Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Your ass has already gone numb from sitting in your barebones tree stand. It was little more than a seat strapped to a ladder strapped to a tree, but it got the job done— Less conspicuous than a proper deer stand, anyway. Even with numb ass cheeks and a runny nose brewing, the early fall breeze was still nice, not too bone-chilling. The sunrise was exceptionally beautiful today. You don’t recall the last time you watched the sunrise. You don’t really recall the last time you sat this still for this long.

It was too early in the season to start hunting, but you were feeling lucky. And, if you were being honest, just needed to get away from the cabin. From the monotony of daily life you’d created. This was as outside of the box you could think of— coming out to stare out a field while slowly freezing your ass off.

But it was nice… peaceful. A break from routine. Routine was all you had lately. Routine was safe. Routine kept you alive.

It started out as a little hike. Something to get your blood pumping. You had to justify it, of course, so you turned it into a hunting trip. Nothing can be done without purpose. Not in this world. What’s the worst thing that could happen— you actually bring some meat home?

Four hours without a single animal passing through your vantage point and you start to have your doubts. You would have been better off walking through trails and looking for rabbits, but something about just sitting sounded so fucking nice. Just sitting. Not doing a goddamn thing.

You both cherish and hate it at the same time.

Finally, you see movement just over the hill of the clearing. About damn time. Your grasp tightens around your bow in anticipation. You click your cheek to get Gus’s attention just below you. He’d more than likely fallen asleep by now. You look down the trunk to see your loyal companion's ears perk up. The black and white border collie rises and shakes off the leaves from his coat, ready to pounce and give chase as soon as your arrow flies. Both your eyes fixed on the movement in the clearing. It was big. You’re praying for a deer or, god willing, an elk. God, you’d be set through most of winter if you got an elk.

The animal stalks closer, a little over a hundred yards away. The tall golden grass obscures most of its body but once it takes a few more steps you can finally make it out— it’s definitely not any deer.

It’s a man. A very, very injured man. He’s limping, blood staining nearly every inch of him.

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit.

You’re instantly tense, a rush of adrenaline pumping you to full alert. This was the first person you’d seen in— you can’t recall how long— and look at him. Any inkling of him being a possible threat is instantly dismissed. He’s barely walking, if you could even call it that. The possibility of him being infected crosses your mind, but there’s too much purpose to his movements. Too much humanity still left in his face.

Then why was he out here?

The likelihood of this being a trap crosses your mind next, but you quickly abandon the thought when you see him drop his rifle and pack and take a good ten steps past them. If he was acting, he deserves an Academy Award. He looked absolutely exhausted. If his pitiful walking wasn’t convincing enough, his dirty, tattered body was.

You let out a gasp when he finally collapses with a nasty thud. Gus lets out a small ruff below— just as engrossed with the stranger as you. Now what?

What do you do with this? What the hell do you do?

You could help him— of course you could. That’s who you are, what you used to be at least. Someone who helped people. You have all the skills and necessities to do so. You want to help him. Everything in you is screaming to just go up to him— but you have to be smart. You don’t have the luxury of acting on kind will anymore.

The mystery man lies there motionless as you quickly weigh your options. 

This could still be a trap. Even if he wasn’t the one setting it, he could be the bait. You hadn’t encountered it before but you’d heard stories of the raider's tactics. To lure people out with sympathy. Even if he was, Gus would have surely alerted you if there were more nearby by now.

You test this theory as you slowly crawl down from the tree stand and lurk low to the ground, Gus prowling beside you. You take a few steps into the grass and he doesn’t stop you. The coast must be clear. You always trust that dog's instincts above all. He hasn’t led you astray yet. 

Still, there’s more to debate while you let a man bleed out in front of you.

He could have been followed, but something tells you that wasn’t likely either. Or at least if he had been, they would have easily caught up to him in his condition.

Or you’re just hoping that was true.

And the worst option… He could still be infected. You’d never seen an infected come out this far. Hell, regular people never came out this far. They just didn’t. Nothing about his movements or mannerisms suggested he could be infected. And again, Gus would have let you know. He knows their scent. Maybe he’s bitten but it hasn’t taken hold yet? There’s no way to tell.

And there’s really only one way to find out.

You take a deep breath, sliding your bow across your back. You run swiftly through the grass with your dog close at your side, doing your best to remain low and somewhat hidden by the foliage. This was insane. This was stupid. This is risking so much and yet you can’t stop yourself. Even after all these years, that need is still embedded in you. The need to help.

You kneel next to the mystery man and Gus circles the two of you, the ever-vigilant guard dog. 

“Hey…Um, sir?” you say awkwardly as you tap the side of his face. There’s some small movement in his rugged features but nothing resembling consciousness. He’s out cold. 

You quickly assess the obvious damage to him. Your hands lightly glide over his body, checking for broken bones, any bloodied wet spots…or bite marks. He’s bandaged something across his stomach with some ripped fabric and duct tape. You carefully peel back the soaked-through fabric to see two nasty lacerations stretch over his stomach, one on each side. You’re not sure how deep they are and you don’t want to dig your unsanitized hands in it to find out. That was the worst of it. He was covered in small scrapes and bruises. His knuckles were bloodied and bruised. He’d fought his way out of something. A twinge of fear pricks in the back of your mind that he may have been followed after all. You end your examination on his left ankle— definitely badly sprained if not broken entirely. The flesh around his boot was swollen and red. 

But nothing that remotely resembled a bite. Gus gives him a good sniff over and you get the final approval. This man isn’t infected. Just mortality wounded— great.

You sling his gun and backpack across your back and lean over the stranger, giving yourself one final chance to debate all of this.

You could take his stuff and run. Leave him for the birds. Had the world really made you so bitter? No, you know it hadn’t. If you left him here, this man’s death would be on your conscience every day. A death you could have prevented. It’s just not in your nature to be so selfish, even after everything. Even if you couldn’t save him, you’d at least know you tried.

You had the means to get him back home. You’d wheeled out one of the small wagons with you in hopes you’d be bringing some fresh meat back. Well, you guess you still are— It’ll just be live meat. Hopefully live, at least.

If you help him, it’s another mouth to feed. Someone to take care of and bandage on top of your daily work. Are you willing to do it? You’d done it for others before, but that felt like a lifetime ago. Is it still worth it?

Yes, you decide.

“I’m gonna get you out of here.” You assure him as you hook your arms under his shoulders and start to drag him back into the tree line. Even if he can’t hear you, talking at least comforted you. You always talked to your patients anyway. 

“Christ, you’re heavier than you look.” You wheeze, shuffling as quickly as you can back to the tree line. 

Gus walks with you, still on edge. He sniffs at the curious stranger cautiously. You’re sure he’s not going to like any of this. Gus was never a fan of any of the men you brought home— not that you brought that many.

You awkwardly lift Mystery Man into your two-wheeled wagon and toss in all of your combined supplies. Time was of the essence if he’d lost as much blood as you thought he had— and your home was over a mile away. You take a moment to gather yourself before picking up the wagon handles and marching as quickly as possible through the wooded terrain back to the cabin. 

At least the September air was still pleasant. Not too hot, not too cold. The humidity of summer dissipates as fall creeps into the woods. You wish you had time to admire the changing of the leaves, but not today. At least you got to watch the sunrise.

You’re absolutely drenched in sweat by the time the cabin’s finally in sight. You don’t recall ever being so happy to see it. No one’s followed you and Gus hasn’t alerted you to anyone else's presence. Well, that at least makes you feel a little better. You likely still won’t light a fire for the next few nights, just in case.

The journey isn't over yet, though. You drop the wagon with an angry thud against the porch.  

“Here we are!” You say to the practical corpse of a man as you hoist his upper body back into your arms, “God, imagine how much you’d weigh with all your blood.”

You drag him to the living room floor, deciding to roll him into a proper bed once you clean his wounds and take care of whatever needs taking care of— a lot. A lot needed taking care of with him. First, you get his filthy flannel out of the way, unbuttoning it to reveal the full map of bruises across his toned torso. It just further confirms your suspicions of him being in a fight. A bad one.

“Don’t move!” You instruct the still man. You’re probably talking too much given the situation,  but it’s helping you process it all. Gus waits silently at the door as you panickedly rush through your home. You start to boil two large pots of water over the wood stove. One empty and one with gauze and towels. Your water was decently filtered but you’re not taking any chances on possibly making this gravely injured man even sicker with an infection because you don’t have fucking chlorine in your water.

While the water boils you ready your other supplies. You grab your untouched medical supplies from the closet and drop them next to Mystery Man. You quickly dig through the old bag, praying you have any kind of antibiotics left. Luck seems to be on your side for once today, finding a still half-full bottle of amoxicillin in the bottom of the medical bag. You organize the chaos, lining up all your necessary supplies on a towel. It wasn’t an OR but it was…something. This wasn’t necessarily a sterile environment but it was the best you could do.

The water should be sanitized by now. You take the pots off the stove and gingerly place them next to your other supplies. Another few minutes to thoroughly wash your hands and you’re good to go. While this man had lost a lot of blood, his biggest risk factor at this point was infection— the slow painful death kind, not the walking fungus kind. Both are terrible options, really. 

You kneel next to him amongst your scattered supplies, taking a deep breath to gather yourself once more before you begin your work. When was the last time you did this? Who was your last patient? It’d been years , what if you’d forgotten everything? Your isolation out in the woods could have slowly rotted your brain. Still, going through the process in your head, you can recall every step. Sure, it’d been a while but you knew what to do. Just because it’d been so long doesn’t mean your skills dried up like a well—right? You’re still a medic. You’ve got this.

“You can still do this,” You assure yourself with another steady breath. You’d done this thousands of times before. He’s no different than the rest.

Your clean hands ghost over him, deciding where to start. The massive cuts on his sides seem like a good place. You need to clean them, both to get any filth out of them, but also just to see how serious it is. If this wound was deep enough to puncture any organs there’s a good possibility there’s nothing you could do for him. 

Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.

The wound on his right stretches from his stomach to just below his ribs. The left one is smaller, stretching down vertically about 6 inches, stopping just above his hip. They look maybe 2 days old, based on the bruising and ridiculous amounts of dried blood. He may have saved his life with those shotty duct tape bandages in the field, but there was still a lot that needed to be done. You take a cup of clean water and pour it over the first wound. Blood and dirt trickle out of it. His muscles react to the sensation but he still doesn’t wake up. You pour more water over it and start dabbing it with a towel. You had to take this part slowly. You had to be gentle and observant just to see how bad it was.

You breathe a sigh of relief when there’s eventually only blood rinsing out. No pus or mystery liquid that should definitely be somewhere else. After a thorough cleaning, you feel confident enough to stitch him up. Fishing line is the best you have, but it’ll have to do.

You repeat the same process for the wound on his other side— also a clean cut.

Once he’s all cleaned up and closed, you tape a few layers of gauze over each one and a layer of compression bandages over that. You even top it off with a shot of amoxicillin. Better care than you were able to give some of your other patients, that’s for sure. 

“God, I hope you’re not allergic to this,” You say as you inject the potential life-saving liquid. If that does its job, this guy might just have a chance.

His other wounds were trivial in comparison. Smaller cuts or bruises you couldn’t do anything about. Less life-threatening than the giant new holes around his stomach.

“Well, that’s the worst ones taken care of,” You sigh with little relief, wiping some sweat from your brow, “Unless you’re bleeding from somewhere else I can’t see.”

You looked down at his remaining blood-soaked clothes. If you had to guess you’d say he lost nearly a liter, but maybe not all of it was his— again, you try not to think about it right now. 

You turn your attention to his other grave injury— his ankle. The skin around the joint is tender and red, swollen to nearly double the size of his other leg. You have to get his boot off. If you were treating this like a proper emergency situation you’d have just cut the boot off. Instead, you take the time to carefully unlace them completely and they slide off with no problem. Good boots are hard to come by and this guy's clothes are almost all trashed as it is. The stiffness of the leather boot may have just saved this man’s foot in the long run.

His ankle was badly sprained, if not broken.  None of the tendons seem completely severed so he’ll walk again— thank god. Lord knows you don’t know how to perform actual surgery. The best option for it regardless is to stabilize it. You wrap his foot in compression bandages and immobilize it on each side with a ruler and a wooden spoon. It’s not pretty but it gets the job done just the same. You wished you had ice to help with the swelling. You’ll have to check and see if you have any anti-inflammatories left to help with that.

With his two main injuries stabilized you continue to look over and patch up any of his smaller wounds over the next hour. None as nasty as the cuts on his stomach, but plenty were just more risk for infection. Some are just scrapes… some look fairly similar to shallow stab wounds you’d seen before. You repeat the same process for all of them— Your two bowls of water slowly become crimson red as you work.

His breath remains steady the whole time. Whoever this guy is, he’s a fighter. The scars that already littered his skin were proof enough of that. 

Once satisfied with your work you drag him over to your bedroom and wrap him in a few blankets. With no shirt and tremendous blood loss, he’s going to wake up cold. You do your best to hopefully make him comfortable. 

That’s it. You’ve done everything you can do. All that was left was to wait. 

More premature relief blankets over you as you wash your bloodied hands off in the bathroom sink, fingers trembling from the adrenaline coming down. Your mind drifts back to your brief time as a nurse— back when the world was whole. Within your first week in the ER, you’d seen dozens of injuries worse than his. After the breakout, you’d seen hundreds more. Still, your proper education was nearly ten years ago now. 

The rest of your medical history was stuff like this. Injured folk at the end of the world who needed an actual doctor, but you were the best they had— and that’d been a long time ago too. You still can’t quite recall when your last patient was. 

And of course, the first person you see in years just happens to end up a patient as well. A long-term patient.

With him tucked away and bandaged up, you turn your attention to his supplies. You unload his gun. Only four rounds left. You place the bullets in your junk drawer in the kitchen and drag all his gear into the room, placing it at the foot of the bed. Despite having hovered over him for the last few hours you finally take a moment to just… Look at him. He’s rather handsome, you suppose. For a guy living through the apocalypse. A strong chin and nose framed with a slowly peppering beard. Dusty curls with rich tan skin. If you had to guess you’d say his eyes were brown. The lines on his face are deep with character.  Okay, he was very handsome.

Upon just observing him, more of your foolish decision-making hits you. You didn’t know this man, and you brought him into your home. You put him in your bed! You don’t know his past or what he’s capable of. In his condition, he wasn’t currently capable of much at all. You’re sure you could overpower him if it came to violence when he woke up. If that’s how it had to be, then that’s how it had to be. You pray it wouldn’t come to that, though.

If Art were still here, he’d be absolutely livid right now. Then again, there was very little that didn’t set him off. He’d be so disappointed in you if he’d seen what an idiot you’d been here. Probably both for bringing a stranger into his home and your shotty patch job. 

“You don’t owe anyone anything, and neither do I. Not anymore,” Your old mentor’s voice rings in your head. Stubborn, brutish old man— you missed him so much. 

You suddenly remember who your last actual patient was. You’d learned your lesson once. Helping people had a price. A physical one sometimes. Suddenly you can feel every ridge of the scars on your lower abdomen. A constant reminder of the risks something like this came with. Someone you tried to help took something away from you. 

You hoped this man was different.

And really, what kind of asshole would wake up and murder the person that saved their life? A lot of assholes probably. This new world is full of them. 

You decide to keep your hunting knife on your belt, just in case.

It’s hours later until anything happens.

You’re sitting in the living room when you hear a crash from the bedroom— followed by a pained grunt. Gus is there before you are, his hair raised and a defensive growl in his throat. You rush to the door and there he is, your mystery patient up and walking. Well, sort of. 

He’s rolled out of the bed, knocking over a lamp that hasn’t been turned on in months in the process. He’s trashing in the tangled sheets, trying to get himself up. 

“Easy!” You say first to him, “Easy!” You say again to Gus. The dog backs down, still standing defensively between your legs. 

“Who are you?” The man wheezes out, “Where am I?” His voice is deep and raspy but there’s barely any power behind it. You can tell he’s trying to be threatening but he’s too weak to do much of anything. He’s shivering. His eyes are darting around the room, likely looking for anything he could use as a weapon.

He can’t manage to stand on his own two feet so you think you're probably safe.

You raise your hands and crouch down to his level. He’s tense— A panicked animal backed into a corner. You have to be calm, show him you’re not a threat. You slowly offer a hello and your name. “I saved your life. You’re beat up pretty—”

“Where am I?” He repeats with more force this time.

“Safe. My house.” You say calmly but with force, not letting him have control of this conversation, “I assume not far from wherever you got the shit beaten out of you.”

He flinches with a hiss of pain, grasping at his side. He’s going to open his stitches if he keeps thrashing around like this. You need to get him back into bed. He needs to rest. You need to calm him down.

You take a careful crouched step towards him. 

“Don’t.” He snarls. 

“Look, mister,” You sigh, sitting back on your heels, “Why would I have brought you here? Why wouldn’t I have just left you out there to die, hmm?”

“You might want somethin’. I don’t know what side you're on. Who you work for. ”

“Yes, because you have so much to offer right now,” You can’t help but roll your eyes, “I’m on the side that gets you in the bed and to stop writhing on the ground. You’re gonna—”

“You a raider?”

You raise your eyebrows and almost scoff at the accusation. Did you look like a raider? Is this what raiders looked like? You?

“I’m your fucking doctor and I’m ordering you to get back in that bed.” 

You should be more patient with him. You really should. You have no idea what he’d seen or what really happened to him. You thought you had given him ample reason to trust you but you’re still a stranger to him. And he’s woken up in a strange place after god knows what. 

Give him more reason to trust you. Kindness can still go a long way in this world. You believe that. 

You reach over to the foot of the bed and drag his backpack and boots into view, “Here’s your stuff. I’m washing your shirt, though I’m not sure it’s salvageable at this point. Your rifle is there in the corner. I have the bullets for safekeeping.” You push the bag closer to him, “I saw you go down in a field about a mile north from here, I brought you here, I fixed you up. I’m nobody. I just want to help.” 

You hold each other’s gaze for a moment, searching for answers in the other’s eyes. You were right, his were brown. He looks down, snagging the pack from your grasp. He riffles through it, taking a quick inventory of everything. Trust established— however minuscule it was. 

Or that’s what you thought.

In the split second your guard is lowered he springs forward, pushing you out of the way and tumbling into the hallway. Luckily, he doesn’t get far. Gus bites at his pant leg almost needlessly. The stranger didn’t even have the strength left to make it to the kitchen.

“Have to get back. Have to—” he mumbles incoherently as you approach his curled-up form.

A sane person would cut their losses here, toss him out in the cold, and wash their hands of such a burden. Lucky for him, you hadn’t been completely sane in years. With another heavy sigh, you lean over to help him to his feet. He doesn’t fight you.

“Tess?” Mystery Man deliriously mumbles, limping back to the bedroom on your arm. Well, it seems like your entire interaction was a faded memory. It was common with this kind of trauma. He’s still in survival mode. 

“No,” you grumble, laying him back down on the bed. “Not Tess.”

“I have to– Tommy—” his delirium continues, eyes fluttering open and closed just trying to grasp consciousness. Calling out to the people he knows, not you.

“Hey,” you lightly grab his shoulder. His attention focuses on you again, “You’ll see them again, I promise. Right now you have to rest.”

He studies you again and you start to wonder if he’s going to make another break for it. Thankfully, his only response is a single nod.

“I’ll be right back,” You quickly step out of the room and grab him a glass of water. You offer the glass and he studies it for a moment before chugging it down like a feverish child. He slowly rolls back into the bed with a heavy sigh. You take the empty glass back. “Rest for now. Call me when you're up again and you can have something to eat.”

He’s already passed out again before you finish your sentence. 

