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morganas-pendragons · 13 days ago

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I HAVE A ROADTRIP FIC TO READ

Chapter 3: Steps

Pairing: Jackson Joel Miller x Doctor Female Reader Chapter Rating: T. Chapter Summary: You've been preparing him for this moment for weeks. The exercises you help him through, strengthening his legs, rebuilding his muscles that had begun to weaken during his bedridden days. He’s been determined to regain what was taken from him, no matter how much it hurts. Chapter Warnings: HEAVY SPOILERS FOR S2E2, FIX IT FIC, pov switching, joel survives abby's encounter, injuries, healing, domesticity in the apocalypse, joel teaches you wood carving, first steps, maria seeing things before everyone else, beard trimming, so much pining and yearning (promise it pays off next chapter) Words: 4,030

Healed Masterlist | Healed Playlist | Healed, The Video Edit | AO3

Masterlist

Previous Chapter

—-

He wonders how it happened. Why he survived. Why he was saved.

How, out of all the people in the apocalypse, you were the one fate chose to pull him back from the dead.

How you’ve become more than just his doctor.

How the lines between caretaker and something else have begun to blur beyond recognition.

The questions circle endlessly through his mind. Questions too large for him to hold.

He settles himself the only way he knows how to now. By looking at you.

You’re sleeping in the recliner, the same chair he used to rock alone in and wonder just how silent his life could stay, once Ellie moved to the garage. He tries to look away from you, but you look too peaceful to ignore. Your breaths come out in small puffs between your slightly parted lips, your features softened as you’re unburdened now by the weight of keeping him alive.

He thinks he’s only here because of you.

Because you never gave up.

Because you heal him every day, piece by piece.

—-

Everything feels more alive as Joel’s health improves. The days seem brighter, the sunlight shining in through the windows stretches farther across the floors, as if the beams are following his progress.

You’re learning more about him every day, as he gets better. He’s a contradiction. His gruff, sometimes intimidating exterior is a shell that holds in his gentle ways.

There’s been a constant low thrum of tenseness since the bathing incident, neither of you have mentioned it—but there is a new kind of awareness between you.

There’s now a familiar sound of Joel’s wheelchair gliding across the hardwood as he masters navigating his home with it.

As expected, there are hiccups.

You’re in the kitchen, peeling potatoes for dinner, when a loud crash of ceramic shattering across the floor makes you jump.

“God damnit,” Joel growls from the living room.

He’s there, gritting his teeth and shaking his head as he surveys the broken lamp on the floor.

You immediately spring into action, doing what you’ve been doing for the last few months, fixing his problems. The broken lamp is quickly swept up as you reassure Joel it’s not a big deal, things like this are going to happen.

He gives you a look of understanding and acceptance, before telling you “thank you” in a low voice that sends goosebumps across your body.

Soon, Joel spends all evening in the dining room where Tommy has set up a small workshop for him to pass the time. Tiny animal figures line the tabletop, some as small as a few inches.

He sits in his wheelchair at the table, leaning forward and focused, holding a small knife, his large hands guiding the blade over a piece of pine. Wood shavings pile on the tabletop. His brows are furrowed in concentration, eyes narrowed and focused behind his reading glasses as he turns the small block of wood.

You've been watching him from your chair in the living room, too fascinated by this side of him to look away. You find yourself watching him a lot, not just to make sure he’s doing okay, but because you can’t help yourself. There’s something that mesmerizes you… The way his calloused hands move with such confidence and precision despite their size.

"What are you making?" you finally ask, getting up and moving closer to see the small sculpture taking shape in his hands.

Joel looks up his glasses perched on the end of his nose, as he turns the wood over in his palm, examining it.

"Bear," he rumbles.

“He’s so tiny. You’re really good at that.”

Joel shrugs, thumbing away a splinter. "Used to do it a lot. Before..." He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't need to. Before. Before the attack. Before you saved his life. Before everything changed.

"Can I watch?" you ask.

He nods, gesturing to the chair beside him. You pull it closer, sitting close enough to feel the heat radiating off of his body, to smell the scent of pine and cinnamon, and something distinctly Joel.

You lean even closer and watch as Joel's hands move, the knife peeling away thin layers of wood to reveal the features of the bear.

His eyes flick up to yours, then back to his work. His knife pauses mid-stroke. "Want to try?"

The offer catches you off guard. Joel Miller, who bristles at help, who growls at vulnerability, is offering to teach you something.

"Sure.”

He pulls out another piece of wood and a small knife from a storage box next to him. Tommy must have brought his entire collection down from upstairs. Joel places them on the table, sliding them toward you.

"Here. Start with something simple. Maybe a duck."

“Oookay,” you sigh, turning the wood in your hand, unsure where to begin.

"Think of the shape, and just start. Like this," Joel instructs, demonstrating on his bear. "Always cut with the grain and keep your fingers clear of the blade."

Your blade catches the wood on your first cut. You try again, cutting against the grain, your knife skidding across the wood.

Joel watches, letting you try and fail a few times before he sets his bear down. "Here," he says, leaning a bit closer. "Let me show you."

His hand covers yours. He’s so warm. You can feel the strength in his fingers as he positions your hands on the knife.

"Hold it like this," he says. He’s so close you can feel his breath against your ear. "Thumb here, against the handle for control."

You have to tell yourself to breathe as Joel adjusts your grip. His other hand covers yours on the wood, angling it for you.

“Be gentle," he guides your hand, helping you make a smooth cut along the block of wood. "See? Let the knife do the work."

