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heartpascal · 6 months

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fight the tide

▹— joel miller x platonic!reader

▹— summary: you face the consequences of going to seattle

▹— a/n: hello, this ended up being different to what i had planned. i hope yall enjoy anyway. its very angsty. very sad. at least to me. be careful with what you read. mind the warnings. love you.

▹— warnings: MAJOR TLOU 2 SPOILERS, suicidal ideation, or thinking about dying, almost hoping to die, major character death (referenced), canon-typical violence, eg murder, descriptions of blood / being covered in blood, kinda religious imagery / talks of divinity (no explicit religion mentioned), hints at a possible romance with jesse

▹— taglist: @rhymingtree @sleepygraves @wnstice (everything!) @auggiesolovey @just-kaylaa @evyiione @lemonlaides @fariylixie0915 @faceache111 @randomhoex @canpillowscry @pedropascalsrealgf @star-wars-lover @coolchick333 @soobsdior @rvjaa @sunflowersdrop @definitely-not-a-seagull-i-swear @miss-celestial-being (pedro)

MASTERLIST

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Setting off from Jackson was a distant memory, by now. It was hazed over, an image in your mind that didn’t seem to fit into reality, no matter how you tried it.

The past few weeks didn’t seem real to you, either.

More than once, you had found yourself waiting to wake up. As if all of this could be some sort of bad dream. A nightmare that you couldn’t escape, no matter how many times you pinched and clawed at yourself, trying to figure out how to prove that this wasn’t real.

Because, really, how could it be? This world, this city, it didn’t feel like it could be true. You didn’t feel like you, and this certainly didn’t feel like it was your life. Wherever you looked, the terrain showed the aftermath of a rampage.

Bodies strewn across the ground, puddles of red dripping down curbs, down cars, down buildings, down your hands. It was beneath your fingernails, caked into your hair, drying on your clothes. For a moment, you thought it was yours. It was the only plausible reason for why you were feeling so empty, wasn’t it? The only explanation for why your heart felt as if it would burst at any given moment.

This rampage was an act of such violence, such rage, it seemed unfathomable to you. You couldn’t remember a time where you had felt something so deeply that it presented as destruction. As a massacre.

That was the word for this, too. Massacre. All of these bodies were once people, once held love and life and the ability to hurt and kill others, just as you did. And when you looked closer, when you looked at their guns and their knives, the bows and the arrows, you knew they had been trying to kill you.

It made sense.

You didn’t want it to, but it did.

These people had tried to kill you, had tried to slaughter you, and they had ended up dead for it. It wasn’t the first time that had happened, either. Joel had killed more people than you could count, just for the crime of trying to bring you harm. It made sense that he would do it again.

“Joel?” You called, your voice echoing in the empty surroundings, bouncing off of bodies and weapons, off of the tangible feeling of death that hung in the air.

Your chest was heaving, breath entering and leaving your lungs so rapidly that it didn’t have time to supply the oxygen you so desperately needed. You hadn’t noticed how unsteady your breathing was, until you had spoken, until you had called out for Joel. It made you feel dizzy, all of a sudden, like everything was hitting you all at once.

For a moment, you didn’t notice that he hadn’t answered you.

But his silence lingered, and the only thing you could hear through it was the sound of your own panicking breaths.

That feeling from earlier — the one of your heart, which had been feeling as if it would burst at any given moment, revealed itself as a choked sob. It jumped out of your throat when you opened your mouth to call for Joel again.

Your devastation didn’t register, for more than a moment. Until you remembered why you were here, why there was a gun in your hand, empty of ammunition. When you looked around, you didn't find Joel. Instead, all you found was blood and death and your machete lay on the ground, a dent in the grass, covered in blood and gore.

There was something hanging over your head, something which felt as if it was holding your head underwater. It felt like the water was forcing its way down your throat, into your lungs, filling them up until all you could do was choke, heave on the lack of breath. Your head was exploding, pressure against the sides of your skull, pushing out, out, out, like a fungus was bursting through you. Only the vague feeling of your hand pressing against your head reassured you that you weren’t Infected.