Chapter Text

He hasn’t said anything, not that he struck you as a talkative man. Every time you check on him he’s still out cold. It’s been just over a day. 

He must be moving, though. You left a plate of dried venison and green beans on the nightstand before bed that night and it was licked clean in the morning. Gus paces the hallway outside the door, keeping a watchful eye. You were right, he didn’t like a stranger being in the house.

“Easy boy,” You scratch between his ears as you pass by, “It’s only for a bit. Then you can sleep in the bed again.”

You wonder where he came from. If he was traveling into the QZ or running from it. That’s where everyone who passed near here was heading. Boston was over 25 miles away from here. The closest road leading into Boston was over 10 miles away, too far to just get lost in your neck of the woods. Was he looking for something? Someone? Or maybe he really was just that lost. For some reason, you doubt that looking at him. His gear and scars suggest a well-traveled man. A man who's seen it all. A survivor. You desperately wanted to know more about him.

As much as you loved lingering around the house all day like a clingy child, you still had responsibilities. 

Without a deer to skin and process— Like you planned to today— you tend to the remaining vegetables in the garden. One more row of carrots and tomatoes to harvest then the squash will be ready in a few weeks. The rain was generous to you this summer. Your pantry shed and dry storage are full for the first time in a long time.

You weren’t good at gardening before everything. You had a few houseplants you didn’t kill, but that was about it. You got good at it because you had to. The Massachusetts woods didn’t have much to offer other than game hunting. 

You learned through trade. Medical services for seeds and growing tips. It was all easier to come by back then. Your single year as a nurse before the outbreak was better than nothing to most people. They came to you for help with payments of supplies or services. You never turned anyone away, even if they were empty-handed.

Now only you were left.

Funny how you got more experience in your field after the world ended. That and you learned whatever you could squeeze out of Art when he was willing to teach you. He was a top surgeon for 20 years turned small town doctor, he knew things you’d never find in a book. You’d traded with him for what he had to offer as well, you suppose. A friendship was formed out of necessity there. 

You hoped he’d like what you’d made of his cabin. His home was now almost unrecognizable from what it had been— but in a good way. You just hear his gruff voice say “Well, that’s different.” In the most endearing way he could manage. 

Growing things had a rough learning curve but eventually, you had a full, well-maintained garden. You like to think you had a good rhythm going for your whole property. When the people around you dried up, you had little else to focus on. You’d made yourself a home out of your friend's old hunting cabin— a good one.

You’re checking the rain barrels when you hear a shift inside. Gus, who’d been perfectly content napping on the porch, snaps to attention.

Mystery Man is up and moving. 

You walk inside to see him seated struggling to get his boots back on. He’d found the spare clothes you’d left him. 

“What do you think you're doing?” you ask, dumbfounded. He couldn’t even walk a day ago- not that whatever he was doing now could really be considered walking either.

“I’m heading out,” He grunts, re-lacing his right boot. He’s removed the bandages and splints from his ankle. There’s no way that boot’s going to fit on that swollen-ass foot. “Thank you… for the hospitality.”

His movements are weak and clumsy. You’re amazed he’s even fully continuous right now. 

“I don’t think you’re in much shape to go anywhere,” you stand in front of him crossing your arms, “You have a serious sprain, trauma all over your body, and have lost a stupid amount of blood.”

“I’ve had worse.”

You believe him. That still didn’t help things. 

“You’re not gonna make it 10 feet out there.”

“Watch me,” He says, forcing his boot over his injured foot. You grimace in sympathy at the look on his face. A look of pure pain. Surely he can’t be serious? No-- No this was just more fight or flight acting up.

He stands, putting all his weight on his good leg. He’s big. Somehow broader when he’s standing.

You see the sweat plastering his brow from the effort. His eyes are glazed over. He’s delusional— very likely in shock. The gravity of the situation has settled in and he’s panicking still.

“Just hold— I’m offering you food and shelter.” You try to reason.

“I g-gotta get back.”

“To where?”

“The QZ.”

“In Boston? That’s over 20 miles away.”

So he was from the QZ after all.

He doesn’t seem phased by this information at all. You don’t want to fight him to get back into bed and he can’t be properly reasoned with in this state… so you take a gamble. The only way to show him how stupid he’s being is to just let him try. 

“If you want to go out there and die then be my guest.” You step aside, “Your ammo is in the first kitchen drawer to the right. I'll point you in the right direction outside.”

He looks at you for a moment, slightly shocked you’re suddenly being so passive. Still, he takes the opportunity. He takes a single clumsy step, grasping onto a nearby table for support. You step out of the room and he goes through the doorway. He makes it 3 steps down the hallway before collapsing— again. Still, about a step further than his first attempt the other day. Progress is progress you suppose.

“Stupid man,” You grumble before helping him up. 

“I gotta get back.” He mumbles but doesn’t fight you as you limp him back to the bed. He’s grasping at the edges of his consciousness by the time you get his head back on the pillow.

“Rest a little more then we’ll talk.”

“No, I—” He groans before his head falls limp on the pillow.

You wonder if you’ll have to do this all over again in a few hours.

There was only pain. Blinding white hot pain. The kind someone could never get used to, yet Joel thinks he should be by now. It was practically a daily occurrence at this point. It wasn’t just pain this time though, he felt weak. Constantly tired, just grasping to stay awake for more than a handful of minutes. Blood loss, dehydration— getting his ass handed to him. All factors that landed him in this new prison inside his own body. 

Everything hurts. Every goddamn inch of him. 

It was stupid of him to go out alone, he knew that and went anyway. He went looking for trouble— for blood. His only outlet these days.

Tommy was leaving. His own brother cursed his name, spat in his face, and said he was leaving to go try save the world again. Idiot.

“I never want to see you again.” Tommy’s exact last words to him. Not that they saw much of each other anyway, Tommy could hardly look at him. Still, it stung. Joel didn’t blame him and did his best to respect his brother's wishes. But even in doing so, the feelings of betrayal festered inside him like a disease.

So instead of just simply trying to talk to his brother— he went out to look for a fight. Didn’t tell anyone he was going, he just left.

Raiders willing to trade bullets for almost anything. A two-day walk from Boston. He got a day into his journey when the regret seeped in. Tommy left in two days. If he turned around there he could make it back and maybe see his brother off. Say he’s sorry for everything. Sorry for what he’d put him through.

Convince him to stay.

The raiders found him first. He was surrounded by at least a dozen. The next thing he remembers he was covered in blood that wasn't just his and dead bodies with pain stabbing into every nerve ending. Barely able to walk, still he pressed on. Tess or Tommy couldn’t save him this time. He was on his own.

And now he was here. Trapped in a stranger's bed, barely able to move. In a way he’s grateful, in another way he wished he’d been left to die. Then at least he wouldn’t have to live with the knowledge that his only family left in the world hated him. He even tried for something with Tess and decided to just keep it business. Another person who couldn’t love him. 

He tried to run from it all again, and he failed. 

Instead, he’s stuck here. Stuck here with his thoughts.

It’s almost nightfall when you enter the room again. 

“Mister?” You crack the door open, a candle in one hand and a plate of food in the other. He shifts in the bed, clearly awake, “I brought you something to eat. And a change of bandages when you’re done.”

He turns to face you at that, his face more lucid than his afternoon. Good. 

You take a seat next to the bed and he slowly sits up, face wincing in pain at the movement. Well, at least he’s being more careful. You hand him the plate—rabbit with potatoes and green beans. 

You introduced yourself again and he barely acknowledges your name, graciously accepting the plate without eye contact.

 “Why are you doing all this?” He asks weakly. 

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” You simply answer. This man wasn’t used to being shown kindness. That’s fine, you’ll still give it anyway. Still, it brings up a question. Something you want to clarify, “You’re… not going to hurt me, are you?”

His stern expression doesn’t move, but something in his eyes almost looks… offended maybe? Contemplating?

“No.”

He picks up the fork and starts eating. You let him get a few bites in before you ask. 

“Why did you want to get back to the QZ so badly today?”

He pauses, eyes focusing as if trying to recall the memory from just a few hours ago. 

“What day is it, do you know?” He asks. 

“September 16th.”

“Damn it,” he mumbles to himself, dropping his head. 

“What?” You’re suddenly very curious about his life.

“Nothin’,” he mumbles, stabbing another potato onto his fork, “I just… had to see someone.”

“Who?”

“Brother,” He answers dryly, “Shipped out today.”

“Is that who Tommy is?”

He pauses mid-chew, head still down. You fear you’ve offended him somehow.

“Yes.” He says it so softly you almost miss it.

“I’m sorry you missed him.” When you say it he gives you an almost annoyed look. A look that says you don’t fucking know me, lady . Fair enough. You choose to push this conversation in a more productive direction, “Can you tell me what happened to you?”

He pauses again, taking a particularly long time to chew on a piece of meat. Again, he’s debating on whether to tell you anything. 

“If I know more, maybe I can help more,” you encourage him, even though there’s probably not much else you could do. 

He sighs, “Trade deal went sour. They ambushed me. Barely got out.”

A man of few words and unhelpful explanations. Fantastic. 

“How many were there?” You ask.

“None, now.” The unspoken words ring loud in his statement. I killed them all. It makes you a little tense but there wasn’t any threatening tone in his voice. He’s just stating a fact. Killed or be killed, that’s how so much of the world out there is. 

And honestly, you’re a little relieved that there’s no one tracking him. It was a small anxiety in the back of your mind the last few days. You’ll light the stove tonight and sleep in an actually warm house. 

He’s finished his plate, gaze looking down at the bed sheet, refusing to face you. The dark shadows of the candle caressed over the plains of his face, deepening his stern features. He looked… sad. So sad. He’d missed something important because of this injury. Seeing his brother off. If his brother was FEDRA or a Firefly there was a possibility of never seeing him again— stationed somewhere across the country. Somewhere you couldn’t just walk to. 

When anyone leaves now there’s always a possibility of never seeing them again though, even if they’re in a gun-toting convoy.

You don’t want to push the topic. Instead, you just take his plate from him and stand. 

“If you’re gonna be here then there’s some rules, okay?” 

He actually bothers to look up to you before you continue.

 “No weight on the foot for at least a week. If you wanna walk anywhere you use crutches, I have a pair. The bathroom’s across the hall, use it freely except for the shower. That’s cut down to once a week. Let me know when you want to use it and I’ll dress your wounds accordingly. No leaving the immediate area without me, not that you’ll go far.” You say the last sentence in a joking way. He doesn’t laugh, “You want anything, you ask me. You fight me on anything regarding your recovery, and you’re out.”

“This is sounding more like a hostage situation,” He grunts.

“For a captor I think I've been doing a good job keeping you alive and safe, but by all means leave if you like,” You inform in the nicest way you can manage while still sounding threatening, “Feel free to test your chances out there.”

He looks down again, scoffing. 

“What’s the recovery time on this?” he mumbles.

“Up to 6 weeks.” you bluntly answer, “Probably less if you do what I say.”

“Then I’ll be out of here in 2.”

You completely doubt that.

Chapter Text

It’s been 3 days and you think he’s said maybe a total of 10 words to you— most of which were a quick thank you whenever it’s mealtime or a bandage change. At least he had manners. You don’t want to press or hover over him so you just let it be. He needs to recover anyway. Without anything to seemingly leave for anymore, he’s finally settled into the situation.

This morning was the first time he’d hobbled around anywhere other than to the bathroom across the hall. You’d been sleeping on the couch and woke up to him looking over the bookshelf next to you. Gus, of course, still sat at your side watching his every movement. 

He grabs the collection of Henry David Thoreau works and turns to face you, arms heavy over his crutches, “Alright if I sit on the porch?”

You nod. He places the book in his teeth and awkwardly shuffles through the front door. 

“Think he’ll run?” you ask Gus. He raises his eyebrows and huffs through his nose. The tell-tell sign he’s deeply annoyed. You can’t blame him, “Oh, you always say that.”

You fry up some eggs over the wood stove and debate bringing your breakfast out to eat with him but ultimately decide against it. You hadn’t eaten a meal together yet. Hell, you’d barely had a conversation.

Space. Give the poor guy some space.

He’s taken a seat on the bench swing, propping his bad leg up next to him. He seems startled when you bring out the plate of eggs and a cup of coffee.

“That coffee?” he asks, almost in amazement. 

“The freshest around,” You place his breakfast on the side table next to him along with a few Tylenol. It was unfortunately the best you had to manage the pain, “I’m gonna… be working around the property. Holler if you need anything.”

“I—” he looks down at the plate like he’s wondering if today’s going to be the day you poison him. “Thank you, I will.” He nods and returns to his book.

You take a few steps off the porch when you hear him speak again.

“Joel.”

You pause and turn back to face him, “What?”

“Joel Miller.”

Did he just…oh. 

You smile, “Nice to meet you, Joel Miller.”

He’s southern, you can tell at least that much from his accent. The drawl on certain words. He’s called you ma’am a few times and that felt weird given the obvious age difference. He’s in his late forties if you’d have to guess from the gray in his hair and set lines on his face. You could always just ask him all this, of course, but instead your canning okra across the yard in the produce shed. He doesn’t strike you as someone who would be receptive to a round of 20 questions anyway.

Still, you can’t stop your mind from wandering to him. You hadn’t had anything new to think about in a while. 

He’s from the QZ. Anyone who leaves the quarantine zones is killed… at least if they're caught. He came all the way out here for a trade deal, that’s what he claims anyway. If he was trying to get back inside he probably wasn’t Fedra. Good. A Firefly— maybe. Or just a smuggler. 

For all you knew there weren’t Fireflies or Fedra anymore. All the info you had on them was at least 5 years old, and you only ever got it from passers-by. The Firefly resistants just blossomed in the last year or two when you were still out in the world. You’d traded with them a few times. They came to your settlement seeking medical aid. Just people unhappy with the status quo, that’s what they said anyway. 

You hadn’t been to the city since the outbreak, and that was just fine with you. 

You liked it out here. You belonged out here. Whatever small community your little settlement found all those years ago seemed leagues better than whatever was in the QZ. It seemed so long ago— everything you lost. What they took from you. 

“Jesus Christ!” you hear a now familiar gruff voice exclaim from across the yard, followed by a bark from Gus. You run out of the shed and around to the front of the house. You round the porch to see a familiar orange and white cat rubbing up on Joel’s leg. You sigh, a little annoyed you rushed over here so fast for this. 

“That’s Lilly,” You tell him, “She comes and goes as she pleases.”

“Damn thing snuck up on me,” He scratches his fingers along the cat’s back. Gus responds to the interaction with a growl. “I didn’t do anything,” Joel rolls his eyes at the dog. 

Boys. They always fight, no matter what species. 

“Gus, let’s be nice to our guest,” You reprimand him, coming to kneel in front of Joel. Lilly strolls over to you. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” He says curtly, almost annoyed, “Look… is there anything I can help with? Around the place, I mean.”

Oh, you weren’t expecting that.

“I don’t think you’re capable of too much.”

“I can hold my own,” He says in the same irritated tone. 

“Ya know, most people these days would be happy to have a few days off.”  You pick up the cat and sit back cross-legged. “Or at least let their bodies heal.” 

“Not me.”

“Clearly.” 

This wasn’t about healing. He didn’t want to sit around, you could tell. A man who’s always on the move, just like everyone else in the world. You sit too long and the anxiety sets in. The gravity of it all comes crashing down under the weight of your own thoughts— and he’d been alone in that bedroom for days now. If you’re moving, using your hands… you’re not thinking. 

You really get it. 

There isn’t any work you think he should be doing, but maybe instead of berating this already traumatized man, you could share a little something of yourself with him. Make him feel comfortable. Make him feel safe. 

You sigh, setting the cat aside, “Tell you what, how about a tour? Get to know you’re unwilling prison and explore a little bit. If you're feeling up to it, of course. Get that blood pumping… whatever you have left of it anyway.” 

“Ha.” He says flatly, expression not moving an inch. 

“So is that a y es I’d love to , or…?”

He pauses, probably physically willing his eyes not to roll. 

“Okay,” He grabs his crutches.  

You hop off the porch, trailed by a hobbling broad man, an overly friendly cat, and an anxious border collie. Where do you start? You hadn’t shown anyone the property in… ever. It was always a secret. Art liked it that way. That’s what made it so safe. It was so different now from what he’d built— so you start with something you built. 

“The gardens,” you enter between a row of onions, turning to face him while you walk backward, “Twelve rows of all of your dietary needs and wants with only a 4 to 6-month waiting period on the product.”

You’re putting on the dumbest commercial announcement voice you can manage. You think you see the ghost of a smile tug at his lips… just barely. You count it as a small victory.

“Looks dead.” He comments, probably noticing over half of the rows are bare. Mostly the greens section. 

“If you wanted to see it in its full glory you should have gotten beat up at least a month earlier.” You turn, leaving the garden and heading for the first shed.

You think you catch the corner of his mouth tick up, just slightly, before you continue on your way.

There’s chickens scurrying through the whole garden. You greet them all by specific names as he follows behind you. They don’t even move out of the way when he approaches, completely desensitized to human presence. He’s a little annoyed that he has to make the extra effort to avoid them while on crutches. At least he knows where the eggs came from now. 

You’re standing in front of a shed on the other end of the garden. The dog behind him might as well be nipping at his heels to get him to move faster. He’s not used to these damn things. God, he already feels a little worn down just limping a few yards away from the house. Pathetic. 

He tries to hide catching his breath when he finally makes it to your side at the shed. 

“You good?” You ask him. 

“Fine.” He brushes you off a little more harshly than he intended to. He looks at the overgrown faded red shed. A rotting plaque hangs above the large doorway. He reads it, “ The Buck Shack ?” 

“Unfortunately, the name came with the place,” You scoff, pushing the barn door out of the way. “This is the more boring of the sheds. Not that sheds can be that exciting but...” you trailed off. He noticed you did that a lot.

He’s only noticed two other structures on the property. If the name and the smell of this one were anything to indicate, this was the game processing shed. Inside there were maybe 2 pheasants and a rabbit hanging on the wall. Tw empty hooks hang from the rafters, likely for hanging a deer. Concrete floor with a drain in the center, the floor long since stained with the blood of past kills.

 A small smokehouse sat in the space with a rack lined sparsely with what he guessed was venison. He looks over at the large counter and sees an open drawer of cutting knives and immediately thinks how stupid you are for showing him this. Of course, he wouldn’t do anything to you, but he’s still a stranger at the end of the day. You don’t know anything about him and you’re showing him where all your sharp things are. Either you're threatening him a little or you're just that dumb. He can’t tell. 

Rows of antlered skulls lined the perimeter of the inside. Trophies of hunts long past. “The Buck Shack.” He says again. 

“Aptly named, though none of them are mine,” You smile and move over to the neighboring shed. This one is blue with no name apparently. The chicken coop rests in between the two.

He’ll admit, he’s a little more impressed with this one. There are full crates of vegetables on one side and shelves of stacked canned ones on the other. There are literal full garbage cans of apples and potatoes sitting in the corner. The things people would do to get their hands on a place like this.  No wonder you’ve been doing so well out here.

“And here’s the rest of the garden.” You smile proudly. 

Bill would like you, he decides. 

“Damn,” is all he says, limping into the space. “You grew all these? No trading?”

“Traded to get some of the original seeds,” you say, pushing a few more full bags of carrots and beets out of the way, “But that was a long time ago.”

He hobbles back outside and notices the rain barrels placed at the corners of each shed and a hose coiled up next to them. So you used rainwater for the plants but what about the house?

