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moeljiller · 2 days ago

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Sweat, Soup and Stubbornness

Pairing: Old!joel miller x f!reader

Summary: Joel’s sick, stubborn, and swears up and down that he’s fine. But you know better—and with soup, soft clothes, and relentless care, you prove that even the grumpiest old men only need just a little love.

Warnings: Fluff, tooth rotting sweetness, outbreak, unspecified age gap, cursing, Joel being really stubborn and grumpy

A/N: just something short and sweet for the weekend <33

You wake to the sound of moving fabric and a low, gravelly rough cough that disturbs the quiet morning. The sun hasn’t even touched the horizon yet, but Joel was already up, standing by the dresser and tugging on his flannel preparing to leave the house.

You blink the sleep away from your eyes and sit up, squinting at his silhouette in the dim light.

“Joel?”

He pauses, just for a second, then clears his throat, another rough cough escaping him. “Go back to sleep, hon. I’m just gettin’ ready.”

You frown. “Ready for what?”

“Patrol.”

You glance at the clock. “It’s barely six.”

“Exactly. Gotta meet Tommy at the gate.”

You throw off the covers and pad quickly over to him, ignoring the coldness in the air. One look at him up close makes your stomach twist—his face is flushed, his eyes glassy, and there’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the cold.

You reach out and press your palm to his skin. He flinches slightly but doesn’t pull away. The heat radiating from him makes your eyes widen.

“Joel, you’re burning up.” You say in worry.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, brushing your hand off. “Just a little warm. Nothin’ to fuss over.”

You arch a brow, hands landing on his shirt, feeling that it’s damp. “You’re literally sweating through your shirt.”

“It’s the damn heater. Tommy probably cranked it up again.” And another cough. This time he puts his arm over his mouth, trying to hide it, but fails miserably.

You cross your arms. “Joel. You’re sick.”

“I ain’t sick.”

“You’re glowing like a damn furnace and coughing like—“ you pause to think and follow quickly with: “you’ve got a whole chainsaw stuck in your throat.”

He doesn’t answer, instead, he grabs his jacket and heads to the stairs. So, you start following him. “I got work to do.” He mumbles under his breath.

And as he steps foot on the ground floor you step quickly in front of him, planting yourself firmly between him and the front door. “You’re not going anywhere.”

He gives you that look—the one that says I’ve fought off worse than this, and I’ll fight you too if I have to. But you’re definitely not backing down, especially knowing Joel and his habit of working too hard and getting himself exhausted. And being sick? That would send him straight to the heavenly gates.

“Joel,” you say softly, reaching up to stroke his cheek. His skin is hot, and his stubble is damp with sweat. “You’re not well.”

“I’ve worked through worse.” he grumbles, eyes flicking away.

You smile gently, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “I know. You’re tough. But even tough old men need rest.”

He groans, shaking his head. “Don’t call me that.”

You grin. “My old man. All grumpy and feverish.”

“I ain’t grumpy.” He looks away, cheeks flushed.

You chuckle softly, taking his hand and tugging gently. “Come on. Back to bed, mister.”

He resists, of course, he does. He is too stubborn for his own damn good. “Tommy’s gonna be waitin’. I said I’d cover the north ridge.”

“And I’m saying you’ll collapse halfway there and freeze to death in the snow.”

“I ain’t gonna—” “Joel. Please.” You look at him, sternly.

That does it, this time he can’t argue back. He sighs, long and dramatic, and lets you guide him back to the bed. It’s like coaxing a bear into a cave, but eventually, he sits down with a grunt, arms crossed like a bratty teenager.

“I don’t need babysittin’.” He mumbles.

You kneel in front of him, tugging off his boots. “I’m not babysitting. I’m taking care of my old man.” You smile.

He mutters something under his breath, but doesn’t stop you. You help him out of his damp flannel, making sure to kiss the bare skin under and put over his softest hoodie—the one you knitted him months ago. You pull out the cozy sweatpants he pretends not to like and help him change into them, ignoring his grumbling.

“This is humiliatin’.” He sighs.

“You’re in your own house. With me. Wearing your favorite hoodie. It’s not exactly a press conference.”

He settles back against the pillows, arms still crossed, looking like a very grumpy burrito. You tuck the blankets around him and kiss his forehead.

“You’re still burning up,” you murmur, brushing his hair back again. “Let me get the thermometer.”

“I don’t need—”

You slide it under his tongue before he can finish. He glares at you the entire time like you betrayed him.

When it beeps, you check the reading. “102.9.”

Joel groans. “That ain’t even that high.”

“It’s high enough to keep your ass in bed.”

You sit besides him, stroking his face gently. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, and he leans into your touch without realizing.

“You’re takin’ too much joy in this,” he mutters.

“I’m taking joy in you not dying.” You kiss his temple. “Now stay put. I’m making soup.”

“I ain’t hungry.” He groans.

“You will be.”

You head to the kitchen, listening to him cough every few minutes. The soup simmers, filling the house with warmth and the scent of garlic and vegetables . When you return with the bowl, he’s already half asleep, brows furrowed, lips parted in a soft snore. You smile.