You nod, finding it difficult to speak. His hand guides yours in a slow, smooth motion, and a curl of wood peels away.

"Good," he praises when you make a particularly nice cut. "You're getting it."

He doesn't pull away. He leans in closer, watching you work. Your whole body is heating under his attention and closeness, but you focus on carving, holding the wood tight with as steady of hands as you can muster.

“Now,” he rumbles next to you, removing his hands from yours. “Try on your own.”

Curled and thin wood shavings gather on the table. Joel leans back, watching you with the almost-smile of his you’ve been seeing more often.

Soon, a shape resembling a duck begins to take shape thanks to Joel's occasional instructions.

He hums an approving noise. "Took me months to get cuts that clean. You're good with your hands.”

“I’d hope so,” you reply, without looking up from your duck. “I have to be. I'm a surgeon, remember?"

The sound that comes from Joel startles you—a chuckle. It’s the first time you’ve actually heard him laugh.

"Keep going," he says softly, nodding toward your carving. "You're doing good."

A comfortable silence settles between you and Joel as you both work together. Occasionally, he glances over, giving you a nod of approval. When you’re all done, something resembling a duck sits on the table amongst his lineup of carved animals.

"Not bad for your first try,” he admires.

You snort, trying to keep your smile at bay. “You don’t have to be so nice.”

“No, really,” he says. “Pretty good for your first try.”

“I guess I owe you, I’ll have to teach you knitting now.”

He turns and looks at you, his brown eyes staring into yours. “You’ve already done enough for me.”

Not nearly enough you think to yourself, as you feel the tension settle heavily between you.

—-

As the cherry blossom tree outside trades its petals for leaves, Joel’s ready to walk again.

You've been preparing him for this moment for weeks. The exercises you help him through, strengthening his legs, rebuilding his muscles that had begun to weaken during his bedridden days. He’s been determined to regain what was taken from him, no matter how much it hurts.

All for these first real steps.

"Remember," you say, handing him the cane. "We're not rushing this. If it’s too much, we stop and try again tomorrow."

To hell with that.

He’s tired of not being able to help, of not being able to shoulder some of the burden of his injuries.

He’s ready.

Now, he sits on the edge of his recliner, knuckles white around the handle of the cane.

Joel grips the cane tightly. Too tightly. He lifts himself from the chair, fighting a rough sound tearing from his throat, his body trembling as he balances on his good leg.

He hates this. Hates the struggle, hates the slow progress, hates the way you hover in case he falls. Most of all, he hates the weakness. But you, he looks at you, your eyes wide, a proud smile lifting your lips. He wants to make you proud. He wants all of your efforts to be worth it. He wants to be worthy of your pride.

He takes a deep breath, his chest rising with the effort of it, then forces his left foot to move. It barely moves, but it’s just enough to send a spike of pain through his leg. His whole body protests. His knees almost buckle under the stress, making him stumble.

You’re there instantly, reaching out and helping him stabilize himself before he falls. He’s grateful for your help, but the embarrassment and frustration escape before he can stop it.

“Don’t need help,” he grunts.

You ignore him, like you always do.

"Again," he says, shrugging off your hands as soon as he's stable.

"Maybe rest a minute—"

"Again," he repeats, more firmly this time. "I've had months of rest."

His second attempt goes better. He manages three steps before needing to rest. You stay beside him, hands hovering just inches from his back, ready to support but not interfere.

"Good," you encourage. "That's it."

He’s going to make you proud, he’s going to prove to you that all of your care and dedication have paid off. It’s what gets him halfway across the room before his strength dissipates. When his balance begins to falter again, he reaches for you on his own this time, his hand gripping your forearm as he steadies himself.

“I got you,” you comfort. He doesn’t know why his heart is racing, if it’s from moving so much for the first time in months, or the way your hand runs up and down his back soothing him.

And then, he pushes off and moves again, all the way across the living room, your voice cooing soft words of encouragement to him, giving him the strength he needs.

With only five steps, he can be at the kitchen table. He pauses, breathing heavily. He’s exhausted and sweaty, but his eyes remain fixed on his destination. With a final surge of determination, he covers the remaining distance.

His free hand grips the back of a kitchen chair. Made it.

He sways slightly, catching his breath before collapsing into the chair with a deep exhale.

“Joel,” you say, a huge grin lighting your face, "you did amazing.”

He knows now why his heart is shattering against his chest… it’s all because of you. He’s made you proud, he wants to make you prouder.

"Tomorrow,” he says. “We go further.”

—-

Joel keeps his word, and he goes further every day. He moves, then rests. Moves, then rests. And so it goes.

With each new day, he adds a few more steps to his count. Always, you’re there with him, ready to help if he stumbles, yet still allowing him the dignity of trying on his own.

He struggles some days, breathing hard, stopping and resting his weight against the wall or a chair. Sometimes you notice him glancing towards you, taking in your reaction, his breathing evening whenever he sees your encouraging smile.

You fall into a familiar routine.

In the morning, you stretch his tired limbs, helping him build his muscles.

During the day, he moves as much as he can before it’s too much for him to stand. You help him settle into his bed, rubbing salve all over his aching limbs, trying hard to ignore the sound of his soft grunts before he takes a nap, letting his body and mind recover.

Lonesome Dove sits unfinished on the table next to the recliner you sleep in. Now, your evenings are spent together differently, both of you in the dining room at the table across from each other as you knit and he whittles.