He follows you around the overgrown cabin and gets his answer. You had your own damn water reservoir. A massive corrugated steel tank just up the hill from the house. He’d helped install something like it in some ranch fields back when the world was still whole. It held maybe 5,000 gallons if he had to guess. It sat on the hill just high enough for any pipes to get flow from it. That’s how your plumbing worked out here with no power— You had yourself a little water tower. Gravity did the work for you. 

“How long did that take to set up?” He asks, gesturing his head towards the holding tank. 

You smile, likely a little proud of yourself, “About a year to get it figured out. The tank was already up there when I got here so that made it easy. Getting the pipes though, was rough. But I had more help back then.”

“And filling it?”

“A manual pump another few more yards up the hill. Go up there for about an hour each week.” You kick one of the half-full barrels at the corner of the house. “It’s a workout. Maybe you can do it in a few weeks and see.”

“Maybe.” Joel scoffs. A hand-pumped well. Was there anything here that you didn’t have to do manually? He turns and notices two cellar doors on the edge of the house. “What about down there?” He nods towards them.

“Oh, this is where I keep the bodies,” You answer just a little too quickly, tapping your foot over the rickety wooden doors. He knows it's a joke, a bad one, but he doesn’t laugh. You roll your eyes and swing the doors open, “Come on, I’ll show you.”

You quickly walk down the steps and he slowly follows, taking each step cautiously. He really hates crutches. 

Daylight streams in from above just enough to dimly light the little space. It’s dry storage, just like he suspected. Beans, rice, and some dwindling cans of some grocery store items he recognizes. And a few other fun treats of yours that look to be homemade.

“Wine?” He raises a brow, looking at the shelf of deep red bottles lining the far corner. 

“Chokecherry wine.” You confirm, “Had some spare time in the summer a few years ago. Found a bush and a recipe in an old cookbook and decided what the hell .”

“Any good?”

“Absolutely terrible, but it’ll get ya drunk,” You turn and gesture to the other mismatched bottles and jugs that fill the space. “We have maple syrup, some vinegar still, salt, whiskey, acorn flour—”

“Why are you showing me all this?” It comes out harsher than he wanted. He feels cornered, suddenly overwhelmed with it all. Is this all really here? Were you? The realization hits him like a freight train— This place was a fantasy. This couldn’t be real. 

A look of pain lightly marks your features. He’s immediately regretful, thinking he’s offended you in some way. 

“I just wanted you to…” You trail off softly, crossing your arms and looking away. “This isn’t a prison, Joel. It’s not a death camp either. It’s a home. It’s… safe here.”

The second realization washes over him like a soft wave, warm and assuring. You were showing him your home and in doing so, showing him he was safe. That everything was okay. That you could take care of him… easily. You genuinely wanted to put him at ease with it all. His chest tightens at the thought. 

“I’m sorry, I just—” He groaned, looking away as well. “You’ve done somethin’ special here, and it’s amazin’ but it’s… just a lot.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean to—” 

“No,” He cuts you off, “Don’t apologize. I’m grateful, I am, but–” he feels like an absolute ass. He’s been an ass to you, even after everything you’d done. “It’s a lot.”

“It’s okay Joel,” You smile sweetly, somehow forgetting how cold he’s been. He follows you out of the cellar silently like an embarrassed child.

You’re almost wholly self-sustained here. A marvel in every way. Christ, you even had a freaking wine cellar. 

Yeah, Bill would really like you. 

The thought of it makes Joel realize the one thing he hasn’t seen on this little tour. One very crucial thing. 

“Where’s your fence?”

You raise a brow, “What, for livestock? I don’t think I—”

“No, for people,” Joel is suddenly on edge about this little paradise, “For keepin’ people out.”

You pause, a small wave of… something passing over your face. Realization maybe? Pain? “I don’t need to keep people out.”

“What?” His hands tense on the crutches. 

“Joel, you’re the first person that’s made it this far in years .” There’s an emphasis in your statement but it doesn’t ebb any of his newfound worries. “Do you know how deep we are into the woods?”

He thinks, trying desperately to remember which direction he started walking once he was done with the smugglers, all banged up and battered with even more death on his conscience and blood on his hands. He thinks it was north but he can’t be sure anymore. It’s all a blur now. He has no idea how far he walked, how many days it was— nothing.

“No.” He simply says. 

“We’re safe, I promise,” you attempt to assure him. You smile and gesture to something further over to the edge of the property. He follows you, stopping right next to a massive flowering bush.

“Lilac?” He says, recognizing the pale purple flowers. They’re fading and spotting in brown, but still smell like summer. A sweet scent he doesn’t think he’s smelled in years. It lifts his spirits, just for a moment. 

“Planted them and a few other things all along the border.” You gently cradle one of the bundles of flowers, “These are my wall. You can barely see the house from a distance, what with all the overgrowth on the walls and roof. We’re safe.”

He wants to believe you. He desperately does but he can’t bring himself to. While what you did here was truly something, you were being incredibly naïve thinking these were enough. Flowers to protect you from the world out there? Completely foolish.

Then he thinks about what you said earlier. He’s the first person that has come here in years. Years?

“Who else you got out here?” he asks, cautiously. He’s seen no proof of anyone else but this can’t all just be you running this place like a well-oiled machine. 

“You’re looking at the full crew here,” you scratch the dog's ears next to you. 

“Traders come over?”

“Nope.”

“Just you?”

“And Gus. Well, you met Lily earlier. She counts too.”

“How long have you been up here? Alone?”

You pause as if trying actually to recall the number. Time loses so much meaning these days.  Or maybe you're embarrassed to say. You eventually answer. 

“ Five years. ”

The day slowly rolls into the evening and neither of you has interacted much since the tour. He was clearly exhausted from limping around the property by the end, so you insisted he lay down for a nap. After some heavy convincing, he eventually relented. A stubborn man, but not a completely dumb one. 

You admittedly feel a little embarrassed from earlier. Strolling him around like a child showing off a school project. You wanted him to feel secure and form a little more trust— but you think you just ended up making him uncomfortable in the end. 

Have you really been here 5 years? It was probably so obvious to everyone but you— Your unwanted social isolation. It was this or scrounging for scraps and being worked like a dog in the QZ, at least that’s what people told you. Being cooped up and monitored like animals. You know what choice you’d make ten times out of ten. 

Still, your predicament was a weird one. You saw the shock in his face when you revealed it. Or maybe it was disgust? Or pity? Maybe all three. Either way, it all ended there and you went back to canning and he retreated to the house.

The sun was setting now, signaling it was time to head in for the evening but you didn’t want to. You don’t want to face him or the potential of a million questions about your strange little life here all by yourself. Now you know how he probably feels. You were so eager earlier, but now… now you just feel like an idiot. 

Eventually, you of course work up the courage to walk back into your house, Gus sitting lazily by the door waiting for you. It was the first time you hadn’t seen him watching Joel’s every movement like a hawk. You guess you all made some progress today. 

The bedroom door is closed when you enter the house, with Joel nowhere in sight. 

You brought in a pheasant for dinner. Stoking the wood stove, you start to chop up any vegetables you’re afraid will go bad— A head of broccoli and some wilting spinach. You place the prepared pheasant in a broiler pot and feed its leftover bits to Gus, as usual. 

“Gizzards and guts. Your favorite,” You scratch the dog's ear. Upon hearing Gus’s obnoxious slobbering, Lilly comes strolling down the hall. You hadn’t seen her since this afternoon, “Decided to stay for the evening, princess? Or you just want a free meal?”

You grab a small chunk of meat from Gus’s bowl and toss it her way. This was your usual night. Alone at the kitchen counter with your strange little family— your whole world. 

You hear the bedroom door creak open and uneven footsteps clomp down the hall. 

Joel takes a seat at the small bar counter opposite you and you instantly feel put on the spot. Like you’re an insect being observed. 

What’s the strange hermit woman doing now?

“How’d you rest?” you passively start the conversation as you place the broccoli into its own roasting pan.

“Fine.” He answers bluntly, staring down at his fingers as he picks his nails. You wonder if he feels like he has to interact with you now. If he’s doing this out of pity or obligation. “Your place is… really nice.”

Mmm, enthralling conversation. 

“Thank you.” You say, mindlessly stirring the vegetables around. 

A pause. 

“Did you find it or a family thing or—”

“Family friend.” You answer, “Well… friend-ish.”

His brows knit together, “Friend-ish?”

Does he really want to know? You tell him anyway. You hadn’t just talked to someone in so long.

“His name was Art. Most crotchety mean old man you’d ever meet.” You smile, remembering his wrinkled face, “My dad was his only friend. He tolerated me. They were the town doctors.”

“What town?” His interest is peaked.

“West Lake. Used to be about 7 miles north from here.” You point in the general direction, “Used to be a town of probably no more than a thousand people. Quiet place.”

“That’s where you’re from?”

“I used to be.” You confirm. 

Then more bloated silence. You’ve shared so much of yourself with him now and he’s said nothing. You only just learned his name today. He opened up on his terms, and that was fine. It just felt so strange when you were an open book.

You don’t like this. You don’t like your every move being watched or like you’re stepping on pins and needles in your own home. Is this how it used to be? No, surely not. Something about him though. It sets you on edge.

“I’m sorry.” He finally says. Oh? You turn around to face him. “About earlier. How I’ve been actin’. I’m not… used to this. To bein’ taken care of. It’s usually the other way around.”

“I can tell.” You fucking idiot.

“You made something special here,” He continues as if you’d said nothing, “I just… I don’t know what to do with myself. I wanna be useful.” 

Right on cue, Lilly jumps on the counter and rubs against his forearm. He reciprocates with a passive head scratch and an irritated sigh.

“You are useful,” You smile, “You’re keeping Lilly company.” 

“Damn thing wouldn’t leave me alone.” He looks at the cat with endearment in his eyes, but his overall expression remains sullen. He seemed to always look that way.

“Well at least one of them likes you,” You both turn to Gus sitting idly next to the counter, eyes once again glued to Joel.

“I don’t blame him,” Joel returns Gus’s pointed look. 

You feel a fraction of the tension melt off. Just a little. He was getting comfortable here. Good. If he was comfortable then so were you.

Dinner passes in relative silence, as to be expected for your first official meal together. This wasn’t a first date or anything. Just a meal between two temporary housemates. He didn’t need to share his whole life story with you and you didn’t need to share any more of yours.

You take his empty plate and stack it on yours.

“So, I have to change your bandages again.” You say it almost like a question. Like you’re asking permission. 

He looks at you with a slightly puzzled expression, “Alright.” He simply says with a nod. 

You drop the dishes in the kitchen and return with some new gauze and a bowl of hot water. He takes the hint and removes his shirt before you can even ask. His movements are slow and pained, not that you mind watching him for just a little longer. His bruises have transitioned from deep reds and purples to nearly black. It looked much worse but it was a sign of healing. A few days in the bed was what was best for it.

He leans over the table slowly while you scoot a chair over and begin your work. He flinches as you remove his crusted-over old bandages. The area around the wound was tender and red, but no signs of infection. Good.

You start to gently clean it.

“What were you… before it all?” You start the small talk up again. Something easy. 

“General contractor,” he answers, “You?”

“Nurse.”

“I never would have guessed.”

You pause… was that a joke? Well, at least he’s loosening up.

You smile to yourself. “Only worked in the hospital for about a year before it hit. Ended up getting more medical practice after the world ended.”

“Ain’t that a bitch.” You swear you can hear an amused smile in his voice. He was getting comfortable around you. Just the simple thought of it warms your heart— just a little.

“You still building stuff in the QZ?”

He lets the question linger but eventually answers. “Not really.”

There was something there. You shouldn’t pry more but you go on anyway, “Are you a firefly, or—”

“No.” He answers curtly, “A smuggler but at the end of the day I’m… not really anything.”

Not really anything, huh? That didn’t seem true from what little you know about him. Still, you don’t push it anymore. Maybe he’ll tell you all about it in due time. When he’s ready.

This time he asks the question first. 

“What’s that?” He nods his head toward the corner— toward Art’s old guitar. 

“A decoration, mostly.” You answer, wiping the area around his wound dry. 

“You don’t play?”

“God no,” you snort, “I’ve plucked around on it a few times but it’s not my thing. Missing a few strings now anyway.”

“You can do plenty with a few strings.” He stares at it, almost mesmerized. A guitar was a rare thing now, you suppose.

“There’s a few changes of strings in the drawer next to it,” You inform him, “Art kept backups for everything. I never knew how to change them myself so I just left it be. Just thought I’d break it.”

He doesn’t say anything else but you can see the gears in his head turning. So he plays. He’s found something here he can actually do. Something he can hopefully enjoy. Good. 

You finish taping his bandages down and give him a pat on the knee, “Okay, you’re good to go.”

He grunts what you can only assume to be a thank you and rolls his shirt back on. You made progress today. Gaining trust and giving some in return. Learning a little bit more about one another. You didn't need a life story but feeling more comfortable around each other would be nice. At least if he was going to stay here for a while.

A selfish part of you hopes he does. That he stays as long as he can. Then you could finally have someone. Not even in a romantic sense but just… someone. Anyone. And the other, more logical part of you, knows he’ll probably be gone the second he can bear to put any weight on that foot. 

He had a life he had to get back to. People who probably needed him. What’s that name he called you? Tess. He could be a husband and father for all you knew. But then again, you feel like he would have mentioned that by now. You’re sure you’ll find out one way or another. You’ll learn who Joel Miller is, eventually. For now, though, you’ll keep doing what you’ve always been doing.

Taking it one day at a time.

You get up to walk to your place on the couch, an old fantasy book waiting on the coffee table for you. 

“There isn’t another bedroom in here, is there?” He asks.

“Just the one.” You answer, fluffing out the quilt over the couch. 

“Okay,” he limps towards you, “I’ll sleep out here.”

“Joel, it’s fine you don’t have to—“

He gently grabs your wrist and you instantly feel every hair on your body stand up.

“You give too much. I won’t take your bed too. It’s your house. Sleep in your bed.”

Not wanting to argue, and admittedly wanting to sleep on a mattress again, you silently retreat back to your bedroom. The sheets smell like him. You don’t entirely mind. If anything just because it was something different. Something new. 

This was all going to be new. 

You wake up the next morning and find Art’s guitar re-strung and tuned to perfection— Joel fast asleep next to it. 

Chapter Text

He hates it. He fucking hates it. Sitting all day. The simple act of walking a few feet exhausting him, but he can’t seem to do much else. Like a lazy house cat. It’s foreign to him— being looked after. He didn’t like feeling so weak. Being so goddamn helpless. It’s simply not who he was. He protected the helpless… or used them if he needed to. But he was never one of them— pathetic and small. 

Joel didn’t like it at all. 

He doesn’t know what to do with all this time. He thinks he’s forgotten how to simply just live anymore. Survival was all there was for so long, and now he could actually take a moment for himself— and it was too much. Like he was suffocating on nothing but the air he could finally stop to breathe.

Then there was you. 

You and that impenetrable cheery attitude. Yet another thing here that was completely alien to him. 

He doesn’t deserve this— Any of it. Being catered to. Staying in the little paradise you’d built. Bleeding out in a field alone for the birds to eat was the death he deserved. So why did you take pity on him? What made him so fucking special to be given yet another second chance? You wouldn’t have taken him in if you knew who he was— what he’d done. He knows that for sure. 

You were a capable woman, smart and kind— but so fucking stupid. 

Everyone he knows would have just left him there. He would have if he were in your position. A stranger beaten to hell in the middle of nowhere, there were too many risks with it. Yet you dragged him right through your front door.

You welcomed him in with open arms. That’s just not how it goes anymore. All your time up here alone must have made you thick in the head. You gave him your bed. You feed him your food and put clothes on his back. Why? For nothing in exchange? He still can’t wrap his head around it. 

Has the world really made him so callous? It’s what’s kept him alive for so long. It’s how you survive another day without being able to ever sleep through the night. He wonders if you had the same problems as him. As everyone else. 

You, in many ways, were an enigma. 

You talked. You talked all the time. To him, to that damn dog, to yourself. After years alone it’s probably all you had. Like that movie with Tom Hanks and the volleyball. You’d been alone for so long, it was only natural… and he wasn’t entirely unhappy to oblige some of your ramblings. Some.

While you did build something amazing here, he still pitied you. Pitted the fact that you had only yourself to share it with. 

Christ, even someone like Bill had Frank to share his little safe haven with. 

How did someone like you end up all alone here? Someone beautiful and kind and with valuable skills— someone who should never be alone. The story was probably a sad one. Sad stories were all there seemed to be anymore. He saw it in your eyes sometimes, despite the smile underneath them. That deep pain no one can really hide. Eyes that have seen horrible things. He’s sure his eyes looked the same. 

You turned that pain into this place. Pouring your soul into everything here. He turned his pain into… something else. 

He’s ashamed to admit he was obsessing over what your angle could possibly be, why you would keep him here. What you could gain from him. 

What changed his mind was so stupid. You brought him that cup of coffee and eggs and he could just see it in you. He’s not sure what was so different about you that time. You weren’t pitifully leaving food next to the bed. He didn’t ask for anything. Just a kind gesture to say you were thinking of him as more than a hurt man. A cup of stale coffee in some faded old Garfield mug. Then it was just so obvious—there was no angle here. This is just who you were. 

A good woman. A loving woman. The rarest thing in the world now. 

Or maybe Joel just really missed coffee. 

You’d made something truly beautiful. Not only surviving but thriving all alone. You’d left the property vastly under-protected, but in a way you worked smarter rather than harder. You camouflage yourself rather than make something conspicuous that needs constant maintenance like Bill’s stupid giant gate. The house was almost completely eaten up with overgrown vines sprawling all over every inch of it. Instead of a wall, you planted flowers. Ridiculous… but effective. He’d taken a short walk on the outside of the property the other day and once he got a good few yards away it was just another mass of overgrowth in the forest. 

It couldn’t be sustainable. Nothing these days was. It would all have to be abandoned one day. Just another memory. Yet you put the effort in to make it a nice place to live. Not just a passive temporary shelter, but an actual home. It’d been so long since he’d been in a room that was actually loved. Bill and Frank’s place was loved but in a different way, like Bill was preserving something. A little time capsule of the past— But you somehow embraced the oddity of your situation. 

Random junk decorated your walls and yard. Old rusted things that had no use in them anymore. Yet you displayed them as if to say this was something once. A reminder maybe. The walls of the cabin were lined with old magazine pages, dried herbs and flowers, and old relics of the past. Even a few candy wrappers hung there like family photos. Proof of humanity. Plants in every corner. You used every inch of space selfishly. 

He noticed a few strings of Christmas lights hung around the house and across the property. They were useless now but he can almost picture you dancing at night with the property lit up and music blasting. You seemed like the kind of woman that’d like to dance. 

I was a cluttered mess, but a beautiful one. Chaos yet everything had its place. Everything had its purpose here— except for him. 

He’d been toying with the guitar on the porch for the last 2 days. At first, it sounded like familiarizing himself— scales and reluctant plucking. Seeing if he could still do it. Then a few licks that could resemble an actual song. You didn’t recognize most of them, but it was still nice to have something new to listen to. It was nice to have something to listen to at all.

He was skilled with it. Not a rockstar but well enough to hold his own— Not that you could really tell. You were a little tempted to start shouting song requests once it sounds like he’s got the hang of it again. 

Art had one or two song books lying around— Mostly consisting of classic rock and country. Still, Joel mulled them over all the same. You hadn’t found any chores for him to do while remaining mostly immobile. You gave him a basket of beans to shuck and he had them finished in less than an hour. So you dubbed him the title of radio instead . He didn’t seem amused by it, but it didn’t stop you from leaning into the nickname. 

“Next station!” You playfully shout from the garden. He’d been driving himself half mad for the last 20 minutes trying to get a particular riff just right. 