You sit besides him and gently shake his shoulder. “Joel, baby. Soup.”

He blinks awake, groggy and annoyed. “I said I ain’t—”

“Just try it.” You hand it to him.

He takes the bowl with a long, dramatic sigh and eats slowly, clearly trying not to enjoy it. You brush his hair back again, fingers threading through the silver strands, drawing circles on his cheek, and finding it so cute how he blows air into the spoon before putting it into his mouth.

“You’re spoilin’ me, baby.” He murmurs.

“I’m just nursing you back to health.”

“Same thing.”

You grin. “My poor old man. All bark, no bite.”

He snorts. “I got bite.”

“Not today, you don’t.” You shake your head, giggling.

He finishes the soup slowly and then sets the bowl aside. “Tommy’s gonna come knockin’. Wonderin’ where I am.” he says.

“Let him. I’ll tell him you’re sick.”

“I ain’t—”

A knock interrupts him.

You smirk. “Perfect timing.”

You open the door to find Tommy standing there, bundled up in his patrol gear and one hand leaned against the doorframe. He peers past you into the house.

“Joel didn’t show. Everything alright?”

You step back, letting him in. “He’s sick.”

Tommy steps inside and you both go upstairs to the bedroom where he peers at his brother, who’s now sitting up in the bed, hoodie pulled tight around his face like a cocoon.

“Jesus Christ,” Tommy says. “You look like you were run over by a truck.”

Joel groans. “I ain’t sick.”

Tommy raises an eyebrow. “You’re sweatin’, pale, and sound like you swallowed a chainsaw. You’re sick.”

Joel finally slumps back against the pillows, defeated. “Fine. Maybe I’m a little sick.”

You grin and sit besides him, brushing his hair back again. “There we go. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Joel grumbles something unintelligible and closes his eyes, but his hand finds yours under the blanket and squeezes.

You squeeze back, smiling softly.

You walk Tommy to the front door, pulling it open just enough to let the cold air in without disturbing the warmth inside.

Tommy stands there with his gloves tucked under one arm, his breath fogging in the air.

“He’s a damn mule.” Tommy mutters, shaking his head with a half smile.

You laugh softly. “Tell me about it.”

Tommy looks at you, eyes kind. “Y’need anythin’? Medicine, vegetables? I can swing by the depot.”

You shake your head. “No, s’fine. I’ve got soup, tea, and enough stubbornness to match his.”

He chuckles. “That’s sayin’ somethin’.”

You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely. “Just—don’t go out alone today. Take someone with you.”

Tommy nods, the smile on his face softening. “Yeah. I’ll ask around, see if someone can take up Joel’s spot. He’s earned a day off, even if he won’t admit it.”

Tommy steps forward, pulling you into a quick, familiar hug. It’s warm, brotherly, and full of unspoken gratitude. “You take care of my brother.”

You smile against his shoulder. “Don’t I always?”

He pulls back, eyes crinkling with amusement. “You do. Better than anyone ever has.”

You watch him walk off into the snow, his figure slowly swallowed by the quiet white. You close the door gently, the warmth of the house wrapping around you again. Joel lets out a muffled cough from the bedroom, followed by a grumble that sounds suspiciously like your name.

You smile to yourself.

His eyes flutter open when he hears you coming to the bedroom. He blinks, groggy, voice low and scratchy. “You done talkin’ to Tommy?”

You nod, sitting down besides him, the mattress dipping gently under your weight. “He’s gone. Said he’ll find someone to take your spot today.”

Joel grunts, eyes slipping closed again. “I could’ve gone.”

You smile and reach out, cupping his cheek and stroking gently. His skin’s still warm, but not as burning as before. “You would’ve collapsed halfway there.”

He doesn’t argue this time. Just murmurs, “Y’gonna get sick too.”

You chuckle softly, fingers trailing through his hair. “And? Then you can take care of me.”

Joel cracks one eye open, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I make terrible soup.”

“I can settle for toast and grumbling.”

He huffs a laugh, then coughs into his sleeve. You shift closer, slipping under the blanket beside him, and he doesn’t protest. His hand finds yours beneath the covers, rough fingers curling around yours like instinct.

“You always do this,” he says quietly.

“Do what?”

“Make me feel like it’s okay to stop pretendin’ I’m fine.”

You squeeze his hand gently. “Because it is. You don’t have to be strong all the time.”

Joel’s thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow and gently. “I don’t know how you put up with me.”

You smile, resting your head lightly against his shoulder. “You’re my favorite headache.”

He chuckles again, low and raspy. “That’s romantic.”

“It is when you’re sick and soft.”

Joel turns his head slightly, pressing a kiss to your hair. It’s barely there, but it’s enough to make your heart ache in the best way.

And for a while, you just stay like that—wrapped in blankets, tangled in each other, the world outside quiet and cold while everything between you stays warm.

Oh to take care of sweet old man Joel…a girl can only dream😩

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