had left his lips is replaced by a flood of warmth, the sound of that phrase from you like a hymn to his ears. It pushes a lump in his throat, and all he can manage to do is nod, looking down at his hands folded between his knees. 

Another silence falls after the confessions, heavy, yet comfortable. Then, he lifts his head again, eyes flicking over you, your eyes glued to the floor but with that familiar smile on your face, and it makes his heart clench, taking in the sight, the reality of it, crushing all the doubt he’d been burdening. And then you look up at him, that smile still there, warm and relaxed, and then you say, “I love you.”

It hits him right between the ribs. After years, those words again, angels are singing, like the first time all over again, and it strikes him, and as it sinks in, there’s an overwhelming affection, and he thinks he could almost cry, but instead, he does the thing he always stopped himself from doing, because those times are over, he refuses to live a life with you filled with regret—he leans back against the couch and offers an arm out, uttering a soft, “C’mere.”

There’s a pause of visible consideration, but it only lasts a second until you're crawling towards him, fitting yourself under his arm and leaning against his side. Joel wraps his arm around your shoulders, squeezing tight as you settle, a sigh escaping his lungs, and he moves like a compulsion, pressing a light kiss to your hair and whispering, “I love you too.” 

The way you fit in the crook of his side, your scent in his nose, the tickle of your hair on his skin, it’s almost maddening, almost dizzying, it’s surreal, and he can’t even tell what the feeling pervading his chest to near joyous pain is, but his eyes sting. He closes them, breathing you in, his arm tight around your shoulders. 

The feeling isn’t what he would imagine it would be, it’s not like time has spun back. It feels like a new life, a different world. Because it is. Because this time, he’ll ask for you to come closer, and he’ll tell you he loves you, because fuck holding back, because he knows how it feels to not have you now, and fuck not showing you what you mean to him, how much he fucking needs you.

You’re a more powerful force in his life than he knew before—yes, he knew you were, he knew if you died he’d want to die again, for fuck’s sake that’s part of why he left, but he had not anticipated how crushing it would be to not have you by his side, not to be able to look at you and know you were okay. And to think that you didn’t know that, what a precious thing you are to him, fuck if he’ll ever let that slide. 

That’s why he’ll tell you that he loves you, in a hundred different ways, in every way he knows how, he doesn’t even care if you get sick of it, he needs you to know. In every little act, every word, you’ll know. Because now he knows you need to. 

He’s gonna do it right this time. He’ll do all the things he wishes he did before, he’ll be better, he won’t be a fool, he won’t be a coward. You’re far too precious. 

He’s never been good with words, always shied away from touch, but it’s you, it’s you, and it’s different with you, and fuck if he doesn’t deserve it, fuck if he hasn’t earned it, he has it, he has it, he has it; for the first time in years, he does’t feel alone, and maybe he’s still selfish, because he wants it, and he has it, and he’s never letting it go again. No matter what it takes, he will fight and fight and fight for this, because this is why, this is why—knowing you’re with him and you’re safe and you love him, this is it, this is what makes the world bearable, this is what makes it all make sense. 

Eyes still closed, hand clamped around your bicep and nose in your hair, he whispers, “You’re stuck with me now, you know that, right?” 

“More like you’re stuck with me.” You whisper back, cheek squished against his chest. “You know I’m a bitch now, right?”

“Well,” he muses, “I have noticed you swear a lot more than you used to.”

“Yeah, that comes with being a bitch.” You murmur back. “Get used to it.”

“I dunno,” he replies, a smile pulling at his lips, “I’m kinda into it.” 

There’s a short beat before Joel realizes what he just said, and he looks down at you, seeing a small, snarky smile on your face, and, almost bashful, but mostly amused, he grins as he comments, “That sounded a little dirty.”

You burst out in a chuckle, leaning further against his chest with the force of it, face twisted the way it always does when he makes a stupid joke like that, and that rumble bubbles in his chest and comes out in a deep chuckle, and he revels in it as the force of reality hits him again, almost enough to kill the mood, but he doesn’t want the moment to slip away, so he crosses that line so you’ll hit him like you always used to, “You like dirty jokes now too, honey?”

You cackle, then slap his leg, muttering, “Shut the fuck up.”

He beams, cackling back, dropping a sarcastic, “Hey, I’m gonna tell Tommy you’re being a bully.” 

“Pft. Tattle tail.” You mumble with an audible grin. 

A soft laughs puffs out of him, building until it jolts his chest, hearing you say something so childish, so silly, to hear you being playful, and right now, there’s nothing like it, and then you’re shaking with giggles against his side, and his grin is inexorably brazen, the bliss so simple, and there’s not a single thing on his mind other than the sound of your laughter, your weight against him, and the feeling of the smile drawing his cheeks. 

When the giggles calm, he mumbles, the grin still plastered on his face, “I like that you’re a bitch.” You hum a chuckle, replying with a quiet, “Thanks,” and the small sound is one of the most endearing things he’s ever heard from you, and his chest fattens again with adoration. 

God, I love you, he thinks to himself, and he can feel it, and he wants to scream it until his voice is gone and it deafens you, but this new silence, the peace in this moment you’re sharing, it's much too calm, too tender to disrupt, so he just sits in it, looking down at the top of your head, thinking it over and over, to the beat of his heart pumping his blood, I love you, I love you, I love you. 

Then, your arm moves to wrap around his middle, bringing yourself a little closer, and it’s so intimate, so quiet and gentle, and it makes you look almost small again. Even a wild animal wants something warm and comforting. Even a wild animal finds a home. And God, the way you hold him, it makes him feel so special. 

After everything, still, you’re allowing him in, allowing yourself to find comfort in him, you’re letting your guard down, and fuck it all, your body is warm so he shifts his arm down to tug you closer, and you turn your legs up on the couch, curling them behind you to cant against his chest as he leans back against the couch. Snuggled up here like this, he has not felt this close to true contentment in ages. It again feels almost dreamlike, but his dreams are never this happy, so he embraces the near preposterous perfection of this moment in time, closing his eyes as he lets each sensation sink in, one by one. 

Your weight, the gentle pressure of your relaxed breaths, the sound of them. The way your hand fits around his side, where your elbow meets his stomach. Your smell, just like it always was, except with a bit less BO. The way his heart beats, the way that he is alive to feel this, the way that you are alive and with him. 

A different thought floats into his brain, something occurring to him on that grim train of how he left, but it’s a pure pondering rather than a meditation on self hatred—he was terrified of you dying, terrified of being there, of watching it and being utterly helpless to stop it. But, right now, with everything he’s found in these past couple days, he realizes that he would want to be there beside you through it. He would want to hold you, encapsulate you in his warmth, and be the gentle voice in your ear, so that the last thing you hear, feel, know, is how loved you are, and every reason why.

He forces himself to remember that this is not that moment, though, before darkness starts to flood his chest and pointlessly drown the light now inhibiting it. He appreciates the feel of you once again, and the weight of the air, the situation, of everything you've gone through, together and apart, and the now. And he doesn't want to let it go, not any of it. Because he never wants to feel the impossible weight of your absence again.

So, the two of you just stay like that for a while, who knows how long, soaked in peace, before the sound of a knocking at the door slices through your entrancement. 

Instantly, your head jerks off of his chest, and you let out the smallest complaining huff, before untangling yourself from him and walking to the door to peer through that same little crack you used when you opened it to him. 

“Hey, I uh,” comes Tommy’s voice from the other side, “just wanted to make sure everything’s okay, uh, didn’t want to interrupt, but um, it’s almost lunchtime.” At the sound of his voice, and the hidden yet still unmistakable unease in it—damn, he really was worried you’d kill him, wasn’t he?—Joel pushes himself off of the couch, legs a little stiff as he walks over. 

“Yeah,” you nod, opening the door a tad further, maybe just to show proof of life, “everything’s fine. We’ll, um,” you throw a glance back at Joel, “lunch.” He comes to stand behind you, a hand instinctively coming to rest gently on the small of your back, observing the fall of relief on Tommy’s face as he sees him, matching you with a, “Yeah.”

Tommy pauses, taking in the sight before him, before a wide grin begins to grow on his face. At his brother’s transparency, Joel wants to face palm, and inwardly cringes as you clear your throat. “Talk went well, huh?” Tommy comments, and Joel feels a strong urge to roll his eyes or give him a ‘shut the fuck up’ look from behind your back. You clear your throat again, looking down as you reply, “Yeah, yeah, it did.” There’s a shyness in your tone, and Joel shifts his hand, pressing a gentle, comforting firmness. 

“So, you two good, then? Alright?” He prods, and Joel can’t tell if it’s a genuine question, if he just can’t believe his eyes, or if he’s teasing, like a fucking disphit.

The two of you respond almost simultaneously, a nodded, “Mhm.” From you, and a terse, “Yeah. We’re good.” From him. 

Tommy’s smile tugs, and he gives a quick nod, eyes glancing over the two of you, and Joel can see the hundred questions running across his eyes, but before he can say anything else, you speak first, “We’ll head down soon. I just have to, um, get my coat on…” you trail off, tapping your finger softly on the doorframe, a very gentle ‘could you leave us the fuck alone for a second?’ Thankfully, Tommy gives another quick nod, understanding, lingering for only a moment long before he finally says, “Okay, I’ll see you two there,” and one more up and down before he turns and steps back down your porch steps. 

With a sigh, you close the door, mumbling, “Jesus, I don't know why that was so embarrassing.”

A soft chuckle escapes Joel at the admission, and he shakes his head. “Wasn't that bad.”

“Well, he didn't click his heels and go yippee, so yeah, could have been worse.” You say, turning to face with a soft sigh and cross of your arms. The small chuckle that started as a rumble in his chest grows to a louder, fuller laugh as that mental image registers in his mind, and then he nearly doubles over in laughter, letting out a low, “Oh my god.” Watching him, you laugh back, slapping his arm, “Come on, I am not that funny.” 

“No,” he argues through chuckles, straightening, “you’re hilarious. I forgot how funny you are.” And he had, all his musings in your absence including the sound of your laughter, but not your jokes or humor itself, and it’s a wonderful feeling to find something he’d forgotten he’d lost.

Rolling your eyes, you titter, then shake your head. “God, I feel so bad for forcing him to be in the middle of this. I bet he’s more than relieved he doesn't have to be our, like, marriage counselor anymore.”

Huffing another soft laugh, Joel nods. “Yeah, bet we’ve both tired him out.” As he smiles at you, eyes flicking over your figure, he gets a warm, fuzzy feeling in his chest, almost high from how much he’s been smiling today, soaking in how comfortable you’re being with him. 

With a light sigh, you turn to take your coat off the hook and push your arms through the sleeves. “It’s pretty crazy that we’re all here now. When’s the last time the three of us were in the same place at the same time? …Eight, nine years ago?” Suddenly, you pause, eyebrows shooting up as you realize, “Holy shit, I’m old.”

Joel goes quiet, blinking as he reflects on those days, when it used to be the three of you together, and just how long it's been since then. He shakes his head softly, “Yeah, it’s been a while, huh?” He pauses again, before adding with a quiet laugh, “We’re all old now, Y/n.” 

You chuckle, brow furrowed pensively, “Fuck, I met you guys… almost fifteen years ago. What the fuck.”

That statement causes his own brows to shoot up, and he huffs in wonder. “Damn. Guess we’ve come a long way.” 

He thinks of how you were when you first met, younger, smaller, almost timid, so unsure yet so determined, getting to spend time with you then, over a decade ago, and then watching you grow. And now, being here, seeing you again, seeing the old you and the new one and loving them both. He smiles again.

“Yeah,” you nod, “literally across the country. Well, sort of. I know you two are from Texas, so, you’re actually not that far from where you started.”

A little surprised, Joel nods, “Yeah, yeah, we are. I didn’t think you’d remember that.”

“Joel.” You say, tilting your head and raising your eyebrows at him, “You two have the twang of regular cowboys. Especially when you’re together.”

He scoffs, feigning offense, “I do not have a twang. You just think I do cause Tommy’s is so damn thick.”

“Yew jus’ thank ah dew.” You mock, and Joel can’t stop the burst of laughter, furrowing his brow in almost real offense. “I do not sound like that. And that was a terrible southern accent.”

“Shut up. That was spot on.”

“Really?” He counters, raising his eyebrows, “That’s what I sound like? Like I’m straight out of a fuckin’ western? Yeehaw?”

At that, you split up into a guffaw, and it pulls laughter straight back out of him, the world lighting up, because once again, there it is. 

“Yeeeehaaaww!” You caw, face pulled in a giggling grin, and he shakes his head, still helplessly chuckling, “Oh, god, stop, please.” He teases a beg, despite the fact that he hasn't seen you like this in so long, and if he could, he’d stop everything, and just live here in this moment for another few years. Then, you start imitating riding a horse in a little circle, letting out a shrill, “Yeehaw! Yee yee yee!” And Joel’s knees nearly buckle, belly laughing almost to the point of struggling for breath. Abruptly, you stop your little charade, slapping his arm and grabbing the doorknob to swing the door open. “Come on, let’s go get lunch.” You announce, still smiling as you waltz outside. 

Joel has to struggle to compose himself, but he follows you quickly, laughter subsiding as he trails behind you, still grinning. 

He takes in the casual smile still sticking to your lips, the way it crinkles your eyes, and the sun isn’t out and it’s still cold as shit, but it’s brighter and warmer as the sun rises for him, and it you’re lit up in it, and the smile won’t leave his face. 

As you step out onto the road, you zip your coat up to your chin, shoving your hands in your pockets and squeezing your arms against your sides. “God I’m so glad you’re here. I freak everyone else out.”

“What do you mean?” He asks, brow pinching lightly. Not that he doesn’t think you have your reasons for such a statement, it’s just a little surprising. He was always the big scary one, you were the one that would offer a sympathetic smile when he did visibly freak an ally out.

“I guess I’m just kinda off-putting.” You shrug. Off-putting?? He tries to hold in an incredulous huff. “Why’d you think that?”

“Well…” you start, aiming your gaze down as you walk, “I was all fucked up when I first got here. Skittish, cagey as shit… aggressive. Some people really did go out of their way to be nice, but, I was not, very receptive. I’ve calmed down, and I am trying to be friendly, per Tommy’s orders, but… I dunno, maybe I just don’t know how to make friends anymore. 

Joel nods along as you speak, watching your face, understanding the struggle, feeling a pang of sadness. He knows how long you’ve been isolated, and he wants you to have a sense of community again, people you can be comfortable around, that you know have your back, get some sort of relief for what he knows must be a hefty feeling of separation. That’s not for you. You were always the lovable one. 

“Do you still want to make friends?” He prompts, and you offer a light shrug. “Not really, but I know I can just shut myself away forever. I do have, you know, acquaintances, people I work with. But I really do not have a desire to become close with any of them. Actually makes me feel kinda sick to imagine.”

He nods, still watching you, heart starting to heavy in his chest. To be fair, it does make sense, he really can’t blame you for it, from what he’s come to understand about your time alone out there. And, again, he gets it; in fact, he felt the same when he met you. Look at him now, though—if he’d kept himself locked away, he never would have had you. 

“You know,” he starts, “you don’t have to slit your wrists to be someone’s friend.” “Yeah, I guess.” You reply. “I mean, most of the people here really aren’t that bad.”

“That’s good.” Joel nods softly, scanning the road ahead, a few people ahead making their own way to the mess hall. It’s not like he’s jumping up and down at the idea of being in such a populated enclosure once again, and he has yet to feel in any way a part of a community, despite the friendly looks that have been passed his way, or the gentle way Tommy he's been pressing him to see that it is a community. 

Another question tugs at him, and after a moment, he asks, “Do you… like, being here?”

You nod, looking at him. “Yeah. I do. I mean, as far as I’ve seen, it’s as close to a utopia as you can get. And Tommy’s here.” You nudge his shoulder, “And you’re here.” Pleased, Joel smiles. “Just kinda hard not to go… kinda crazy, sometimes.” You add, and Joel hums. You’re right, Jackson is the closest thing he’s ever seen to a utopia since the outbreak. He wants it to be that for you. If you’re going to be here, he wants you to be happy here. That’s his goal, in general, really, for you to be happy. “Anything I can do to make you feel less crazy?” He asks, looking at you. 

Your eyes glance over his face for a moment, and a small smile grows on your lips before you turn your head down, a beat going by before you answer, “Stay.”

The word reverberates in Joel’s brain, like a joyous dance, and his heart beats harder. 

Stay. 

Stay here. 

Stay with me.

“I will.” He mumbles, quiet yet set. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, Y/n.” He watches the smile yank your cheeks, and his heart beats like white feathered wings. 

When he turns his head forward again, he sees the approaching mess hall, and he sighs, feeling a twinge of dread. The food is great, yes—actually, pretty god damn fucking incredible—but he’s not sold on the experience of being in there, surrounded by people; he’d much rather have a quiet meal shared with just you and Tommy. He knows you feel the same, and it pulls a bit of annoyance from him about the obligation of this—functional—charade, especially when he glances over to you and sees how your body language has tensed considerably since the last time he looked. 

Your shoulders are tight in a way no longer from the cold, your expression pulled stony, but he still knows the cadence of stress in your muscles. Knowing how long you’ve been here, and that you still have such a reaction to meal time, it hurts. 