The memories flashed before your eyes, distorting the image of destruction ahead of you, filling your mind with reality. Joel. Cracked skull, insides out. The unrelenting taste of iron on your tongue, your teeth. Getting on a horse in Jackson, and leaving. Fighting your way through Infected, people, even past Tommy. All in your search for vengeance, for Abby.

And all it had led you to was before you, laid out in death.

Did this make you a monster? Was it evil? You’re not sure if you believe in such a thing anymore, but if you did, you think it would look like a woman, braided hair, golf club raised in the air. But there’s this nagging feeling at the base of your skull, asking you, are you better?

You don’t know what it means. Are you better? Than what? Because of this? You want to ask Joel, but when you turn, he’s still there. Still lay out on concrete, skull scattered around the room, blood staining your skin.

It’s all you can think of. It’s all you can see. Even in the bodies around you, the people that you killed, you see a flash of white, a splatter of blood, and it’s all Joel. There’s the imprint of his boot in the grass, the sound of his voice in the wind, but the only heartbeat you can hear is your own.

Your knees press into the grass, and you stain your jeans with blood, but it feels soft. Softer than the concrete in that basement, softer than the frozen dirt in front of his gravestone. It’s welcoming, or something like it, and your heart aches with it.

A sound breaks through the air, pierces through the air that carries Joel’s voice, and it takes you more than a moment of your throat aching to realise it’s you. And there’s disappointment in that, you realise, that the only person here is you. Nobody is here to kill you, and nobody is here to protect you.

The sound coming from you doesn’t sound like your voice, doesn’t have any familiarity to you. It doesn’t convey words, but rather something harsher, something deeper, a sound which traverses language and time. It breaks these barriers, and empties the chest of something ancient, something eternal.

It wavers as time passes, it comes and goes, much like your recognition. Sometimes, you’re here, belting out something that doesn’t fit into words, and then you’re there, screaming out for mercy that never comes. And all you can hear is Joel, and he’s yelling at you, to you, but you can’t tell what he’s saying.

All you can see is his lips spelling something that he couldn’t say, that you couldn’t translate. You want to tell him you love him. You want to scream at him for going down there. You want him to pull you away from these corpses, but he can’t, and neither can you.

No matter how hard you try, there’s nothing you can do to pull yourself up, to overcome that weight that continues to drown you. It presses down on you until your nose is against the grass, and all you can smell is iron and dirt.

You stay there, one palm pressed against the machete that had been resting on the ground, the other gripping the dirt, for what seems like eternity. There’s no escape from it, nowhere you can turn to pull yourself from this mourning, this hell. And you know that nobody is coming to save you.

It sends a chill down your spine — tingling and bringing feeling back to limbs that had long-since turned numb, the realisation that you are going to end up just like Joel.

Here, against the ground, reduced to something less than human.

And — like Joel — there’s no fighting it.

If Abby approached, golf club raised to the heavens, you would accept it. You would welcome it.

Because surely, whatever would be waiting you, it would be better than this. This endless moment of suffering, of pain and grief so deep it encompasses your whole being. You wonder—hope that Joel would be waiting for you.

You feel guilty, a moment later, because you know that Joel deserves to rest—whatever that meant. And you also know that he had never done that, when he was around you. It was selfish to hope for him to be waiting for you, to hope that he would put whatever was awaiting him on hold, all for you.

Joel had been waiting to die for a long, long time.

Ever since Sarah.

And that fact sends a fresh wave of guilt through you, as if you could hold on to any more emotion, because Sarah was his daughter. She was everything he had wanted, since the moment she was born. And he had been waiting to join her. He had waited for Tommy, for Tess, and then for you and Ellie.

Maybe, Sarah sent Abby for him.

Maybe she got tired of waiting for her dad, whilst he feigned dad for two orphans, left alone in the bitter end of the world.

You try to think of her like that. Some sort of angel, a gift sent from Sarah, all to give Joel the mercy of death. To give him the easy way out. Because Joel didn’t have a choice about dying, Abby had made sure of that, so he couldn’t feel an ounce of guilt for leaving you and Ellie and Tommy to pick up the pieces, to carry his body home to an empty house, a dip in the earth.

It made sense to you, somehow.

Abby seemed so… unmovable.

She was like the force of nature. Nothing you, or Joel, or anyone, had done would’ve stopped her from doing what she did.