 “The station changes when I say it changes!” He shouts back, frustration pricking his words. He attempts the riff one more time and stumbles over his own fingers yet again. He mumbles something under his breath and flips to a new page in the country songbook. You hide a smile. 

“Freebird!” You enthusiastically request for roughly the billionth time since he started playing that thing. 

“If you say that one more time, I swear I’m leaving,” He grumbles, coming to a new page. He scans it briefly, recognition flashing in his eyes. “I know this one.” He mumbles, positioning his fingers.

A few practice picks and he starts a slow and clunky melody you didn’t recognize but was still overall pleasant. All of his slow playing was. You glance over and notice him mouthing some words in rhythm with his plucking. He’s putting a song together.

Is he going to sing? You wonder. Now that’d be a show. 

For once since he got here you decided to just keep your mouth shut and enjoy the moment. He was finally relaxing. Comfortable with the situation. It took over a week but you finally didn’t feel like you were walking on eggshells around him. You hope he felt the same towards you. 

You have lunch together— A fresh salad with a boiled egg and some rabbit jerky. You have most of your meals together now. For the first time in a while, you were enjoying mealtimes. It was just something passive you had to do to just fuel yourself. It was a chance for you to slow down too— and learn a little bit more about each other. 

“You said you’re from Texas, right?”

“Austin,” He clarifies, pushing around the greens on his plate, “Came up here when it all started. Been here ever since.”

You nod, your eyes looking back down at your own plate. You didn’t want to push anything, he obviously didn’t like to talk much but neither of you liked sitting in silence. You were both trying.

“Saw a Generator back there,” He breaks the latest awkward silence that brewed, “Looks like it still works?”

“Barely useful,” You grumble, “Gas powered. Only have so much juice left for it. I only turn it on for emergencies or… special occasions.”

“Special occasions?”

“Holidays. My birthday. Or just… bad days” You feel almost embarrassed to admit it, “I use the stereo or watch a movie. It’s like a… treat.”

“A treat,” You catch a glimpse of a smile on his lips. He’s amused at the idea of your little parties. It was a little silly, yes, but it’s certainly kept you sane a few times. 

Entertainment like that was a rarity these days, so whenever you had it you felt like the richest person in the world. Art didn’t have the best selection of music and movies for your taste but it was still something. You’ve unwillingly become a big fan of The Eagles and a lot of Clint Eastwood movies.

You both finish lunch in silence and move on to the next item on the docket. You see his face drop when you come back out with your medical bag.

“Bandage change already?” he asks. You’d been changing his bandages daily right before bed.

“Not yet actually,” You take a seat on the floor in front of him. “Today you get to come out of crutch jail. Can I see your foot?”

He scoots closer to you and gently places his wrapped foot on your lap. He’s eager. You can tell just how much he hated being so immobile. The image of him making a run for it as soon as you take the stabilizers out flashes through your mind. It’s a little cartoonish and funny but from what little you know about him he’ll be leaving as soon as he can walk a straight line halfway decently— Then it’ll be just you and Gus again.

“You sure the pain’s gotten better?” you ask one final time, “Nothing feels… off?”

“I know what broken bones feel like,” he assures you with a small eye roll. Well, without an X-ray machine, his intuition was the next best thing you had. What could go wrong?

“Okay,” you nod and begin the process.

He winces as you unwind the bandages and slip out the makeshift braces. The swelling has gone down considerably but there’s still a little stress on the skin. You gently roll his ankle through a series of movements to assess the damage. He gives an answer for each position through gritted teeth. Overall, it’s not too bad and likely not broken. The time for resting was over. Now he had to move if he wanted to speed up his recovery.

“Do those stretches twice a day. Feel free to walk around as much as you’d like, just don’t stress it too much. Use a walking stick if you need,” You instruct him as you gently roll the compression bandages around your hand and place them back in the bag, “You can put your boots on, just tie them loose. Move it around whenever you’re sitting, keep the blood flowing. Movement is your friend now.”

“Goody,” He groans as he leans down to roll his sock over his now only moderately swollen foot. “Alright, what do you need help with?”

Already back on the grind. 

“I don’t–” you cut yourself off and actually think. He needs to move around. He’s healing up amazingly. Sitting around won’t help him anymore. You haven’t had the option to have help in so long that you don’t actually know what you need. There had to be something for him though, “What are ya good, Joel Miller?”

“Lately, just sitting around and lookin’ pretty.” You pause in shock before a laugh slips out more like a raspberry. It’s the first honest-to-good joke he’s told since he got here. He smiles at your reaction and you notice how the lines on his face change when he does. The dimples in his cheeks. The creases around his soft brown eyes. He was rather pretty… you suppose. 

“I’m good at huntin’, I suppose,” he finally answers. “Noticed we went through those pheasants and rabbit you had.”

“We did,” You confirm. 

“You have any traps set up?”

“I do not,” You confirm again, “Never learned that one.”

“Then I’ll set up some traps nearby,” He stands up with a grunt, taking a moment to regain balance. You hop up and offer your elbow for support but he waves you off, leaning on the railing instead. He wants to do it himself. That’s fine.

You’re a little worried about him going off on his own but he wouldn’t have offered if he wasn’t going to come back…right?

“I’ll go with you.” You offer.

“You have plenty to do here. I can manage if you at least point me in the right direction of some rabbit trails.”

“I can do that. Gus’ll probably go with you. He’ll show you all the good spots and the way back, hopefully.” You look at the lazy dog sitting on the doorstep. His ears perk up at the mention of his name and strolls over to you, “Whadda need for supplies?”

“Rope and wire if you have it. A hammer would be nice.” He takes an experimental step. It’s clumsy but manageable. The next few days are gonna be rough for him but it’ll be what’s best for his ankle in the long run.

You lead him over to the Buck Shack , where you kept most of your miscellaneous supplies. He’s slow but steady, still getting the hang of it. You fill a bag with rope, some rusting wire, a hunting knife, and a hammer. 

“I’ll tie a few here and I’ll head out and place ‘em,” he says, walking over to the workbench.

“Whatever you gotta do,” you say, turning to leave him to his work. You pause at the door. This could be an opportunity to get to know him more. For him to actually show you something. You’re debating your next words, but they still come before you can stop yourself, “Will you show me?”

“What?” his brows knit together.

“Show me… how to make a trap.” You let the request sit a moment before you start to regret it, “Actually, you don’t have to—”

“Okay,” He nods, gesturing you over to him, “Come over here.”

You skittishly walk to his side as he takes the spool of thin wire out of the bag. He cuts a length of it and spins a loop around his fist. 

“For just a simple snare there’s not much to it, actually. Just a noose really. Most traps start the same, it just depends on how you set ‘em up that’s different,” Joel says as he ties a loose knot at the top of the loop, wrapping the wire around itself several times. You watch his large hands work with intensity. Callous, worked hands doing such small delicate movements— His knuckles still a little bruised from whatever fight he had been in. Your imagination runs a little wild at the sight of such strong things doing such small, purposeful movements.

“Just like this,” he holds up the small noose and pulls the loop tighter around his fingers, “This is for a still snare , good for rabbits and squirrels. Tie this up for them to run through on the ground and that’s about it. Nothing fancy. You try.”

You silently cut yourself a length of wire and copy his movements, wrapping it around your fist to make a loop and then twisting the wire around itself loosely at the top. He was right, it wasn’t anything fancy but you can’t help but feel like yours is inferior to his. 

“Like this?” You hold up the completed trap. 

He slides two fingers through the loop and pulls it taut. His eyes burn into yours as he does so— slowly. You immediately feel your cheeks start to heat up as he curls his fingers and gives a small tug. It wasn’t forceful but you can’t help but take a step closer to him.

“Perfect, darlin’.”

Chapter Text

This man. This fucking man was threatening to tear your entire life down, and he didn’t even know it. You can’t get anything done, too stuck inside your own head to focus on a single task. 

The last few days you’ve woken up to find him already in the garden or limping about the property doing some random menial tasks— and you’re still not sure if you like it. Well, you liked having the help, of course, but you selfishly missed his sweet music to accompany your day. If he was working he couldn’t be playing and you hated that fact. When you were suddenly without his music to listen to, you find yourself just looking at him instead. With him taking care of what little there was left in the garden, mostly squash and corn at this point, you had time to make your winter preparations— chopping wood, mostly.

You were usually so focused. There was only ever the task at hand, that’s the way it had to be for so long. Now you catch yourself daydreaming in a way you hadn’t for years now. Longing stares from around the corner, loaded glances, fantasizing about something that you know just wouldn’t happen with Joel. 

It was all foolish really—a childish crush on the first person to come into your life in years. Forced time together was making you obsessed. It was just the reality of the situation and you should know better— but why did he have to be so goddamn handsome?

In another way, you should have expected this. Being around someone new for days on end. It’s only natural. Like it was bound to happen.  And it would likely pass in due time. You hope it would, at least. It’s an innocent crush at best, the Florence Nightingale effect at worst.

He started calling you pet names. Sweetheart, hon— darlin’ seemed to be his favorite. Your stomach still jumped every time he said it with that deep raspy accent. He was a polite man, at least to you. He’d gotten more comfortable and lowered his walls, just a little. He trusted you. That’s all it was. Still… it only stoked the growing fire inside you.

Lilly took the most liking to him. She was with him now in the garden sitting right next to him on his stool. He didn’t seem to mind. You’d even caught him a few times calling for her when she wasn’t right at his side. It was sweet, really. 

He had Lilly, you still had Gus.

Gus had finally warmed up to him in a sense. He didn’t guard you, or watch Joel’s every move like a hawk anymore. But he was still almost annoyed by the whole thing. He’d gone out with Joel a few times since he put up the traps and everything seemed to go over smoothly. Maybe he was jealous he wasn’t the only man in your life anymore. You chuckle to yourself at the thought.

You take a break from stacking your next pile of wood and sneak a peek around the cabin to look at your new favorite pastime for the dozenth time today. Lilly perches herself on his broad shoulders while he digs out the last of the zucchini, humming the latest song he’s been learning. It was adorable—a little glimpse into a domestic life that didn’t exist anymore.

He was healing fast. He still had a limp you wanted to monitor for a little longer and you’ll take his stitches out in a few days. He’ll be gone before you know it, just another ghost in your life.

Again, that selfish part of you wishes he wouldn’t leave. Sure, he would stay for guaranteed food and shelter, any sane person would… but would he stay just for you? Because you wanted him to? How did Joel Miller feel about you? The question that kept you awake more than you’d care to admit. A friend? Just a caretaker… or something more?

Nosey , was probably the right answer.

An annoyed ruff at your side pulls you back to the task at hand. You sigh and sit beside Gus, your only anchor to reality. Your family. This dumb little dog had saved you in more ways than he could ever know. Could he even comprehend the depths of your kinship? What he means to you? A part of you likes to think so.

You pull him in and give him a rough scratch around the neck, “You know you’re the only guy for me, buddy.” 

“Ya know, we started this game so we could play it.”

“The way you play this game is strategy. And strategy takes time.”

You’d been staring down at the same chessboard for over 5 minutes now. You both started this game over 2 days ago, just a little something to do on breaks. Joel had heard of professional chess games sometimes taking days but you were both clearly so far from professional. You were losing. The more and more it became evident the longer and longer your turns took. It was to the point where he just grabbed the guitar and started playing whenever it was your turn— he had plenty of time. Better than twiddling his thumbs and staring at you, not that he’d mind all that much. If his mindless picking was distracting you, you didn’t say anything. 

It felt good rekindling something he thought he’d lost forever. It came so naturally. When his fingers danced across the strings so effortlessly it was almost a relief. Part of the old him was still there, just a little. Someone he thought died a long time ago.

It was a fine instrument. Old but well looked after, just like him, he supposed. Small scratches and chips scattered about it that likely told a story. The words ‘With Love, Ruth’ sloppily burned into the back. You hadn’t mentioned the name Ruth yet but he’s sure you’ll tell him about her one day. Likely the wife or long-lost love of this Art fella you always talked about. For now, he just leaves it be.

You liked listening to him play, he could tell. You never explicitly said so, but the faint smile on your lips whenever he picked up the guitar was enough. It made his heart swell with… pride maybe? You didn’t know any of the songs he was working on but it didn’t seem to matter. Music was music and he was happy to give something back to you, however small it was.

You finally make your move and he counters almost immediately. He had you cornered in every spot. The game was probably his at least 5 moves ago, you just didn’t know it yet.

“Check,” He says as he returns to strumming. You continue to deliberate. 

“What song is that?” you passively ask, eyes not moving from the board, “It’s really coming along.”

“ Good Time Charlie’s Got the Blues ,” He answers, plucking through the verse progression smoothly. He supposes it has come along in the last few days.

“ That’s a blues song?” you raise your brow, quizzically.

A fair question. Blues was in the title but the twangy folk melody didn’t remotely resemble classic blues, “More of a country song actually. Dad used to listen to it. Sad old song for sad old men.”

“How old does that make you?” you ask, tapping your finger on your Rook piece. You decide against whatever move you were brewing, not that it would have saved you anyway. 

“Old enough to play sad music.” 

“That old, huh?”

“What about you?” 

“Oh, Twenty-one of course,” you jokingly answer without hesitation. He gives a small chuckle before you answer truthfully, “Thirty-two.”

He does some quick math in his head from what little you’ve shared with him. You were a nurse before and after the outbreak, yet you seemed to be so experienced. You must have gotten to work right after high school or gotten a quick degree.

“That’s… young.” He immediately regrets it when you shoot him a look, “For knowin’ what you know, I mean. A lot of experience.”

You shrug it off with a smile, “With a dad as one of the only doctors in a small town, I ended up volunteering at the hospital most of high school. He died my senior year. Turned out to love the medical field and got my associate's in nursing ASAP. I didn’t want to waste my time with a bachelor's or med school. I just wanted to help firsthand. Ended up knowing a lot more than a few of my teachers, but if I had to do it over again I’d’ve probably tried to be a doctor, follow in Dad’s footsteps maybe. Only got a year of real-world experience before the outbreak. Learned the rest from Art.”

“Art taught you medicine?” 

This is what your mealtimes have become. Long streams of questions, learning just a little more about one another each time. Joel withheld a lot but still found a way to share a little bit of himself with you. He didn’t want to share in the first place but felt he had to when you were such an open book. 

“Art taught me a lot of things,” You answer, “Medicine, hunting, survival— A man of many hats. I called him my consultant . He would only tell me what to do, but he wouldn’t come help in town. He stayed out here away from it all. He gave up on the world but not on me. I was the only one he’d talk to when… when it all ended. The world.”

It was a common thing in the apocalypse. People closing themselves off from what was left of humanity. Joel would never meet this man but yet he understood him completely. The world was so ugly, why should he give any of himself to it? Look out for yourself then there’s only one person to worry about. Yeah, Joel really understood that.

Still, another part of him could understand why Art would want to look out for you. There was something in you that needed to be cherished. Needed to be protected.

He’s not sure he should ask his next question but he does anyway, “What happened to him? To Art?”

You pause as if trying to push back a memory. A twinge of guilt pricks at his conscience and he wishes he could take it back. He should know better than anyone not to ask about the dead. Still, you answer anyway.

“He died 5 years ago trying to protect me.” You answer in the flattest tone he’d ever heard you speak since he got here.

He does some quick math again. It’d been ten years since the outbreak and you’d been out here for five. Why did you stay here alone instead of heading into the QZ? Your skills were in high demand, people would have given you whatever you wanted. Someone in charge would have given you a good life in exchange for your medical knowledge. Something happened that kept you out here all by yourself in your dead friend's home. Something terrible. He won’t ask anything more.

“You never answered my question,” you break the silence he didn’t realize had formed. 

“What?” He resumes his picking.

“How old are you?”

He genuinely has to put some thought into it, “Forty- six.”

“Oof, you are old,” you roll your eyes and he gives you a playful kick in response, “When’s your birthday?”

“The 26th of Se–.”

The words slip out of his mouth before he can stop himself. His guard was down. It was just so automatic he didn’t realize until it was too late. He didn’t want to think about this right now. He didn’t want to think about his damn birthday and what that meant. He didn’t want to think about her. God, not right now.

“The 26th of what?” You press. He doesn’t respond, looking away from you. Regardless, you still try, “September? The 26th of September?”

He does nothing. Doesn’t nod or speak. He just plays. A look of realization springs on your face and he knows it’s too late.

“Joel… that was 2 days ago.”

“It’s just another day,” He grumbles, focusing on his finger-picking.

“Just another day?” You stand, “Joel, we have to—”

“Don’t.” He bites. It came out a little harsher than he intended. Still, you get the message and sit back down. “I just… I don’t celebrate my birthday. Please, just forget I said anything.”

You look sorry. It wasn’t your fault, really. It was a completely normal question for anyone else. There’s no way you could have known. Still, he hopes his harshness helped you get the message— forget it.

“Okay, Joel,” You nod. It’s at least another two minutes before you finally make a move. Your knight takes one of his pawns guarding his queen. Futile. He slides his Bishop right in the path of your open King.

“Check-Mate.” 

On top of having help with daily chores, getting finished early was something you weren’t used to either. Tonight you actually had time to relax and unwind instead of just collapsing into bed. You can’t recall the last time you were able to make it into the house before sunset without your bones weary from constant movement. Jumping from one thing to the next just to stay alive. 

Joel brought in a rabbit from one of his traps and cooked dinner that night, along with a few of the vegetables he’d harvested that morning. It was incredible. You're not sure if it’s because he was actually a decent cook or because it’s the first thing in years that you didn’t have to make yourself. Maybe a little bit of both.    

You could finally relax— just a little. You’re not sure you know the meaning of the word anymore.

You decide to start with a shower. In a perfect world, it’d be a hot bath with maybe some candlelight. Maybe even a glass of that god-awful chokecherry wine in the cellar. There was an old claw-footed bathtub on the back porch that Art never got around to installing. The thing was massive . You’d boiled some water in it once or twice when you really needed a break. Lately, it worked perfectly as a produce washing station. Maybe a spa-style bath some other night. Funny how something like sitting in hot water became such a luxury. 

When you finally leave your cold shower, twilight has settled in. You walk out to the living room ready to get cozy with a book and a glass of wine, expecting Joel to be waiting in his usual spot on the couch. The house is empty, even of the animals.  Before you even have time to wonder where they are, the faint strumming of a guitar catches your attention.

You look through the living room window and see Joel sitting out past the yard by the sheds, a flickering lantern at his feet. Gus and Lilly sat peacefully at his feet, eyes closed in contentment. It seems you’re not the only one who missed his playing. Why was he so far away from the house? He’d usually practice on the porch or in the living room, he knew you didn’t mind listening.

He’d caught you off guard today, with his response to your question. He’d missed his birthday, one of the few things left in the world to celebrate. Almost as if he was ashamed of it. You thought about it all afternoon. Was it his age? When he finally gave the number there didn’t seem like any embarrassment or hesitation there. He was simply stating a fact. 

He didn’t seem defensive until you brought up the vague possibility of celebrating. He was afraid to ask anything more of you— that was your theory anyway. Yes, you’d given a lot to him and he’d shown how grateful he was in so many ways. Still, everyone should have a birthday, right? 

The last half of the afternoon was spent scheming. Just something small, like what you do for your birthday. You’ll get the generator going, make something nice to eat, listen to music, or watch a movie from Art’s sparse collection. His stay here had been plagued with so much pain already, he could have a treat too. This was his home, even if it was temporary, and he gets all the amenities that come with it.

And that includes a birthday party.