“You alright?” He asks quietly. 

“Yeah. I’m fine.” You respond, but you don’t even try to use a reassuring tone, nothing but cold. 

He stays quiet, eyes trailing over your features. He wants to do something about it, smooth out the marked tensity in your features like clay, push your shoulders back down, watch you savor your food instead of trap it between your arms and under a hunched back. He feels powerless, useless. 

Glancing at him, you sigh, a brief yet clear pinch of irritation on your face. “Please don’t look at me like that. I’m fine. Seriously.”

He stops himself from immediately calling ‘bullshit’, a slight frown pulling down his lips as he looks away. “I’m sorry. I can’t help it.” He mutters. 

When you sigh heavily, he braces for the incoming snap, but then you let out a tempering breath instead. “I know.” You mutter back, a sort of sympathy in your tone, giving his pocketed hand a reassuring pat. “It’s okay.” 

He hadn’t expected that. Relaxing a touch, he glances at you again. It’s okay to worry. It’s okay that he can’t help it. You’re okay with him. 

But, as you step into the warm air of the bright and babbling mess hall, Joel feels his own body language tense, not far off from you now. And then, all of a sudden, you’re you again, an us, partners, acting as each other's shield, even if it's paranoia and PTSD more than anything else. He still finds a comfort in it he hasn’t felt since, well, the last time he was at your side, safe and assured, and stands a little taller. 

You move silently to the end of the food line, spotting Tommy not soon before he spots you a good dozen people down, getting out of his place to make a beeline for your pair, that stupid grin plastered on his face again.

“There you are.” He says when he reaches you, crossing his arms with a happy sigh, “Get lost on the way here or somethin’?”

“Nah, we just decided to have a quick fuck against a tree on the way here.” You deadpan, and Joel just barely stops himself from splitting in two, keeping his face straight as Tommy’s eyes nearly widen, looking between you, clearly lost on how to respond to that. 

“Yeah, sorry, couldn’t wait.” He plays along, the picture of composure and seriousness. 

The gears turning in Tommy’s head are nearly audible, scraping and churning. His brow furrows impossibly tight, mouth opening and closing. You’re the one to break first, splitting into a wide grin with stifled laughter. Tommy pauses for another second before his shoulders sag, groaning and rubbing his forehead in defeat. “Oh, for Christ’s sake—” Joel breaks right along with you, shoulders shaking with a suppressed guffaw. “Can’t believe I forgot how fuckin’ unsufferable the two of you are when you’re on the same team.” Tommy says, shaking his head with his own soft chuckling. 

“Welcome back to hell.” You say, slapping his shoulder, “What’s for lunch, cowboy?”

[brighttears]

Stranger Chapter 5

Joel Miller x f!reader

No physical description

Summary: Joel’s first morning in Jackson, he enjoys a hearty breakfast before you pop in front of him, asking to have a conversation. It goes differently than how he feared it would—better, but also, you break down. He gets to be there for you, and it fills him with relief, sorrow for your woes, and culminates in the depths of his love for you.

Word count: 5.2k

Warnings: Joel hates himself (looks like we have a theme going here), brief talk of violence and self harm, negative self talk from reader (name calling: freak, monster, damaged)

A/n: finally!!! A break from the heartbreak kinda!!! yay!!!!

series masterlist

@drewharrisonwriter

—

Joel stirs from sleep gently this time, blinking his eyes open and staring at the ceiling for a moment, before slowly sitting up. It’s still a bit dazing to look around and see a normal bedroom. It’s a strange feeling. Reminds him of before. 

After a soft sigh through his nose, Joel stretches, joints popping, tired muscles groaning into consciousness. 

He gets up slowly, shuffling out of the bedroom, trying the wrong door before finally finding the bathroom. He turns on the tap, leaning his hands on the porcelain for a moment as he watches the clear liquid flood down the drain before splashing cold water over his face. When he looks up, his reflection is almost startling, so clear and unadulterated in the clean, flat mirror. He looks like shit. More wrinkles than he remembers, dark bags swept under his eyes, complexion pale from the winter. He’s lost weight, too. And he feels like shit, the last few months having taken a toll on him. With a sigh, he turns away, grabbing a towel to wipe his face before leaving the bathroom to creak downstairs. 

In the kitchen, he grabs a glass from the fourth cabinet that he’s opened to find one, before filling it with cold water and gulping it down, not realizing just how thirsty he is until the first drop hits his tongue. Setting it down, his brow pinches as he tries to think of why the hell he’s so god damn parched, and then he remembers the crying fit, and lets out a quiet groan, pressing a hand into his forehead as he leans against the counter. 

“Fuck.” He mumbles under his breath. He has no idea how his little incident has colored your mind, unsure if it has maybe softened you a bit, or made you resent him more, or lose a fuck ton of respect for him. He can only imagine it’s the latter. There he was, Joel motherfucking Miller, the guy who has pressed so hard that he’s the protector, always trying to appear so stoically strong, impenetrable, breaking down like a baby, crying into your bosom about how much he misses you. How fucking pathetic. 

With an annoyed sigh, he rests his hands on the edge of the sink, leaning a weary body against it as he looks up at the window, watching the slow moving clouds pass in the east. The sky is a wash of baby blue and pale yellow, a golden shadow cast over the underside of the clouds. As he stands there, watching the slowly climbing morning sun, listening to the birds sing, he can’t help but think of you, remember the sound of his little songbird in the dead of night, and then the way you looked at him with your touch on his jaw. How he felt—

Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door, and Joel flinches, turning. His heart rate starts to spike for a split second before he remembers Tommy telling him that he’d come retrieve him for breakfast, and with a soft huff and a mumbled curse, he pushes off the sink and heads towards the door. He’s not exactly looking forward to being tossed into a room crowded by strangers, though he’d be lying if he said his stomach isn’t rumbling with a vengeance. 

When he opens the door, Tommy beams at him. “Mornin’, sunshine.”

—

The mess hall is lively, people of all ages sitting and talking over plates of food, and Joel follows his brother tensely, surveying the room. People look, some staring, a few offering friendly smiles, but Joel’s face remains stony. 

Tommy glances at him, smiling to himself in quiet amusement, before he nudges him with his elbow. “You don’t need to be so damn skittish, Joel. They’re just curious. They won’t bite.”

Joel frowns, replying in an edgy mutter, “Yeah, well, I don’t know these people, Tommy. You can’t blame me for assuming they might.”

Tommy chuckles, shaking his head as he leads him to the end of the shuffling food line. It’s then that Joel’s eyes zero in on the food laid across the long table ahead of them, large tin pans filled with still steaming scrambled eggs, cooked sausages, a tower of biscuits being ladled with thick gravy, two large bowls filled with assorted cut fruit, ripe and fresh. It feels almost like a mirage, and he has to swallow down saliva just about every five seconds, silently picking up a plate behind his brother once they finally reach the table. 

“Be generous. There’s plenty to go around.” Tommy leans in to whisper, a twinkle in his eye. Joel just glances at him, shifting on his feet before plucking the spoon out of the scrambled eggs to scoop onto his plate. By the time they’re at the end of the spread, Joel realizes he maybe should have grabbed two plates instead of one, with all the food piled onto his, the juices of the sausage and fruit mixing with the gravy, but the mash of flavors is of no concern to him as Tommy guides him through the room to an empty table.

As they walk, Joel can’t help but notice a table of children, henned by a single plump woman, openly staring at him, eyes wide and curious. They’re basically rubbernecking, heads craning as they watch his every step as he moves past. 

“Looks like you’ve got some fans already.” Tommy says in a low tone with a teasing smile on his face, but as they sit down, Joel mutters back, “They ain’t got no goddamn manners?”​

Tommy snickers, shaking his head as he starts to fork at the food on his plate. “They’re kids, Joel. You’re the shiny new toy.”

“The hell I am.” Joel shoots back, lips pursed in irritation, but Tommy only chuckles again. “Alright, whatever. Just eat up.” With one more disapproving huff, Joel settles his attention back on his food, an intense wave of hunger washing through him as he picks up his fork and knife to starts shoveling it in.

With a glimmering smile as he watches, Tommy reminds him in a teasing tone, “Chew.” Joel is too distracted by the taste to even glare, simply returning around a full mouth, “I’m not a damn child, Tommy. Just fuckin’ starving. You have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve had a meal like this?”

“Well, if you keep shoving it in like that, it might be your last.”

“Shut up.” Joel says, the sound barely comprehensible with the amount of food stuffed in his mouth, but it’s not hard to guess, and it only makes Tommy snicker.

Giving him some time to enjoy the meal, Tommy pulls away to retrieve cups of coffee for the two of them, before joining back and starting to explain the inner workings of the commune—work, specifically. The two positions that stick out the most to Joel are construction, and patrolling. Even though he’s sure he’ll be rusty, getting back into what he used to do all those years ago is a nice thought. Patrolling, well, he guesses he might end up going a little stir crazy if he doesn’t get out past these walls every once a while, and going out armed, on horseback, and joined by a couple others, in addition to knowing he’s doing his part to keep Jackson safe and that he’ll have a warm home to return to, yeah, he can do that. 

Eventually, he casts a few glances around the mess hall, trying to discreetly catch a glimpse of you, and after a few furtive attempts, he finally does, spotting you sitting alone at a table. You’re hunched over your plate, guarding it, head down, shoveling your food in almost as fast as he’s been, as if this was your first meal in days, or that someone might come steal it away if you’re ready to fight them off. 

You used to eat slowly, savoring the taste, never wanting to have the last bite to yourself, always wanting to share.

Not anymore. 

Joel drops his head back down, trying to hide how much his heart starts to hurt, nodding along to Tommy’s words, sparing a comment every once in a while, but he’s basically picking at his food towards the end. 

As breakfast comes to a close and people start to file out of the building, Joel keeks around again, almost reflexively trying to pick you out in the crowd. When he finally finds you, he catches you watching him, then deliberately side stepping behind a small pocket of chattering Jacksonvillers. His heart twinges, guessing you’re going to be avoiding him from now on, and he internally kicks himself all the way out into the street, before your voice startles him out of it, having strode up right in front of he and Tommy while his gaze was fixed on his shoes.

“Hey, do you have time to talk?” You ask, stiff and rushed. 

He blinks at you, throwing a quick glance at Tommy, head racing with questions like, ‘Is this gonna end well?’ ‘Why the hell would you even want to talk to me?’ and, the most frightening, ‘What are you gonna say?’

After a brief pause, he gives you a short nod, the words falling from his lips, “Of course.”

“At my house?” You respond immediately, shifting from one foot to the other. 

“Yeah.” He nods again, “Sure.” 

You let out a quick sigh, nodding again, before turning on your heel and starting to basically march back towards your row of houses. With a quick ‘what the fuck?’ glance at Tommy, who then gives him a tight lipped, ‘good luck’ grimace, Joel follows behind you, heart rate steadily rising the closer you get. Neither of you dare even glance in the other’s direction, body language equally taut as you walk the few more uncomfortable minutes up to your door. Quickly, you unlock it and slip inside, shrugging off your jacket and hanging it up in one fluid motion, not even looking at him as you walk to the table and sit down. Joel approaches more hesitantly, heart punching his rib cage as he takes a seat across from you. 

While you study the surface of the table, Joel can’t tear his gaze away from you, and when you finally raise your head to meet it, he swallows hard. Your expression is measured in neutrality, and Joel can’t tell if he’s in any way prepared for whatever the hell it is you’re about to say. 

After a beat, you finally begin, “We need to have a conversation. A real one. Not like yesterday where we end up screaming our heads off at each other. We both live here now, which means we’re gonna see each other around, so I think we should try to at least make that bearable.” You say evenly, lips slightly pursed.

He nods tersely, agreeing wholeheartedly that you have to do something about this whole… situation, and hoping to god that this does end up as a civil, useful conversation. He also knows that that means he needs to keep the reins tight on himself, keep in his mind that he needs to be patient with you, understanding, kind. He wants to be, it’s where his heart is at, but he feels skinless around you, as if the simple breath from your lips when you speak stings. 

After he nods, you pause, looking down at your fidgeting hands. He watches them, self reproach another set of teeth sinking into his raw skin. He doesn't want to make you nervous, doesn’t want you to have to bite your tongue around him; he’s writhing in his skin at how fucking difficult it is for the two of you just to have a conversation, when it used to be so easy. 

But maybe talking will do something. Maybe, after this, your words won’t be so forced, and he won't feel like he’s turning inside out every time a silence falls. 

He watches your mouth open, hanging for a moment before you pick back up, “And I… I realized that, I need to give you a chance to say your piece… hear your side of things. So…” You glance up at him, giving a slight, awkward nod, like now it’s his turn to speak, and he swallows, suddenly very much on the spot. 

“Uh, my side.” He stalls, adjusting his posture in the seat, folding his hands on the table. 

“Just, whatever you wanna say. I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

Joel studies you for several more seconds, relieved and surprised at your sudden willingness to ‘hear his side of things’, and your claim to actually listen to it. He’s still nervous, though, still apprehensive to actually open up about what things looked like for him. You seem to have very conflicting views on it, and he’s not certain that you’ll continue to be as calm—or probably as close as you can get to it at the moment—once he really gets to talking.

He frowns, looking away as he actually tries to think of how to explain himself. He’s still just treading water in an ocean of shame, over what he did, and the reason he did it in the first place. He fights against the urge to say ‘it’s complicated’, knowing it’s a meaningless phrase, despite the truth in it. But the silence stretches on, that expectant look on your face, so, forcing himself to finally hold your gaze, he blurts out the first thing that makes it to his tongue. 

“I’m sorry.”

He swallows, fidgeting with his hands, expecting a displeased sigh, but you stay silent, keeping your promise. So, he’s forced to continue. 

“I know that doesn’t mean much, I know it, won’t make things right. I don't think anything I could say will… but… I guess I, I mean, I do, owe you, some sort of… explanation.” He clenches his jaw, and knowing what he’s going to say next, he can’t get himself to meet your eyes, locking them instead on a dark ray on the wooden table, a bitter taste rising in his mouth as he speaks. “I was weak. Sacred. I didn’t…” the words get stuck in his throat, his entire body screaming, but he soldiers on. “I wanted to protect you. And it’s not because I thought you couldn’t look after yourself—you’ve always been very capable.” These are words he’s able to look you in the eyes for, sure and true, things she wished he’d told you more, so you wouldn’t have ended up with this fucked up idea that he looks down on you. “You’re strong, you’re smart, sharp, always have been. You saved my life more than once, Y/n, I’ve never forgotten that. I never doubted you, never doubted what you can do. That’s not why I left.” His gaze falls back down to the table, back to that dark eye in the wood. “I care about you. So much that it… it hurts, and I, I just… I wanted to keep you safe. And I thought I was, when I… but, I know that, wh-when it really mattered, I failed. I know I did.” Sorrow starts to lilt his tone, and he swallows, willing his voice to even. “I thought I was doing you a favor, by just leavin’, I thought you’d be better off, I thought I… but, but I know it was wrong, and, by the time I realized what I’d done, it was too late. You were gone.” There's a long pause, Joel hopelessly fidgeting with his hands as that feeling comes back, that boulder in his gut, not knowing where you were, the world suddenly feeling so vast, the realization that he might never find you like a vacuum in his chest. When he manages to speak again, his voice has fallen quiet, “I went back, I looked for you, but I couldn’t find you, but I, I kept looking for you. I never stopped. I never stopped thinking about you. Every day, I thought about you, no matter where I was, I was just, hopin’ you’d, just, show up somewhere and I could…”

“You looked for me?” Comes a heartbroken voice, and when his gaze flicks back up, your face has fallen, as if the thought had never occurred to you that he searched for you, that he regretted leaving you there. 

“Of course I did.” Joel replies in an almost whisper, brow strung together as he looks at you, “I wish I never left, Y/n. I just thought that… I thought it was the only way to keep you safe.” He keeps his eyes locked on yours, hoping his words can carry all the emotion that burns his pith, “I thought I was gonna, drag you down, I was gonna get you killed, Y/n. I’m old; even then, I, I’m losin’—I mean my, my hearing’s goin’, I’m not as fast as I used to be, I don’t have the same endurance or stamina—shit, Y/n, I’m not what I used to be, I’m… I’m…” he pauses for a rough breath, the shame weighing his head down as he shakes it, voice low and gruff. “I didn’t wanna be the reason you died. I couldn’t live with myself if I was.” He shakes his head, “If I failed you like that. But I did anyway, I know that I did, Y/n. I know what I did was wrong. And I hated myself for it, I still do, because I know that it was the worst thing I could’ve done, leave you to… fend for yourself. I left you, alone, with your arm still, still torn open…” by now, his voice is nothing but a shaky murmur, the confession like having his throat scraped clean, down his diaphragm, scooping out all that festering rot, to admit the shortcomings and weaknesses that tore your life apart, but it doesn’t hurt enough, he feels like he should get down on his knees and tear his own arms open, lash himself until there’s nothing left but exposed muscle, and hope that the pain could counterweight whatever it is that has shaped you into this frightened, barbed woman that you are now. “I left, because I’m weak, because I'm a coward, a scared, fool, I’m, I’m, pathetic Y/n and I know it—” He spits the last bit out, a pained grimace on his face, but then you interrupt him, suddenly whispering, “Stop.”