If you thought of her like this, as something divine, something above yourself, it was easier. It was easier to forgive yourself for failing to stop her, and now, for failing to end her.

But it also makes the guilt so much heavier.

And you don’t know how you can carry it, anymore.

Because if she was that, if she was something like a divine intervention, then you were doing everything that Joel had never wanted, for nothing. This, right here, this explosion of death, this blood, staining your hands, was what Joel had tried to steer you away from.

He didn’t want you to turn out like him.

Angry, burned, covered in blood.

Monstrous.

He was covered in the scent of stale blood, of death so old it had decayed to nothing, to earth and ash and life reborn. He was stained with it. Distorted by it. It had made his vision red, for as long as he could remember.

Joel didn’t want that for you.

Joel didn’t want you to end up here, knelt in the grass, drenched in blood and sweat, in guts and gore and everything wrong with this world.

And there’s even more guilt in that knowledge. You’re disappointing him. You can practically hear his voice ringing through the air, asking you what you were doing, why you were doing it. You could hear him telling you that he’s not worth all of this. It hurts that you can’t tell him otherwise. If he was here, you could have screamed at him, told him he was worth everything. But he’s not.

How do you carry that around with you? How can you? Are you supposed to drag the weight of Joel’s dead body behind you for the rest of your life?

He would tell you to let him go. He would tell you to live your life. But Joel had never really understood just what he meant to you, to everybody. He could never quite grasp the concept that he was loved, that he was one of the reasons you got up in the morning, one of the reasons you always fought to go home.

The problem is—you don’t want to let him go.

Your hand curls around the grass beneath it, sticky with blood, as if you could physically hold on to him. More than anything, you’re worried about losing the memories. If you let go of Joel, if you let his death fade to the back of your mind, would his life follow? Would you start to forget everything he had done for you? Everything he had meant to you?

Would you forget the sound of his laughter? The smile that only appeared on occasions, which lit up his entire face? The hug he greeted you with when you came home after a particularly hard day? The embarrassing talk he gave you about liking people your age? The feeling of having a father?

If you could, you would stay in those memories forever.

A ghost in your own past, haunting the man who had gone somewhere you couldn’t quite bring yourself to follow. You would go through all of that, the good and the bad, all over again, if it meant you could stay with Joel. Because despite everything, all of the things you had lived through, Joel Miller had become your home.

How could he expect you to let go of that? How could you be okay with that? After the life that you had led, you deserved to go home. It was hard not to resent Joel for expecting you to be okay with letting him go—divine intervention or not.

And you know, that if the tables were turned, if it were you who had been buried, if it was Joel who was here right now, he wouldn’t let you go. He would hunt Abby down, and he would make her suffer for what she had done, because Joel Miller was a force of nature, too.

Either way, he would have to find her.

So, shouldn’t you?

You think that you need to know. You have to find out if she’s this unearthly being that you have made her out to be. You need to know if you could’ve stopped her. If Joel could be alive, right here, right now.

There’s something so poetic about it all, you think.

Maybe, if you were in a better headspace, you could’ve figured it out. But really, what use was poetry in this world?

You’re working up the courage, the ability, to move, when you hear the footsteps crunching gravel just behind you. They’re heavy, purposeful, and you realise you’re still weeping, still screaming out for someone who can’t come. You think—hope—that this is Abby, here to put an end to this suffering. To these unending questions.

But there’s a warm hand against your back, a moment later, and no golf club swung at your skull.

“I’ve got ya, kiddo.” A voice says to you, hands grasping your shoulders, the twang of an accent so familiar that you’re reaching out, eyes closed, waiting for the person to reach back. When they do, your eyes open, but it’s not who you thought it was. You hadn’t died on this grass, and Joel wasn’t here to get you. Instead, Tommy stood in his place, his hands cleaner than your own.

When you look around, you wonder if you’re the monster that people will tell their children about. The person who ripped people to shreds, who tore them apart for no reason other than a quest for vengeance, one that wasn’t even fulfilled. Maybe, you think, you will become a cautionary tale. A warning for others. An example of what not to become, even in the apocalypse.

This was senseless. It was a slaughter.

All of these people are dead, and you don’t even know their names. They fought to protect themselves and the people around them, something of a team, maybe even a family, all because you are angry, and you are hurt, and you miss your dad. How many of these people have families at home? Families who will never see them again, because of you.