You look forward to it. The companionship. Sometimes you talk, other times it’s silent, save for the sound of his knife against the wood and your needles clicking against one another.

It’s all so domestic, so comforting.

It’s all beginning to feel like Joel’s more than just your patient.

—-

“So,” Maria begins, combing through Joel’s hair with gentle fingers, “how are things going with you and your doctor?”

He shifts uncomfortably in the dining chair she’s placed in the center of the living room. A towel drapes his shoulders, snippets of his hair falling onto it with each clip of her scissors.

“Hm?” he grunts, trying to calm his racing heart at the thought of you being called his.

“Tommy says you’re getting stronger every day. My guess is she can move out soon.”

He tries to hide the tenseness that overcomes him.

"Move out?" The words come out sharper than he intended.

Maria's hands pause in his hair. "I mean, she's been here for months. I figured once you're mobile enough..."

Joel swallows, his throat suddenly dry. "Right."

He hadn't considered it. Hadn't let himself think about what happens after he heals. About an empty house again. About waking up without the sound of your soft humming from the kitchen, or evenings without you sitting across the table from him.

Maria resumes cutting, her voice careful. "Unless you want her to stay?"

He doesn't answer; his silence says enough.

“Joel,” she sighs. “You’re allowed to want things. To have things.”

Before he can even respond, the front door swings open, you’re lit by the bright afternoon light shining in, holding a small tote with a wide smile across your face.

“I traded a scarf for a steak!” you exclaim proudly as you make your way to the kitchen. “Biscuits and steak for dinner tonight?”

A scarf. You created something, and here you are trading it for a steak—something he can’t remember having in ages. All just for him. He wants to tell you that you didn’t have to do that, but he knows the look you’d give him. He knows you’d insist, because that’s the type of person you are.

Joel nods. “That sounds great,” his voice cracks at the end, torn between gratitude and guilt.

“Good,” you pause. “I’ll go tell Ellie, and we’ll celebrate you getting all cleaned up. Leave the chair there, I’ll trim your beard once I get the biscuit dough made.”

The smile you send him makes his heart race even faster.

He can feel Maria’s shrewd, knowing eyes flicking between him and you before she goes back to cutting his hair.

“Or she can just stay here with you,” she murmurs just loud enough for him to hear.

—-

"Comfortable?" you ask, draping the towel around Joel’s shoulders.

He nods, his brown eyes following you as you pick up the scissors. Maria’s haircut has already done wonders for him, his dark, salt and peppered waves now sit just above the collar of his cream colored button up.

“Ready?”

Joel nods. His long, scraggly beard with wiry white hairs has become unruly. Despite your combing and applying oil, it's grown into too much of a tangled mess during his recovery.

"Going to trim it first. Then shave. How do you want it?"

"Used to keep it trimmed. Not this wild."

"Like in Ellie's drawing?” you ask, tilting your head towards the fireplace.

His face softens when he looks over at the paper propped up on the mantle. "Yeah. Like that."

You nod and step closer, positioning yourself between his spread knees. All of a sudden, the living room feels too small and intimate, as you quickly realize just how close you are to Joel. You've been this close to him countless times during his recovery—changing bandages, helping him bathe, supporting him as he gained his strength—but this time it feels different. More deliberate.

"Tilt your head back.” Your fingers gently tilt his chin, positioning his head before you make your first cut.

Dark brown and silver clippings fall onto the towel and floor as you work the scissors around his face, slowly revealing his handsome face beneath the tangled wilderness of his beard.

Soon, his beard is trimmed to just a few inches long. You step back, trying not to let Joel see the way your breath catches as you take in just how handsome he is beneath all that hair.

“How’s it look?” he asks.

"G-good,” you say so low it’s almost to yourself. “I mean, a lot better. I can actually see you now.”

His brown eyes darken as they stare into yours. You clear your throat and reach for the small bowl of shaving soap you made earlier.

“I made this soap to help your skin,” you say, trying to focus on anything else besides the intensity of his gaze. “It’s made from aloe and yarrow.”

“You didn’t have to do that, I don’t need anything fancy like that.” “Your skin does,” you counter, dipping your fingers into the soap. “It’s been through enough.”

You try to hide your trembling fingers as you begin to lather the soap over his face.

Alive and vital. His pulse beats steadily against your fingertips as they glide across his warm skin. It still amazes you after seeing him so close to death.

Joel's eyes flutter closed as your fingers move through what’s left of his beard, massaging the soap against his skin.

“Feel good?” you ask.

"Hmm," is his only response, a low rumble you feel more than hear.

You rub the soap into his skin slowly, stretching out your time to be able to touch him so freely while also letting Joel melt under your touch.

“I’m going to shave you now, okay?” you say quietly as you wipe your hands on the towel.

"Hmm," he hums again, fluttering his eyes open and sitting up straighter.

You reach for the straight razor Tommy sharpened for you on the side table.

“You’re going to need to hold very still for me,” you say, your voice soft. “I don’t want to nick you.”

“Right.”

You work carefully, gently pulling the skin taut with one hand while the other guides the blade in short strokes.

You’re so focused on the razor scraping through the soap and hair, that you don’t notice how close you’re leaning in. You don’t notice the way Joel’s openly watching you, studying you, and the way you’re biting your lip as you concentrate.

The sharp line of his jaw is slowly revealed to you. God, he’s handsome.

As you work, Joel remains perfectly still, following every instruction you lowly tell him to do.