Joel raises his head to look at you, rambling abruptly cut short, and he finds your shoulders are even higher than before, your eyes shut tight. 

“You know I could never stand you talking about yourself like that. Even when you were joking. So just… don’t.” The lack of anger coming from you is, once again, shocking, not even annoyance present, just that tenseness, your brow pinched, jaw set. He hadn't expected that to be the point when you'd heard enough, with how affronted you’d been every time he’d tried to apologize, and after how pathetic he was last night. 

Joel stays quiet, anxiously awaiting for you to explain, for your response to his vomited admissions. 

With a sigh, you fold your hands. “Joel…” He watches your lips as you speak, saying his name softly. 

Right now, you look almost small, and he can tell that whatever you’re about to say is going to be just as hard to say as it was for him, and he becomes acutely aware of how fragile this moment is. “I…” You start again, mouth hanging open for another moment. 

“I spent a lot of time, trying to figure out why you left.” You pause. “I thought that you were just trying to protect yourself, that I was weighing you down, that I was…” you stop again to sigh. “I thought that you meant it when you said that it was all bullshit. That I never meant anything to you, that it was just some sick joke, that you’d been itching to leave for, a while, that you… that you hated me.” Your words strike Joel like an iron spike, and he feel compelled to argue, press again how much he cares for you, how highly he’s always valued you, but he knows better than to interrupt, so he instead simply sits there, watching your face, the light contortion of pain that he wishes he could rip away like a unbecoming veil. 

“But I realized that that’s not true… I think I knew for a while, why you did it. Deep down I knew that you were just scared. And I… I get it.” You nod, “I understand. I mean I, I know you pretty well, Joel.” You nod again, shifting in your seat. “And I don’t want to hate you, no matter how much I did, I—I wanted to just be angry, because that would be so much easier, easier than hurting—if I’m angry I’m not weak. I can do something about it, but, but, I just, I care about you, and I always wondered how you were doing, but every time I wished you well I shoved the thought out, because it would be so much easier to just want to—” You let out a heavy sigh, deflating, head bowing so low that he can only see the top of it, your hands folded firmly in front of you. 

“I still wished you were there.” Your whispered words sound broken, and Joel feels like he’s falling apart at the seams, like he could just start wailing, and all he wants to do is wrap you up in his arms, and protect you, like he didn’t for all those years, protect that softness that he can see is still in you now. All he sees in front of him is that girl, the one who smiled, and sang, and laughed, and offered her kindness to the world despite how terribly it would throw it back on her face. But he remains there, rigid.

“It was so fucked up without you Joel.” You continue in that small, quiet voice. “And I'm not trying to make you feel bad, I don't want that anymore, I just…” A shaky sigh slips past your lips, and the guilt is melting his skin off, because he knows that you wouldn’t be this broken if he had just stayed, and your soft little whispered words tell him just how much you’ve suffered. “I just—” The words die in your throat again with another rough breath, and then you shock him again, by unfolding a hand and laying it down on the table, open towards him. He stares at it, unable to move, before he remembers what to do, and slips his hand into yours, hesitating before he squeezes it, and when you squeeze back, his heart twists, and it’s as if every second of those six years comes crashing down on him, and after a deep, unsteady breath, you speak again, voice heart wrenchingly pained and tight, and terribly, terribly soft. 

“I know I'm not the same. I know I’m different now. I know I’m like a fucking animal sometimes. I don't want to be. And I don't blame you for that. I blame the world, all the fucked up people I ran into, all the—the fucking, shit, that is the world.” Joel’s stomach ties in painful knots, brow knitting, wanting to disagree, because all he can think when he looks at you, hears how choked up your tone is becoming is I did this. I did that to you. “I’m just, I’m just fucking damaged, Joel, I’m damaged to shit.” 

Those words are what break him, and he’s unable to stop himself from cutting you off, squeezing your hand a little tighter. “You’re not damaged.” He tells you, tender, but unwavering. 

“Yeah, I am.” You counter in a tearful whisper, eyes still shut tight and aimed at the table, but he sees how your brow is scrunched, and god, it hurts. “I talked to Tommy last night,” you go on, “and you wanna know what he said to me when I told him I was gonna talk to you again today? He said, ‘promise me you’re not gonna kill my brother.’ And he meant it, Joel. He thought I was gonna fucking kill you, his brother.” A sniffle interrupts you, and you quickly swipe a hand under your nose, letting out a feeble, trembling sigh. “I’m a fucking freak, Joel, a rabid fucking dog. I’m a monster, and I know it. The world ate me up and spit me back out again, and I don't, I don't recognize myself anymore. And I hate it.” You sniffle again, roughly wiping again with the back of your hand, and Joel’s heart is racing, eyes almost wide and tearful himself, shocked into stillness, hearing you suddenly spewing all these things out, hearing you speak of yourself in this way. “I know you miss me, and I miss me, too. But I can't see her anymore, Joel, when I look at myself, all I see is blood on my lips, on my face, pouring down my neck. I—I’m a—” Suddenly, a choked whimper tumbles out of you, shaking your shoulders, and he can’t stand it anymore. 

“Stop. Stop. No more. You’re not. You’re not.” Joel shakes his head, eyes fixed on you, keeping his voice gentle, gentle like you are to him, gentle like the place in his heart that cradles you.

“Yes I am.” You argue back, voice breaking, and he knows the tears are coming. “I’m awful, Joel, I’m awful.” 

He can’t stop himself from rising from his seat, he doesn't think twice as he walks around the table, fitting his hands under your arms to pull you out of your chair, then wrapping you into his embrace, gently pulling you against him. You lean into him easily, and he shuts his eyes tight, heart booming with a deep ache of pain but also relief, to hold you again, finally, again. 

You cover your face with your hands, folding your arms against his chest, shoulders shaking with nearly silent cries. Joel clenches his jaw, willing his own tears back, willing back the guilt and shame, to stop thinking about himself, and to just be there for you, because you're not asking for his penance, you're asking for his care. So, he wills it to pour out of him, pulling his arms tighter around you and gently running a hand up and down your back. And he knows why it makes you cry harder. Because you finally have that comfort that you wished for all those times when he wasn’t there, and hell if he’s going anywhere now. 

After a sudden, audible sob, your hands come away from your face to instead wrap around his shoulders, and then there you hang, and there he holds you, almost up from around your waist. 

As the weeping commences, you’ve never felt this raw in his arms, he’s never heard such broken sounds from you, ragged sobs launching from your throat and reverberating through his chest as you press your face into it. You’re breaking in his arms, your knees going weak, but he’s got you, he whispers, “I got you. I got you.”

Another violent bawl jolts out of you, and then he can feel your full weight pull against his arms, so he sinks down to the floor with you, wrapping his arms as far as they’ll go to pull you against his chest as you cave into it. It only swells, your lamenting, hard, rough, loud sobs and choked breaths that he instantly recognizes the need in for that gentle reminder, “Hey, breathe, breath, in and out, in and out.” He says it into your hair, whispering just above your ear, his own eyes still squeezed shut, heart swelled with all this love that he wishes could just seep through his skin to replace all of this pain, but he knows it can’t, he knows all he can do is hold you and, “Breathe with me. In and out. That’s it. Keep breathing. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here with you. Just breathe. That’s all you gotta do. Just breathe with me.”

And you do, and his head is swimming, it’s so surreal, but he feels your weight, there and true, and your hands clutching his shirt just as he had yours when it was his turn to break, and he can feel how you need him like he needed you. But it’s not weakness, that’s not what he feels from you, it’s strength, because god damn it you’re still here, you made it through that hell, and by god you are not lost, not to him, and here you are, back in his arms. 

Eventually, your tears die down, the only sound in the house those even, shared breaths, cut by a small snivel or snuffle from you. It starts to calm him, too, passing those level breaths with you, his eyes still closed as he holds on tight, the screams in his head becoming faint whispers—all the shame, guilt, hurt and pain falling away, leaving him only with how precious you are. 

After a few more moments, your body falls lax against him, and you let out a final deep, shuddering sigh, before finally finding your voice again, quiet against his chest. “I guess we’re even now.”

Joel can’t help a sudden, breathy chuckle, a small smile forming on his face. “I guess so.” He replies, a warmth spreading steadily through his chest.

He wants to hold onto this moment, just stay here on the floor for a while with your weight draped over him and warmth under his arms. It feels almost dreamlike to feel the shape of you again, hear the sound of your breaths, to have you relaxed, just, resting there. 

Despite everything, right now, it’s okay again. Right now, he has you back. And even though you’re different, he loves you, just as he always has, except maybe harder, now. More purposeful. Because you need it. You need the best that he has, so he’ll give it. He’ll be softer. He’ll tell you how much loves you, and how wonderful you are, how strong, powerful, smart, resilient, the joy that you give him just by being alive. He’ll try to make you smile more, but it’ll be alright if you don’t. He’ll make a space for you where it doesn’t matter what you've gone through or what you've seen, what you've done. He doesn't care about the cruelty he knows you've inflicted. He’s done the same. It doesn't make you any less of a person, doesn't make you deserve anything less than every single drop of love he can squeeze out of himself. And Jackson will be a home, and whenever it falls, whether it's in five years, ten, one, a week, you’ll make it out, together, he’ll take you with him, haul you and Tommy out of the flames and you’ll make another home, or something, something. But he’ll be there. He will dedicate himself to you. You are his purpose, just as you were before, but now, it’ll be in everything that he does. That is what’s left for him to do. 

To love you. Show it to you every day. However you need him to. 

That's what's left for him to do in this world. 

So, he holds you, and whispers in your ear, “I love you.” 

[brighttears]

Stranger Chapter 4

Joel Miller x f!reader

No physical description

Summary: After this incident with Joel, you immediately confide in Tommy, going more in depth about how things had ended with you and Joel, and your own waring emotions. Tommy offers advice, and you (reluctantly) accept it. However, you leave feeling not much better than when you came. 

Word count: 4.3k

Warnings: Talk of trauma and reactions to trauma (Joel has inadvertently traumatized you, negative self talk, abandonment issues), brief talk of violence 

A/n: This chapter is in readers pov, more character building sorry not sorry

series masterlist

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As you start down Joel’s front steps, your mind starts to race and heart starts to pound, suddenly overrun with thoughts and feelings of wrathful regret and screaming sorrow. That was impulsive. It was stupid, counterproductive to your current passion for making sure he knows just how fucking mad you are, what a fucking asshole he is, that he has wronged you, and that you could give a fuck about how he feels. However, apparently, you give way more fucks than you thought. The second you realized that he wasn’t bleeding out, you should have turned on your heel and went straight back home. You should not have been that soft, you shouldn’t have comforted him, and you definitely shouldn’t have fucking held him, or done that stupid breathing thing that you always used to do. God, what the fuck is wrong with you?

The original idea was to just go home, go back to bed, maybe kick yourself for another ten minutes, remind yourself why you hate Joel so much, but your steps veer, and you find yourself stomping across the street to Tommy’s house. You know it’s something like four in the morning, and Tommy is most likely asleep, and normally, you’d respect that, but right now, you have to talk to him. He’s Joel’s brother, and your only real friend; he’s the only person you can talk to, so, you march up to his door, and knock. After a moment, finding yourself to be excruciatingly impatient, you knock again, a little harder, shifting on your feet. Another beat goes by, and you’re about to start pounding when the door finally swings open, revealing a shirtless, bleary eyed, clearly annoyed Tommy Miller. “What the fuck?” He whispers, throat coated in sleep. 

“It’s me. I need to talk, Tommy. Please.” 

As soon as that last word leaves your mouth, the annoyance falls from his face, softening into quiet concern. “Yeah, uh, come on in.” He clears his throat, rubbing his eyes as he steps aside to let you in. As soon as you cross the threshold, you’re pacing, tracing a familiar trail back and forth in front of the couch, where Tommy takes his weary seat, slouching against the cushions. 

“Joel just had some crazy breakdown.” You start, “Like full on fucking meltdown. I heard him from next door, I didn’t even know he was living there until—well whatever, but I heard him and I swear to fucking god I thought he had slit his fucking throat and was over there choking on his own fucking blood, so I rush over and he’s fine, but he’s not, so, so, so not fine. Not bleeding out, but just fucking crying, like deep, guttural weeping, like he was gonna suffocate on it, and I—I couldn’t just leave, so I just… fucking, held him for like, twenty minutes or some shit, gave him a fucking granola bar and some water and just held him, and let him cry on me, like—like—what the fuck? God, I’m still so fucking pissed at him, and then—you wanna know what he said when I asked him what the fuck was going on, once he could actually form words again? That he misses me. Like fuck, man, fuck! What on God’s green earth am I supposed to say to that? What am I supposed to do? Like, god, Tommy, I hate him, but seeing him like that—shit, I damn near started crying myself. And fuck I just—” You finally break to take a breath, and Tommy takes the opportunity to get a few words out, “Y/n, come sit down for Christ’s sake, you’re making me dizzy pacin’ around like that.”

With a sigh, you flash him an apologetic look, realizing that you just started vomiting your troubles all over his carpet when he’d clearly been pulled out of sleep only moments ago, and plop down on the couch beside him. However, the moment of self awareness does not last long, the whirlwind starting back up again, “Fuck, Tommy I am so pissed at him, and I just thought that, if I did ever see him again, that it would just—be easier than this. That I would just, you know, hate him, like fuck you, bye, but… but, shit, fuck, Tommy…”

Tommy purses his lips, a sympathetic grimace on his face as he regards your state. “But… it’s not that simple, is it?” 

“No. Not at all. Fuck.”

Tommy hesitates for a moment before asking, tone gentle, “Y/n… d’you still…” he trails off, and the question makes you let out a frustrated huff. “Yes, I still care about him,” you answer, “but I wish I fucking didn’t. I shouldn't. Not after what he did. The shit he said. The way he left.” You huff again, brow pinched in a glare directed at his floorboards, mind still racing. 

Tommy nods. “Do you…” he starts again, “want to forgive him?”

“Not fucking really, Tommy!” You throw your hands up, but when he puts his hand out and slowly lowers it, the silent signal to take it down a notch, you sigh, slumping back against the couch and running a hand over your face. “Did he tell you about the argument we had earlier?” You ask, tone still harsh, but less than before, knowing not to blow up at Tommy when he has no reason to have it directed at him. “I bet he went straight to you, just like I’m going staright to you now… fuck, I’m sorry you’re so in the middle of this, but I don’t have anyone else, and I think I’d rip the fucking walls apart if I had to just—”

“I get it, I know, it’s alright.” Tommy lets out a slow sigh, keeping his tone in stark contrast to your own, something he was always good at, the rock you could always count on to keep you tethered down. “Yeah, we talked. And… he wants to be forgiven, you know? He wants to—” Before he can finish his thought, you snap, “I don’t give a shit if he wants me to forgive him. That doesn’t change anything.”

“Yeah, I figured as much.” Tommy sighs, almost deflating.

“And I’m not just being some stubborn fucking bitch by not doing it.” You shake your head, the heat not leaving you, unable to get yourself to not disregard how not up for this conversation Tommy looks at the moment, “I’m not. I have every right to be pissed the fuck off. Did I ever tell you the last thing he said to me when he left? Did I ever quote that to you?” You suddenly turn to him, shooting up to a tense seat on the couch. 

“No,” He shakes his head, still visibly groggy. “I know you’re not. And I don’t think you did.”

“He told me—and this was right after I got bandaged up from getting my arm sliced open, mind you—‘This whole thing, this is bullshit. And I’m cutting us both loose of it. This is gonna end badly, and I’m not sticking around to see it burn.’” You pause, fuming at the memory, taking a deep, angry breath. “That mother fucker saw me as some weak, fucking, leeching little girl. He always did. That's what pisses me off. He acted like everything we had, this whole friendship—like, why did you even, partner up with me in the first place? Why did you stick with me at all if you thought—like, what was the fucking point? Pity? Yeah, that’s his fucking thing—and I told him this to his fucking face—his whole thing, is that he finds something to smother, and, and shelter—which is absolutely fucking pointless, by the way—so that he can feel like he’s doing something, like he isn’t a failure, which he fucking isn’t even, but, he just—he wants the guilt. He has this twisted fucking mentality, and I, I, was his little baby bird with the broken wing, but fuck that, I wasn’t, I’ve never been that, but, he just, fucking, ugh.” You end roughly, sticking your fingers into your hair and squeezing your eyes shut with another angry sigh. 

“Yeah, that sounds like something he would say.” Tommy replies after a moment, and it’s like every word unintentionally spurs you on. 

“Yeah. ‘Bullshit’. And now he wants to be all guilty at me, because I am different now, I know I am, okay? I’m not blind to it. I know what I’ve done, I know how I am, like some—some fucking wild animal, sometimes. But I can’t fucking help it; that’s just what fucking happens, that’s what you do when you have to survive, with no one to have your back—especially when you’re a woman. But now he wants to look at me with those puppy dog eyes cause he feels bad, cause he misses me, misses the old me, when he’s the one that threw it all away. Now that’s fucking bullshit.” You spit, having to force yourself to reel it back in, not wanting to make Tommy’s blood pressure spike. But you really can’t help it sometimes. Joel being back, and everything that’s happened in the less than 24 hours since he’s been here, is kind of like shoving gunpowder down your throat and washing it down with lighter fluid. 