You know you’re not a divine being.

There was no otherworldly reason for your massacre. There was nobody behind a curtain, choosing your actions. No—there was just you.

What right did you have to decide these people should die? What right did you have to end their lives? Was one man—one dead man—truly worth this? Did he deserve to be the reason for your murderous rampage? Would he have wanted this? Would he be proud?

“C‘mere.” Tommy says, kneeling on the ground beside you, and shifting you until he could hold you tightly in his arms. If you don’t focus so much, if you let your mind wander, this could be Joel. It could be your dad hugging you, staining his clothes with the blood you’re drowning in. They’re similar enough, brothers, that you can imagine it is.

He’s holding you together.

“We need to get you out of here.” Tommy tells you, breaking the illusion you had been hoping to live in forever. You know he’s being patient with you — you can tell with every gust of wind that rustles the grass below you. Each one could bring more people, more bodies, yet Tommy refuses to rush you. Instead, he holds you tightly, like the cracks in your surface may lead to you bursting.

You suppose he’s right to worry.

His brother is dead. Joel is dead. And here he is, holding you in one piece, as if that wind could shatter you.

Selfishly, you don’t want him to be patient, or gentle, or kind. You want Tommy to show you some kind of mercy, to bring you peace of mind, of soul. But he can’t, unless he has some kind of insight that you don’t, unless he has ripped Abby apart and seen the divinity in her creation.

“C’mon,” Jesse says then, appearing out of seemingly nowhere. You hadn’t realised he was even nearby. Didn’t hear him approaching, though that could’ve been because of the unearthly wailing that had surrounded you. “I’m sorry,” He says, hand wiping at your face where it rests against Tommy’s shoulder. “We have to go. We have to go now. I’m sorry.”

And he does sound sorry—god, he sounds more apologetic than you had ever heard him.

You don’t know if he’s sorry for making you get up, for making you face the world again, or if he’s sorry that you’re even here, sorry that Joel is dead. You don’t know which you would prefer. You try to decide, and realise not long after that the two of them had pulled you to your feet, hands gripping you, waiting for you to hold yourself up.

“Jesse,” You choke out, reaching for him, as if seeing him for the first time. His hands are holding your own before you can even get out another word, uncaring of the blood that covers them. He squeezes once, twice, thrice, before he lets go to press his hands to your cheeks, grounding you, almost.

“It’s okay.” He says, and you can see in his eyes that he knows it’s a lie.

He takes your hand, pats your cheek, his forehead against your own for no more than a moment, before he’s letting Tommy take over, letting the man soothe his fatherly instincts. Uncle Tommy. You imagine a life where you would have called him that.

Tommy leads you away.

Away from the bodies, the gore, the guilt, hopefully. He grips onto you the whole way, pulls you along every time you stumble, holds you up whenever you long to fall. All the way until you reach a theatre, where Ellie and Dina have been bunkered, one of them tells you. We’re going home.

You wonder if they’re going to bury you in the ground, beside Joel. Home. You think it sounds nice.

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corazondebeskar-reads · 4 months

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you know you never stood a chance - deleted scene #1

you know you never stood a chance series

deleted scene #1: you don't have to go home

series masterlist

Joel Miller x f!reader

Words: 3.5k

Summary: set after the finale (like a few hours later lol) but before the epilogue. Joel catches a moderate but not life-threatening illness that forces you to tackle a subject you'd rather avoid.

Warnings: established relationship, angst, technically spoilers for tlou pt 2, poor communication, p in v, illness, anxiety, avoidance of feelings, major life decisions

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

When you see Tommy’s smug face at dinner, you turn on the heel of your boot to leave.

“Where’re you going?” Ellie says, coming up behind you. “You eating outside?”

“Sure, yup, that’s it,” you say, clutching your tray with both hands.

“Cool! Joel, I’m going to eat outside too,” she calls over her shoulder.

You risk a glance to see Joel looking at the two of you, brows wrinkled. He shrugs, and Tommy shakes his head at you.

“Chicken,” he mouthes.

You flip him off and go find a patch of grass to picnic on.