You crack the window to get a better listen and drag a rocking chair over. It’s not a hot bath with all the fixings but candlelight with some music and reading was the next best thing. You peek out the window before you open your book. Joel hasn’t seemed to notice you yet. It would be hard to see you mulling about the house from that far away. He wanted this moment for himself, that’s fine— But there’s no rules about you just being a bystander. That is— if he didn’t know you were. 

You barely get a paragraph into your new chapter before you hear it. It catches you completely off guard. You immediately snap your head in his direction just to see it with your own eyes. 

Joel was singing. 

You know just enough about him to see that this was a rare moment you're not sure you’ll ever have again. You’d missed the first part of the song already. You commit the next precious moments to memory.

Some caught a freight, some caught a plane

Find the sunshine, leave the rain

They said this town's a waste of time

I guess they're right, it's wastin' mine

Some gotta win, some gotta lose

Good time Charlie's got the blues

Good time Charlie's got the blues

The words came out gruff and rugged. His voice is unpracticed and raw but beautiful in a way that’s just so him . He practically speaks most of the words yet you can feel a deep melancholy over all of them as he does so. Lyrics sung with feeling.

Ya know my heart keeps tellin' me

"You're not a kid at thirty-three"

"Ya play around, ya lose your wife"

"Ya play too long, you lose your life"

I got my pills to ease the pain

Can't find a thing to ease the rain

I'd love to try and settle down

But everybody's leavin' town

Some gotta win, some gotta lose

Good time Charlie's got the blues

Good time Charlie's got the blues

Good time Charlie's got the blues

He sings the second half quieter, slower as if the words are hard to say. He hums himself out with a gentle melody. What’s he thinking of while he sings? Are the memories with this song just too painful? Questions you so desperately want to ask him but know you never will. He starts the song over and his voice quakes ever so slightly. You hold back a tear yourself, gasping into your hand and turning away from the window before he sees you. This moment was his, you want him to have it without your presents souring it. You feel dirty for even having witnessed it, yet so grateful that you did.

There was such sadness in his song. Something deep and beautiful. You saw a side of him tonight that you hadn’t before. A raw aching side where a lonely hurt man lay. You’d seen it so many times before in so many other people. The part of them you couldn’t fix.

You don’t know what Joel has been through. You may never know, and that was okay. You’d probably never tell him your full story either. Too much darkness is already in the world— too much pain and death. Yet, here you both were together. It’s not a fairytale but maybe something new. The closest anyone could hope to getting a normal life. 

He’ll leave one day. You’ve accepted that. He’ll go back to whatever life he had before and you’ll go on living yours. But what if he had something more to remember you by than the scars on his body. What if you gave him something back to show there’s still a shimmer of light still in the world—still a little bit of humanity and kindness. 

Show him you care about him as a person. As a friend. That he’ll always have a place here if he wants it.

Yeah, you’re definitely going to throw Joel a Birthday Party.

Chapter Text

It’d been 3 days since he let his birthday date slip and you’d been plotting ever since.

You stand nervously in the kitchen just waiting for him to come back home— and you feel like a fucking idiot. The sun had set. He went out to check the traps 45 minutes ago. You’d turned on the generator less than 30 minutes ago and pulled his birthday cake , a bastardized version of apple crisp, out of the oven 20 minutes ago. Now you’re just… standing there. Staring at the door. Like a fucking idiot. 

You’re nervous for absolutely no reason other than this was a surprise. You’d been nervous just thinking about it all day. Your nerves were apparently so obvious that he asked if you were alright a handful of times. You weren’t too good a lying but you managed to get him off your sent. You want it to be perfect, but you don’t even know what that means. This wasn’t really a traditional party. Hell, this wasn’t even a party. It was a night to take a load off. To relax. To forget about… everything. An illusion really. A chance to pretend that everything was okay.

This was Joel’s night, his first since he got here. Whatever he wanted. A ‘thank you for tumbling into my life, I think we’re friends now’ party. 

But maybe this was stupid after all. Childish and dumb. You should quit while you're ahead. Turn off the generator and say you just made some apple crisp for shits and giggles. You should—

Your heart nearly leaps through your throat when the door opens. Gus rushes in first, slowly followed by Joel. He looks… confused. Reasonable reaction.

“What’s… what’s this?” He asks slowly, glancing around at the random strung Christmas lights crisscrossing the ceiling. He’d surely seen the ones strung across the yard too, “You turned on the generator?”

“I did.” You answer with a small smile.

He slowly paces around the living room, blanketed in golden rainbow light.

“For?”

“Your belated birthday,” You raise your hands and give some weak spirit fingers, “Surprise.”

He pauses, facing away from you. You see his shoulders tense, the rest of him almost frozen in place. The telltale sign he was uncomfortable. Oh no. You immediately feel like you need to explain yourself. The words come pouring out of you at lightspeed before you give him a chance to say anything.

“I-I know a lot of people don’t feel like there isn’t anything to celebrate anymore, I did too, but you deserve it. Everyone deserves something. I know it’s not much but I made… Well, it’s not a cake but it’s like apple crisp and you can have the stereo playing as long as you want. The TV too. We don’t have the best movie selection but you can pick whatever you want tonight. I even brought up a bottle of wine. I know it’s not—”

“Stop,” His gravel voice cuts through your stammering in an instant. “Just… stop it.”

Suddenly the air feels heavy. You’d done something. You’ve offended him somehow.

“I– I’m sorry. Did I—”

“I told you,” He turns around, an anger in his eyes you hadn't seen before. Or… maybe it was pain? You instantly feel small. “I fucking told you to forget it.”

You’ve overstepped. Massively overstepped. You fucked up. Oh god, you fucked up.

“I just wanted to—I know you—”

“You don’t know anything .” He spits, taking a step closer. You reflexively take a step back. You know he’d never hurt you, but fuck he was terrifying, “You don’t know a goddamn thing about me. Stop actin’ like you do.”

His voice booms, threatening to shake the log cabin walls. Even Gus cowers behind you. He’s scary. He’s absolutely terrifying. The silence that lingers is somehow even louder than his outrage. You don’t want to say anything else. You don’t think you could if you tried.

Even if you could speak, it wouldn’t matter anyway. He turns to leave almost immediately, slamming the door behind him. 

You fucked up.

Joel stumbles in the dark out past the property, the glow of lights fading in the distance. 

He wants to scream. He wants to find something and kill it. He wants to cut a hole in his head so all the memories can come pouring out and he’ll never have to feel them again. He wants to be numb. He wants to be free of this, even though he knows he never could be.

Her face is still crystal clear in his mind, just like it was every day. That sweet smile. Big curly hair. Those bright eyes you could never say no to– Sarah. His beautiful, perfect daughter. The only person he’s certain he’d ever truly loved. The one who deserved to live. He wants to purge every memory of her but never let them go simultaneously. How could you just forget the best thing that ever happened to you? He tried to. For years he tried.

No parent should ever have to bury their child. The pain never stopped. The bottomless pit he could never dig himself out of. It’s like it happened yesterday. And tonight you brought it all boiling to the surface. Things he fought so hard for years to keep buried ten feet deep.

Fuck you. Fuck you for doing this to him. 

A frustrated roar rips from his throat as his fist makes contact with the closest tree. The pain is instant and only serves as a distraction for a few fleeting seconds. Still, it’s more welcome than the boiling cauldron of other emotions brewing. 

Anger. Betrayal. Sadness. 

Guilt seems to blanket over all of them now that the initial rage is fading. The look on your face while he screamed at you is something that’ll be tattooed on his mind forever.  You didn’t deserve this, him and all the fucked up baggage he came with. You’d been nothing but kind since you dragged him here and tonight he spat in your face.

You were like her in a way— Like Sarah. Stubborn and too damn smart for your own good. A compassionate soul that wanted to share it with others. Someone who always had a positive outlook on life. What did you blurt in the middle of your stammering? 

Everyone deserves something.

If only you knew how wrong that was when it came to him. Joel deserved the early grave he dug for himself, but you came along and pulled him out of it— and this is how he repays you?

You didn’t know. There’s no way you could have— and yet that still doesn’t seem to ebb away any of the anger still simmering just under the surface. ‘ Is that all I am anymore ?’ Joel thinks. ‘An angry old man?’ He didn’t want it, all this hate. He wanted to be better for you.

You don’t know a goddamn thing about me. That’s what he spat at you— but whose fault was that? You tried. You tried so hard for him to let you in, and he always shut the door in your face.

You saw him like a bird with a broken wing, fallen from its nest. Something innocent that needed help that only your skillful hands could deliver. If only you knew what he really was. 

He wanted to protect you from himself in a way. If you knew everything he’d done, everything that made his brother run from him, you'd never look at him like you do. He’s caught your passing glances a few times, those beautiful eyes peering around the corner— studying him like a bug. But if you knew him, really knew him… You’d probably never want to see him again. Just like Tommy. 

Maybe he’s really just protecting himself in the end. That’s what he’s good at. 

It felt good to be desired. Not for his skills or connections, but just as a man . That faint swell of masculine pride and desire pumps in his chest, he’d almost forgotten what it felt like. You did that to him.

You wanted him. 

He wanted you back. Badly. 

You both spend your entire days together, yet when he goes to bed at night you’re still all he can see when he closes his eyes. He’s not sure when it happened. Daydreams of you he’s ashamed of. Would you be like how he imagines? What would you taste like? How would his name sound lustfully drooled out of your mouth? 

He’s found relief by his own hand one too many times just thinking about it, but he somehow just knows his imagination will never compare. 

And he’ll never find out.

He can’t. He can’t stay here. Someone like him was a cancer in your home. He knew that. He knew it.

And even so, the prospect of leaving you here alone was getting harder and harder to imagine. 

A sharp ruff from behind pulls him from his thoughts. He turns to see Gus standing, all four paws planted and squared for a fight. Joel worries for a moment he’ll have to fight this damn dog off but he doesn’t make a move. If Gus wanted a fight he would have pounced on him when his back was turned. No, the dog wanted his attention. 

Gus sits, huffing an annoyed grunt as he does so. Somehow the message in the animal's movements rings clear. 

Our girl’s upset because of you. Get back there. Get back there and fix this.

Joel groans, sliding down to the ground against the tree he just assaulted. “I really fucked up, didn’t I?” he asks the dog, sighing into his hands. The dog huffs again and cocks his head. ‘ Intuitive little thing ,’ Joel thinks.

Part of him just wants to stay here. Sleep out in the freezing cold and come back in the morning and pretend nothing ever happened. An unlikely scenario since he knows for a fact you’d come hunt him down eventually and scold him for staying out in the cold so long. It begs the question though, could you both just ignore this? Forget about it and move on. Probably, but he doesn’t want to.

You deserve an apology. You deserved something from him, even if he couldn’t tell you why. He can’t tell you about Sarah. Fuck, he can’t tell anyone about Sarah. He doesn’t owe you an explanation but maybe he could fix the night. Give something back, just say thank you, anything. 

Just as long as you wouldn’t completely hate him, he’d be happy.

Lilly comes wandering up and takes a defensive seat next to Gus and it’s the final kick in the ass he needs.

With your little family sitting in front of him, waiting for him to get off his ass and make things right, he slowly raises back to his feet. 

He sighs, leaning against the tree. He’s not as tired as he used to be a few weeks ago. He can bear some weight on his leg again. You did that. You put him back together again. You fixed him. He can fix one night. 

“Time to be a man, Miller.”

The tears came so suddenly. It’s embarrassing, which only makes you cry harder. You sit there in the kitchen corner weeping into your hands like a teen girl on prom night that got stood up. Yeah, embarrassing.

You must look particularly pathetic because even Gus didn’t stick around to comfort you.

Why did this bother you so much? You’d been called every name in the book working as an apocalypse medic. You’d seen death countless times, you’d told families they’d never see their loved one again, you’d been through absolute hell at the hands of others, so why did a few harsh words from Joel stab so deep?

Because it was him . Because you wanted something from him. It wasn’t quite rejections… but it was close.

Part of you wanted to scream at him too, find out what his fucking problem is. You offer him home comforts and he does this? Childish. The other part of you thinks he’s right. He told you to forget it and you went ahead anyway, thinking it would all be fine.

 He was right. You didn’t know anything about him. Almost nothing. He wouldn’t let you in. 

But why should he? Why should anyone? He didn’t owe you his life story or undying loyalty because you did what any rational good person should do. Yes, you saved his life, but something like that isn’t weighed in favors and secrets. It doesn’t require repayment.

Joel didn’t owe you anything.

So why did you really try to throw this little party ? For you. For selfish, arrogant reasons. You were looking for something to make you feel human again and this was the best option. Everything in your life had to be justified. There can’t be enjoyment just for enjoyment's sake. Everything had to be done for a reason— and tonight he was that reason. Joel Miller was making you feel human again.

When the second realization about his birthday hits you, the pit in your stomach drops even deeper. 

You knew the date seemed so familiar, probably because you wanted to forget it. Everyone did. September 26th, the day the world ended. Joel’s birthday was on fucking outbreak day. Of course he’d want to forget whatever horrors he’d seen that day. Every year a constant reminder. What a horrible coincidence to carry with you. Terrible luck of the draw. 

Still, in the absolute mess you find yourself in, you’re still angry. You’re angry at him. Frustrated he’d talk to you that way. React so callously and scold you like a child for trying to do something kind. Suddenly, it feels like you’re back at square one with him. You want to scream at him, you want apologize profusely— you just want to cry.

You’re not sure how long you sit on the kitchen floor but eventually the tears stop— and then the door opens.

You pop up from the floor, wiping your cheeks one last time with your sleeve as if that would even hide your red puffy eyes.

He stands there in the open doorway, remorse painted on his pitiful face. Good.

“Darlin’... have you been—”

“I’m fine,” You spit, wiping your face in the most threatening way you can manage, “Here to yell at me more?”

“I’m not—” He cuts himself off, turning to close the door. Gus and Lilly scurry in before he does so. They immediately come to sit at your feet. Did they… go get him for you? Well, at least you know whose side they’re on now. Joel scratches at his neck, seemingly unable to make eye contact, “I don’t suppose I’m sorry is enough here.”

“It’s a start,” You cross your arms and lean back against the counter, letting out a heavy sigh of your own. You were angry, yes, but he’s allowed to be angry too. He made a boundary and you deliberately stepped over it thinking everything would be fine. He’s not the only one at fault, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry too.”

His head instantly snaps in your direction, “You have nothing to be sorry for. I just—you— I didn’t expect— I’m sorry. There are things that I just don’t—”

He stammers and trips over his words but the message is clear. He’s trying. He’s really trying and that counts for something, however small. 

“You wanna… talk about it?” You extend an olive branch.

“No.” he bites out just a little too quickly. You see him immediately kick himself for how harshly it came out. There was more here than met the eye— you decide to drop it. If he doesn’t want to say, then it’s not your damn business. 

Again, You were both at fault here. You for sticking your nose where it didn’t need to be and him for just being an ass about it. You were both being children here. 

Time to grow up.

You start, “I’ll turn this all off. You don’t have to—”

“No,” He cuts you off abruptly, “It’d be a waste to— You went through the trouble I mean.”

You smile, “Would you still like to have a birthday party, Mr. Miller?”

“I–” he pressed his lips together, suppressing some more outrage, “Can we— let’s call it something else. Please.”

“Okay,” you nod quietly. Not a birthday party. That’s just fine. It’s still his party. You take down two glasses and pour some chokecherry wine. You push his glass closer. He’s hesitant at first but eventually comes to the counter. He takes his glass and you raise yours to his. “To an ongoing recovery.”

He huffs a small smile and tinks his glass to yours, “To not dyin’, I suppose.”

You can’t help but cringe when the simultaneously bitter and overly sweet liquid hits your tongue. You notice he does the same. You’d hoped a year of sitting dormant in the cellar would help the flavor calm down— apparently not.

“Wow, that’s... something,” He wheezes, swirling the remaining liquid in his glass.

“Yeah, it is. But like I said—” You exhale before downing the rest of your glass, “It gets the job done and I haven’t gone blind yet.”

You hold your resolve for a few seconds, feeling rather proud of yourself, before breaking into a coughing fit from the burning in your throat. 

“Jesus Christ, girl,” Joel pats your back in an attempt to comfort you, despite the smile plastered on his face. Well, at least he’s smiling, even if you look like an absolute moron right now. 

“Smoothest in the county,” You wheeze, wiping a stray tear from your eye. You feel the heat in your cheeks rising and you can’t help but laugh at yourself a little. He tries to hide it but he does the same.

“You really are something, Darlin’,” He grins, taking another, much smaller, sip from his glass.

 And just like that, the air between you two was breathable again.

“So,” Joel leans against the counter, arms crossed, “What do you usually do on nights like this?”

“Well, this is your party,” you lean next to him, “What would you like?”

He opens his mouth for a millisecond before closing it again. He turns away from you, eyes darting to the ground. What was he thinking about? What was he going to say?

“You said you have music?” He asks. You absolutely know that’s not what he was originally going to ask, but you still gesture to the far corner of the living room where the dusty stereo and cassette collection lay.

He strolls over, taking a cursory glance at the packed shelf. Art may have liked the isolation but he kept a good collection of music to keep him sane. One of the few things you think he loved just for the sake of it. So many things here had to have a purpose, a reason for existing in this well-maintained space. Something to aid in basic survival. Music probably did, in a way, have a purpose here. All anyone had to gain from it was joy. A memory. A feeling. Just another thing to make you feel human again.

Joel makes his selection and places it in the tape player with a defined click. You expect to hear Johnny Cash or something like what he’s been teaching himself to play for the last few weeks. Instead— he’s picked Elton John. Art had a ‘ best of’ collection of his work. Admittedly one of your favorites in the tape collection.

The familiar slow, melodic piano rumbles through the ancient speakers. You recognize the song instantly. An unexpected choice but not unwelcome either. 

Don’t Let the Sun Go Down On Me

Joel stands with a small grunt and turns to face you, hand outstretched.

“Dance with me.”

Your brows immediately shoot up, “Dance with you?”

“This is my party, isn’t it?” he drawls, “You said we can do what I want. I want a dance.”

You say nothing, dragging your fingers across the counter before making your way towards him. Every hair on your body stands on end as you approach. He stands there waiting in the center of the living room, bathed in mismatched Christmas lights. 

You suppress a gasp when you take his hand and he pulls you into him, flush against his chest. Hesitantly your hand goes up to his shoulder while he lowers his to the small of your back. You swear the sensation of his massive hands on you sends sparks shooting down your legs. He starts to sway you both gently in rhythm.

“I don’t really know how to dance,” You admit.

“Me neither,” he responds, “Learned a little in high school, though.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Oh, back when stagecoaches were still new.” He scoffs, pulling you away for a slow and somewhat clumsy twirl, “To be fair it was just square dancin’.”

“Oh, well, this is prime square dancing music.” You attempt to joke, hiding your reddening face against his chest. He huffs a small laugh and rests his chin on your head. It’s more intimate but at least you don’t have to look him in the eye now. You just barely hear his heartbeat above it all. Strong and steady, a little faster than you expected. You try to lose yourself in music, hoping it will ease your new anxieties that boil over from just being this close to him.

I can't find, oh, the right romantic line

But see me once and see the way I feel

Don't discard me just because you think I mean you harm

But these cuts I have, oh, they need love to help them heal

Don't let the sun go down on me 

Although I search myself, it's always someone else I see

I'd just allow a fragment of your life– to wander free

The chorus is grand and beautiful, nothing that should be associated with Joel and your awkward side-to-side swaying. And yet… it seemed so right. The two of you were so small, and somehow the only thing that mattered in the world.