Tommy lets out another weary sigh, hands folded between his legs with his elbows resting on his knees, brow turned up in sympathy as he watches your own hands now balling up the fabric of your pants. When he speaks, his voice is quiet, but firm. “Yeah, it is bullshit, and yeah, he did throw it away, but… he was scared, y’know?”

“Scared of what? Everything was fine!” You shoot back, eyes wide with acute frustration, “That day he left, we’d been in tougher spots, in rougher, shittier situations. And you know what, that’s the one thing I’ve always wondered. Why then? Why did he leave then? Everything was fucking, fine!”

Tommy seems to falter, glancing at the floor, and he lets a beat pass before he speaks again. “Yeah… I know. He does things that… don’t really seem to make sense sometimes, but… he was scared of losing you, Y/n. And it was probably just… something happened in that moment, and it just hit him… and I think that… he thought that if he stayed, that he’d,” he shrugs, “fuck up, do something wrong, get you killed, lose you somehow… or that you’d leave him.” He looks to you again, watching your expression with pursed lips. 

Sighing, you shake your head slowly, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes. “He lost me anyway. And I just wish… if something did happen, I would've just… wanted him to be there.”

Tommy nods solemnly, pausing for a somber moment before he reaches out, placing a reassuring hand on your own. “I know.”

With a sigh, you flex your fingers, letting him knit his in between yours, then squeezing them against your palm. The emotions feel like a physical weight, bowing your head, a headache starting to set in behind your closed eyes. “God, this is just… there’s so much. I thought this would be simple. I thought I was just angry. But my mind has just been racing ever since I opened my door to see him standing there. My chest is just so… fucking heavy.” 

“Yeah,” Tommy whispers, gently squeezing your hand back. “I know.” Heart panging, you let out another, wearier sigh, tone falling into a quiet, aching softness. “It fucking hurts, Tommy.”

“I know.” Tommy whispers back again, tone thick with sympathy. “I know.”

“And I,” You start again, but pause, mouth hanging open to speak. It’s hard to get the words out, to admit, “I miss it, too. The way things used to be. I really, really miss it.” Your tone falls further into an almost hoarse whisper as you continue, “He was my best friend. My partner. The only person I trusted, the only person I felt like I could just… be myself around. That I actually, genuinely felt safe around. And now he’s here again, he lives fucking next-door to me, but… when I look at him, it just… hurts.” You pause, the hurt throbbing in your chest, like a sore on your heart, blackened and burning. “And I do want it back. I want it like a child wants its mother. But I can't have it.” You shake your head slowly. “It’ll never be the same. He’ll never not have done that. Those six years never won’t have happened. That shit that I went through, the things I did, will never have not happened. I will always be the girl who ripped someone’s throat out with her teeth. And he’ll always be the guy that fucking left me there. I’ll never be the girl I was then, and Joel and I will never be the us that we were back then. And that hurts, so fucking bad.”

“I know. I know.” Tommy whispers, squeezing your hand again. 

The weight in your chest feels almost crushing, and you squeeze your eyes shut, unable to do anything but just feel it, with Joel’s face burned into the back of your eyelids, the way he looked back at his house, his glossy eyes, scrunched brow and wet nose. The way he looked at you at your house, that moment when his anger broke and he turned his head up with those goddamn, near irresistible puppy dog eyes. The coldness of his gaze and tautness of his stance as he stood in that doorway, six years ago, before he shut it on you. The way his cheeks would perk when he smiled, really smiled, the glimmer in his eyes right before he made some stupid, juvenile joke, the way he’d flash his teeth and grin when he cackled after you’d smack him for it. The bleary eyed look that morning in the field, the pale yellow sky behind him, hair sticking up in every direction. The way he looked when he was sleeping. The way he looked when he wasn’t really sleeping. The way his eyes would relax as they trailed over you, sitting across from him. That feeling of knowing you were loved. Cared for. When you think of him, despite all the times he’s not, what you remember most is his softness. The moments you know are rare, the moments that you had. 

You were always special to him. You knew that. And he was always special to you, and you did what you could to try to let him know. It was special. You had something special. Or at least you thought, because then, he did, that. Left you. Injured, flustered, and alone. It made you doubt everything. Yourself, the world—it was like having the rug ripped out from under you when it hadn’t even occurred to you that it could be. 

The world went dark. There was no one you could trust after Joel, and that was proven to you over and over again. You felt like prey, everywhere you went. You were directionless, purposeless, except for that animalistic need to survive, and a spite against Joel that only ever flourished the harder things got. Too, though mostly subconsciously, you were proving over and over again that you didn’t need him. That you never did. You would rip and tear your way through the world, because it drove you crazy that he hurt you like that, that the one person in the world you thought you could always count on, walked out, because he saw you as a weakness. That it would ‘end badly’, you would inevitably die, and he just didn’t want to deal with carrying you around everywhere he went until then. You couldn’t stand the idea that it was all because he thought you needed his protection, his care, that you couldn’t survive on your own. 

You needed no man. No no one. You were fine on your own. Best on your own. You were going to fucking survive, no matter what it took, because that’s what you do, that’s what you are. A fucking survivor. 

You could feel the bits of you being chipped away, but you shook them off, let them fall, scraped away all that softness, because that's what got you where you were in the first place, abandoned in that little house. 

You swore you would never feel that weak and small again. Be that weak and small again. 

There were times you swore you would kill Joel if you ever saw him again. The bad moments. The dark moments, when you’d just crossed a line again that you never saw yourself crossing to get out with your life, right after the feeling of need for him would hit. That desperate craving for his arms, his soft reassurances, that feeling of safety he once gave you. 

You wanted him gone, gone from your mind, because it was all his fucking fault, that you were like this, that you were an animal. 

There were moments of clarity, though, too, times you would truly contemplate the whole thing, trying to pick it apart and put it back together again. Strip Joel bare, poke and prod his mind, figure it out, understand it, him, why he did it, if he ever even loved you in the first place. 

You knew he did. You knew it was real. 

You know. 

“Hey,” a gentle tone interrupts your reflection, and you flick your gaze to Tommy, almost forgetting he was there, the feeling of his hand in yours slipping your mind. “Just… listen for a second, okay?” He says, and you nod, blinking yourself back into the conversation. He pauses, watching your eyes for a moment, before continuing, keeping his tone gentle. “What if… you didn't have to just choose between being pissed off or forgiving? What if you just, go see him and, just, talk to him, y’know? I mean, really talk, and just hash it all out?”

“We tried talking, Tommy.” You reply immediately, barely able to even wait for him to finish his thought. “And he was a dick about it, and it just made it worse.”

Tommy sighs. “Well, yeah, but… that was before tonight. I think you should just… try again. And try, harder, this time.” He ends measuredly, almost looking like he’s bracing himself for your reaction. 

That look makes you glance away, finding a spot on the floor to glare at. You hate that look. You understand it, you know how… intense you were when you first got to Jackson. And you’ve worked to calm down, to not be so hostile all the time. You never wanted to become this person, but at the same time, it was necessary, and sometimes, shit, yeah, you are proud of it. But not moments like these, when someone you care for looks like they’re trying not to flinch, as if you’re about to fucking clobber them for saying something slightly challenging. In moments like these, you just feel like a fucking monster. And that’s not who you are. Not at your core.

“Well, I can’t make him try harder.” You grumble back. 

“No, you can’t. But you can try. You can try again. I just think… you two… I think it’s worth it to try again.” There’s a lilt of firmness in tone, and you let out a deep sigh, taking your hand out of his to rub your hands over your face. 

Guilt drips through your chest, remembering that you pulled him out of a probably peaceful slumber, bursted into his house at 4am to talk shit about his brother, and fight him at every turn. You know he’s right. And you know you want to try again, no matter how loud the other voice in your head screams to never let Joel know another moment of peace. 

After a pause, you finally relent, “Yeah, I guess since we live in the same god damn town now we might as well make it so that we don’t wanna fucking puke every time we pass each other on the street.” 

The relief is audible in Tommy’s soft sigh, and his hand comes to gently squeeze your shoulder. “Yeah, exactly. You’re both hurting right now, and it’s all messy and complicated, but, at least, you can try to get some kinda closure, y’know?”

With a soft nod, you agree, “That would be nice.” 

He squeezes your shoulder again, and you turn your head to him, greeted with a soft, hopeful smile, and you offer one back. 

“Just uh… one thing…” he adds, the smile fading as he bites his lip.

“What is it?”

“Just… promise me you won’t… kill my brother or anything… alright?”

His words instantly make your heart drop, a rock forming in your throat. Suddenly, you feel like the biggest piece of shit on the face of the planet. Here Tommy is, your closest, dearest friend, sweet Tommy, asking you not to kill the most precious person in the world to him. You’re not forgetting that the thought has crossed your mind, but still. But still. You’re an animal. A killer. You could. You’re capable of it. But it's Joel, your Joel… but… but… but…

As your mind twists around himself, you force out a soft chuckle, quickly brushing it off, keeping the pain tucked out of his view. Despite what a safe haven Tommy has shown himself to be, you’re predisposed to isolation, not letting the pain show, not letting anyone know when they’re hurting you. “Jesus, Tommy, I’m not that fucked in the head. I’m not gonna kill your brother.” An almost equally forced chuckle huffs out of Tommy’s lips, and suddenly, you really need to leave. “Yeah, well, you can’t blame me for asking, Y/n. Just… wanted to make sure, y’know, don’t want one of the most capable killers on this side of the country having a death wish for my brother.” He chuckles again, patting your shoulder and shaking it gently. 

Your skin is crawling, screaming, but you just chuckle, forcing a flippant tone, “I guess I’ll take that as a compliment.” 

“Yeah, it is,” he smiles back, hand still on your shoulder. “You’re one hell of a hunter, if I haven’t told you that lately. You fight like a hellcat.”

“Hellcat, huh?” You raise your eyebrows, still forcing a smile despite the wash of shame pouring over you like wet cement, that feeling splitting under your ribcage, feeling inhuman again. 

“Yeah.” He titters. “But um… anyways… I gotta ask you for one more thing, okay?”

“Hm?” You sound, sliding your gaze back to him.

“Promise me that you’ll just… give him a chance? Just, let him talk. Don't just shut the door on him and not let him get a word out. Just… hear him out, okay? Can you, can you do that for me?” That hopeful grimace is back on his face, and you nod. Yeah, whatever, you can do that. You’ve done harder things. And right now, you’re ready to do just about anything to end this conversation, civilly. At your nod, he lets out a relieved huff, squeezing your shoulder again. 

“Look, I’m sorry I keep coming to you to just, rant about how much I can’t stand your brother. I really am. And I’m not gonna hurt him. I swear, I… I…” Your words start rushed, but then a grim, withering cloud starts to haze your mind, and you close your eyes at it, sticking your fingers back into your hair. 

“I know that. It’s okay, alright? And I don't blame you for any of it. I get it. I just… I care about both of you. I want both of you to be alright. That’s all I want. Okay?”

Eyes still closed, you nod, trying to keep the buzzing in your head from taking over completely. “Thank you, Tommy. And I'm sorry for banging on your door at such an ungodly hour. I’ll um, let you get back to sleep, okay?” As you stand, you reach out to offer him a gentle shoulder squeeze, trying to be casual, act like this was just a helpful little chat, that you’re not leaving with a chest heavier than it was when you arrived, and he smiles up at you, decoyed by your practiced facade. “You bet.” He says, getting up to walk you out, “I know you needed someone to talk to, and, I’m always here, alright? No need to apologize.” 

You nod again as you walk to the door, watching his smile and feeling like an alien, another species, separate from him, from his gentleness. Like you shouldn’t be in his house, like you need to get the fuck out, stop talking, stop spewing your poison all over him, your hatred, spite, rage. “Thanks, Tommy.” You pull your lips, hoping it doesn’t look like a grimace as you finally grab the doorknob. “Goodnight.”

Tommy gives you a firm nod back, a genuine smile still on his face, following you to the door. “G’night, Y/n. Try to get some real sleep, huh?” He says, leaning his arm on the doorframe as you start back down his porch steps. Begging the muscles of your face for one more smile, you glance back at him, nodding. “I will.”

“Alright, now.” You hear him quietly conclude behind you, and then finally let your face fall like a stone, flooded by waves of self hatred, self doubt, and pure sadness. 

You stride to your door, then right up to your bedroom, falling onto the mattress and burying your head in the pillows. You already feel like a mess again, but by now, it’s nearing morning, and you’re finally actually tired, and fuck, you just want it to stop, so you squeeze your eyes shut, clench your jaw, and will the sleep to come, so that you can just be free of it all for a few hours, before you innevitably have to face Joel again. 

[brighttears]

Stranger Chapter 3

Joel Miller x f!reader

No physical description

Summary: After seeing you, Joel becomes overwhelmed, and breaks down as he reflects on how things used to be. You can’t help but hear it, and come to check on him, and after seeing his state, you can’t help but stay. Some of that softness returns, but it’s short lived. 

Word count: 4.9k

Warnings: Joel has a breakdown (crying), brief talk of violence and self harm, Joel really hates himself, you comfort him.

A/n: the drama!!!

series masterlist

—

Joel’s stops breathing for a moment, chills running through his body as the sound of your singing registers, eyes still peeking around through the curtains, before they finally find you, sitting on your front porch, all bundled up, smoking a cigarette. 

A wave of emotion surges through him—relief, joy, grief, dread, sorrow. He leans against the window frame, watching you, listening to you. It’s one of the few songs you always used to sing, an old Beatles song. He was never really a fan of them, but this one—well, he used to like it. Back when things were good between you and him. Nostalgia doesn’t feel the same as it once did. Now it just hurts. 

Clouds of smoke bloom in the night air between verses, your head leaned back against your wicker chair. You look peaceful. Calm. Not like you did in his presence. Another pang heavies his chest, but he can’t bring himself to move, to keep from watching, keep from listening. 

He wonders why you’re up, why you aren’t asleep, warm in bed. He wonders if you do this often, smoke and sing in the dead of night. When did you start smoking, anyway? 

The image is strangely fascinating, the layers you’re bundled up in, snuggled between the arms of the chair, the way your lips move when you blow out the smoke, the way your lashes almost touch your cheeks, looking like you’re lost in your own little world. Suddenly, he feels like a creep, like this is a private moment that he absolutely should not be watching. No way would you be happy if you knew he was. But he can’t help it. He hasn’t heard you sing in six years, and despite the discord of emotions it swirls in his chest, there’s still a strong feeling of comfort that it naturally elicits. 

Joel leans further against the window, pulling the curtain back more, taking it in. But, within moments, he regrets it, when you stop singing mid chorus, head raising from the back of the chair, and he can practically see the feeling of being watched come over you. 

“Shit.” He whispers, but something still keeps him locked in place. His eyes are stuck on you, hoping it’s not him that you noticed, that there’s some other sound or movement in the night that your eyes are scanning for, but while he glances down at the filled ashtray that you stamp your cigarette out into, you have somehow found him, and when his eyes flick back up to your face, his heart skips, caught red handed, but still, he’s frozen, your eyes locked. The moment doesn't last long before you’re bolting up and striding to your door, and he can hear it slam shut from behind the glass pane. 

Staring at the profile of your door, he feels pulled to go apologize, to brave the cold and snow in his socks and knock on your door and hope that you’ll answer, but he knows that even if you do, you won’t even let him get the I’m out before you slam the door back in his face or start cussing him out for being such a creep. Joel sighs, closing his eyes and leaning his forehead against the cold glass, almost wishing he’d just stayed in bed, shut his eyes and stayed there till morning, even if sleep didn’t come, because he’s sure this did nothing to strengthen your relationship. He can almost imagine you, seething in your house, cursing at him from next-door, and it makes his heart sink. 

He feels ashamed, foolish. He shouldn’t have been watching you, he knew you’d be upset if you knew he was. He should’ve known you’d be that fucking on edge, to be able to feel eyes on you, but damn did you find him quick. There’s almost a flicker of pride in his chest, impressed by the skill in it, but it’s quickly stamped out by all the other emotions cascading over it. Embarrassment, guilt, and more sorrow, about how things aren't what they used to be, that you’re not his songbird anymore. 

He missed your singing so much—how many empty nights has he shut his eyes tight, focusing on the memory of it? Tried to lull himself back to sleep with it? Too many to count. He was starting to fear forgetting it, not the words, but the sound of your voice, the way it would lilt, the way it would carry. But he’s found no relief in it now, just, hurt, an aching pain in his chest. Just that idea of missing you, when you’re right there, right where he is, just a few walls away—he suddenly chokes on a rough breath, clutching his chest because it hurts.