"Almost done," you tell him, wiping excess soap from his cheek with a damp cloth.

Just a couple more swipes of the razor against his skin, and the Joel Miller from before the attack is revealed to you. The neatly trimmed beard now frames his face perfectly, lining his strong jaw. You knew he was good-looking, but he truly is otherworldly. He might just be the most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen.

You swipe away the last remnants of the soap with your thumb, wanting to feel his skin against your fingertips for just a little while more.

"There," you whisper, still closely hovering over him. "Much better."

For a moment, you both remain perfectly still. His eyes lock with yours, before they drop to your lips, then back up to meet your gaze. “Thank you,” he says. His mouth is so close to your skin, you can feel his words.

You nod. "You're welcome," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. The tension is too much for you to take, finally, you pull away, and hand Joel his cane. “Why don’t you go take a look in the mirror and rinse your face off while I clean up?”

—-

He swears you can do it all. You’re a marvel. He can’t stop feeling his smooth skin. Sure, there are now a couple ridges from the new scars that lay across his face, but he’s almost forgotten what his skin felt like underneath everything. He feels so much lighter.

Once again, you’ve helped unburden him.

You’re in the kitchen, humming while you prepare dinner. Sometimes you’ll peek your head out to check on him, as he rests in the recliner with a book in his hand. Honestly, he hasn’t read a word. He’s far too busy remembering the feel of your touch against his skin, the way you bit your lip as you concentrated, how low your voice would get as you’d tell him how to move.

Seems these days all he can think of is you.

He’s so deep in thought that he nearly jumps when the front door swings open, breaking him from his reverie. Ellie breezes in, throwing her jacket haphazardly against the coat rack before she even looks at Joel.

When she does, her eyes go wide, her mouth falls open as she takes in his freshly shaved face and haircut.

“Oh shit,” she breathes. “You almost look like you.”

“Thanks, I reckon,” he replies.

You step into the living room, wiping your hands with a towel. The whole house smells delicious, he can tell you’ve been hard at work in the kitchen.

“Oh good, Ellie, you’re here just in time,” you greet. “Dinner’s almost ready. Why don’t you set the table for us?”

Ellie follows you into the kitchen without a word.

From his chair, he can hear the two of you laughing and talking. A warmth spreads through his heart at how you’re slowly making parts of his life a part of yours. It’s a feeling he never thought he’d allow himself to want, and yet, here he is, smiling to himself as he hears Ellie’s indisputable giggle floating through the house.

“Joel!” Ellie calls out from the kitchen, "Dinner’s ready!”

He stands, running a hand through his hair that he’s taken the time to slick back before he grabs his cane, pushing himself up before moving to the kitchen. He’s getting better and better every day with it.

When he walks into the kitchen, you glance over your shoulder at him, checking to see if he needs any help, but he doesn’t. It’s hard to focus on each step as he watches you do such a simple act as brushing butter on top of biscuits. He can’t imagine not having you share this home with him.

He takes a seat at the table, resting the cane against the wall. His mouth is watering, he’s not sure if it’s from the food or watching you move around the kitchen.

Ellie plops down in the chair next to him, her eyes surveying the steak, peas, and mashed potatoes on the table.

He can’t keep his eyes off of you as you bring over a basket filled with golden biscuits. You give him a shy smile as you sit across from him.

He looks at Ellie and then back at you, realizing just how much at home he feels right now, right here.

The thought hits him then, as he sits with the two people who make him feel the most at home.

He wants you to stay… especially when you pick up a biscuit, breaking it open with your delicate fingers that he just felt against his skin. He tries hard to look away, but he can’t. You bring it to your lips, eyes fluttering closed when you take the first bite.

“Mmm,” you sigh, humming with satisfaction.

His posture stiffens as you enjoy such a simple pleasure—a biscuit. He swallows hard at the thought of making you moan like that.

He needs you to stay.

Next Chapter

—-

A/N: My taglist has grown too large. Please follow @whocaresposted and turn on notifications to be alerted about new chapters!

My perma tags: @forspringcleaning, @schnarfer, @mothandpidgeon

#oh this is goooooooooooodddd #joel miller x reader

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morganas-pendragons · 13 days ago

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I will read and reblog every single Joel lived fic. All of them. BECAUSE HE SHOULD HAVE

The days of you and I | part 1

Jackson!Joel Miller x fem!reader

series masterlist | next chapter

Summary: After Joel’s near-death, you stay by his side, refusing to leave him behind. You both confront the weight of what’s been done and what it means to still have each other for now.

w.c: 4,5k

warnings: angst, mentions of murder and revenge, emotional trauma, grief trauma, survivor's guilt, discussion of death and loss. It contains spoilers from season 2 of the last of us. No proofreading because, you know.

Note: Remember this story is a sequel of this one shot "What remains of us" or you can ignore it and keep reading this one haha.

A/N: Okay, hello. This is a new Joel series because we love Joel here, and he is alive and recovering. This series will have angst, and the topics followed throughout the story will hold onto the path of healing after a traumatic event for the characters. I already have the end for this series, so everything will lead to it. I hope you like it and stay here to read it. Reblogs are really important, and I appreciate them. I'm gonna be out for a days because I have to put an end to the semester before winter break and do my teacher duties.

Also, I created an AO3 account, and I'll be posting fics there too from now on.

The hospital room was very quiet. With that eerie absence of sound that you could feel penetrating your bones, damaging the inside of your body with a pain that pierced your body, seeped into your soul, and oppressed your heart.