In your time living at the end of the world, you’ve found it’s not the acts of heroism and grand gestures that kept you going. It was the small things. A hello. A hug. Drinking the worst wine in the world and having an awkward dance with a practical stranger. A kiss. The small things.

And even though this was his night, you still got what you wanted— you felt human again.

“Happy… recovery , Joel.”

“Thank you, darlin’.”

It was perfect. He didn’t want to admit it, but it was. He can’t recall the last time he’d listened to music for reasons beyond getting code from Frank. He can’t even recall the last movie he’d watched. No… No, that’s not true. It was ten years ago on his couch. Has it really been ten years? He does his best to push the memories aside and just enjoy the moment.

Yet here he was in almost the same exact place he was all those years ago when his life changed forever. The irony is not lost on him. And in a way he doesn’t quite understand, it felt… healing. Like he was facing something. Or maybe he’d finally laid some feelings to rest.

You lay there asleep, head resting on his shoulder while some western he’d never heard of played on the ancient little box TV in the background. You’d made a cake. You’d made popcorn, the whole nine yards. It was so domestic. A treat , you called these nights. 

You were right, he supposes. A chance to just pretend everything was okay. To live like normal people used to. A night to not worry about all the challenges tomorrow brought and fall asleep watching some boring movie you’d never heard of. The new American dream. 

A treat.

Even if it was all a fantasy, he’s happy you shared it with him. Just another thing he can never repay you for. 

What could he ever give you that could ever compare to what you’d given him? Himself— he could give you himself, maybe. In a way, his life was already yours. You’d saved it, after all. But if he gave it to you, would you want it? If he took off his mask and showed you the monster that was underneath would you run?

Yes, of course you would. 

Despite everything that happened here, good things didn’t happen to Joel Miller. He was a walking curse, plague and death following in his wake. If he stayed here, he’d drag you down to hell with him. It’s what always happens. 

He can’t let this continue. He can’t let his selfish desires win and take over. 

He had tonight with you, and that’d have to be enough.

Chapter Text

You’re awoken by the steady, rhythmic sound of wood chopping one morning. It was just barely past dawn. He’s cutting the pile you’ve been avoiding for days. Well, you won’t complain. You start a pot of hot water for tea and stroll to the far window overlooking the wood pile– Joel diligently working away.

“Gotta start getting my strength back,” he’d told you the other day when he started taking on bigger and bigger tasks. No crutches or stitches to tear anymore, he was unstoppable. Antsy to do almost anything. He’d be a physical therapist's dream.

You can’t help but shudder a little at the sight of him– stripped out of his usual flannel and jacket and down to a sweat-drenched white tee. Even without the bulk of extra clothes, he still looked massive. His muscles rippled with every swing of the ax. He didn’t look remotely tired after nearly halfway through the pile. A chore that was so arduous for you must have been so easy for someone built like him, even with his injuries.

You should get his attention. You should call out his name and invite him for a warm cup of tea. And you will— in a second. 

God, you’re such a perv.

He gets to a particularly stubborn log— a massive oak stump. You were certain you’d never be able to split it since it was larger than your torso. You kept it anyway assuming you’d end up using it as a makeshift table somewhere. After 3 wide swings from Joel, the log still wouldn’t split. He lets out a grunt of frustration, staring down the massive hunk of wood. His grip tightens around the ax, determination on his face. He swings again, and again, and again, taking no rest time between swings. He grunts with mighty effort on the fifth swing and finally the stubborn log spits. He pauses there for a moment, hunched over an ax still in the wood. He breathes heavy and ragged gasps, gathering himself from such great effort.

He pulls up his shirt to wipe his grimy face and you get a small glimpse of his torso. Toned and littered with scars. You’d seen it maybe a dozen times by now, but something about seeing him like this— sweaty and heaving from work. It lights a fire inside you.

You turn away from the window, suddenly scared he’ll spot you— if he hasn’t already. You feel the heat creeping into your cheeks and your mind delves into more sinful thoughts. It’s embarrassing, your visceral want for him. He could be sitting there doing nothing and you’d find something new about him to drool over. Another thing to crave about him. 

You lean back against the wall next to the window, still just out of view. You hear him start chopping again. Steady swings of the ax followed by his strained grunts. Just listening to it makes your imagination run wild.

TWACK!

You shamefully dip your hand below your sweatpants waistband, pawing over the clothed wetness that waited there. You muffle a moan as you plunge a finger inside. You slide down to the floor, spreading your knees wide.

TWACK!

What would he do if he walked in right now, you wonder. Would he be disgusted or intrigued? Would he watch you finish or take over and do it himself? You hoped he would. He seems like the kind of man who would take what he wanted. You’d let him— without question.

TWACK!

It’s pathetic how something as simple as this gets you worked up over him— though admittedly there’s been several nights where your imagination has done much worse. Nights spent wriggling under the covers in your lonely bed while he sleeps just outside. You’re sick, you’re depraved, you’re so horny you can’t even bring yourself to care right now. You still hear him out there, slaving away— heavy breath after heavy breath.

TWACK!

You stifle another moan as you start to circle your clit slowly.

When was the last time someone touched you? Actually, you don’t want to think about it. Too damn long was always the answer. You had a small handful of not-so-stellar boyfriends growing up but never had a partner after the infection. You had your fair share of quick fucks after the world ended. Seldom any love or actual desire involved. It always felt like it was out of necessity. Just to feel something . To feel good. Feel human again. Always to just feel human— the way Joel made you feel.

He lets out a small shout on what must have been a particularly large log. Your pace quickens. Your legs tense and push you harder into the wall as you feel the oncoming climax growing. 

You think about his strong hands. Those wide shoulders.Those plump fucking lips.

Absolutely pathetic.

You come with a quiet gasp out to the empty air, the forgotten kettle whistling finished on the stove. You don’t move yet, coasting on the waves of bliss for just a minute more. It’s so fleeting when it’s from your hands. 

He would make it better, you think. You wholeheartedly believe he would. 

“Darlin’?” His voice from outside is like a bucket of cold water. He must have heard the kettle going off. You quickly scramble to your feet and put on your bravest face. At least he didn’t come inside.

You turn back to the window and see him standing there, a quizzical look on his face and blissfully unaware of what you’d just done… What he drove you to do. 

“Tea’s ready!”

The woods were so peaceful in the fall. It was always Joel’s favorite season. The beginning of the end before the long months of winter. He wasn’t prepared for the brutal northern winters, being a born and bred Texan man. Hell, he barely had seasons down south. The first winter up here he swore he’d never been that cold in his life. Tess spent a fair amount of time laughing at him and Tommy through it. Eventually the cold crept into his bones and settled there.

Once he was used to the cold everything else came. Seeing the beauty in such defined seasons. Humid summers to sub-zero temperatures, he still doubts humans were ever supposed to experience such change constantly. Or maybe they were and that’s what made humanity endure through all this crap. Was humanity enduring? Is that what this was? 

Gus darting up behind him pulls him from his thoughts. Every trap had come up empty so he opted for a little impromptu hunt instead. His being here was burning through your supplies faster than you’d probably anticipated. Bringing back something to eat was the least he could do. You said he needed to get out and walk more, so he was walking. 

He was walking rather well actually. The pain all over had finally subsided into something manageable. His limp was almost gone, bruises almost faded, and wounds healed closed. He was almost himself again. So it begged the question—

Why was he still here? 

Actually, it’s a stupid question. It’s stupid because he knows the answer. He wasn’t staying for the convenience or a bed, he could get all that in the QZ. He was staying for you. He didn’t want to leave you out here. It’s not the kind of man he wanted to be, to just take so much and run. So here he was, out here hunting, hoping to bring home an animal big enough to ease his conscience. It was a futile effort. No amount of repayment would be enough. So it begs another question.

What did he really have to go back to?

Without Tommy, his family, there was almost nothing. There was Tess but she was more than capable of holding her own. But he owed her his life too in a lot of ways. She’d been there with him through worse shit. People depended on him… right? He was a supplier for almost anything. But did he actually care enough about any of his clients to go back? No. No, of course not. He was expendable back there. Just muscle. Easily replaced, easily forgotten. Life in the QZ was simple survival. Dirty and just scraping by. Finding anything to numb the pain.

Whatever he was doing in the QZ, it wasn’t something anyone could consider living. Not like out here. Not like with you. You made him want to try harder. He wanted to give back to you. You made life something worth living again. 

And there was just no repayment for that. 

Still, he’s going to try.

Gus drops in front of him, his snout pointing forward and slightly to the right. He crouches next to the dog, then he sees it. A massive Tom turkey strutting his way through the bush. It lets out an obnoxious gobble, seeming unaware it was now being hunted.

Joel slowly brings the rifle forward, steadying his aim, and— BANG! The Tom sputters and flies around wildly, now mortally injured. Gus runs forward and finishes the job. He brings back the limp turkey, proudly carrying it in his maw. 

Joel leans down and gives the dog a good rough scratch behind the ears.

“Good boy.”

A whole turkey. He’s brought back a whole fucking turkey. It was a welcome change from the random squirrels and rabbits and quickly dwindling venison jerky supply. You’d make it count, rip out every piece of meat you could off the thing, make bone broth, hell you’d even put those gorgeous feathers on display as a decoration. Nothing goes to waste here.

Joel sat in the living room with his guitar. After having shot and dressed the damn bird for you, he deserved the break. You scurry about the kitchen, gathering every herb and vegetable you can to season such an amazing prize. It was too early in the year for Thanksgiving, but that didn’t stop you. It was a little overboard, probably, but a part of you was a little giddy about it. 

Joel aimlessly plays his sweet melodies nearby. A blush creeps into your cheeks as you’re reminded of the dance you’d shared on his not-birthday. Something shifted that night. In him, in you. He was… gentler. Sweeter towards you even. Something had started that night. Something was said without saying anything at all. Despite his gruff exterior, Joel Miller had a heart underneath it all. You’re not sure what you stirred up inside it that night but you were both… just different.

And neither of you was brave enough to take the next step.

He leans back with a sigh, stretching out his fingers. He shifts the instrument on his lap, his gaze running over the wooden curves. It must have been so nice to have something like this back in his life, you think.

“Who’s Ruth?”

His question catches you off guard. Ruth. You hadn’t heard her name in so long.

“How do you know that name?” you ask. 

“It’s carved right here?” He turns the beaten-up old guitar around and there it is scrawled into the back, clear as day. With love, Ruth. That’s right, she’d given him that guitar, all the way back in their college days. 

“She was… she was Art’s wife,” you answer, images of her kind face flashing across your memory. Someone far too sweet to be with an old curmudgeon like Art. She’s the whole reason you’re here at all, in a way. Maybe it’s time you told someone about her too. She deserved that. “She’s why this place is out here.”

“Really?” Joel’s eyebrows raise with intrigue. When did he get so interested in your stories?

“They were college sweethearts. Her a country girl and Art a born and bred Boston man. Both Harvard grads. Him a med student, her an English major.”

“This sounds like a Danielle Steel novel.” Joel snorts. If you weren’t elbow-deep in a turkey carcass, you would have smacked him.

“A romantic story requires good execution, Mr. Miller,” you wave your turkey juice-drenched hand in the air, “Shall I continue?”

“Please, go on Ms. Steel.” He gestures equally as dramatically. 

“Art got a cushy job at Boston General almost right away after residency. They were already married by then. I think Ruth was working at some college at that point. She hated it, apparently. She didn’t even need to work, with her husband being a top surgeon at a top hospital. She didn’t know how to sit still. How to be a good housewife, she told me once. But she stuck it out for him. For Art and his career. She didn’t tell him until years later how unhappy she was in the city. He had no idea. They had a cute little house in West Lake within six months.”

“Just like that?” Joel interrupts. 

“Just like that,” You smile to yourself, remembering the love in Ruth’s eyes whenever she’d tell you the tale of her life. You didn’t understand the depth of it all as a child. Their commitment to each other. “He loved that woman. He’d do almost anything for her. She wanted a small town, a community she’d be comfortable in. He just wanted her to be happy. She was my elementary school teacher, and he was a doctor for a town of no more than two thousand. Two Harvard graduates. ” 

“So why this place? They didn’t live out here?”

“No, no,” You wrap the completed turkey in twine, almost ready for roasting now, “This was a present for her. A surprise 30th-anniversary gift. She loved the woods. The quiet. Art solicited my dad’s help and they worked for months in secret… But…”

Joel’s expression drops, likely already guessing the twist, “But?” he prompts.

“She was diagnosed with Osteosarcoma in ‘95. Bone cancer. She didn’t want any chemo treatments. It ate her up within a year.” Your voice quivers just slightly. The memories of her so weak and small in bed— It’s not how you wanted to remember her. Art took an extended leave for all of it. At her bedside the whole time. 

“She… never saw the cabin, then?” He asks so quietly you almost miss it.

“She did,” You answer, sliding the turkey onto its rack inside the stove, “He showed her when she was first diagnosed. They spent as much time out here as they could before she was completely bedridden.”

You rinse off your hands and take a seat next to Joel on the couch. His gaze lingers on the back of the guitar, thumb sweeping over the crudely burned in letters. Maybe you should have told him this was a sad story. That’s all there seemed to be anymore. 

“Did she like it?” he finally asks. 

You smile, resting your hand on his forearm. His eyes drift to yours. 

“She loved it.” Your hand drifts down to the neck of the guitar, “This was her gift to him when he started residency. She still had a year of college left and he got a spot in a hospital across the state. He always talked about wanting to learn guitar but never took it up. She forced his hand, told him to learn it for her on top of learning how to be a doctor. Or so she told me.”

He laughs lightly at that, “Sounds like a good woman.”

“She was.”

“I’d buy that book, I suppose.” He smiles at you, though there’s not much joy behind it.

Your touch lingers on the carved wood of the guitar, your fingers just inches from his. Ruth was someone special. With your own mother leaving before you could remember, she was almost like a surrogate mother to you. While Art only seemed to tolerate you in those days, she well and truly loved you. 

You were only a teenager but Art was never quite the same after she died. Even more reclusive and cantankerous of an old man. Your father was the only friend he couldn’t completely push away, then he eventually died too. Then you and Art were just stuck with each other, living through something neither of you could ever be prepared for. 

But you’d seen his soft side before. Art cared, even if he acted like he didn’t. He was a doctor after all. He may not have been nice but he would move mountains for his patients. For people who needed him. He did it for you all the time.

Well, he used to. 

“Well,” You slap your knees, standing up off the couch, “We got more chores to do before we can have Thanksgiving, Miller.”

He groans, gently setting the guitar aside, “You got it, Ms. Steel.”

Early Thanksgiving dinner came and went that evening. 

Twilight rolled in, the last specks of light quickly fading through the trees. Finishing the laundry was your last task of the day. You rushed to get the wet clothes out on the line before it got this dark. You almost succeeded. He watches from the window, cutting up and storing what remains of the turkey. It’s cute, he thinks as he watches you scurry to finish the laundry. 

You work quickly trying to do it all at once. A soapy bucket on the ground filled with soaking clothes you quickly tried to ring out and pin up. In your haste to grab the next item, you splash the entire front of your pants. Joel pauses, observing a little too closely how the wet fabric clings to your legs. You let out a grunt of frustration and just stare down at your now-soaked clothes for a moment.  Maybe he should go out and help. Maybe. You shrug and make a decision he never would have guessed in a million fucking years.

You peel off your pants, throw them in the bucket, and continue about your chore like nothing fucking happened. 

His teeth almost break at how tightly his jaw clenches. He drops the knife and stops whatever he’s doing for fear he’ll cut his fingers off, mesmerized by the tantalizing sway of your ass. Your smooth bare legs against the cool night air. 

You wore a flannel, the back of it just not quite long enough to cover all of you. The bottom of your cheeks just barely poking out from underneath the curved hem. Only when you reached up could he see it all. He watches you intently, like it’s a game. He pictures you in one of his shirts instead— Walking around the morning after he’s spent the night wrecking you.

He palms himself through his jeans, suddenly painfully hard from shameful thoughts— yet he can’t seem to look away. God, you were right there, half fucking naked. You had to have known he’d see you, right? Did you just not care or did you want him to see? The idea of you doing this all for him makes his cock jump. Sinful— disgusting thoughts, old man. 

He glances over his shoulder to make sure the coast is clear, if only out of force of habit. The only other human for miles is in front of him, her dog sitting idly by her side and her cat asleep on the couch. He pulls himself out of his straining pants, giving his hard length a slow rough stroke. 

It was a game now, which just made it all the more exciting for him. You couldn’t have had that many clothes left but he doubts he could last long. He could hide himself away in the bathroom, but then he couldn’t see you. He couldn’t see the goosebumps pricking at your delicate skin in the cold fall air and imagine they were actually from him. It was a game and he loved it. 

His strokes quicken. You could turn around at any moment and see him. Would you like him like this, he wonders. Hard and desperate for you. 

Then you bend over— and he sees the outline of your clothed pussy peek from underneath your gorgeous round ass. God, he wanted it all. If it all matched the rest of you, your bare cunt would surely be perfect. You were beautiful, in every sense of the word. 

You could be his. All he’d have to do is ask. 

But he won’t. He knows he won’t. He’d be a burden to you again eventually. He just knew it. This was for the best.

For now, imagining what you’d be like will have to do. Good thing Joel had a vivid imagination.

You start to turn around and he falls to the kitchen floor before you can see him, still furiously stroking his throbbing cock. Almost getting caught was the last thrill he needed. He comes all over his hand with a pained hiss through his teeth. He sits there panting for a moment, trying to ride the high as long as possible. He wishes it was enough.

Then he hears it, the loud sloshing of water being dumped outside. You’d finished the laundry. He quickly tucks himself back in his pants and washes the shame that painted his hands down the sink. Idiot— vial, disgusting, idiot.  

The back door creaks open and your voice quietly squeaks though, “Don’t turn around, okay.”

“Why?” he plays dumb.

“Just don’t!” he swears he hears the blush in your voice. Adorable. 

“Yeah, but why?”

“Joel, it’s cold out here. Please!”

“Alright, darlin’,” The sound of your footsteps quickly skittering behind him and the bedroom door slamming makes him smile. 

In another world he’d go back there with you, kiss up your goose-bumped legs, and devour you under the sheets until you were warmed up again. Until you were screaming for him to stop, then he’d hold you close the entire night and make sure you never got cold again. Never felt alone ever again. 

In another world.

Chapter Text

The garden was finally bare, the soil tilled over and weeded of its dead occupants. Precious loved herbs and other plants dug up and brought inside to last the winter. Seeds sorted and stored for next year. Harvest time was over and the dirt can lay in rest for another winter. October had come and passed, the early days of November bringing a new chill to the air. 

Joel helps you prep the garden soil for next year and he almost wishes he hadn’t offered. You had buckets of compost stored and ready to enrich the soil, nasty smelling stuff. Vegetable scraps, egg shells, bones— garbage really. He was helping you spread garbage around your dead garden. He’s done stranger things, he supposes. 

“Please tell me this is the last one,” He sighs, dumping out the final nasty, juicy contents from the last 5-gallon barrel you rolled out.

“It’s the last one,” you scoff, raking the dumped contents evenly over the soil’s surface. “You can start putting the leaf piles on top then we’re done.”

“Thank god,” he retreats to the edge of the garden where you’d had a massive leaf pile waiting. He grabs an armful and spreads them on top of the compost, “Why are we doing this again?”

“Keeps the soil healthy.” You dust your hands off and grab a fistful of leaves for yourself, “You gotta put back what you take out. The parts you don’t use decompose and make the soil healthier. Circle of life and all that.”

“And the leaves?”

“Extra barrier and extra compost.” You step closer to him and he does his best to ignore how that makes his heart speed up ever so slightly. “Use what’s around, ya know?”