He misses those nights, in a pile-of-sticks abandoned house, or holed up in some seventh or tenth or fifteen floor, when you would both be laying there in the dark but no sleep would come, and your quiet voice would come out and sing a song, fill the dead air, even if it didn’t lull him to sleep, just to have some pause, a few minutes of gentle peace. He misses those moments when he’d flick a crumbled up scrap of paper at your face and you’d snort and chuckle and throw it back at him and you’d burst into giggles. He misses the ass-crack-of-dawn mornings, sitting in the back of that old truck deep in a field, drinking the worst fucking cups of coffee, watching the sun rise. He misses when you would grab his hand and squeeze it, even though that meant you weren’t sure if you’d make it out. He misses the stupid bickering. He misses your tears, because at least that meant that he was there. That you trusted him. That you were letting him in. 

With the cold glass biting his forehead, he remembers the way you’d shove the bottle of liquor you were sharing over a campfire at him, all the weird shit you’d say when you were drunk and the feeling in his stomach by the time he fell asleep because of how hard you’d made him laugh. He remembers the look you’d get on your face when he’d said something that crossed a line, just a little bit, the half smile, half glare and the way you’d hit him upside the head and the way the laughter would bubble up from his chest. He remembers how a shitty, one-lined joke could have you doubled over. He remembers the silences you’d share, the comfortable ones, during those early, early mornings, or in the car, or sitting at a table, and he could glance over at you, drinking your coffee, gazing out the window, fiddling with a knife, or just, sitting there, and just know that you were there with him. Just know that there was someone in his corner for once. 

But they’re just memories. Those times are long gone. You’ll never look at him with anything other than anger or indifference ever again. And suddenly, it’s overwhelming, and he can’t breathe, can’t move or talk or do anything other than stand there, staring at your empty porch, your closed door, and the air burns his lungs and he’s choking and he doesn’t want to be here, he wants to run away, run until every memory is just a puff of smoke, a fading scent, nothing, nothing, nothing, but his chest is so full, and he’s bloated to the point of overflowing with all of these memories. 

He misses you, wants you, he needs you, but you won’t have him, you can’t even stand to have him look at you.

At the same time that his lungs decide to finally let him pull in another breath, there's a wetness in the corners of his eyes, and suddenly, he’s crying. 

He shifts away from the window, leaning against the wall, chest nearly heaving as the memories keep flooding in, of when you’d have his back, your little nods, or just that look in your eye, and that feeling he’d get, completely prepared to lay his life on the line for you, and knowing you would do the same. 

He remembers the cold nights, the really cold nights, when you’d end up huddled up against each other, sharing the same sleeping bag or just a blanket or just in the clothes on your backs, how he’d hold you and feel your breaths with his arm wrapped tight around you, the way his knees would curl behind yours, the feeling of your hair tickling his face. 

He remembers the soft, strange ache in his chest, watching the back of your head instead of the sunset, or shifting into a more comfortable position on an ancient couch. Remembers the tug in his chest to reach out and drag his hand through the tangles, pull you into his side and just lay there for a while. 

And he feels an ache, for those times again, for just a moment more of the warmth of your presence, a moment more of seeing your face without it looking like you want to fucking strangle him. 

With a ragged breath, Joel squeezes his eyes shut, feeling hot tears roll down his cheeks, letting out a swear in a broken, choked whisper. 

He wants to waltz out the door and right up to yours, knock and wait and watch the look on your face fade from annoyance to recognition, for you to smile and let him in. And he’d sit down, and watch you, and make some stupid, shitty joke, watch that smile crack your lips, and he’d feel the laughter bubble up, just like old times.

As the tears join and drip from his chin, he wonders if you feel it too, if you feel like your heart is in your goddamn stomach, if you wonder where all the time went. He wonders if you feel that pang, that emptiness, as if a part of you is missing. If you feel that same urge to just, do something, anything, say hi, fuck, I miss you, break through this wall is between you, and just, fix things. Just try. Try to get it all back. 

He wonders if there’s even any chance, to fix something that’s been battered and bruised for so long that one wonders if it even happened at all. 

He wants to tear his hair out, wants to smash something, hurt something, hurt himself, for being the reason he can’t just go knock on your door and be let in and just sit with you, drink with you, trade idiotic jokes with you, ramble about nothing with you, fall asleep with you. For being the reason that it’s all been obliterated. For wounding you, being the reason you ripped someone’s vein out of their fucking neck, that you’re so fucking guarded, that you’re so fucking alone. 

He feels a desperate, overwhelming urge to scream. Scream it all out, maybe shove his fingers down his throat until every drop of this sorrow and guilt and heartache is out of his system, so he can buck up and face it like a man and be patient and kind instead of getting so goddamn worked up that he ends up being mean to you. 

And fuck, he wants to drink. Drink and drink until it all goes black and he doesn’t even remember what made him want to drink in the first place. 

But all he can do is cry, and suck in rapid, heaved breaths, and suffocate with the salt hitting his tongue because the tears just won’t stop coming. He clamps his hand over his mouth, clenching his jaw as tight as he can, willing himself not to make a sound, but it gathers up in his throat and he whimpers as he weeps. When he tries biting his palm instead, a guttural sound leaves his mouth, and suddenly he’s doubled over as if he’s just been kicked in the gut, and god it feels like he has been. He barely even registers that his legs have given out, that he’s on the floor, rocking back and forth, because all he can see, think, feel, is the loss, those memories and that they’re nothing but that, just whispers of times long dead, and the burning in his lungs from the lack of air. You’re gone, and you hate him, and you’re scarred, and it’s his fault, he failed you, he failed, he failed, he failed, he failed, he failed. Again, and again, and again, and again, he fails, all the people he always swore he never would, he always crosses that line he swears he never will, crosses it without even knowing it, he fails, and he does it again and again and again and again and again, because it's what he does, it’s what he is. A worthless fuck up. Worthless. Fuck. Up. 

Lost in his own hell, Joel doesn’t realize just how loud he's crying, doesn’t recognize that his breaths are choked, wracking sighs and strangled moans, has no awareness that someone has heard him, until there's a rapid rapping of knuckles on his front door. 

Instantly, he stills, a freezing bolt of fear slicing through his thoughts. 

“Joel?” Comes your panicked voice, and his heart stops for a moment before it starts back up thundering in his ears. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, urging himself to get himself together calm down enough to respond in some way, to tell you that he’s fine, or that he’s falling apart and wants nothing more than to have you with him for just a few moments so that he won’t feel like there’s a black hole in his chest.

You knock again, knuckles brisk, tone urgent and concerned, and he sucks in a trembling breath. “Joel, open the fucking door.” He knows from that tone that you’re currently inclined to kick it open, but he’s still trying to halt the tears streaming down his cheeks and breathe in a way that has any semblance of evenness. 

“Just a second.” He finally chokes out, struggling to his feet, boots scuffing as he moves unsteadily towards the door, knees feeling like they’re going to buckle as his hand turns the bolt while the other wipes desperately at his face before he pulls the door open. 

Your brow is pinched, your eyes instantly flicking over him from head to toe, and it takes all his willpower not to burst into tears right then, seeing you look at him with such worry.

“Jesus Christ, Joel,” you scold in a whisper, suddenly clamping your hand on the edge of the door to force it open a few more inches, looking him over again. “It sounded like you choking on your own blood or something—I swear I thought you’d slit your throat and were fucking dying over here.” Instantly, a deep shame slots into his gut, and he sucks in a shaky breath, willing himself once again to not burst into tears. “Joel,” you say, voice quieter, face suddenly full of urgent worry and confusion, “what? What happened?” 

He doesn't say anything for a moment, just trying to gain some pretense of control over himself. Finally, he manages to rasp you, voice tight and hoarse, “I don’t… I don’t know I don’t…”

“Fucking hell. You can’t even breathe.” You observe, face still twisted in both concern genuine puzzlement. 

For a brief moment, he almost wants to laugh, because he must look so god damn pathetic right now, crying like a child, barely able to get a fucking word out. He suddenly feels like he’s going to be sick, just at the shame, at having you see him being such a fucking mess. 

“You look like you’re going to throw up.” You state, another unwelcomed observation, and he wants to shut the door on you, lock it and hide in a corner and just sink into the floor, but then you’re pushing your way in, hands on his shoulders to guide him back towards the couch. “Sit down.” You tell him, striding into the kitchen as soon as his butt hits the cushion, and he can barely register the sound of running water before you’re back in front of him, shoving a glass of water in his face. “Drink this.”

Helplessly, he does what he’s told, taking a long, uneven sip, while you watch him like you’re waiting to see it spurting back out of whatever hold must’ve been shot through him. You really did think he was dying in here, didn’t you? Thought he’d tried to, what, kill himself? Is that really how fragile he appears? Setting the glass down on the coffee table, he leans his arms on his knees, clenching his jaw and staring at the floor. “I’m fine.” He forces, cursing himself for not being able to keep an even tone. 

“Oh, don’t give me that.” You murmur back, almost in the same ‘bullshit’ tone you used to use when you’d bicker. “What’s wrong? What happened?” It almost makes another whimper escape him, and he gets the urge to wrap his arms around you and have him hold him, like you did all those years ago. 

“Nothing, I don’t…” he chokes out again, voice shaky. “I don’t know…”

“Okay. Well, breathe, and then have some more water.” Your tone is almost authoritative now, but still laced with worry and some lasting confusion, like you can’t grasp what has him in this state, have no idea that it’s because of you.

He takes a couple deep, shuddering attempts at breaths, before grasping the glass for another gulp of water. 

“Jesus, Joel, you’re shaking.” You call him out again, “Have you eaten since you’ve gotten here?” 

He hadn’t even realized he was shaking, but when he sets the glass back down, he sees the tremble in his hand, and folds them together, trying to hide it, though he knows it's pointless. With his eyes locked on the floor, Joel shakes his head, swallowing thickly before answering hoarsely, “No.” 

He hears you sigh and then feels you get up from the couch, muttering, “You’re fucking starving. Hold on.” He looks up to see you glance back at him, holding a hand out at him as you stride towards the door, “I’ll be right back, just, stay here, breathe, and try not to have a fucking heart attack.”

And just like that, you’re gone, and he’s left in the silence again. He wants to call after you, get up and run to the door, throw it open and beg for you to not leave him alone, but he grits his teeth instead, pressing his hands into his face, rubbing at his forehead. 

“Get a fucking hold of yourself.” He hisses, puffing out a breath. 

Then, the door swings open, and you’re back again, swiftly shutting it behind you and holding something wrapped in wax paper out to him. “Here.” You say, sitting back down next to him and unwrapping it to reveal a granola bar. “Eat this.”

He slowly reaches out to take it, feeling like a sick little kid being taken care of after being called in sick from school. Mostly, he’s embarrassed, but he’s also so incapacitated at the moment that it’s exactly what he wants to lean into, to be taken care of, by you. He takes a bite, trying to focus on chewing and breathing instead of you beside him, watching his every move, and the silence hanging in the air as he makes his way through the granola bar. But, for some reason, it becomes almost soothing after a few moments, maybe just because he’s cried himself into some sort of delusion state. 

Finally, after swallowing the last bite, he clears his throat, voice still a bit hoarse. “I’m sorry,”

“It’s okay.” You say before he can finish, your hand landing gently on his arm for a moment before you pull it away, as if the movement was accidental, regrettably instinctual. “I’m just glad you’re not bleeding out. I swear, you scared the shit out of me.”

Joel bows his head, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean t’… scare you.” 

“No, it’s okay.” You reply, voice coming out almost gentle, and all it does is make him feel like he’s going to cry again, because he hasn’t heard that tone in years, and oh my god is it the only thing he’s craving right now. He lets out a rough breath, head still hanged, feeling his breath becoming unsteady again. “Hey, breathe.” You urge him quietly, and your hand is on his shoulder, gently rubbing it, and his breath trembles, a choked sound falling out of him. “Breathe,” you urge him again in that soft tone, scooting a little closer and leaning your head down, watching his face with your brow twisted in concern. He tries to breathe normally, to follow your gentle order, he really does, but it doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter how hard he tries, because you’re here, comforting him, and he’s suddenly overtaken by that crushing, strangling feeling again, chest locked as his shoulders shakes with desperately held in breaths, just trying not to let out another pathetic little noise as the tears start streaming again. 

Joel does not cry. Not when he’s shot, or stabbed, not when everything goes to shit, not even when someone dies. Joel does not cry. And that must be why you’re suddenly wrapping your arms around him, murmuring, “Fine, fine, okay. Cry. Just cry it out, Joel.” As soon as you start to pull him in, he’s filled with that desperation, to hide in your arms, cling to you and just fucking break down, sob like a child, because you’re here, and you’re telling him it’s okay, because despite everything, you came to him, to make sure he’s okay, and you’ve stayed, you’re still here, and you’re telling him it’s okay. His nervous system gives him no choice other than to sink right into that impulse, tears wetting your shirt as he grasps it in fistfulls, sounds buried into your chest, shoulders shaking under your arms. 

“Keep going.” You say quietly, chin coming to rest on top of his head. “Don’t stop now.” 

It’s the same thing you used to tell him, the two times he’d cried before, openly encouraging him, because you’d seen how many times he’d held back before, and it’s the same thing he used to do for you. Coax it out of you in a protective embrace, because he’ll always be there for you, whatever state you’re in, especially when you’re weak, and here he is now, being weak, breaking down completely, shaking like he might just shatter into pieces right there in your arms, an uncontrollable hose pumping hot, salty tears out of his eyes. “Don’t hold back on me now. Cry.” You whisper, and it’s then that the feeling of safety sets into him, and it only pushes his body harder, legs twitching with the force of his weeping. 

It's so familiar, and it makes his heart hurt more, his fingers curling to grip your shirt like you might just disappear if he doesn't hold on tight enough. “You’re safe,” you hit him again in that tender voice, “you’re safe.” 

Loud, gasping sounds pour out of Joel’s mouth, muffled in your shirt, and he’s nearly hyperventilating, lungs struggling to find a space to fit in a breath between the emotions crowding his throat. “Breathe, breathe.” You start to urge in a whisper, hand starting to slowly rub up and down his back. He tries, he really does, to kettle these uncontrollable emotions, shut the door against the hurricane, find something to hold onto, get some sort of fucking control over himself, but your soothing only makes him cry harder, his breathing nothing more than broken gasps. “Okay, okay, okay.” You surge quietly, “Just breathe with me, okay? Feel my breaths, and breathe with me.” He feels you start to take long, deep breaths, his head lifting and falling with your chest, and forces his focus onto it, just like he used to do when something would set him off and he’d feel like he was going insane, when his heart would stop and lungs seize, and you’d look him in the eyes and hold his hand over your chest, and breathe. 

The measured inhales and exhales are shaky, still somewhat broken, but the gasping begins to attenuate, the air stops burning, and his shoulders start to relax. 

You keep up the tempo, deep and slow and even, and eventually, he calms, and you slowly, and unfortunately, pull away. There’s no way he can meet your eyes, keeping his head lowered, knowing how absolutely pathetic he must look right now, face wet with tears and likely snot, eyes and nose red. The sigh he hears from you only makes him shut his eyes, a powerful wave of shame crashing over him, but then he feels your hand on his jaw, and he can’t help but open his eyes when you pull his face to look at you, and, shockingly, he sees no judgment staring back at him, no disgust, no anger, just, care, and for the first time, he recognizes you again. The kind Y/n he knows so well. 

He’s stunned into silence by it, swallowing thickly as he basically gawks. His eyes trail over your face, taking in all the little details; your brow, the edges of your lips, your eyes. He had thoroughly convinced himself that it was never to be seen again, but here it is, that fucking look on your face, the one that makes him think that you love him.

After a beat, you finally speak, voice quiet and tender. “What…what got you to that point?”

He swallows again, unable to get anything out other than a foolish, “I don’t know.”

“Yes you do.” 

He closes his eyes again, wishing there was any way to avoid this. But there isn’t. He refuses to brush you off, push you away. Not now. Not that you’re looking at him like this, not when you’re holding him like this. Not when he finally has you back. Even if this will just ruin it, he has enough of a head on his shoulders to choose not to react with some sort of flippant anger. So, finally, he swallows the lump in his throat and wills out the hoarse confession. “I miss you.”

He’s met with a deep sigh, your shoulders almost slumping, and it makes his heart sink right back down again. “I’m here.” You reply, almost flatly. 

“It’s not the same and you know it.” He whispers back, watching despairingly as that gentle look fades from your features. 

“Joel…” you say, looking down at your hands in your lap. He wants to reach out and take them, squeeze them, tell you again how much he misses you, beg you to forgive him, to find that soft spot for him in your heart again and just… just… stop sounding like there’s nothing to be done, like it’s over, like it’s gone, everything, forever. 

“...Don’t ‘Joel’ me like that.” He replies quietly. 

With an almost sharp sigh, you look at him again, a defensive lilt in your voice, “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say, okay? I am here. But it’s not just going to go back to the way it was. I’m still angry, and I have good reason to be, okay?”

“I know that.” He averts his gaze again, because fuck does it hurt to hear you state it so plainly. In the corner of his eye, he sees you shrug, and he hears the frustration growing in your voice, though he can’t miss the streak of sorrow in it. “I don’t know what else to say.” That little hint, it pokes another hole in his heart, because he was right, you are feeling something like he is, that loss, of the friendship you once had, that partnership, the grief of being together again but so far apart. And it’s his fault. 

“I don’t know either.” He croaks, voice not much more than a whisper. 