Joel still woke up to that silence, as if was chocking him to death and he had decided he have had enough of it. to the distant hush of an early morning, and a world that carried on without him. The sharp sting in his ribs reminded him he was still alive, though some days, he wondered what for.

His eyes opened slow, the weight behind them too heavy to lift at once. The ceiling looked the same as it had for the past week, wooden beams, a single hanging light. He’d spent more hours staring at it than sleeping. The painkillers dulled the sharp edges, but nothing softened the hollow inside his chest.

And you were still there.

Your silhouette sat by the window, curled into the old chair like you belonged there. As if you were stuck. A book half-read on your lap, a cup of cold tea nearby, and that same tired crease between your brows you probably didn’t know you had. You looked so small in the pale dawn light, so goddamn stubborn.

He should’ve been glad. Grateful you hadn’t left.

But this morning, something cracked inside him.

It wasn’t relief that filled him. It was grief.

His bones were still aching, his legs dumbed under the cover. He didn’t feel like a man no more, but as a lifeless lump lying in bed.

And you deserved better than this version of him, this half-broken thing stitched together by other people’s hands, carrying the weight of mistakes that couldn’t be undone. Joel wasn’t the man you met. Wasn’t the one who held you like you were the only good thing left in the world.

And seeing you here, still choosing him, hurt worse than any wound that other girl that beat him almost to death had left behind.

He swallowed hard, voice rough and unused.

“You don’t need to stay here all the time, you know?”

The words came out more bitter than he meant them to, tasting like rust and regret.

Your head turned, soft eyes finding his. That damn look, the one that exactly saw right through him, the one that made him feel like a man again for a moment.

And for a second, Joel wished you’d leave.

Because it would be easier than losing you piece by piece like this.

You smiled, small but steady, like you always did when you noticed he was awake. That damn smile, it cut through him every time.

“Took you long enough to wake up again,” you murmured, the softness in your voice brushing against the raw places in him he tried to keep buried. You crossed the room, moving to his side like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like it hadn’t been three weeks and one more of watching him drift in and out of fevered sleep and silence.

“You must be feeling tired,” you said, fingertips brushing through the strands of his hair, pushing them gently from his forehead.

Joel didn’t move, but his throat worked around a swallow. It wasn’t fair, you being so gentle. Wasn’t fair that after everything, you were still here, speaking to him like he was the man you remembered, not the one lying broken in that bed.

He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning, barely, into your touch before forcing himself to pull away. His jaw clenched.

Reality blurred at the edges; every breath thick with a kind of grief he didn’t know how to name. Time didn’t move right in this room. It stretched too long, like a cruel joke, dragging him through the sharp fragments of what he used to be.

He wasn’t mad.

He was devasted.

He felt ashamed of the man he was now.

He never experienced a physical pain like this. One that burned inside and out his body.

He hadn’t even noticed his hand was clenching around nothing.

How he could even be useful for this town now that he was gone. Everything left was limb laying on a bed with nothing left but a void consuming him as a whole.

He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, the coppery tang of blood grounding him for a second. His voice, when it came, was cracked and quiet.

“You shouldn’t… shouldn’t waste your time on me, darling.”

A bitter, broken kind of truth. But in his heart, he knew it would be worse than dying to watch you stay, wasting your life on him.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull your hand away, even when his words hung heavy in the air between you like a noose. If anything, your fingers curled more firmly into his hair, a tender anchor to a man too lost to realize he was still here, still tethered.

“I’m not wasting anything,” you said softly, the words steady even as your throat threatened to close around them. “You’re here, Joel. That’s enough.”

He gave a ragged breath, like he wanted to laugh, wanted to scream, but all that came was a low, broken sound somewhere deep in his chest. His gaze dropped to the space between you — his hand, bruised and shaking, lying useless on the blanket.

“Don’t deserve you sitting here, watching this,” he muttered, voice hoarse, eyes hot though no tears came. Couldn’t remember the last time they had.

A long, aching silence stretched between you.

You could feel it, the war inside him. The part that needed you close, needed your touch, your voice, like it was the last thing tethering him to this side of the dark. And the other part, the one too proud, too broken, too wrecked by shame to let himself have it.

But you’d made your choice the moment he opened his eyes a week ago.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said. Not a promise you made lightly in a world like this.

Joel closed his eyes again. He didn’t answer. But for the first time in days, his hand moved, slow, halting, to brush against yours.

“Did you… really take them all?” he rasped.

Your heart clenched, but you didn’t look away. Couldn’t.

You gave a small, steady nod.

He swallowed hard, the muscles in his jaw twitching. His gaze dropped for a second, his hand flexing weakly against the sheets.

“I don’t regret it,” you said at last, the words steady despite the ache in your chest. “No one deserves what they did to you.”

There was a storm behind Joel’s eyes, a thousand things he wanted to say, but his throat burned too much to let them out. Anger, grief, guilt, some twisted kind of gratitude. It tangled up inside him like barbed wire, tearing at every soft part he had left.

“You didn’t have to…” his voice broke, low and pained.

“I know,” you whispered. “But I would do it again.”

Your fingers brushed against his, and this time, his hand turned, weakly curling around yours. A tremble ran through him, and you felt it in your bones, the weight of his shame, the depth of his sorrow, and somewhere, buried beneath it, the fragile pulse of the man you knew still fighting to breathe.

But the love you felt for him, that was enough to send you into a spiral, where nothing else felt real but the desperate need to save him, the desperation of not losing him because that would have meant losing yourself that day.