Ellie talks while she eats, food occasionally spraying out of her rapid-fire mouth. You’re more than happy to sit quietly and listen, to hear about the other kids she’s met and the neat things she’s found in her new room.

Your fortune doesn’t last. Tommy comes out of the hall with his hands in his pockets, still smirking.

“Ellie, why don’t you go grab some dessert?” he says as he helps himself to a seat on the ground.

“No thanks,” she says, looking between you.

“It’s pie,” he says.

“No thanks,” she says again. She puts on a very unnerving fake smile made worse by her widened eyes.

“He’s trying to get you to leave—“ you start.

She interrupts. “I know. I wanna hear whatever it is.”

“He’s trying to get you to leave so he can ask me about grownup stuff.”

Her nose crinkles as she catches on. “Ugh,” she groans and hauls herself to her feet before going inside. She takes both of your empty trays with her, and you feel a little sting of pride, however misplaced.

“So,” Tommy grins. “Nothin’ between you ‘n my brother, huh?”

You groan and bury your face in your hands. “Shut up.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me?”

You look up, and the smugness is gone. “What all did he tell you?”

“Just that y’all had ‘some kinda situation’ back in Boston. And that you stayed over there last night.”

You snort and shake your head. “I guess ‘some kinda situation’ is about right. I didn’t want to tell you I was fuckin’ him for rent.”

His eyes widen. “Shit.”

“Yeah. And for food, before that. Didn’t want you to think I was a whore, I guess.” You’re sitting with your legs crossed, but it doesn’t stop your knee from bouncing as you look anywhere but Tommy.

“Hey, no,” he says, leaning forward. “Look, ain’t nothin’ wrong with surviving however you got to.”

You feel a wretched sting at the corner of your eyes. He was always so goddamn genuine, but it was still hard to accept his words at their value.

He scoots over and grabs your hand. “I mean it. I’m not gonna judge you for that.”

“Thanks,” you whisper, squeezing his hand.

“That why you don’t wanna move into their place?”

“What?”

“I was gonna offer to help move your stuff, but Joel said you told Ellie you were stayin’ put.”

“Do you need me to? To make room for someone?”

“No! No, you can stay. I just figured you’d want the company. And well, Joel said—“

You wait, but he pretends to be distracted by a honey bee.

“Joel said what?”

“Just, he thought you would. Since y’all lived together before, and you talked about it.”

You snort. “We talked about it? Is that what he calls our conversation from this morning?”

“I dunno. It’s Joel. You think he gave me all the details?”

“Fair. Nah, I’d like to stay on my own. Not that anyone asked me to do anything different.”

It’s then that Maria wanders out with Alé, setting her down to explore. She screws up her little face, ready to rage about being placed on her tummy before she realizes she’s somewhere fun.

Joel and Ellie come out a few moments later to find the three of you watching Alé intently. She’s given up on trying to eat the grass after several unsuccessful attempts. Her little fist would open and close, only to find herself empty-handed when she brought it to her mouth.

Now, however, she’s returned to frustration and is attempting to roll herself onto her back.

It’s not going well, but you’re all watching and encouraging her.

Ellie squats to peer down at her. “You’re like a big potato,” she says.

Joel wipes a hand down his face. “Ellie,” he warns.

“What?”

“Is that any way to talk to your cousin?”

She looks up at him, startled. “Uhh. I don’t know. I’ve never had a cousin before.” She regards Alé again. “You’re a strong potato. You can do it.”

Alé responds with a loud yell as she pushes again and then falls quiet as she finds herself flat on her back looking up at Ellie.

Her little audience cheers and claps, unfortunately startling her. Maria and Tommy shower her in praise, and you stand up, stepping back by Joel.

“You comin’ back to ours?” he says, not looking at you.

“No, not tonight.” You need the space. You’ve grown accustomed to being alone, found peace in it even, and the last two days have been a new kind of exhausting.

But you see the way his lips twitch into a scowl before he schools his face back to neutral.

“Mind walking me home?” you offer.

The tension falls just a fraction from his shoulders. “Course not,” he says. “You gotta lead the way, though.”

Tommy shoots you a look you don’t know how to interpret when you say goodnight.

“Are you going to be gross? Do I need to stay out of the house?” Ellie says far too loudly.

“Nah, you’re safe,” Joel says, shaking his head.