He just wants to grab you again, and never let go, but he just clenches his hands in his lap, refusing to look at you, not wanting to ruin the image in his head of that softened expression you had just a moment ago, wanting to hold onto the image of you loving him again. 

“Just…” you start tightly, “finish that glass of water, and go to bed. And eat tomorrow.” Suddenly, he feels your weight leave from beside him, and he jerks his head up to watch your back as you stride towards the door. “Stay alive.” You murmur abruptly on your way out.

As soon as the door closes behind you, Joel sucks in a deep, shaky sigh, almost wanting to start crying all over again, but he forces himself together, having enough self control not to call out to you, ask you to stay with him, just for the night. He knows he’s pushing his luck already, and has a feeling that that was a very special, lucky break of a moment. 

Joel sits there, staring at the half empty glass of water on the table, the moonlight casting a pale shadow over the wood of the coffee table, before he reaches out to take another long sip. 

[brighttears]

Stranger Chapter 2

Joel Miller x f!reader

No physical description

Summary: After your argument, Tommy finds Joel, and they talk at the bar. Joel learns more about what has happened to you since he left, and is once again left reeling, and has to reconsider his attitude. As it turns out, you’re neighbors, and he catches sight of you that night.

Word count: 4.8k

Warnings: Talk of violence, reader is traumatized, Joel hates himself.

A/n: May have pushed it a little far with character building here but stay with me. Also a brief moment of lightheartedness between the boys

series masterlist

—

A cold and desolate breeze and Joel’s huffed breaths are the only sound as he stands there on your porch, staring at the door. His legs feel numb, preventing him from retreating as he's struck with an overwhelming feeling of helplessness and loss. 

Eventually, he takes a deep breath, letting it out in a heavy, shaky sigh, as if he’s gotten the breath knocked out of him and is just now getting it back. He’s still tense, body like a coiled spring. 

Finally, he turns and steps off of your porch, shoes crunching in the thin blanket of snow covering the dirt road, and is utterly lost. 

Hands shoved in his pockets and shoulders hunched against the winter wind, he walks, trying to process what just went down, as well as the unfamiliar world around him. Despite the general friendly air of Jackson, he feels just as alone as he has for the last few months. Out of place, alien, dazed, the memory of your snarl, the raging fire in your eyes, etched into the forefront of his brain. 

You’ve changed into someone almost unrecognizable, and it’s just as disconcerting as it is depressing.  What happened to that kind girl he used to know? The one that took the time to sit with a deer after she’d killed it, that never gave up her soft spot for children, who would sing softly in the night when she knew he wasn’t really sleeping? 

He doesn’t know where you’ve gone, or if he’ll ever get you back, and the realization gives him a horrified kind of goosebumps, sucking a sharp breath out of him. 

Lost in thought, he doesn’t register the footsteps behind him, not realizing Tommy’s there until he speaks, “So, how’d it go?” There’s a hopeful grimace on his face when Joel turns to him, but it only gives him a surge of frustration, suddenly feeling like Tommy knowingly set him up for failure. 

“Poorly.” Joel states flatly, shooting him a look before turning back to walk aimlessly down the road. Tommy jogs to fall in step beside him, eyes flicking over the near scowl on his brother's face. 

“I was hoping you wouldn’t say that.” He says, but Joel doesn’t reply. “Wanna get a drink?” Tommy tries, and after only a short pause, Joel nods curtly. “Yeah. A drink sounds great right now.”

It’s a silent walk to the Tipsy Bison, Joel’s thoughts still churning, his brother glancing at him from time to time, a concerned pinch between his brows, all the way until they’re sat down at the empty bar, a couple shots of whiskey in each of their glasses. 

“So,” Tommy starts, still watching him as he traces the thick ribbing on the side of his glass, eyes locked on the golden liquid. “…How bad was it?”

“Pretty fuckin’ bad.” Joel grumbles. “I think she would’ve ripped my god damn throat out if I’d said one more word.”

Tommy pauses, holding his breath for a moment. Joel flicks his eyes up, seeing that look, and he suddenly feels his stomach drop. “What?” 

“She uh…” Tommy looks down at the table, holding his breath for another short moment before he bluntly answers, “she did that once, ripped someone’s throat out.”

Chills run through Joel’s entire body at that, shocked into silence for a moment, staring at the grave look on his brother's face. 

“She what?” He finally manages to speak, voice tight. 

Slowly, Tommy nods, looking down at his glass as he fiddles with it. “She told me the story about a month after she got here. Just last year, some big guy… you know, tried to do what guys sometimes try to do to a woman they find alone. Came pretty damn close, apparently, too. Had her all, uh, tied up, but… she still had her teeth. So, she bit. And pulled. Ripped his jugular open, I guess—not his throat, exactly, but…” Tommy trails off, swallowing, brow knit as he stares down at the bar. 

Joel gawks at him, unable to find a way to respond.

He can’t imagine you doing that. At least, not the you that he knows. But then Tommy responds to that thought itself, voice almost hoarse as he looks back at him, grief in his eyes, “She’s not the girl we used to know.”

After a moment, Joel nods. He knew that. He understood it the second your eyes changed, by the way you had bared your teeth—and when he thinks of that, he can imagine you sinking them into a human being. One that deserved it, but a human being all the same. 

The days of mild annoyance over your inclination for mercy are over, but it only makes him feel sick to his stomach. 

With a deep sigh, Joel rubs his hand over his face, trying to collect himself, not show just how disturbed he is by the image of you being that violent, by the confirmation of that thought, that you’re gone— “I don’t know what I was thinking.” He grumbles. “I knew she’d be mad, but, fuck. I thought she might be a little happy to see me.” He sighs through his hands before dropping them to the bar, shaking his bowed head. “It was stupid.” He mumbles.

“You had no way of knowing what she’d been through.” Tommy says, the dripping sympathy only irking an already sensitive Joel. “I didn’t either.” He continues, “And, I thought that… the way she was when she got here would go away, but… well it did a little bit, but…” he shakes his head slowly, “Not much.” 

Joel nods back, a sense of resignation in the gesture. He takes a sip of whiskey, wanting the burn down his throat to drown out that wave of nausea in his stomach. Memories of the way you used to be play in his mind, mixed with the image of that feral gleam in your eye, right before the door slammed shut in his face. 

After a moment, he speaks quietly, “She was so angry. …I’ve never seen her like that.” 

In vain hopes of somehow scrubbing the images off of the backs of his eyelids, Joel rubs his hands over his face with another deep sigh.

“I know.” Tommy replies, pausing, his eyes flicking over the bar. “I get glimpses of her.” He nods softly, “here and there. She’s… she’s not gone, just… different.”

Despite his words, Joel is suddenly hit with a screaming sense of grief, as if it only just sunk in now that he has to mourn you. The one that he knows. Someone that he may never, ever see again. 

He swings his glass back against his lips, taking a gulp of liquor, welcoming the burn. He wants to drown it out. Memories. Reality. 

He just got here, finally, the place he’d been aiming for for months—harsh, bleak, soul sucking months, the place he shed buckets of blood, sweat, and tears for, finally, sitting here having a whiskey with his brother, and he wants to drown. 

Because it’s his fault. 

He’s silent for a while as he ruminates, a heavy, grim air between the two. There’s an empty sort of feeling in Joel’s gut, and it suddenly makes him chuckle—a bitter, sour huff of a laugh. “Feels wrong.” He says, cutting the silence. 

“What does?” Tommy asks, giving him a puzzled look, clearly caught off guard by the laugh. 

“It feels wrong, knowing she’s… she’s right there, but… she’s not.” He explains, tone grim. He sighs, thoughts still swirling, but there's one thing that he knows for certain. “I shouldn’t’ve left her.”

Tommy shakes his head softly, unable to help but offer, “You just did what you thought was right.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that it was wrong.” Joel retorts, looking at him. Anger again starts to bubble up, a familiar one towards himself, an intense irritation at his own stupidity, his own short-sightedness, and, he realizes, his own selfishness. 

After a beat, Tommy sighs, sounding defeated as he replies, “No, it doesn’t.” He takes a sip of his drink, letting a silent moment go by before he speaks again, “Just don’t give up on her, Joel.”

The gentleness of his tone is sudden and unexpected, and Joel pauses, staring at him. But then he just shakes his head. “What am I supposed to do, Tommy? She wants nothing to do with me. I try anything and she’s gonna bite my fuckin’ head off. Maybe literally.” 

Pursing his lips, Tommy shakes his head, tone soft and earnest, “She ain’t got no one else, Joel. We’re it. She needs us, even if she says she doesn’t, even if she doesn't believe it herself.” Joel lets out a weary sigh at that, suddenly feeling a familiar and unwelcomed weight. 

He never wanted to feel responsible for you, because it comes paired with a foreboding dread, because he’s going to fail. And he did. 

But regardless, he didn’t have a choice then, the need he felt to do anything he could to protect you. And now, with things so dire, of course, he still can’t help it. 

“I don’t even know where to start.” He replies dimly. “She’s like a wild animal.”

“Yeah.” Tommy nods. “You kinda gotta…” he shrugs, words almost measured, “treat her like one. Like she’s… some, feral stray, around people for the first time.” 

At the notion of you actually being comparable to some wild animal, Joel’s heart drops. But then he gets another flash of that look in your eye, and, regretfully, he accepts the sentiment. Gruffly, he then asks, “How the hell do I do that?” 

“Let her come to you.” Tommy tells him, leaning his arms over the bar. “Let her… sniff your hand, y’know? Expect pushback. But don’t give up.” He pauses. “She ain’t that vicious all the time. I’ve had some good times with her since she got here. She likes to help out at the stables, and, garden, you know, help grow vegetables and fruit and all that. She’s calm then.”

It's relieving to know that you do have your moments of peace, both for your own sake and for his own faint yet pressing sense of hope; that maybe he’ll see you again. With another gulp of whiskey, he looks at his brother, “You been spending a lot of time with her?”

Tommy shrugs. “A bit, yeah. She doesn't really talk much to anyone else. A few people, here and there. I guess I’m just the only person she trusts.”

That pushes a huff of a chuckle out of Joel, the sound tinged with a sudden irritation that he finds is a seed of jealousy. He tries to shove it down, not wanting to give any weight to such a childish, immature feeling, not wanting to direct it onto his brother. But still, the jab falls out of his mouth, “Lucky you.”

Tommy pauses, eyeing him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He looks away, unable to meet Tommy’s questioning gaze. His shoulders are tensed, defensive, and he feels yet another wave of irritation, mostly towards himself, but there's also that nagging bit of jealousy. 

It used to be him. It’s supposed to be him. Him and you, against the world. He’s the one you should trust, the one you always did—looked to, relied on, he’s your shoulder to cry on. But at the same time, the opposite is why he left you. Because you shouldn't rely on him, you shouldn’t trust him, because he’ll let you down, and get you killed, and he doesn’t deserve you. And it’s been proven right—just look at you now. You’re right: he fucks up everything, hurts everyone he loves, he’s a failure. It’s all he ever does. He’s poison. No matter how hard he tries, no matter what he does, everything he thinks he’s doing right, he’s done wrong. 

He hurts everyone. 

Everything hurts. 

It’s his fault. 

Failure. 

“Nothin’. Nevermind.” He mumbles.

“I want her to make friends, Joel.” Tommy replies quickly, “I don’t want her to just trust me, I want her to be a part of a community again.” With a huff, he pauses, reading Joel’s implication, tone firm but gentle. “She trusts me because I’m the only person she knew when she got here, and we don’t… have a history, any bad blood. But that don’t mean she’ll hate you forever.” 

Still staring down at the bar, Joel nods along to Tommy’s words, running his tongue over his teeth. He knows he’s right, he understands why you’ve lost all of it in him—of course you have. And he wants that too, for you to have a community, support, some semblance of peace, safety.It’s all just so much to take in, so much confliction, so many heavy emotions, hitting him like a Mack truck, and he’s just been a deer in the headlights. 

But there he remains, staring it down. Because god damn it, he loves you, and he doesn’t know how to stop. 

He has no real choice in the matter. He knows he has a long, uphill battle ahead of him if he wants any chance to fix things between you and him, to be able to be in your life again, to be able to do something to help you. And then there's that tiny seed of hope, stemming from a sense of need. 

You may have told him you don’t need him, and never did, and he may never admit it out loud, but he needs you. He couldn’t even explain why. But he feels it, that pull in his chest, stronger than ever before, now that he knows where you are, could retrace his steps right back to your door. He needs you. So, he’ll do whatever it takes. To make it right. To be there for you. If there’s any softness left in you for him, anything salvageable, he’ll work himself to the bone for it. It doesn’t matter what it takes, if he needs to strip himself bare and flay himself, if he needs to rework is fucking life for it, if he has to face himself, he will.

Because he owes you that. And he needs you. Not just to know you’re alive, safe. He needs to love you.

“Just… don’t give up on her.” Tommy says again, voice soft, expression almost pleading, not knowing that Joel has already made up his mind, responding with a firm shake of his head, set and determined. “I won’t.” 

Tommy looks at him for a moment before the edge of his lip tugs up, a small, hopeful smile crossing his face. Then he sighs, looking down at the bar. “I’m sorry your introduction to Jackson had to be so… rough. Uh, you hungry? Tired? I can show you where you’ll be stayin’ if you wanna sleep.”

Joel shakes his head, sighing as he leans off of the bar, “Don’t really have much of an appetite right now. Sleep sounds nice, though.”

Tommy nods, smile pulling, the weight of the conversation sliding off of him much easier than it does for Joel, “Alright. Come on, then. I’ll show you the way.” He cocks his head towards the door, getting off of his stool. “We’ve got a few vacant houses. All come pre-furnished—when’s the last time you slept in a real bed?”

Having to really think about that, Joel lets out a low whistle as he stands and follows Tommy out of the bar. “Almost half a year ago now, give or take.”

“Damn,” Tommy chuckles, shaking his head as he pushes open the door and steps back out into the cold winter air. “Well, you’re about to have the best damn sleep in probably longer than that.”

Joel sighs, shoving his hands into his pockets and squinting against a harsh wind, watching the dusk starting to settle down over the sky. Part of him is a little apprehensive nervous about his ability to actually sleep, having a feeling that his brain will refuse to shut the fuck up, but there’s also a good chance that he’ll pass out within a minute of finally setting his head down on a pillow; he barely sleep a wink last night, the last couple days before he finally stumbling into Jackson’s territory happening to be particularly rough. “I hope so.” He mumbles. 

“Well… the bed ain’t going anywhere. You’ll have plenty of chances.” His brother gives him a small smile, eyes flicking over his face for a moment. There’s a hesitance before he speaks again, sounding almost nervous, “Right?”

Joel pauses, caught off guard by the fact that Tommy would even think that he wouldn’t be staying. He really doesn’t have an idea of how hard he worked to get here, does he? How he fought his way across the country to get to him. “Yeah.” He nods curtly. “Hell, this isn’t just some wellness check, Tommy. I’m stayin’.”

Tommy breaks into a larger smile, patting his shoulder and letting it rest there for a moment before putting his hands in his pockets. “Good.” 

Joel smiles back at him, pausing to admire the way his brother's eyes crinkle like that, before turning to glance around the town, actually taking in his surroundings for the first time since he got here. There’s not many people around, which makes sense with the falling sun and biting air, but it still feels strange, with the streets of Boston being so constantly overrun, even in the harsh winters. What’s stranger than that, is the peacefulness about it, the relative normalcy. Hell, almost some holiday cheer. It feels alien, and despite it all, he feels a drip of dread in his gut. 

“We got about 300 people here in Jackson, including children.” Tommy begins to inform him, noticing his gaze. “We got electricity, obviously. Running water, sewer, the works, all powered by a hydroelectric dam. Greenhouses—we grow and slaughter all of our own food. Clinic, jail, house of worship, we even have movie nights every Friday.” He passes him a proud smile. “Stables with about ten horses. Those people that found you out there, those were our patrol volunteers. We have a patrol every morning, noon, and night. Try to keep this place as safe and quiet as we can. Everybody helps out.”

Joel nods along as Tommy speaks, making a mental list of the information about his new ‘home’. It sounds pretty solid, he likes the self sufficiency, the seclusion, despite it being the reason it was so goddamn hard to find him. 

“Movie nights, huh?” Joel inquires, that one bit of information sticking out in its oddity. 

“Yeah.” Tommy nods, flashing another smile. “The kids love it.”

The image of a group of children sitting and casually watching a movie, just… being kids, is a strange one, to say the least. He imagines watching them run through the streets, laughing, kicking a ball or throwing snowballs or something normal like that, and feels his brow twitch. Something like that is so far removed from what he’s known for the past, hell, couple decades, the brutal reality of the world. He’s not sure how he feels about it yet, so he grumbles a different question. “Who picks the damn movie?”

Tommy chuckles. “We vote.”

“Vote, huh? You runnin’ a democracy?”

“Well, uh… I’ve been told it’s more like… communism.” Tommy replies, eyes suddenly glued to the snow as they make their way back up the road towards the houses.

Joel raises his brow, amusement making his lips curl. “Tommy Miller, a communist.”

Tommy sighs, an embarrassed smirk pulling his lips. “I’ve made my peace with it.”