Neither of you spoke for a while after that. The room was heavy with the things you didn’t need to say.

You didn’t look away from Joel, but you felt the shift in the room, the familiar presence of Tommy as he stepped in.

“Hey,” Tommy’s voice was rough, softer than usual, like he was afraid to break whatever fragile peace hung in the air. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

You lifted your head, your fingers gently slipping from Joel’s, though his hand lingered in the empty space you left behind.

Tommy gave a small nod toward you. “Gail’s waiting to see you. Said whenever you were ready.”

Your stomach twisted, a cold unease settling in your chest. You gave Joel one last look, brushing a thumb over his hand before pulling away completely.

“I’ll be back,” you whispered.

Joel didn’t answer. Just stared at the ceiling, eyes distant.

As you stepped out, Tommy caught your arm, just briefly, his hand firm but kind.

“I’ll stay,” he murmured. “Not gonna leave him alone.”

You gave him a grateful, weary nod and left, the door shutting quietly behind you.

The room felt emptier after you were gone. Joel let out a slow breath, eyes closing for a moment before shifting to glance at his brother.

“Gail?” Joel’s voice was rough, but clearer now. “She… she going to therapy with her?”

Tommy rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, sighing as he sank into the chair by the bed.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Doctor says it might help. Been… hard for her since it happened. It isn’t just you carrying scars, brother.”

Joel looked away, his throat working around another swallow. The word therapy felt foreign in his mouth, like it belonged to a world he’d never stepped into, one too far gone for men like him.

Joel stayed quiet for a long time after Tommy spoke, the words circling in his head, refusing to settle. His gaze lingered on the window, on the way the morning light edged in like it didn’t belong here.

Then, rough and low, he broke the silence.

“Was she…” His voice caught, and he cleared his throat, hating the weakness there. “Was she hurt? When… when they brought me back?”

Tommy’s face shifted, the answer already written in his eyes before he spoke.

“Yeah,” he admitted softly. “She… she had some bruises. Took a hit to the side’a her face, couple more on her ribs. And there was a wound on her abdomen.”

Joel’s stomach turned, a cold, sinking dread washing over him.

“Abdomen?” he rasped, his hands curling weakly into fists against the blanket. “Christ.”

Tommy sighed, leaning his elbows on his knees, rubbing a hand over his face. “She didn’t give a damn about it. Wouldn’t let anybody touch her. Wouldn’t even let them clean her up ‘til you were stable. Sat right there in that chair covered in her own blood and yours, talking to you like you could hear her.”

He shook his head, a ghost of a sad, fond smile on his face.

“Would’ve fought off half the town if anyone tried to pull her out of here.”

Joel closed his eyes, the guilt pressing so heavy against his chest he thought it might crush him. A sharp breath rattled through him, his throat burning.

“Goddamn fool,” he muttered to himself, a tear he’d never admit to stinging behind his eye.

“She loves you, you know,” Tommy said quietly, watching his brother’s face. “Way you do her. There is no shame in letting people love you, Joel. Even if it hurts.”

Joel didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not with the knot in his throat, not with the war inside his chest.

But his hand flexed again against the sheets reaching for something, for someone, perhaps you.

The silence thickened again, the kind of quiet that settled deep in your bones. Tommy stayed still, letting Joel sort through whatever storm was building behind those weary eyes.

Then Joel spoke, voice low and cracked, like gravel scraping out of his throat.

“She killed… all of ‘em.”

Tommy’s jaw tensed. He stared down at his hands, lacing his fingers together like it might steady him.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Every last one of ‘em.”

Joel’s throat worked around a swallow, his gaze distant, unfocused, like he was seeing it happen even if he hadn’t been awake for it. Like he could feel the blood she spilled on his behalf soaking into his hands too.

“I should have been the one…” Joel’s voice broke at the edge, bitter and aching. “Should’ve finished it. Not her. Not—”

“She didn’t leave you a choice, Joel,” Tommy cut in quietly, but firm. “You were barely breathing. We didn’t know if you’d make it. You almost died on her arms that night.”

Joel gave a humorless, broken kind of laugh, but there was no light in it. Just sharp edges.

“And now what?” he muttered, a tear sliding down his temple he didn’t bother to wipe away. “She got their blood on her hands. Because of me.”

Tommy leaned forward; his voice steady in that way Joel remembered from years long gone, before the world turned to shit.

“She doesn’t regret it,” he said. “You know that. And neither would I.”

Joel’s eyes finally met his brother’s. A flicker of something there. Grief. Fury. Love. Loss.

“But I do,” Joel whispered. “I regret that she had to.”

Tommy swallowed hard, his throat bobbing.

“You’re not the only one with scars, brother,” he said softly.

“I don’t regret it,” you said, voice steady, though your chest ached with the weight of it. “No one deserves what they did to Joel.”

Gail’s brow lifted, arms folding across her chest. “Murder?” she challenged; one word sharp enough to cut.

You didn’t blink. “Murder’s a simple act these days. Torture?” Your voice turned cold, almost unfamiliar even to yourself. “That’s another thing.”

A beat of heavy silence stretched between you.

“Murder is what Joel committed when he blew my husband’s head off,” Gail snapped, her voice brittle, laced with venom, old grief that still clung to her like a second skin.

“It’s not the same,” you bit out, shaking your head.

“It is,” Gail said, stepping closer. “The only difference is you had the chance to save him. If you hadn’t, Joel would be dead right now. And you’d be mourning him like I mourned mine.”