“Yeah, I suppose,” He grabs another armful of leaves, “But it was good this year? The garden?”

“Better than other years. Only got good at it the last two years or so.” 

Joel wasn’t much of a farmer. Hell, he killed nearly all of his houseplants. The idea of constantly managing something so delicate was intimidating. Game hunting was easy in comparison. Straight forward— almost literally. Point and shoot. Set a trap and leave it. Hunting didn’t take skill, it just took luck. But growing food… That was a whole different story. 

Your storages were plentiful from what he saw. You didn’t really seem to keep track of resources used because of it. Much more lax than Bill. If he had to guess you probably easily had enough for 6-8 months at the moment— But he can’t help but wonder how much you’d used on him. How much did he take from you? The question that’s been constantly on his mind lately.

He’d brought back some meager kills. That turkey and a good handful of rabbits. Was it enough? 

“Thinking you got enough to make it through the winter this year?” He asks before he can stop himself. 

You pause, he’s not sure if it’s from his sudden forwardness or because you’re actually thinking about it, sorting through everything in your head. He sees your expression drop a little bit— his unspoken words evidently being heard loud and clear. 

Will you be fine without me? 

He hadn’t brought it up in weeks, him heading back to the QZ. You hadn’t either. Christ he’d been healed for just as long and he still wandered around here like a lost puppy. What was he waiting for? You to chase him out with a broom in hand? Or maybe for you to tell him please don’t go. 

He had to. He had to leave and him lingering around you like a ghost was making it all the more difficult. 

“It was a good harvest this year,” You finally answer, kicking out more leaves in your path. “Winter can be unpredictable, though. For extra assurance, we should probably think about getting bigger kills if we—” 

You pause again, your back to him. He can’t see your face but he can guess what’s painted across it. Panic. Blushing embarrassment. You said it twice, the forbidden word. 

We.

You’d both been dancing around referring to each other as a pair since he got here, now you were the first to let it slip. He knew what we meant. We meant I’m thinking of you. We meant I’m planning a future where you’re there. We meant don’t leave. 

He doesn’t say anything, the pleasant afternoon soured by him asking silent questions. Joel didn’t like being so timid. It’s not who he was. He was a blunt, straightforward man— often to a fault. He wishes he could still be that emotionless with you. It’d make everything so much easier. Instead, he lives in fear of hurting you. Of bringing the curtain down on this small little paradise you’d given him. He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve you. It’s time he gets back to what he was actually good at.

All things must come to an end, even the good things. He had to come back to reality. Joel just had to pull the trigger… but when?

He tosses a final fistful of leaves onto the barren garden and stomps off to the edge of the property. 

“I’m gonna set up a few more traps.”

A bloated awkwardness had settled between you both since this afternoon, and you have your stupid mouth to thank for it. The damn thing always got you into so much trouble. 

You said we . You desperately wanted to try and recover and blurt that you were referring to you, Gus, and Lily, obviously, but that would have made the whole situation ten times worse. You just blurting whatever came to mind had gotten you into this mess. 

How had Joel become such an integral part of your life in such a short time? He’d crawled into your heart and made a home there without even trying. From day one you knew he wouldn’t stay, and yet that never seemed to matter. 

You’d told him six weeks for his estimated recovery time. It only took a glance at the calendar to see that specific date had come and gone. He’d been recovered. Walking strong with newly healed over scars. He was a picture of health… and he was still here. That meant something.

He hadn’t mentioned the QZ once. Not even people inside it. He’d been vague, at best, about what he’d done there. The only family you knew about was his brother, who was likely now hundreds of miles away. What did he have to go back to, you wonder. You’d never asked, but then again he probably wouldn’t tell you if you did. 

Maybe you’re waiting for him to ask. Ask if he can stay here… but you probably made your feelings about that rather clear… right? Maybe you have to ask, then. Ask him to stay. Tell him how you feel.

The fear of rejection is a powerful one. People underestimate it all the time.

So, instead of facing the fear, you dance around in this awkward limbo you’d made for yourself, because of your big dumb mouth. 

You’re curled up on the couch while he passively plays guitar in the corner of the living room, Gus and Lily curled up at his feet like he always belonged there. 

The playing stops and you dare to glance in his direction. His gaze is on the curled-up fur children at his feet, sadness pulling at his features. You can only hope what he’s thinking about. 

“Hey,” he looks at you, “So… I was thinking bout somethin’.”

“That’s dangerous.” You hope, just for a moment. Hope that he’ll ask to stay the winter. Stay longer. Stay forever. Just… stay.

“Yeah,” he gives the weakest smile you’d ever seen in your life. Oh no. “I was… thinkin’ about when I should leave.” 

You’d never had your hope dashed so quickly. 

“Yeah?” You say, trying your best to hide the fact that your heart is shattering.

“I should… do it soon. Before the snow falls.” 

You look away from him, clutching your book to your chest, “That’s… a good idea.”

He lets the silence brew in the room. God, if you thought the air between you two was uncomfortable before…

You hold back a tear, putting on a brave face. “When were you thinking?”

He’s set the guitar aside, leaning heavily over his knees. He wrings his hands together nervously. 

“Tomorrow.”

The single word is like an arrow to the heart. Tomorrow? That soon? You can’t believe you’d scared him off so easily. If there was a time to tell him to stay, it was now. Beg him not to go. Tell him how you feel. Show him he’d always have a home here. 

Say something. Anything. 

“That’s… soon.”

Idiot.

“It is.” He nods dismissively. You don’t know why, but you really want to punch him right now. He sighs, coming over to take a seat next to you. Good. Closer to punch. “I’ve taken enough from you, darlin’. It’s time I be on my way.”

“Good, you’ve been a nuisance anyway.” You think hiding behind some sarcasm will distract from the stinging behind your eyes. It doesn’t. Still, you manage to will the tears to stay inside, “It was a pleasure you have you, Joel.”

He rests a hand on your thigh and you swear it burns. “I… don’t know how to repay you.”

Don’t leave . You want to say it so badly. That’s how he could repay you if that’s what he felt he needed to do. Is it selfish of you to want him all to yourself? Like a treasure you found. Yes, of course it is. He had a right to leave. He had a right to his own damned free will. 

“Just live, that’s all you have to do,” You place your hand on top of his, “And come back to visit?”

“Of course.”

Those sorrowful deep brown eyes say all his mouth never could. Does he even really want to leave? God, you hate this. What do you do now? Do you eagerly start packing his supplies? Leave him alone? Cry? Beg? Say it. Just say it!

“Joel…” You squeeze his hand just a little tighter. His expression lightens, just a little. “I…” I don’t want you to leave. “I’ll miss you.”

Coward. 

He breathes out a small smile, squeezing your hand back. Can he feel it? Your heart breaking.

His other hand comes up to rest on your cheek. “I’ll miss you too, darlin’.”

“Joel…”

This was too much. He was too much. You can’t just sit idly by while this happens. You can’t just watch him leave without fighting just a little. Without speaking your peace. If you don’t, you know you’ll regret it forever. You have to do something. Do anything . 

You come crashing into him, your lips finding his immediately. He moans into you, his other hand coming up behind your head to pull you in closer. He wanted this too. Good. You crawl on top of him… or he guides you down to the couch, you’re not really sure. It doesn’t matter. You had him, here, right now. When your words fail you, this is how you can tell him. Tell him to stay.

His hands trail down from your face and squeeze your waist, pulling you closer to him. You rake your hands through his hair in a frenzy, just needing more. All of him. Oh god, he felt so good already. His tongue comes out to explore your mouth, you open with a desperate sigh. He was eager. He was willing. 

He was yours. Right now he was yours. 

Your hands drop to his belt. You feel him flinch under your touch. 

“Darlin’... I…” he breathes between your lips. Whatever he was going to say dies on his tongue. His hips raise up in encouragement. 

“Joel,” you moan as you undo the buckle, “Joel, I—”

A mighty gust of wind shakes the cabin, testing its very foundation. You both jolt upright, the moment completely ruined by shock. The windows rattle with newfound intensity. The bones of your little home creak in protest. 

A storm was coming. 

“Shit… shit ,” you grumble, climbing off Joel, much to your disdain. You walk over to your little weather station by the front door, three little mounted dials that Art always swore by. A thermometer, a barometer, and a hydrometer. The temperature had dropped significantly since this afternoon, dwindling down past freezing. The air pressure was dropping rapidly, you swear you see the needle moving before your very eyes. Yep, the telltale signs of a storm. When you glance out the window your heart drops. 

The snow had only just started to fall, small white specks starting to blanket the ground, and it was picking up speed. The sky was barely visible, the undoubtedly massive clouds whited out by an oncoming freeze. It was going to be a blizzard—a big one.

“What is it?” Joel comes up behind you. 

You groan, wishing so badly you could ignore it and take him back to the couch and continue where you left off— but you know you can’t. You’d said earlier that winter was unpredictable, and that was true. Early snow meant more work that had to be done now before it got worse. Preparations done to assure your safety. More wood inside, more water in the tank, relocating the chickens, bringing up more food from the cellar— You could both do it before the storm got worse. If you hurried it’d be done in an hour. Then you could get back to… everything. 

You were likely going to be snowed in for a few days. Maybe it’s a sign, you think. A final gift from the almighty to get Joel Miller to stay just a little longer. You’ll take what you can get.

“Winter came early.”

Chapter Text

The wind had picked up, and a thin blanket of snow already covered the ground in what felt like a matter of seconds. The brown dead vegetation was already being choked out by endless white. You were right to be concerned about this storm. It was going to be a bad one.

You rushed out the door while half-explaining what needed to be done to Joel. You’ll take care of the chickens and food, and he’ll take care of pumping the water. You’ll need to get the storage up in the tank. You’ll both take care of the wood. He runs up the hill where the well pump is, and you scurry to the chicken coop. With the potential of being snowed in, you had to be well-stocked. You had to be ready. Of course this all had to happen when you were finally having a moment.

The quicker this gets done, the quicker you get back to… everything else.

Well, that was half true. You’d been caught with your pants down—this time literally— by unexpected weather before, and it always ended poorly. Never underestimate Mother Nature. If you were prepared and ready every time, then you were safe. This time, you seemed to be justified in your anxieties. You didn’t even waste time putting on a jacket before leaving the cabin, and you were already regretting it. 

A cold burst of wind nearly knocks the Buck Shack’s door open. You hurry inside as Gus herds the precious poultry in behind. You start a small fire in the smokehouse just above the floor. 

“It’s not a heat lamp, ladies, but it’ll have to do. You know the drill.” You assure the hoard of hens.

Gus makes quick work of the herding, rushing them all inside in less than 2 minutes. A new record. If only there was time to congratulate him on such a feat. You’ll have to remember to give him an extra piece of jerky later as a thank you for helping you get laid slightly sooner. 

You toss in a few good handfuls of dead leaves for bedding. After double-checking the ventilation, you latch the new hen house door behind you. 

Now the cellar. 

You don’t even look at the jars as you shove them into the basket by the stairs. You’re not sure if it’s because of your actual worry for the storm or because of what’s waiting for you after. What you hope is waiting for you afterward. You can’t deny a small part of you is a little happy about this. 

He was about to leave. He was ready to step out the door, and now this happens. You’re not sure you believe in miracles, but you’ll take what you can get. If the almighty sent a freak blizzard to keep Joel in your life a little longer… Well, then you better start praying again.

On your third trip up from the cellar, you see Joel stumbling down from the water tank. 

“Should have a few extra hundred gallons now,” he’s shouting, but his voice is practically lost in the billowing wind. “What else is left?”

“Firewood.” You re-latch the cellar doors, your fingers already stiff and numb from the dwindling temperatures. You’ve lost track of how long you’ve been running back and forth to the front door. You consider rushing inside to dig out your gloves but decide to push through. 

The quicker you get this done, the quicker you get back…

Arm full after arm full of wood is unceremoniously dumped inside as you both rush to finish the final task before hunkering down through the storm. You wonder if he’s thinking the same things you are. If he’s eager to get back to you. You were trying to quell the stirring butterflies in your stomach at what was to come next— nervous about the possibilities. Now that he had time to think about it, would he reject you? In the heat of the moment, the actions were so clear, but now that you both have a moment to pause, maybe you should reconsider. 

He was leaving. Not anytime soon in this weather, most likely, but he was going to leave eventually. Getting attached would make it all the more difficult. At the same time, the thought of having to tiptoe around each other in your cramped little cabin sounded nauseating. Tensions were already so high between you both, and now this?

Is his mind racing the same way yours is? Does he have unfounded anxieties about made-up scenarios? He was such a straightforward man; you doubt it. Joel didn’t seem like one to just wonder about something— he would just take it. 

That would make this all so much easier if that’s how he started this. His confident, guiding hand to quell your anxieties. Would he do that? Take care of you in that way? Maybe. You’ll find out soon.

“That should do it!” 

You both toss a final bundle of logs through the door, a good pile towering in the corner of the living room. Enough to last a few days.

You stand at the door of the cabin, mulling over your mental checklist. Was that really it? No, something felt off. You were forgetting something, you’re absolutely sure of it. What else could there possibly be?

“What is it?” Joel’s gloved hand comes to grasp your freezing one. You try to ignore how his gentleness makes your stomach leap.

“It’s… I don’t know,” you bite your lip, “I feel like I’m forgetting something.”

“You got the chickens in? Wanna check the water level?”

“No, no, I—” A wet nose nudging your other hand is your first clue. You look down to see Gus whimpering at your side, eyes darting to the raging snow outside. Oh no . 

Lilly. 

You look down at the porch and see a set of quickly filling little paw prints in the snow that lead off to the east side of the house. She must have run out with you and Joel, and you didn’t even notice. With Gus acting this way, it was clear she wasn’t in the house.  She was still out there, cowering and scared. Oh that stupid fucking cat. It’d been so long since you’d viewed her as just a cat, though. She was your family. Some of your only family. You had to find her.  

You jump off the porch, calling her name. 

“Wait!” Joel calls out, his voice only landing on deaf ears.

You follow her tracks away from the house. They quickly disappear in the pelting snow, but there was just enough to tell she went toward the water reservoir, likely trying to follow Joel there. Of course, can’t let her new favorite person brave a crippling storm alone—s tupid, stupid cat.

The snow was already ankle deep on you, and the wind was punishing. You were struggling just to walk; you can’t imagine how hard it might be for a ten-pound animal.

You made it to the water tank. A quick look behind your shoulder and you see no sign of Joel. He was likely taking his time to search the lower part of the hill. You circle the reservoir, calling out Lilly’s name and praying that dumb little animal can hear your voice over the wind. There was barely ten feet of visibility now, she’d likely gotten lost. 

You take a brief moment to check the water levels of the tank. Joel had pumped in another five hundred gallons, definitely enough to assure neither of you has to come back up here for a while. Unfortunately, you can’t bring yourself to be grateful just yet. 

“Lill–” you’re cut off as you round the tank a second time, slamming directly into a familiar board chest.

“I have her!” He shouts over the wind. He opens up his jacket ever so slightly, and a set of familiar green eyes peers back. You immediately sigh in relief, “Damn thing was just under the porch. Come on, let’s head back.”

He puts an arm around you, shielding you from the wind as you both carefully walk down the hill. Now, with a moment to breathe and every task completed, you can feel the cold start to creep in. Snow clung to every part of your clothes and froze into your hair. Yeah, you should have definitely grabbed a jacket.

You both burst into the cabin, quickly locking the door behind you. In the peek of gratefulness, Lilly scurries under the couch, quickly followed by Gus. Their own way of saying thank you for rescuing them from a certain frozen demise. 

You kick off your boots while Joel latches the door behind you. Limping over to the wood stove to thaw yourself out, you curse your practically frozen joints. Well, that’s what you get for running out blindly in a blizzard without sparing a second to even grab a damn coat. 

“Holy shit,” Joel grumbles as he adds a few more logs into the stove. Its warmth already filled the cabin. Still, that didn’t make you thaw out any faster. 

You jump in surprise when Joel grabs your hands. His own hands were rough and already warm. He always seemed so warm. 

“Silly woman, didn’t even think to put on a coat or gloves.” He scoffs, delicately running his fingers over yours. 

“I think my panic was justified,” You scoff through chattering teeth. A gust of wind shakes the cabin walls as if to agree with you. 

You stand there in silence for probably too long, both of you likely too dumbfounded on what to say next— or maybe too nervous. Really, what could you say? Can you just get right back to business? Did he want to talk it through? If he did, then this would be the perfect time for him to say something. 

He was stuck here in this little cabin with you at least until the storm passed. He wanted to leave. He’d been waiting to leave. You kissed him. He kissed you back— And he wanted to kiss you back. 

This wasn’t one-sided. That’d become obvious. Even still, with the rush of adrenaline and too much time to ponder your own desperate actions, you started to doubt it all. All the courage you had earlier depleted. 

You’re cold, you’re tired, and now your whole body is sopping wet to top it all off. 

The snow sticking to your hair and clothes was finally melting, the fabric awkwardly clinging to your skin. You realize you must look like an absolute wreck at this point.

You pull your hands away from his and turn away. You start to unbutton your top flannel before you take a step towards the hallway. A hand on your elbow stops you. 

He silently turns you back towards him— that same fiery look in his eyes before the storm came. You gulp as he reaches for your flannel. His hands replace your own frozen ones. Slowly, he starts to unbutton the shirt, one by one.

“Let me help,” He murmured, his gaze transfixed on your peaked nipples. 

“Joel—”

“You do too much, you know that? Too busy takin’ care of someone else.” He rolls the sleeves off your shoulders, and the soaked garment falls to the floor with a wet plop. Only your white undershirt remains, equally as drenched and clinging to your skin. 

His fingers hook under the hem of your shirt. The final layer of fabric that separates him from your bare breasts underneath. You’re positive the shirt is drenched to the point of being see-through. His eyes dart to yours, asking permission to continue. Your breath hitches as you give a small nod. 

He savors the moment, slowly gliding his rough palms up your torso as he rolls the shirt over your head. You gasp at the chill the air sends over your bare skin. Your T-shirt joins the flannel on the floor. 

His eyes don’t leave yours, even though his hands roam up and down your bare skin. He pulls you into him. He’s warm. He’s so fucking warm.

“Who’s takin’ care of you, darlin’?” That raspy baritone sends shivers down your spine like it never had before. He knew exactly what he was doing.

His lips crash into yours with the same urgency as before. The frenzied roughness is all the permission you need to rip at his clothes. You feel his breathing jump when your hands reach the bare flesh of his stomach. He pulls you closer into him, your bare chests crushed into each other. His warmth against your peaked breasts makes you mew in delight. 

He brings you both down to the floor, pushing you down and crawling on top of you. He breaks the kiss for a moment, those deep whisky eyes setting you even more on edge— if that was even possible. His breath is heavy with lust, yours is too. 

An impatient whine escapes your lips as you reach for his belt buckle again. His hands instantly grab your wrists, a dangerous warning flashing in his eyes. 

“I told you,” his voice has nearly dropped a full octave, “You do too much.”

He gently returns your hands back to your sides before reaching for your pants. The graze of his knuckles against the soft flesh of your stomach sends jolts down your legs as he runs them across the hem. He slowly unbuttons them, his eyes never leaving your own. If he keeps this shit up you doubt you’re gonna last long.

You worry for a moment that his touch may linger on your scars there. A sporadic pattern of jagged, ugly lines on your lower abdomen. He’d never seen this part of you. Luckily, he’s a gentleman, or at least doesn’t seem to care.

You raise your hips, and he pulls your final garments down in one yank, both underwear and pants quickly discarded across the room. You lay underneath him fully bare and waiting— eagerly waiting.