It’s weird. You hold hands on the walk back. It’s a quiet intimacy you’d never even considered to share with him before.

The warmth of his palm and cradle of his fingers are undeniably nice.

It’s also undeniably awkward. You stand on your porch, stiffly holding hands like he hasn’t been inside you a hundred times over.

You look up at him and appreciate the way the sunset falls across his back.

He brings his free hand up to cup the back of your head and gives you maybe the chastest kiss you’ve ever had. Certainly more than you ever thought him capable of. It kind of hurts your feelings, actually.

“What the hell was that?”

His brow furrows. “What?”

“You kissed me like I’m your grandma!”

He rolls his eyes to high heaven. “I was tryin’ to be respectful.”

“Gross. You know what? That was disrespectful. Kiss me proper, Miller.”

He’s more than happy to oblige, even though it results in the boner he was trying to avoid in the first place. He gets you pressed up against your front door with a handful of ass and your soft moans against his lips.

You break away when you hear a voice down the road and put your hand against his chest, gently pushing him back.

“Guess I should get goin’,” he says. He doesn’t move, though.

You’re all too aware of the way his cock is straining against his jeans and you almost invite him in. How you manage to find the self-control not to, you’ll never know. But it feels important, somehow, that you sleep alone tonight.

“You wanna meet up for breakfast in the morning?”

“Yeah, okay,” he says. His hands rest on your hips as he steals one last kiss. “I’ll see ya then, sweetheart.”

You can’t seem to stomach the idea of watching him walk away, so you go inside.

He waits until he hears the deadbolt click before he heads for home.

Summer withers, and autumn sees you spending the night together a couple of times a week. Always you at theirs—you never ask him over to your place. It’s a silly line you’ve drawn, and even though you know you’re the one who put it there, you feel bitter on the cold nights alone.

Worse yet, you know you’re only doing it out of stubbornness. You made a big fucking deal out of it, and now you have to stick with it so it doesn’t look like you’re weak. Like you can’t be alone. Like you need him.

And also, no one has fucking asked you to do any differently, so. Whatever.

But it’s not like you don’t know that he wants to.

No, he hasn’t asked, but he may as well have. His clothes are kept to one side of the closet. There are three empty drawers in his dresser.

His books are crammed on the top half of the shelves in the living room, stacked askew in a way you knew had to drive him crazy. The fuck you quilt hangs over the back of the sofa, though it’s more often found wrapped around Ellie.

By the first snowfall, he keeps a toothbrush for you in the medicine cabinet beside his own. There’s a Joel-shaped indent in the left side of the mattress, betraying how the right stays vacant when you’re gone.

The list goes on. The coffee mug. The little tin of vaseline for your chapped lips on the nightstand. All the spaces where nothing sits, waiting.

But he doesn’t ask.

You haven’t seen Joel for two days. It’s weird. You’re not sure how to feel about it—you’re the one who wanted space, after all. But so far, you’ve at least met at the mess hall for a meal each day.

You’re walking home after working the breakfast shift on the third day when Ellie catches up with you. You’ve seen her around but haven’t wanted to ask after Joel, not wanting her to think you only talked to her for him.

She looks nervous, though. She’s fiddling with her sleeves and won’t look at you, so you come to a stop.

“What’s going on, kiddo?”

“I’m not supposed to tell you.”

“Sure, that’s not suspicious or anything.” You’re trying not to be anxious, but her energy is rubbing off.

“Look, don’t get mad; I only agreed not to because it didn’t seem like a big deal, but now it seems like a big deal—”

“Are you in trouble? Is somebody making you uncomfortable?” A thousand bad scenarios have come to life in your mind, each increasingly ridiculous but horrifying. Maybe that’s why Joel’s missing. Maybe someone laid a hand on Ellie, and he killed them. You hope he did.

“What? No,” her scoff cuts through your panic. “Joel’s sick. He didn’t want you to come by and get sick, so he made me promise not to say anything. But he’s being stupid, and now he can barely walk to the bathroom without hacking up a lu—wait, where are you going?”

“Where do you think I’m going? I’m going to give your idiot father a piece of my mind,” you growl.

She jogs to catch up with you, but her face is red, and she won’t look at you again.