A fury you hadn’t felt since that day surged hot through your veins. You took a shaky breath, eyes narrowing.

“Fuck you,” you hissed. “You don’t know him. You don’t get to talk about him like that.”

Gail’s face didn’t move, but something in her gaze flickered, something dark, bitter, and quietly resigned.

“I know enough,” she murmured. “Enough to understand what kind of man survives in a world like this. And what kind of woman kills for him.”

You held her gaze, unflinching, the burn of unshed tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, though your face gave nothing away.

“I’m not sorry,” you whispered. “And I never will be.”

“You don’t get it,” you murmured, voice breaking just enough to betray the rawness beneath your fury. “My life would’ve ended.”

The words hung there, fragile and furious all at once.

You swallowed hard, fighting the tremor in your throat. “When they took him… when I saw what they did… there wasn’t a world left for me after that. So don’t stand there and talk about men surviving and women killing like you understand a goddamn thing about what it feels like to have your heart ripped out of your chest and left bleeding in the dirt. Because you’ve been behind these walls, safe, without knowing what it’s like out there.”

Gail’s brow twitched; her gaze steady but dull. “Do you think I haven’t lost people? Do you think grief makes you special?”

“I didn’t say that,” you shot back, your voice tight, shaking now. “I’m saying you didn’t see him. You didn’t watch them tear him apart. You didn’t hear the sounds he made. And you sure as hell didn’t have to put him back together.”

Her jaw clenched. “And now what? Do you think murder fix it?”

“I don’t care if it does or doesn’t,” you spat. “I care that they’ll never touch him again. That they won’t look at Ellie. That no one here will whisper about how Joel Miller should’ve died that day.”

Gail scoffed, a bitter sound. “And what about you? How can you carry this and walk around like it won’t eat you alive?”

“I don’t care,” you said, low, certain. “I care about him.

A beat of silence.

“You think that makes you strong?” Gail asked quietly.

“No,” you whispered. “It makes me his, as I’ve always been.”

Gail’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “You talk like that’s a badge of honor.”

You let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head. “It’s not. It’s a fact.”

She tilted her head, watching you like someone examining a wound too deep to close. “What if you drown into this?”

“I’ll try to save myself” you shrugged.

Another pause. The room felt too small, thick with old grief and new wounds, neither of you willing to be the one to walk away first.

“I loved Eugene so much” Gail said, her voice rough. “And when he died, it didn’t turn me into this.”

You met her eyes, unflinching. “But it made you bitter towards Joel.”

Gail’s jaw tightened, something sharp flickering in her gaze. “He made choices. Ones that cost people their lives. Good people. You act like he’s some goddamn martyr, but he isn’t.”

“And neither was Eugene,” you shot back, your voice low and steady. “Do you wanna talk about choices? Fine. Joel made his. I made mine. And you? You’ve been standing behind walls judging the rest of us ever since we arrived.

Her nostrils flared, a bitter breath leaving her. “I don’t have to like what this world turns people into.”

“Neither do I,” you murmured. “But I’ll fight for the one thing in it that still means something to me. That’s the difference between you and me, Gail. You buried your heart with Eugene. I’m not ready to bury mine.”

A long, heavy silence stretched between you, the old ache of loss clawing at both your throats. And for the first time, Gail didn’t have a sharp reply. She just looked away, jaw clenched, and you took your opening.

You didn’t say goodbye. You just left.

You made your way back through the hallway, your steps slow, heavy, like every word from that conversation with Gail was still clinging to your skin. The air in Jackson felt colder somehow, like the whole town was holding its breath, waiting for something none of you could name.

As a town, you were still recovering from that day.

When you reached Joel’s door, you didn’t push it open right away.

You stood there, hand hovering by the frame, heart hammering against your ribs because, god, he was still here. Still breathing. Still alive.

And it didn’t matter how broken or battered he was, how much rage or guilt sat behind those tired eyes. It was him. And that was enough for you.

Inside, you heard the low murmur of his voice, raspy, weighted with a pain he never used to let anyone hear.

“But how is she really doing?”

“She’s… holding up,” Tommy answered, voice cautious. ”

Joel let out a rough, broken sound. Not quite a sigh, not quite a sob.

“If you ask me, you’re lucky she’s still here after what this world’s done to both of you.” Tommy said.

There was a pause, then Joel spoke again, softer this time, like he wasn’t sure he meant to say it out loud.

“I just… I don’t want her staying because she feels like she has to,” Joel muttered, his voice rough, almost cracking. “She should go, Tommy. Find something better. Hell, anyone better than… whatever I am now.”

Your stomach twisted. A sharp, cold ache settling beneath your ribs. You stayed frozen at the doorway, your hand tightening around the frame, every part of you aching. You didn’t mean to listen, but it was too late. The words were already carving themselves into your chest.

“She’s not here out of obligation.” Tommy said, his tone harder than before. “What would you do if you were her?”

Another pause.

Joel let out a humorless, ragged chuckle, and it hurt to hear it. “It’s not fair.”

“But she gets to decide what’s fair,” Tommy shot back. “And so far, she has decided it’s you.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, blinking fast against the burn in your eyes. Your heart hammered in your chest so loud you were sure they’d hear it.

You needed one more second to pull yourself together. To bury the hurt his words left behind, not because you doubted him, but because you knew where they came from. The same place you’d been sitting in since the day you saw him bleeding out in the dirt.