Joel chuckles. “Yeah? And how long did that take?”

Tommy shrugs, turning his head to him again with an almost cheeky smile. “A few solid meals and a shower.”

This makes Joel laugh, the feeling almost startling him, but it's extremely refreshing, the smile sticking to his lips for a few more moments. “Yeah, that’s fair.”

There’s a beat, the only sound being the crunch of snow under their shoes, before Tommy speaks again. “You’re gonna like it here. It’s nice. Peaceful. People are nice.” 

Joel hums. He’s never been a fan of optimism, and seeing it in his brother normally makes him both nervous and annoyed, but he’s tired of fighting. So he changes the subject, mind still stuck on the idea of watching a movie. “You remember when we used to watch those old, shitty Schwarzenegger movies every Saturday?”

Tommy breaks out into a laugh, and the sound raises another smile to Joel’s lips. “Yeah, yeah, I do… by the way, the second Terminator movie is still better than the first one.” 

Joel’s smile widens into a grin, the familiar debate a welcome interruption. “Hell no. The first Terminator is way better. T2 was good, but there’s no topping the original.”

“Nu-uh.” Tommy shakes his head, still smiling. “Special effects got way better, better storyline. Huge improvement.”

Joel scoffs, looking at his brother with feigned offense. “Special effects don’t make a movie good. It’s just flash and bullshit. Judgment Day was just a cash-grab sequel.”

Tommy snickers, shaking his head. “You’re never gonna admit I’m right, are you?”

“Nope. Just like I’m never gonna admit you got better aim than me—same story, you’re just wrong.”

Tommy huffs a chuckle through his nose, grinning. “Still a stubborn old bastard, huh?” 

Joel rolls his eyes, though he can’t wipe the smirk off of his face. “Still a pain in my ass.”

“Guess some things never change.”

“Guess so.”

There’s another lull in conversation as they walk down the street of houses before Tommy raises his hand to point, “That’s me, right up there. House across the street is empty, so, I figured we’d post you up right there. That way, if you ever need me, I’m just a hop, skip, and a jump away.” Joel is about to make fun of his brother for using such a goofy phrase, but as looks to where he’s pointing, his eyes flick to the house just next to his—it’s yours. 

Instantly, he shoots Tommy a glare. “Really?” He says in a hushed tone. 

Tommy shrugs, a tight lipped grimace on his face. “Hey, the next open house is a ways away. I wanted to keep you close.”

Joel just huffs, shaking his head as he glances at your house again. “Jesus, Tommy… what if she gets a wild hair up her ass and decides to come murder me?”

“I mean… she could do the same thing if you lived anywhere else. And, at least I’ll be able to come right over if I hear you screaming.” Joel shoots him another sharp glare, and Tommy has to hold back a chuckle. Rolling his eyes, Joel grumbles, “Great. Thanks.”

“Come on,” Tommy begs, grinning. “You’ll be fine. You’ll be good. Just go get some sleep, alright?” He places a comforting hand on Joel’s shoulder, and he nods. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll try.” 

“I’ll come grab you in the morning, alright? We do meals all together. Like, whole town, serve yourself type’a deal. We’ll go together.”

Joel nods. Whatever that is will be a tomorrow problem. “Alright.”

“Good.” Tommy nods, digging into his pocket for a key to hold out to him. “Then I’ll uh… let you settle in, and see you in the morning.”

“Yeah.” He nods back, letting him drop the key into his palm. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

As he hears Tommy’s footsteps recede, Joel stares down at the key, seeing it as a concrete signifier that he lives here now, in a house, in Jackson, this small, peaceful little bubble, where his brother is, and where you are. “Hey, wait,” he croaks out after his brother, tearing his eyes away from the key in his palm. 

“Yeah?” Tommy answers, turning around to face him again. 

He hesitates, shifting on his feet as he feels a pang of anxiety. After a short moment, he swallows his pride and pushes out, “Could I, uh… ask you for a favor?”

“‘Course.” Tommy responds almost instantly, stepping back over to him. 

Joel swallows, a hint of uncertainty about the question pulling him, but, though he looks down at his feet while he does, he can’t help but ask, “I was wondering if you could uh, just… talk to Y/n for me. I just think it might, uh…”

“Yeah.” Tommy nods, giving him a reassuring smile. “Yeah. ‘Course.”

Joel looks up at him, relieved by the painless answer. He swallows again, giving him a small nod back. “Just… try to convince her that I didn’t come all the way out here to make her life miserable. I’m…” he sighs, “I’m trying. To… be better.”

Tommy nods again. “Yeah. I know.”

Joel gives him another short nod, a pang of guilt and unease already starting to settle back into his heart, but all he really wants is to fucking sleep. “Alright, thanks, Tommy. I’ll uh, see you in the morning.”

“See you tomorrow.” He replies, giving him another light smile before turning back to walk back across the street. Joel watches him disappear into his house before turning to his own. Two stories, a dark, muted blue, with a roofed porch. He walks up to the front door, analyzing the state of the wood—sturdy—and seal around the door—secure—before he turns the key in the lock, and pushes the door open.  

It’s dark, silent, but there’s a blow of warm air from inside, and he cautiously lets himself in, slowly closing the door and locking it behind him. He looks around for a light switch, finding one just beside the door, and flicks it on. Looking around, he becomes acutely aware of how unfamiliar the space is to him, despite the homely furnishings. It looks like a real home—a couch, armchair, fireplace with a rug before it, artwork on the walls. 

Slowly, he makes his way through the house, exploring every room. Towels and basic toiletries in the bathroom. Bowls, plates, cups and mugs in the cupboards in the kitchen. An office, a leatherbound journal and pencils in the drawer. A smaller bedroom in the back of the upstairs, a master in the front. A note in the dresser drawer with the address of where they’ll, apparently, “give you” clothes. 

After shutting the drawer, his eyes finally land on the bed. Made, military style, with a clean, white, floral print bedspread. A couple layers of blankets. Mouth basically watering as he stares at it, Joel shrugs off his coat and hangs it on the door, untying his boots and setting them beside it, before he finally sinks down into the mattress. Fuck its comfortable. He has half a mind to stay right there, laying on top, but he decides to crawl under the covers, and laying under the heavy layers is where the exhaustion finally overtakes him. 

He drifts off quickly, sleep coming to him in almost record time. It’s deep, and delightfully dreamless, before it comes to an abrupt end. 

He wakes up with a start, jerking up in bed. Despite his groggy haze, his heart is racing, eyes blinking through the darkness, trying to discern the unfamiliar surroundings. When he remembers where he is, he lets out a sigh, but then everything comes flooding back, and he leans his forehead into his hand with a quiet swear. 

He takes a few more breaths, trying to gauge if he’ll be able to just fall back asleep, before letting out another gruff swear when he realizes the answer is likely no. The digital clock on the nightstand read 3:20am. Not even close to sunrise. 

With an annoyed sigh, he pushes the covers off of himself and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, sighing again. There’s still an unexplained feeling of unease in his gut, but he can’t tell if he should follow it or just wave it off as paranoia. However, he has literally nothing else to do, so, with a soft groan, he pushes himself off the bed and shuffles out into the hallway. 

The moon casts a soft, gray light through the window, floorboards groaning softly under his socked feet, knees cracking as he makes his way downstairs, examining a hung painting of flowers that reminds him too much of a Clicker’s face. With a sigh, he carefully removes it, folding under his arm as he walks the rest of the way down to the first floor and then carefully sets it against the wall. He pauses, hands on his hips as he stares up at the nail left, inclined to take it out now and see if there’s any chance of there being supplies to fix the hole hiding somewhere in the basement, then making a mental note to go on a shopping spree at the general store for the things that will always be in a Miller home, god damn it. Just as the groggy annoyance at this sudden problem starts to set in, his ears perk, head turning to a sound coming from outside. Tilting his head, he shuffles over to the window beside the stairs, squinting as he parts the curtains and looks around, searching for its origin. It’s faint, and soft, but he could recognize it anywhere. 

You’re singing. 

[brighttears]

Stranger Chapter 1

Joel Miller x f!reader

No physical description

Summary: Joel has just arrived in Jackson, and immediately finds out that you’re here, too, forcing him to face his former actions, speak to you again after he split 6 years ago. The ensuing argument shows a fire within you that you didn’t have when he knew you before, and he’s left reeling. 

Word count: 5k

Warnings: Angst!!! Argument, yelling, harsh words are exchanged. Joel hates himself.

A/n: chapter one lets goooo, I love writing arguments tbh so this was fun. 

series masterlist

—

Joel shifts his feet in the snow, blinking. He’s still reeling, eyes still adjusting to seeing his brother’s face for the first time in years, his heart having not ceased pounding since the group of riders circled him, still trying to breath again after the wooden gates of Jackson creaked open, when Tommy drops this second bomb on him, within about twenty minutes of conversation.

“She’s here?” Joel makes his voice work to ask, a mix of relief and dread swirling in his gut.

Grinning, Tommy nods. “You wanna see her?” 

Joel pauses, nerves needling him as the question instantly tugs at him of if you’ll want to see him. But he can’t stop himself from nodding. 

It’s been six years now since he saw your face. Six years since he left you. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever see you again, at times he wasn’t even sure if he ever wanted to again. He left because you’re better off without him. It wasn’t a pretty picture, the way he shut the door on you and walked out, leaving you all alone, to fend for yourself. He's been force feeding himself that idea to himself ever since, that he was right, that he was protecting you, but, he’s had six years to reflect, and over that time, regret has been a incessant case of the fleas. Now, he’s being thrust into its maw, about to be going toe to toe with the consequences of those actions, moments away from being face to face with you. And he has no idea what he’ll see. 

He was ready to see Tommy, he was expecting, counting on, relying on him being here. But you? It hadn’t even occurred to him, and now he has to figure out what in the hell he’s going to say as his feet carry him to follow his brother through Jackson, not even having the space to fully register the new environment around him, with its lights and intact buildings and people wearing clean coats and smiles. 

As the houses come into view and start to pass—two stories, with basically fresh paint jobs, porches with sturdy wood, some with snow dusted chairs and wicker benches, lights on in windows, real fucking houses—Joel’s hart rate spikes, each step heavier than the last as Tommy veers towards a door that must be yours. 

Your house. You have a house. 

“How long has she been here?” Joel asks, the sudden question stopping Tommy before he actually knocks and forces Joel to confront you. 

“About 9 months now.” He answers, “Actually found her in a pretty similar fashion as we did you, wanderin’ around outside, some people on patrol took her in.” 

Joel hums. So you beat him to it, huh? “Did she know you were here?” 

Tommy shakes his head. “Had no idea this place even existed. Pure coincidence. How about that, huh?” He replies with a smile, and Joel hums again, a sound deep in his throat. 

Questions start to flood his mind, of how you ended up across the fucking country, all the way from that little cabin in Pennsylvania. Maybe you just decided to go as far in the opposite direction of where you knew he was going. Is that why? Because of him? Were you thinking about him as much as he was thinking about you? He said you were alone—how long have you been alone for? 

Joel’s urgent ponderings are interrupted by the sound of Tommy’s knuckles rapping against the door, and a shot of panic bolts through his chest. 

Fuck. Shit. He still hasn’t figured out how in the hell to handle this. All he manages to do in the moment before the door opens is brace himself for a righteous blow to his face. 

When you finally show through a narrow crack of the door, wearing a wary expression, the sight knocks the breath out of his lungs. By the way your face drops, it’s fair to say you feel about the same. 

There’s a pause, the only sound a gentle whip of cold wind, and it’s the only thing that tells Joel time itself hasn’t stopped. It’s as if he’s seeing a ghost—after years of not knowing if you were even still alive… here you are. And here he is. Right in front of you. 

Joel’s heart thuds and churns and squeezes, and he swallows, willing your name out, for the first time in six years. 

There’s another pause, your lips almost mouthing his name before a sound finally comes out, quiet as you say it, “Joel.”

He almost gets chills, hearing his name in your voice again, and he’s frozen in place. But when he sees your eyes glancing around, he turns, and finds Tommy to have disappeared. Fuck. 

After a beat, you ask, tone tight, “Do you… do you want to come in?” At the obligation in it, Joel’s stomach drops. But, once again, he can’t stop himself from nodding, letting out a breathy, “Yeah.” 

When you step aside and open the door for him, Joel hesitates, the act of stepping through the threshold feeling like a step into a new reality. One where you’re back in his life. You’re alive, and you’re here. And you have a fucking house, and you’re an established part of Jackson, your jacket is hung on a rack beside the door, boots wetting the floor beside it, and you’re physically here, watching him. 

Completely lost, and cringing before the words even leave his mouth, Joel decides to make small talk. 

“Nice place.” He murmurs, though he can barely tear his eyes away from you long enough to really look around. 

“Thanks.” You mutter back, folding your arms over your chest. Once again, his heart tightens at how stiffly you address him. 

You traveled together for almost eight years. He’d met you with Tommy, at the tail end of the banding of the small group that didn’t stay intact for very long, as that usually goes. You stuck with him after Tommy left for the Fireflies, and the plan was to get to the Boston QZ, stay there for a little while, catch your bearings. It wasn’t how he expected things to go. In fact, he didn’t like you very much when you first met. You were young. Good with a knife and gun, but too hesitant to pull the trigger. Too kind. And too god damn quiet, you were always sneaking up on him. And, once you got comfortable, a bit of a buffoon. 

But you grew on him. Like a weed, like a flower that just wouldn’t fucking die, despite the fact that he didn’t think there was enough nutrients in his heart to sustain any kind of life; at least, he didn’t want there to be. He had his brother, and that was it. That was all he could afford to care about, really care about. But, when Tommy left, all of his attention turned onto you, and it made him realize how attached he’d become. How indisputably, agonizingly attached he’d become. 

By then, you made a good team. You could have life or death determining conversations through only your eyes, could read each other aggravatingly well, had traded mannerisms like baseball cards, and even cried to each other a couple of times. Being around each other 24/7 for eight years will do that to you. Something else it’ll do, too, is make Joel feel his heart is poked and prodded with needles and spikes and repeatedly hit with a bat. 

There were also, however, moments of profound softness and warmth, ones where for a moment or two, he could forget, everything other than your smile, or your laugh, or the shifting colors of your hair as the sun would shine on it, or the quiet sound of your voice, carrying a tune in the dead of night. Short moments, where everything was just, alright. Moments where he felt safe, happy, at home.

He cared much more than he ever intended, and had more than he felt like he deserved, having you by his side. His partner. His best friend. 

But now, your chest guarded, eyes wary, stance ready… you’re looking at him like he’s a stranger.

“Look… we… should talk.” He finally says. 

“Yeah.” You reply, scratching your head and shifting your weight, the near immediacy and curtness of your reply making Joel’s stomach turn. 

“Can we uh, sit down?” He motions towards the table by the stairs, almost trying to stall, because fuck, he still hasn’t figured out what the fuck he’s supposed to say to you. After a pause, you nod with a quiet, “Yeah,” going to the table and pulling out a chair, then watching him expectantly as he follows suit, feeling himself start to sweat. He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table and knitting his fingers, running his tongue over his teeth, inspecting the grain of the wood, trying to mentally piece this conversation together in his head, or at least find somewhere to start. But all he can think about is how god damn heavy the silence is getting, so he can only come up with the most obvious thing—“Look I’m, I’m sorry. For what I did.” He starts, feeling almost like he’s choking on the words. It’s easy to be sorry, hell, he’s been carrying the guilt ever since that day, hoping maybe, that somehow, someday, he’d get a chance to make it up to you, but now you’re here, and he feels like he’s drowning. Keeping your gaze no matter how much he wants to look away, he forces out, “I should’ve never… I never should’ve left you. I regret it, and I’m sorry.” 

Not even a beat goes by before you return, tone even, though he sees the way your jaw clenches, “Do you regret it because you feel guilty or because you were wrong?” 

“Both.” He answers, forcing his voice not to break as he looks back into the cold intensity of your fixed gaze. The guilt has been eating at him for six years, and though it’s always been an open debate, like a wound he’d never let the scab stick on, if what he did was wrong, he knows that at least the way he went about it, the way he spoke to you, treated you, the last time he saw you, was. 

At his response, you look down, nodding, a slight pinch between your brow, a certain tightness still present in your body language. “Alright.” 

Joel watches you for a moment, expecting more. Something, some kind of reaction, but you’re almost stoic. He can’t read you, like he always could, and it’s starting to make him feel like he’s going insane.

“Can you—” he shifts in his seat, “Can you tell me how you feel about all that?” He asks despite his fear that you might start screaming, or hit him, or just throw him out of your house, tell him you never want to see him again, because he knows that you have every right to, that he’d deserve it. 

You shift as well, eyes glued to the table. “Well… I’m glad you regret it, I guess…” The words are almost measured in a way that makes Joel’s skin itch. The air feels like static electricity. “I’m, um… glad you’re not dead. Glad you found Tommy” You add, finally looking back up at him, but that pinch is still between your brows, and that paired with your set jaw are the only things keeping your face from complete neutrality. It’s agonizingly obvious you’re holding something back, and at this point, he can’t stop himself from needling it loose. “But…?” He prods, practically on the edge of his seat. 