Your brain catches up with your tongue, and you pause. “Hey, I didn’t mean to be weird—”

“It’s fine,” she says. “Let’s go. I wanna watch you yell at him.”

You don’t. Not right away, at least. He’s asleep when you get there, and honestly, it’s a little upsetting how unwell he looks. It kind of shakes the anger right out of you.

You promise Ellie you’ll wait for her to come home to yell at him.

The idea of climbing into bed with him is extremely tempting. Instead, you start to draw warm water for a bath and tidy up the things left behind in the wake of his deteriorating condition.

It’s not much. Even sick, Joel is relatively neat. Also, it’s pretty obvious that he’s been living in the same sweats and tee for the last three days. You make sure to set a clean outfit and warm socks on the bathroom counter.

With Ellie bringing dinner from the mess later, you don’t have much to do other than brew tea. The kettle’s on when you hear a groan from upstairs.

He’s heaved himself to sitting when you crack the door open.

“Ellie, I told you to stay out. I don’t want to get you sick.” His voice is crackling and raspy.

You push it open, scowling. “Well, you didn’t tell me shit, so.”

The glower is there immediately. “I’m tellin’ you now, then. Get out.”

“Nope. You lost that chance. Now you’re gonna suck it up and get taken care of.” You start stripping the sweaty sheets off his bed while he’s still sitting on it. “Go on and get in the bath.”

“I’m just gonna lay back down for a bit,” he mumbles.

You press the back of your hand against his forehead, followed by your lips. “You’re burning up. Get in the tub.”

But when you stand, his head follows, and you let him rest against your stomach for a minute, carding your hand through his damp hair.

“C’mon,” you urge, tugging at his hand. He lets you lead him into the bathroom, a marker of how sick he really must be.

The kettle hollers while he’s stripping down, and he’s settled once you return with the tea.

“I don’t want any shitty leaf water right now,” he grumps.

“Too bad! It has honey and lemon, and your throat’s seen better days.”

He accepts the cup, but he’s scowling.

“Y’know, you’re not very scary, butt ass naked in a tub with an owl on your mug,” you remark, sitting on the floor and leaning against the cabinet so you can see him.

“You shouldn’t be here. You’re going to get sick. Did Ellie squeal?”

“Joel, I haven’t seen you in three days. Did you think I wasn’t going to get worried?”

His scowl pouts. “I didn’t mean to worry ya.”

“Yeah, well, you did. So. Don’t do that again.” You purse your lips and look at your tea.

“Hey,” he says, water sloshing as he shifts to get a better look at you. “You don’t gotta do… all this,” he says, gesturing to the mug and the bedroom, where you’ve tucked clean sheets onto his mattress.

“I know.”

He’s loathe to admit it, but the bath did help. Worse yet, the tea helped. He feels a little more human in clean clothes, but you still refuse his help cleaning up.

When you’re done, however, you peel back the blanket and crawl into bed with him. So maybe it’s not all bad, he thinks.

At least, until Ellie gets home and you properly scold him.

He’s asleep more than he’s awake, so you stay. You toss and turn and check on him about a hundred times. If the fever would break, you’d feel better. Except no, you wouldn’t, because that cough that’s settled in his chest scares you far more than you’d like to admit.

You’re not privy to the medical stock in Jackson, but you have a bad feeling that an old man with pneumonia wouldn’t be high on the list for antibiotics.

Not that you think he’d accept them, anyway. He’d be too worried about using up something a kid might need. Or anyone else. He doesn’t seem to realize anyone would put him first.

You and Ellie just might let the town burn for him. (But when you think of Alé, you kind of get it.)

Anyway. When he’s awake, he’s groggy, but you manage to convince him to eat. Never much at once, so you make sure it’s soup or oatmeal. Something soft and packed with nutrients.

On the third day of your stay, he starts to come ‘round the mend. The fever breaks. He starts to stay awake for longer than a couple of hours.

You set him up with what you can and return to your life, but you can’t make yourself go home at night. It’s just because of the damn cough, you tell yourself. You just need to keep an eye on it.

A couple of nights later, he’s awake when you peel the covers back and slide in behind him, arm curling around his waist. You press a kiss to the nape of his neck, nestling in as he rewards you with a contented hum. He lets you hold him for a minute, basking in the embrace before he rolls onto his back.