You swallowed down the knot in your throat, forcing your face into something steady, or close enough to pass for it. Then, with a breath you weren’t sure reached your lungs, you pushed the door open.

“Hey,” you said softly.

Both their heads turned. Joel’s eyes landed on you first, and for a split second, something in them broke open. A flicker of guilt, sorrow, and something heavier, like he knew you’d heard more than you were meant to.

But you gave him a small, careful smile, pretending the sting behind your eyes wasn’t there. Pretending your heart wasn’t in pieces on the floor between you both.

Tommy cleared his throat, glancing between the two of you. “I, uh — I’ll give you a minute.” He patted Joel’s shoulder, murmured something you couldn’t catch, and brushed past you on his way out.

The door clicked shut.

Silence stretched thin in the room, heavy like storm air. Joel shifted uncomfortably on the bed, his hand twitching against the blanket. He opened his mouth, then shut it again.

You crossed the room, sitting down on the edge of the mattress by his side. Close, but not quite touching.

“I was thinking…” you began, “I could ask the doctor if you can leave the hospital and go back home. We surely need to make some changes there with the bed and—”

“Stop it.” He cut you off, his voice rough but firm. “I’m not going anywhere right now.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden sharpness. “Joel—”

“No.” He shook his head, eyes dark with something you couldn’t quite name. “Not until I’m ready. And right now, I’m not ready to face that.”

The weight in his tone pinned you still. You wanted to argue, to tell him that staying there wasn’t helping him heal, but the raw edge in his voice stopped you.

Instead, you just nodded slowly. “Okay,” you said softly.

He didn’t answer, just closed his eyes, the tension in his jaw slowly easing into something like resignation.

You settled into the chair beside his bed, not bearing the closeness anymore, the quiet between you thick but familiar. Your fingers absentmindedly traced the worn edge of his sleeve, as if hoping to stitch together the frayed pieces of him with nothing but touch.

Joel’s breath was shallow, uneven, and you could feel the weight of everything he wasn’t saying pressing down on the room. The man you knew, the one who’d fought through hell and back was here, but buried beneath layers of pain and doubt.

“I’m scared,” he finally muttered, voice rough and low. “Not of dying... of what’s left after.”

Your heart clenched. “You’re not alone in that,” you whispered. “You know that.”

“What you did—” he began “I didn’t deserve to be saved, baby.”

“I made my choice.” You replied, eyes watering.

Joel’s gaze dropped to your trembling hands, then back up to your face, searching.

“I’m broken,” he said quietly, voice cracking. “Not the same man I was before.”

You shook your head gently, swallowing the lump in your throat. “You’re still him,” you insisted, voice firm but tender. “Wounded, maybe. Scared, sure. But still you. And I’m still here.”

A long pause stretched between you, filled only by the faint rhythm of his labored breathing.

Joel’s eyes glistened, a shadow moving through them as he let out a shaky breath.

“What you did… it’ll haunt you,” he murmured, voice low and rough like gravel. “Same way Salt Lake haunts me. What I did to those Fireflies… what I took from Ellie. Thought I was saving her. Thought it was worth whatever price.” He swallowed hard, jaw trembling. “But it never leaves you. Never lets you forget. Look what they did to me.”

You didn’t flinch. You leaned in, your hand finding his cheek, thumb brushing against the rough line of his beard.

“No,” you said softly, steady. “It won’t haunt me, Joel.”

He blinked, as if the words knocked something loose inside him.

“Because I know what we do,” you continued, voice trembling but certain, “when we love someone enough to tear the world apart for them. I know what it means to save the person who’s your whole heart. And I’ll carry it. All of it. And I won’t regret a single thing.”

His eyes closed, a tear slipping down his temple, and for the first time in too long, he didn’t look like a ghost of himself. He looked like Joel.

“Goddamn you,” he whispered hoarsely. “I don’t deserve you.”

“I’m not letting you go,” you said, leaning your forehead to his.

His breath hitched at the sound of your voice so close, your warmth grounding him in a way nothing else could.

“Baby…” he rasped, like it hurt to say it, like it was both a confession and a plea.

You hushed him gently, your hand brushing through his hair, your forehead still pressed to his.

“It’s gonna take time to heal,” you whispered. “I know that. I’m not asking you to be okay tomorrow, Joel. Or next week. Or even next year. I just need you here. With me. However, you can manage.”

His fingers, still weak, clung to yours like a lifeline. His voice cracked as he spoke again, rough and small.

“I won’t be able to protect you.” You felt it in the way his words splintered under the weight of his shame, the jagged edges of the man he used to be catching against what was left. His eyes searched yours, desperate and hollow all at once.

“I won’t be able to protect you,” he repeated, voice breaking like a man confessing to a sin he could never undo as he closed his eyes. “Not like before. Not the way I should do.”

You swallowed hard, a tear finally slipping free, tracing down your cheek as you gripped his hand tighter, like you could anchor him to this moment, to you.

“You don’t have to,” you whispered, voice trembling but certain. “You protected me for so long, Joel. Longer than anyone else ever did. It’s my turn now. I don’t need a gun in your hand to feel safe. I just need you. That’s it. I just need to feel the beating of your heart under my hand to know you’re still breathing with me.”

His throat worked around a choked sound, his other hand weakly lifting as if it wanted to touch you but couldn’t quite make it, so you guided it to your cheek, holding it there like it was the most precious thing in the world because that’s how it felt.

“I’m still yours,” you whispered against his palm. “Always. However, you come back to me.”

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