You have to will your legs not to shake as his hands run up them, his mouth placing stubbled kisses along your inner thigh. Each contact of his lips sends a new jolt of wetness straight between your legs. Despite your efforts, a few moans escape you. You swear you catch the hint of a smile on his lips as he trails closer to your pussy. He likes this, you think. Seeing you start to crumble from so little.

 He hovers there for a moment, his warm breath caressing your eager cunt. “Let me take care of you, darlin’.”

He rips a scream from you as he engulfs you, hot tongue delving through your folds and dragging up to your bud. His fingers dig into your squirming hips, nailings leaving crescent indents in the supple flesh. He could break skin and leave you bleeding for all you cared, just as long as he didn’t stop. 

 Christ, when was the last time someone did this to you? And was it ever this good? No, no, you doubt it was. 

Your hands find his lushious curls, holding onto him for dear life. He laps at you greedily— furiously. His skilled tongue moved with a precision you’d never known. Somehow, you're not surprised he’s an expert at this. You’re not sure why. 

His deep moans as he works send shockwaves through your whole body. They tell you something that sends your head swimming. He’s enjoying this just as much as you. 

The previous freezing cold is now completely forgotten in the warm embrace of Joel Miller— and it’s everything you imagined it would be. 

“Christ,” You hear him murmur against you, “S-so fucking wet, sweet girl. So wet.”

“Just for you,” you mew in a voice you thought you’d forgotten. “All for you.”

“So good,” He runs his flat tongue over the length of your slit before sucking in your clit. 

“Fuck!” you scream, your thighs closing around his head. The orgasm hits you unexpectedly. Liquid fire rushes through your veins in an instant— and entirely too soon. Still, Joel doesn’t seem to mind, his mouth still eagerly consuming you as you attempt to crush his skull. 

You knew you wouldn’t last.

The tight coils of your muscles slowly unwind as you come down, sweat pricking at your brow already. And it was… embarrassing. You came so fast and it was fucking embarrassing. You groan and cover your face with your hands.

“Hey? Sweetheart?” You feel Joel crawl over you again, your dripping cunt already missing his perfect mouth. “I’m sorry I didn’t—”

“No! No, not that! You were— That was—” you stammer over yourself as usual. He hovers over you, patiently waiting for an explanation. You feel your cheeks heating even more, if that was even possible, “I… I came too fast.”

“Nothin’ wrong with that.” 

“No, it’s not— I just—” you sigh, brushing your hands up his chest. You feel his muscles tense in the wake of your touch. “I just wanted to enjoy that a little longer.”

He smiles, leaning down to kiss you. You sigh at the taste of yourself on his lips. He moves down to your neck, nipping small marks down to your shoulder.

“I don’t know what I did to make you think I was stoppin’ there,” He murmurs against you, his voice painted over with lust once more. He’s a far more attentive lover than you’d thought he would be— not that you’re really complaining, of course.

You finally manage to rip off his belt. He pulls down the waistband of his pants and finally pulls his hard cock free. He sits there for a moment, slowly stroking himself above you. Your mouth waters at the sight of him. Massive cock already throbbing hard and dripping. You’re absolutely delighted to keep finding out that no part of Joel Miller is how you’d imagined he would be— not at all.

He finally completely abandons his pants and comes back down to you. You’re both here, completely bare. The barriers are finally broken down and neither of you have to hide anymore— you don’t have to resist anymore.

Nothing is ever going to be the same.

You feel the blunt head of his cock jump as it comes into contact with your sopping entrance. He sighs, dropping his head back to your neck. He rolls his hips gently, not to enter you but to coat himself in your release. The gentle yet so purposeful soft contact makes another moan escape from your lips— his velvet hard cock stroking through your weeping folds. It was heaven.

“I—” His gravel voice drips with desperation, “I don’t know how gentle I c-can be, sweet girl.”

Whoever said you wanted things gentle? Clearly, you’ve given him the wrong impression as well. You place several sloppy kisses along his shoulder as you wrap your legs around his waist. You lick a stripe from his neck up to his ear before you whisper— 

“Then don’t be. ”

He growls, a filthy but exciting sound, before he pulls back and slams into you. You arch in a silent cry, your nerves screaming from the sudden fullness you hadn’t known for far too long. He waits for you to adjust, only for a moment. You can see the tendons tensing in his neck, heavy ragged breaths blown into your hair. 

“Sweet little t-thing,” he groans as he slowly draws back.

He slams into you again, the force far more pleasurable this time now that you know what to expect. Christ, you were so full. If you’d known he would feel this good, you would have cornered him on the couch weeks ago.

“ Joel… ” You can’t help but moan his name as he sets a pace, his heavy breath against your neck sending chills down your spine. His grip on your hips tightens, each thrust becoming harder than the last— more punishing. He needed this as much as you did. Is it selfish to think that? You don’t really care at the moment.

He shifts you both, coming up to his knees and raising your hips to meet him. His first thrust at the new angle hits something inside you, something that makes you gasp and the edges of your vision blur. He took notice, a small grin pulling at the edges of his lips. With crippling precision, he hits it again, and again, and again…

“S-so busy takin’ care of everyone else,” he grunts through his efforts. “When’s the last time someone took care of you, darlin’?”

He holds you against him, grinding his pelvis into yours. His hand comes up, his thumb pressing against your clit. You can’t help the scream that practically drools out of your lips.

“Tell me,” you almost don’t hear him say it, “When— when was y–your last time…”

So it wasn’t rhetorical. You muster up all the brain strength you can to answer.

“T–too long… years,” you manage to squeak out between gasps. His hand still hasn’t left you, “T–too f–fucking… long…”

“Shame… fucking s-shame…” he finally pulls out again, resuming his same brutal pace, “Woman like you… out here all alone… fucking shame…”

Joel Miller is a dirty talker; who knew? You don’t have the capacity to register his words while he's holding you on the cusp of another orgasm, though. Those rough hands working you like he already knew every part of you— or maybe any amount of intimacy is good enough for you now. Though, you highly doubt that. 

He releases your hips and you both fall back down to the floor together. He doesn’t slip out as you do, his movements becoming more sporadic as you both chase the same high.

It catches you by surprise again, a crashing orgasm that shakes your whole body. You arch into him, your mind numbing for precious split seconds. 

“Oh god— that’s it. That’s—” He hastily pulls out of you, spilling his release over your stomach with a final sinful moan. 

He holds himself over you while you both come down from the same high, his head hanging low between his shoulders. You see his back rising and falling with his breath as he gathers himself. You reach up and grab his hanging head, placing a soft kiss in the messy mop of his hair. He immediately looks up, capturing your lips for another kiss. You both hold it longer than expected. 

The room is so quiet now— Only the sound of crackling fire to cut through the dense, sex charged air. Wordlessly, Joel rises and steps into the kitchen. You gasp at the loss of him. He comes back with a damp washcloth. He kneels at your side and silently runs it over your stomach and between your legs, cleaning up the mess you both made. You wonder if he’ll bring up the scars now. He doesn’t. 

He discards the washcloth, throwing it across the room. He puts his pants back on and you just wrap a blanket around your naked body, the warm air more comforting against your bare skin than any sweater would be.

He pulls you onto the couch and you curl into him without hesitation. You both sit there silently, listening to the raging storm outside.

“Guess you might be stuck here for a while longer,” you eventually say. His hand gently strokes over your bare shoulder.

“Yeah… guess I am.”

Chapter Text

You never made it to the bed, both choosing to lounge in the warmth of the wood stove on the couch. Long comfortable silences and roaming hands. You’re not sure if you’re both just enjoying the bliss or too scared to say anything. 

It’s nightfall now and a few lanterns lit about the small space. Joel sits, still shirtless, on the floor leaning against your legs on the couch and lovingly plucking away on Art’s guitar.  A book was open on your lap, but truth be told, you’d barely read a page— Joel’s distracting that way. He hums low with a few melodies, only one you recognized from the night you spied on him. You’d wished he felt comfortable enough to sing in front of you. You wished for a lot of things.

In a way, the silence was stifling. You want to know what’s next. He’s stuck here longer now, but would he still leave? The romantic part of you hopes not, but the logical part of you knows he owes no loyalty to you just because you’ve slept together now. Still, the things he said, the new feelings shared. Maybe it was something.

Regardless, you take the coward's way and don’t mention it.

“You hungry?” you ask, gently running a hand over his shoulder. He pauses his playing, head leaning over to place a gentle kiss on your hand resting on his shoulder.

“I could eat.”

You stand off of the couch, wrapping a flannel blanket around you. You still hadn’t bothered to put any clothes back on.

Maybe you could just keep seducing him into staying?

Shaking the ridiculous thought from your head, you pull down a jar of bone broth and some jerky from the cupboard. You place the open jar on top of the hot stove to let it heat through a little. Something warm in this weather sounded comforting. 

The storm had only let up a little, the extreme winds dying down but snow pelting down just as heavy as before. A glance outside and you see almost all the vegetation of the messy forest ground was blanketed over by crisp white.

“How’s it look out there?” Joel asks.

“Like…winter.”

“Hmmm, descriptive,” he chuckles before focusing back on his guitar.

With some physical distance between the two of you, you take the chance to finally just admire him. He was beautiful, ruggedly handsome the way that only comes with age. But there was something about him here… like this. You’d seen Joel relax slowly over the months he’d been here, but now there was just something else. Joy? Contentment?

Most people call it afterglow, dumby .

You smile to yourself, unable to help the blush creeping into your cheeks. Is he thinking the same things you are, you wonder. Is he trying to hide his giddiness too? Again, a part of you hopes so and the other part of you doubts it.

You take the warm broth off the stove and bring it to the counter. You pour the hot, nourishing soup into two mugs. You’re about to pull down two plates when something stops you… the feeling of two heavy hands on your hips.

Joel’s standing behind you, his oppressive presence crowding you against the counter. His lips come down and kiss your exposed shoulder where the blanket has slipped down.

“Joel…”

“You haven’t gotten dressed,” he murmurs against your skin. 

“Don’t want to.”

“Good,” his lips trail up to your ear, “You shouldn’t.”

You say nothing as his hands snake around your waist and pull you into him. He rests his head on your shoulder gently, watching your hands work as you pull apart a few strips of jerky. The fact that you're able to focus on anything other than him is a miracle in and of itself.

“What do you miss most?” you find him asking. “About the world. About… everything before,” he clarifies. 

“Why do you ask?” You say as nonchalantly as you can manage.

“Just… thinkin’ about it more.” He places another lazy kiss on your shoulder, “Lot of time to think today.”

“Mmmm,” You mumble, trying not to dwell on the words unsaid, “Then I think you have to tell me first… since you’ve been thinking about it so much.”

He doesn’t respond right away, but he doesn’t pull away either. Just holding you there, starting to sway you both gently side to side. You stop your fiddling with the food and place your hands over his, hopefully an encouraging gesture. He obviously wanted to share something, and you wanted to listen. 

“Peace,” he finally says, “Peace and quiet…contentment.”

“There’s still plenty of that.”

“No. Not like this… Not for men like me.”

“Joel—”

“Tell me what you miss, darlin’...” He cuts you off before you can ask what he means. His hands trail up your torso, gently pulling the blanket further down your body.

“A warm bath.” You answer with a small snort, the chilled air pricking at your skin. 

“Mmm, does sound nice.” Those rough hands hold your now exposed breast, gently massaging the supple skin. He buries his nose into your hair before asking again, “But what else?”

Your breath catches when his thumb runs over your nipple, every hair standing on end as he gently plays with you. He’s barely done anything, and you're starting to fall apart at the seams.

“I… miss— I miss—” you attempt to answer the question, “I miss purpose.”

“Purpose?” he repeats.

“Having a purpose. A s–sense of purpose at least,” You try to clarify, not noticing your hips grinding back into his. “Living just to survive… that’s not what people are meant for.”

“Some might say that’s all we’re meant for.”

“N–not me… not most…”

“Surviving is living.” A hand trails up to cup your jaw, the other trailing down your stomach.

“Try telling that to an artist or a t-teacher…” his hand cups over your bare cunt, “...or a singer…”

You shudder as a finger runs through your slick folds, slowly dragging back and forth, gathering your wetness, before lazily circling your clit.

“There aren’t any artists anymore,” he murmurs against your skin. “No teachers, no singers.”

“T-there are…it’s just harder to see them…”

He only hums in contentment, one hand slowly stroking between your legs and the other gently massaging your breast. The blanket had completely fallen to the ground at this point, your bare body pushed against his. You felt the warmth of this chest against your back— the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing.

“I t-thought you said you were hungry?” you smile under his touch.

“I am…” his grip tightens, “I’m starving.”

He twists you around in an instant, cupping his hands under your ass and lifting you onto the counter.

“Joel!” you grip his shoulders as he balances you there just on the edge. His mouth finds yours, just for a moment. A quick but undoubtedly hungry kiss. A desperate kiss. His mouth leaves yours with a sigh, lips trailing down your torso as he comes to his knees before you. 

You don’t have time to say anything before his mouth envelopes your cunt, only able to let out a desperate scream in response. Your fingers dig into his mess of hair while his hands hold you open for him, wrapping around your thighs and fingers digging into the meaty flesh.

“Fuck!” You wail into the empty space above you.

His tongue laps over your greedily, almost no thought behind his movements. Frenzied and strong movements to claim you— to show you how much he wants this. Eventually he buries himself between your legs, tongue stroking up and down and nose nudging at your clit.

You teeter against the counter, one leg wrapping around his shoulders and the other attempting to find balance against the floor. It was useless. He had you pinned there, open and wanting for you. 

He looks directly at you, his tongue flattening as he trails a lazy stripe from your clit over to the apex of your thigh.

“I like the way you sound…” he murmured into the flesh there. “When you let me touch you.”

“Joel… please,” you tug at his hair. He hums in approval. 

“I like hearing you beg.” You catch the faintest glimpse of a smile before his mouth returns to where you need him most.

If you had your full wits about you, you’d be wondering how he became so open so quickly. So wanton and talkative. This is a new side to Joel Miller, a side you’d fantasize about but never thought you’d meet. 

You were so convinced he’d pull away after you both got back into the cabin. After the charged air settled and you both could just breathe for a second. You thought he’d tell you this was a mistake. Thought he’d say you should forget the kiss ever happened. Instead, you both laid lazily in each other's arms for hours in the din of comfortable silence. And now he has you pinned against him again. 

How happy you were to be proven wrong yet again.

You pull at his hair, murmuring his name like it's a sin. He looks up at you, eyes glossy and mouth drenched. You pull at him again, urging him to stand up to meet you. He does, slowly, dragging his tongue against your skin the whole way.

You’re finally able to settle both of your feet on the ground when he kisses you again, hungry and tasting of you. 

“You’re beautiful.” He murmurs against you, teeth nipping at your jaw.

“You’re… not what I expected.” You don’t notice your hands pulling at the buttons of his pants. “Not at all.”

“I hope that’s a compliment.” You can feel him smile against you. 

“It is,” you pull down his waistband, “It definitely is.”

He grinds his hard length against your bare stomach, huffed groans slipping between his parted lips.

“Let me show you exactly the kind of man I am, darlin’...”

He pulls away from you abruptly, grasping onto your hips and turning you around. He bends you over the counter, shoving his hips into yours. You feel his hard length pressing against your dripping cunt, heavy and pulsing. 

He rolls into you, agonizingly slow and deliberate. One hand on your hips and the other pressed into your back. An aching, deep moan drools from your lips as he claims you— As he takes control.

You fucking loved it.

His thrusts are slow at first. Purposeful and almost experimental. He’s letting you adjust to him and savoring the feeling at the same time. You’re still sore from just a few hours ago, but you still want more.

He comes down to lean over you as he finds a steady rhythm, lips peppering kisses across your back. A hand reaches around to find your clit as he continues to fuck you against the counter, clinging to you like his life depended on it. 

“So good, baby,” he murmurs behind you, “F-feel so good. So pretty… so good.”

These are not the actions of a man who would want to leave. Not the words of a man who doesn’t care.

You could dwell on the vast and complex implications of the recent changes Joel and your relationship has experienced in the last 6 hours. You could stir your anxieties about what on earth he could possibly be thinking rather than just asking him and risk ruining the mood. You could make him stop right now and tell him this isn’t a good idea. Yeah, you could do all that. 

Or you could just… enjoy. 

Enjoy him. Enjoy this gift you’ve both been given. Why think about tomorrow when you have everything right now? Constantly thinking about what’s next is all you’ve done since the world ended. When was the last time you just lived? The last time you enjoyed something without thinking you had to earn it? Everything was perfect right now, and that’s all that mattered.

Joel wants you and Joel is still here— and that’s all that mattered.

He wants to scold himself for being a creep and watching you sleep, but he can’t help himself— you were like an antique painting. Magnificent and indescribable. 

 You’d opted to make a nest of blankets and pillows on the living room floor rather than sleep in your actual bed. The bedroom was too far from the stove anyway. You’re probably still chilled to the bone from running around in the cold with no jacket earlier. 

The yellow light of the fire from the open stove danced along the curves of your naked body. His eyes only linger for a moment on the scars on your lower abdomen, more prominent than the other small ones across your body. He wonders about their story but knows better than to ask. Someone did that to you. The thought makes his blood boil. He can’t seem to help himself from being possessive—it’s who he is. Something so delicate and beautiful, and you trusted him. He won’t abuse the privilege. 

This was all too good to be true, and it finally came when he was just about to leave. What an idiot he was for wanting to leave something like this behind.

Joel was never much of a believer in a higher power, at least not since the day Sarah was killed. If there was a God, he gave up on mankind a long time ago. Why believe in him if he did this to his world? But this… this all seemed like some divine act of coincidence. 

It felt so wrong and so right at the same time. Could this be possible while the world went to shit just beyond your door? But why should he care when everything he wanted was right here? What could he really do out there? He wasn’t like Tommy. He had no desire to try and save the world. He survived. He lived day by day. 

You’d asked him before what he did back in the QZ, and he didn’t really have an answer. He did a bit of everything. Aided and abetted, mostly. He was a bad man that did bad things—but he was the best one that did them. The muscle. The one you’d always go to. He hated it. God, he hated it.

 What was his role in the world, really? He’s not sure anymore, but he thinks he wants you to be part of it.

He could keep you safe— If he does one good thing in the world, it could be that. You talked about purpose earlier, maybe you could be part of his. The last bright burning candle in a raging storm, and he found it. Could violent hands like his care for something so delicate, or would they eventually snuff it out? He wishes he knew. 

Yes, the world was going on without him out there. There’s a thousand men like him still doing the same horrible things… but there was only one you. 

Here, he could be something for someone. Here, he could have something all his own. It was selfish, he knows, but so tempting. Did he deserve something like this? Is that how the world worked? No, of course it wasn’t. Joel didn’t deserve nice things, but you surely did. You deserved to have something, even if it was just him. The thought of leaving you here alone again made his heart ache. Could he sleep peacefully at night knowing you're out here alone, unprotected?

No. No, he’s sure he never could. 

And then, the decision was so easy. A new life was waiting for him. One with a more fulfilling purpose. One he could actually take pride in. Keep you safe. Keep you close. Keep you for himself. It was only a selfish act if you didn’t want him here, too.

Joel could be thick sometimes, but he wasn’t an idiot. This was never a one-sided attraction. He tried to deny it, tried to ignore it, and look where that got you both. This world was so ugly, why try to deny yourself something good. He's done with all that bull shit now. He has you. And dammit, he’ll do his best to repay that kindness. To earn that love. It’s the only way he knows how to be.

Joel never thought of himself as a kind man, but he knew how to love someone. 

He eventually comes down to lay beside you and pulls you in close