You’re clinging to him a little too tight.

“Rough patrol?” He says.

You shake your head where it’s buried in his tee. “Nothin’ we couldn’t handle.”

“Don’t like you havin’ to handle anything,” he grumbles. He knows, both because he’s been told repeatedly and because he’s seen you handle the weapon, that you can protect yourself now.

It doesn’t mean he likes it.

“I was with Tommy. We were fine.” You yawn. It has to be past two now, what with shift change come midnight and then all the cleanup after.

He slips his arm under you so he can tug you closer, rubbing a hand up and down your arm. You press a kiss in the thicket of hair at the center of his chest, and he wonders if he’ll ever get used to this. He hopes not—he doesn’t ever want to take it for granted.

You yawn again, eyes watering, but your exhaustion is betrayed by the way your hips press against his thigh.

“What do you need, darlin’? Want me to lick your pussy until you fall asleep?”

“Can I ride you?” you counteroffer.

He groans, cock twitching to attention. “Of course, pretty girl.”

He helps you straddle him and reaches to peel the old t-shirt off your body so he can admire your tits in the moonlight. And the way your face goes soft when you see how he’s looking at you.

You waste no time, shifting around until you’ve got his cock in your hand and are settling atop it. You moan in tandem as he spreads you, the broad tip of him easily pressing through the slick.

“Needy tonight, huh? What’s got you all worked up?” he teases.

“Just you,” you say through a gasp as you grind down all the way.

He reaches up, maybe for your breasts, but you don’t find out. Instead, you intercept them and entwine your fingers.

He gets the idea and holds firm, ever your unwavering foundation. You use his support to gyrate, hips grinding as your thighs push around his to slide up and down on his cock.

Your palms are sweaty, but his grip is tight and desperate. His head tilts back, exposing the long column of his neck.

“Fuck,” you whimper as you get the angle just right. It makes you jerk a little, bumping that sweet spot again. He grunts, teeth gritted as you clamp down around him. When he looks back up at you, he’s positively ravenous.

“No,” you say before he opens his mouth with some bullshit.

“C’mon,” he whines.

“You’re still sick. I’m not lettin’ you cough up a lung. You’re gonna lay there and take what I give ya.”

His eyes narrow at the over the top Texan accent you saved for the last bit. “You think you’re funny, huh?”

“You think I’m funny. You love all my jokes.”

“Damned if I don’t,” he grumbles, but it’s betrayed by the look in his eyes. “You, too, y’know.”

You almost freeze up but decide to play obtuse. “You’re right; I do love all my jokes.”

He opens his mouth again, so you change pace a little to throw him off.

It works.

Whatever he was about to say, which you know damn well but aren’t prepared to handle right now, comes out as a broken moan.

In the end, it slips out of you a few days later. It’s not triggered by anything; he doesn’t do anything charming, there’s no intense moment of intimacy or heroism that inspires it.

You don’t mean to say it, but you do mean it.

You’re sitting side by side on his porch, steaming mugs of tea in hand. The pale winter sun has barely broken the horizon, but you had still agreed to come out in the cold with him. Agreed it might be good for him to get some fresh air.

The fuck you quilt is draped over both your shoulders. Joel had grabbed it on the way out the door while you balanced the tea and put your boots on. It cocoons you, but there’s still a little space between you, knees knocking together but bodies apart.

You watch his breath curl out into the dawn, and it just happens.

“I love you, Joel,” you say. It’s quiet, softer than the creak of the swing. It takes you by surprise, as your tongue so often does, but you don’t try to reel it back or brace for disaster.

You don’t need to. You know.

But he freezes. Pauses.

He didn’t know, you realize, he wasn’t sure. All this time, he wasn’t saying it but still making sure you knew.

But you haven’t done the same for him.

He didn’t know.

He wraps his free arm around your shoulder and tucks you into him, chin resting on your head. “I love you, too, sweetheart.”

The peace lasts for about a minute.

“Now will you stop being so goddamn stubborn and move in?”

*title from "Closing Time" by Semisonic

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #you know you never stood a chance series #the last of us fic #the last of us smut #joel miller fic #joel miller smut #tlou 2 spoilers #tlou fic #the last of us pt 2 spoilers

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