Looking back down, you sigh, a slight edge in your tone. “There’s no but. I’m glad you’re alive, glad you made it to Tommy.” 

Joel nods, but he can’t help but be irked by the plainness of your reply. “Y/n… I need you to be honest with me, alright? No bullshit.” He says, leaning further over the table, trying to catch your gaze. 

You sigh back, and he can tell you’re holding back from rolling your eyes. “I’m not bullshitting you, Joel—”

He holds his hand up, cutting you off. “I’m not saying you are.” He says matter-of-factly, gaze not leaving your face. “I just wanna know how you feel, how you actually feel. I know you’re glad I’m not dead, and you don’t have to say anything for me to know you think I shoulda done things differently, but—I’m not sure how else to ask,” he pauses, narrowing his eyes and knitting his brow, “You pissed at me?”

“Yeah, I’m pissed at you.” You answer instantly, expression almost offended at the question—the first spark of actual emotion he’s seen from you yet. “Of course I fucking am.”

Joel huffs, almost relieved at your directness, but he’s not satisfied yet. “How pissed?” 

There’s more bite in your words when you reply, leaning back in your chair and crossing your arms, “Jesus, well I’m not about to maul you, so you can relax.”

Rubbing his hand over his face, irritation seeps into Joel’s tone. “Damnit, Y/n, I’m tryin’ to have a serious conversation here.” Immediately, he kicks himself for the way it comes out, sighing heavily. He knows he has no right to be irritated at you when he’s the one who started all of this, and that he deserves whatever reaction he’s going to get from you. “I am being serious.” You reply, “I could maul you, but I won’t.” Joel fights to keep himself from rolling his eyes this time. “Fine. Point taken. But would ya just tell me something other than you’re happy I’m not dead? Cause I can tell you’ve got more you want to say.”

“Yeah, well, it’s kinda fucking complicated.” You huff, turning your head away. 

Mirroring your stance, Joel leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “Try me.” He’ll take anything at this point, he’s been thinking about this conversation for years, and he’s getting tired of the pussyfooting. 

There’s a sudden glare as you look back at him, but he still doesn’t look away, watching your jaw clench and unclench. The beat of silence only aggravates him further. “Come on, spit it out.” He insists, “Why won’t you just talk to me? Why can’t I get a straight answer outta you, Y/n?”

“Well can you give me a goddamn second to think, Joel?” You shoot back. “I wasn’t exactly prepared for you to show up at my fucking doorstep.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot I was supposed to be call ahead and schedule a fuckin’ meeting.” He returns sharply, actually rolling his eyes this time. 

“Don’t get fucking smart with me.” You nearly hiss. “You’re the one in my fucking house.” There’s a cold glower on your face now, and you might as well be baring your teeth as you press your finger into the table. 

“Oh, I’m well aware of whose house I’m in.” He replies lowly, eyes narrowing. He doesn't like how this conversation is going, doesn’t like the venom in your voice, doesn’t like how bristled he is by it—he knows he deserves it, and yet, he can’t get himself to back down. 

“Are you?” You say, eyes narrowing right back at him. “You’re in my fucking house. Mine. I fucking made it here. I know you think I’m some incompetent fucking weakling that can’t do anything for herself, and I’m sure you went through hell getting here, but so did I, and you’re the one who fucking left me, so don’t you dare disrespect me in my own fucking home.”

Joel’s expression hardens, jaw clenching as you speak. No, that’s not what he thinks, that's never been what he thinks of you! He came here to apologize to you, but you’ve twisted this into some sort of petty accusation, and he won’t have it. “I never said that. I don’t think you’re incompetent, I don’t think you’re weak, I’ve never thought that about you. I was just trying to protect you.” He shoots back, stamping his own finger into the table. 

“Oh, fuck you you were. Bull shit, Joel. You ‘protected’ me,” you air-quote, only piquing Joel further, “because you thought I was weak, that I needed you, and then you left, because you thought I was weak, because you thought that I needed you to survive, that I was just dead weight. You never respected me. And you know what? I’m glad you left, so I wouldn’t have to deal with that fucking bullshit anymore. I never fucking needed you. I hope you know that.”

“Oh no?” Joel returns, unable to keep the hurt from souring into venom, “You like handling everything on your own like a tough little soldier? Yeah, I’m sure you did great handling Infected by yourself, or the raiders, or the—”

“I did! Fuck you, Joel, I fucking did. I fucking have, by my fucking self. Don’t act like you’re the only fucking person who’s been through things.” 

Joel scoffs, raising his eyebrows. “Oh really? Is that what you’ve been doing? Surviving all by yourself?”

“Yes!” You let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “I’ve been alone ever since you left. Six fucking years, I did it alone.”

This takes Joel aback a little, anger faltering for a moment as the weight of your statement sinks in. You’ve been on your own, all this time? The realization is a little difficult to process, and it shows in his tone when he finally responds, his voice softer now than a moment ago. “…You’ve been alone? This whole time?”

“Yeah. I was.” You glare, losing no fire. “Believe it for fucking not. Who fucking cares. That’s how it fucking goes.”

Joel doesn’t like how easily you say the words, and he doesn’t like that you claim to not care. He never wanted you to be alone. Especially not for that long. Sure, he’s been alone for most of the journey to Wyoming, but he had someone in Boston. But you… ever since he left… you never let anyone in? A part of him wants to believe you’re lying, just to spite him, but he knows that’s not what this is. 

There's a pause before he speaks again, tone still much softer than yours. “You might not care. But I do.”

“Boo fucking hoo.”

“Oh, cut the bullshit.” He suddenly snaps, like your flippant, mocking response was only salt dumped onto his wound, shooting up from his seat, palms slamming on the table and chair screeching on the floor. You jump right up with him, slamming your own hand down and shoving the other out towards him, glare ablaze, and shout back, “Sit the fuck down.”

Joel fumes, clenching his jaw. He doesn’t like being talked to like this by anyone, but you… you’ve never been like this with him, even the times you have fought. There’s something about this that is completely brand new. Sure, he’s seen you pissed, hell, he's seen you fight and kill, dozens of times. But right now, you have this edge, this ferocity, and, it’s intimidating and near unnerving, but more than anything, it makes him feel sad. 

You’ve been fending from yourself for six years, and it’s changed you. 

He stays quiet, only slowly lowering back into his seat with a heavy huff. 

You sigh right back, glaring down at him for a moment more before sinking back down into your own chair. 

“I don’t care what you think about me.” You start, tone more even but no less bitter. “I don’t care if you think I’m weak, or strong, or a bitch, or a cunt, I don’t care. I’m fucking over it. Nothing you think will change a god damn thing.”

Joel runs a frustrated hand over his face, closing his eyes for a moment. Upon registering some of the effect of all those years all alone out there, seeing that there are things he doesn't know about, changes you’ve undergone, his tone is softer, though still firm. “I never thought that, Y/n. And I sure as hell don’t think you’re a bitch. Or a…what’d you say? A cunt?”

“Didn’t I just say I don’t care?” You reply immediately, still glaring, not taking the bait of the almost lighthearted tone he ends with. It’s something that would’ve made you laugh before, or at least crack a smile, but he can see that sort of approach is a lost cause at this point. He's not going to be able to jump start any sort of lightheartedness right now.

Massaging the bridge of his nose, Joel feels a wave of exhaustion, the long trek here, along with this conversation itself, has him worn out. All he wants right now is to have an honest talk with you, some sort of heart to heart, but you’re making that very difficult. So, he decides to approach it a different way, try to spark some familiarity, comfort, his eyes free from anger as he looks at you again, a soft concern written on his face instead. 

“Don’t look at me like that.”

He should have expected it not to work. 

“Why the hell not?” He answers, dropping his hand from his face. Why can’t you calm down? Why can’t you see that he cares about you? That he never meant for things to go this way, to end up like this? That he’s just trying to apologize? He’s not giving up. He’s not backing down. If you’re going to keep glaring and giving sharp glares, he's going to keep trying to chip away at that facade you’ve built up over the years, find that friend he used to have. 

“Because I don’t want your fucking pity.” You spit, and now your face just looks fucking mean. 

Joel takes a deep, huffing breath, hurt shifting into irritation again, but he knows that losing his temper entirely will get him nowhere. “I’m not pitying you. I’m concerned. There's a difference.”

“I don’t need your concern. I’m fucking fine.”

“You really expect me to believe that?” He narrows his eyes, shocked that you would even try to pull that kind of bullshit.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you slap your forehead sarcastically, “I guess I shouldn’t have, I should have known that you’ll only ever view me as some baby bird with a broken wing, that I need worry and pity and a big strong man to keep me safe. Cause of course I can’t do that on my own. Jeez, I guess I forgot who I’m talking to for a second. Forgive me.”

“God damn it, Y/n.” He grits out, eyes closing, heart panging in sorrow, anger, and hurt. He’s hit with an urge to grab you by your shoulders and shake you, make you see that he just cares, that he wants to be there for you. “Stop twistin’ my words. I already said that that’s not how I see you. It never has been, and it never will be. You’re strong, you’re smart, you're capable. But goddamn it, you’re different. Now I don’t know what exactly happened to you out there, but somethin’ did, and I know I shouldn’t have left you to fend for yourself, and now that I’m here, I just want to help, for Christ's sake!”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” You scoff. “That is pity. You still think I need you, because—“ Suddenly, you cut yourself off, almost shrinking back. 

“No. Tell me what you wanna say. Go on. Say it.” He replies, a sour frown on his face. He’s tired of this bullshit that's been pouring out of your mouth, dying for something real from you, and it’s starting to really piss him off that you won’t just fucking say what you mean. 

You pause, lips in a tight line, before sighing, looking to the side and wiping a hand over your brow as you grumble, “This is fucking pointless.”

“No.” He says, firmer this time, gesturing with his hand as he talks, poking the table with his finger. “You’ve been dancing around this conversation the entire time, and I’m gettin’ real fuckin’ tired of it. So just tell me.”

“No, because I’m mature enough to know when I’m about to say something I’ll regret.”

“Mature?” He grimaces, eyes narrowed, irked hard by the jab. “You call this maturity? This is cowardice, Y/n. You’re bullshitting around while I’m trying to face this shit, head on, like a fucking adult. Talk to me, god damn it!”

“Fine.” You spit, a fierce frown on your face, eyes almost wide as you suddenly lean towards him over the table. “You wanna know what I think? What I know? You need someone to need you, you need to feel like you’re protecting someone, so you don’t feel like such a fucking failure, but you’ll never stop feeling like one, because you have some perverted relationship with guilt—all this bullshit that you refuse to deal with, because you feel like you need to punish yourself to make everything right. Can you even comprehend what a load of fucking shit it is?! How you fuck up every relationship because you won’t fucking fix the one you have with yourself?”

Joel falls silent, all the anger he had just a moment ago suddenly replaced by a sort of hollowness. You may have hit the nail on the head just then. He wants to argue, wants to shoot you with a read just as raw and unforgiving, but he can’t bring himself to. 

He wants to just get up and leave, walk away from this conversation and never reopen it again. But he can’t bring himself to. 

“Is that what you wanted to hear?” 

He’s quiet for another moment, heart thudding in his chest. 

“Yeah. I guess it was.” He finally speaks, voice gruff. 

“Great. Glad I could scratch that fucked up, masochistic itch of yours.” You clip. 

“Glad I could be your punching bag.” He shoots back. 

“Fuck you.” You spit, face splitting back into a harsh glower. That sudden animosity back in you catches him off guard, and his heart tightens and heavies. 

But at least you’re being honest. If aggression is what’s needed to finally get it out of you, so be it. He’ll pry it out of you, and he’ll take every punch, every sharp word, every wrathful look, just to have something from you. “You gonna cry about it?” He replies, a grimace on his face, his own words make his heart pound, immediately regretting it. He shouldn’t be talking to you like this, shouldn’t be trying to be cruel to you. But the words are already hanging in the air. 

Your eyes narrow, and there’s almost an electricity about you now. Hitting a nerve seems to be an understatement of what he's just done. “Fuck. You.” 

The freezing ferocity of your tone with the almost feral anger suddenly contorting your face causes a startling shoot of fear in Joel’s chest. He’s never seen you this sharp before in his life, this level of hostile, especially towards him. Never. You’ve never been this. It’s unsettling. 

He’s quiet for a long moment. 

“You’re different.” He finally says, a bitter acceptance in his tone. It’s an obvious observation, but he can’t help but air it anyway. You’ve been through hell these past few years, that much is clear; he's sure you have every right to be the way you are now. But he can’t help but think of the girl he used to know, the girl he now believes may be long gone. 

Slowly, you lean back in your chair, crossing your arms. “Yeah. I am.” You respond, tone dour and icey. “It’s been a while.”

Joel nods slowly, eyes glued to you, taking in this new version. The extreme guardedness of your posture, the stony look in your eyes, that tone of your voice reverberating through him. “Yeah. It has.” He replies, voice soft in reluctance.

Silence hangs in the air for a while as Joel tries to take it in, almost at a loss for words. You’re not just different, you seem to be almost a different person entirely.

Eventually, he rubs a hand over his face, a feeling of exhaustion washing over him again. He just wants to tell you that he misses you, that he wishes things could go back to the way that they were before, to have his friend back, that he’s sorry, so, so sorry, that he’ll do anything to make it right, tell you how much he regrets it, how it’s been eating him alive. But he knows that you won’t want to hear a word of it. That you’ll brush it off as pity, spew some more bullshit about how he just thinks you’re weak, that he views you as some helpless child. 

“Well,” you suddenly cut through the silence, voice full of icy sarcasm, “this has been great. You can go now.”

Irritation immediately flares back up in him at it, and he crosses his arms. “No.” He says, face hard and determined. “I’m not leaving. We are not done here.”

“Get the fuck out of my house.” You announce, almost before he’s even finished his sentence, nodding towards the door. That feral ferocity is back, and paired with the near monotone tone to your voice, Joel gets a bad feeling in his gut. But he brushes it off, doesn’t budge an inch, arms still crossed, gaze evenly on you, expression hard and determined. 

“No.”

Suddenly, you’re lunging towards him, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt, catching him completely off guard. His chair scrapes loudly on the floor as you drag him out of it, his boots scuffing as you push him back towards the door. Your teeth are bared, face right in his as you seethe through them, “Get the fuck out of my fucking house.” 

Joel’s eyes are wide, unable to fight back out of pure shock by your sudden belligerence. Every muscle of his body tenses, gripped by a sudden, almost primal fear. He’s strong enough to fight back, but the wildness in your eyes stops him from doing a god damn thing, and before he knows it, he’s being thrown through the threshold of your door and out into the cold, and the door is slammed in his face, hard. 

Joel is left standing there, huffing harsh puffs of white air, heart pounding, the only thing running through his mind being, who are you?

[brighttears]

Stranger Masterlist

Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: Upon arriving in Jackson, Joel is shocked to hear that you’re here, too—his partner of eight years, that he walked out on, six years ago. He wasn’t expecting a happy reunion, but it ends up being much harsher than anticipated, and the reality of the consequences of abandoning you punches him in the gut, almost literally. Will he be able to find a way to mend your relationship, or has he lost you entirely? You both reach out to Tommy to work through your emotions, but it’s up to you to figure out what to do about the resentment, sorrow, and yearning you both carry, and if the deep friendship you once had is worth saving. Does he deserve to have you back after what he did? Will you give Joel whatever it is you think that he deserves? What can six years apart do?

Word Count: ~5k per chapter

Warnings: Dripping dropping sopping with angst until like chapter 5 (verbal fights, harsh words are exchanged, you kind of hate him but more will be revealed on that front, he also feels incredible guilt and shame), smut in later chapters (warnings on those chapters), reader is traumatized, a bit of character building, slow burn, a little off canon for storyline purposes (also no Ellie, Tess or Maria sorry ladies), undefined age gap

Detailed warnings before each chapter! 

A/n: I’m back for a moment!!! Just got this idea and sprinted with it, another long one. Angst is so fun <<333 

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

more to come…

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I love Bella’s Ellie so fucking much. The show is perfect and somehow keeps getting better with every episode.

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hello all 🫶 i have been away for so long because life is like that but i was recently throttled by an idea that i have since been typing away at like a madman. angsty at shit, long as shit will end up being a multi parter, and then most likely i will be gone into the wind once again weeeee, by the way pedro was so so fucking good in gladiator 2 and the wild robot made me cry a little bit a couple times. and i know it's gonna be a minute til tlou 2 but i am genuinely scared for my mental health. i'm afraid i may need to take a leave from work and shut myself into a motel with nothing but my laptop and a few cartons of cigarettes for a month. time will tell but yeah probably dropping another little ficcy fic soon :) i want it to be finished before posting but i may drop a couple chapters anyway.... time will tell...........

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“I can fix him” this and “I can make him worse” that. Pathetic. I can love him so much that it changes the course of the entire narrative.

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Winter day 1 for my #JoelyJuly challenge over on ig. Kin. Best ep for sad Joel lovers everywhere.

6”x6” acrylic on watercolor paper.

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Sneaky peak of my newest baby🖤

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PEDRO PASCAL as JOEL MILLER THE LAST OF US (2023— )

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Obsessed with the idea of being his apprentice doing construction oh em gee I would genuinely lose my mind