Chapter Text
JOEL.
Joel's aim had never been perfect. It was one of his downfalls, really— He knew his way with a rifle, had used his more times than any human should, but his marksmanship with a handgun had always been a little off. Tommy was better at it, a trainer sniper before the Outbreak, and he was one of the reasons Joel had survived as long as he did: They took care of each other. Tommy with his bullets, Joel with his fists.
He purposefully aims the pistol a little too high and off to the left, praying to God that he won't accidentally hit you; it's not his intention to harm you, especially not when his first aid kit is very lacking for a wound like that, but he hopes that the possibility of being hit would get you to stop fucking running.
By the third shot, you crumple to the ground like a rag-doll.
Joel's life has never been easy. Not since he was a child, with a dead mother and a father that was more harmful than helpful, not when he got his high school sweetheart pregnant when he was too young to start family, not when his baby died in his arms, in pain and terrified. He's done plenty of bad since then, sometimes in the name of survival, sometimes in the name of the people he loves, sometimes simply because he could.
Watching you lay unmoving on the ground isn't as panic-inducing as realizing his daughter had been shot in the stomach, but it was a close second. Joel squeezes himself through the window, the jagged edges of the broken glass digging into his biceps but he pays it no mind, sprinting to where you're laying, calling out to you through the pouring rain.
You're laying on your stomach as if you had toppled over, your hair covering your face, one hand next to your head and the other tucked close to your chest. Joel skids to a stop, falling to his knees on the grass next to you— He knows he'll feel it in the morning, but all the penance in the world won't make up for the fact that he shot you. For the fact that he just might've killed you. His mate, the one person in the world that he was supposed to protect and care for.
"C'mon babygirl, please." He mumbles, wiping the hair away from your face, hands hovering over your body as he searches for a bullet wound he can't find. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to, please be okay. Please, please p—"
His words — half prayer, half encouragement — are cut off when you turn towards him, the hand tucked underneath you lashing against him. Joel's so worried he doesn't even feel the glass shard you just stabbed his thigh with until you're rolling away from him, getting ready to run again. You managed to stumble away but Joel's used to forcing his body past its limits, to working fast and hard despite the imminent breakdown of his body. He pulls the window shard from his thigh, dropping it to the ground before he closes the distance between the two of you, his arm wrapping around your neck. You thrash, wet hair flapping him in the face as he squeezes your throat. A chokehold is a dangerous maneuver, the slight wrong movement could end with a broken neck or trachea but Joel knows what he's doing— Tommy had been the better gunslinger, yes, but Joel had always been the brawn. Your body melts against his in a matter of seconds, your head tilting forward; Joel holds the position for a couple of seconds longer, just to make sure you're not faking, before he picks you up in a princess carry and takes you back to the house.
He carries you all the way to the porch before his own body gives out, his injured leg faltering underneath him; Joel manages to protect your head, slamming his shoulder against the threshold of the door instead, but it's enough of a close call that he decides to drag you inside, a trail of blood in your wake. The bedroom you've been staying in — his bedroom — is useless with the broken window now, so he drags you to the bedroom that belongs to Ellie on the weeks she spends at his place and, once again, he carefully undresses you searching for the bullet wound that had knocked you down but there's not a single part of your body that is marred, the blood smeared on you, but not coming from you.
It takes him longer than Joel cares to admit to understand it was his blood, pouring at a concerning pace from his thigh, that had trailed down from the hallway and into your clothes. You'd hustled him, played dead and Joel had fallen straight into it.
"Alright, my little opossum." He hums to himself, proud of your ingenuity and at the same time livid you'd used it on him. "Let's get you cleaned up 'n' tied up again. Can't have you runnin' out on me like that again, now can I?"
—
Joel stitches himself up in the bathroom after he's given you fresh clothes and made sure you were properly tied to the bedpost of the bed— As comfortably as he could while still making sure you have no way to escape; you could've gotten seriously hurt that night, mauled by a wild animal or accidentally caught in one of his traps outside. You could've run into a straggler or a trapper or a hoard. He tries not to think of all the dangers you put yourself in just to escape him, but Joel still stays with you all night, sitting on a chair next to the bed, eyes never leaving your form. You sleep for a long time, far longer than he thinks you should considering all he did was knock you out, and Joel gets up three times that night to make sure you're alive: His hands don't touch you for long, just a simple press of two fingers to your pulse point, but he can't help but long for more. He'd seen your face when you touched the Soulwords on his chest, the way your eyes widened and your lips parted as you took in all of his emotions and Joel simply could not wait to do the same— He had barely been able to hold himself back from touching the scar on your thigh while cleaning you that first day, but there was a small part of him that was afraid of it; would the bond even work, since his words weren't visible anymore? The bond was strong on his end, but he couldn't remember ever hearing about people who removed their marks like that, if the soul-deep connection between the two of you would still hold even if his words were gone.
Eventually, right before the rooster sings, Joel's resolve breaks. He sits on the edge of the bed, checking to make sure you're alright for the fourth time when your legs part slightly, shifting in your sleep— You've been inching closer to him every time he sits on the ratty mattress, seeking him out even while unconscious. The scar is in full display but that point, the thick duvet tangled around your ankles and it's only the sight of the scar that keeps Joel's eyes from wandering upwards. He reaches out before he think better of it, his knuckles brushing softly against the marred skin.
The thrill is small, muffled either by sleep or a broken bond, but when Joel closes his eyes and focus he can feel the remnants of the dream you're having; fear is the prominent one, the emotion he can register more clearly, but there's something else underneath it too. Excitement or lust, he can't quite figure out, but it brings a small smile to his lips either way.
"Having a naughty dream, huh, sweetheart?" Joel stands up, pulling his hand away from the scar and breaking off the connection. He presses a kiss to your temple, and then returns to his chair for the remainder of the night.
—
The following weeks are intense. Joel doesn't take his eyes off of you for longer than he needs to, which is already long enough— He needs to clean and cook and tend the gardens and the chickens, a list of chores that often kept him busy from sun up to sun down but now that he rushes through to make sure he could spend most of his days with you. He doesn't trust you to remove the binds, only letting you out a couple of hours a day under his heavy supervision, keeping you tied to the bed for the remainder of your time. He reads to you when you're awake, thrums his guitar strings whenever you seem bored of the story— A different book, since the one he'd given you had become mush under the rain, but one that you seemed to be enjoying more than the one you had thrown out of the window.
His leg has been getting worse every day, the stitches he'd given himself reddened and angry; he knows he should take a horse and ride back to Jackson before it gets truly infected, but Joel's still unsure of how long he could leave you alone without you hurting yourself.
His words die in his mouth one afternoon, the sentence he'd been reading fading into silence when he notices you're not paying attention: You're staring out of the window, hands hanging limp from your binds as if you'd given up on them entirely.
"What'chu thinkin'?" He asks, because he can't help himself. Joel wishes he could crawl inside your mind, wishes he could open you up and lay inside of you, eating up every single thought that came to you, being a first seat spectator to every scenario your brain could ever come up with. You don't often indulge him in conversation, spending more time scoffing or cussing at him rather than answering his questions but this time your head snap back at him the moment he speaks, beautiful eyes blinking as if you'd forgotten he was there at all.
"I miss the sun." You say, and Joel can hear the longing in his voice. "It's a beautiful day outside, and I'm fucking trapped here."
"I'll open the window—"
You scoff. "You don't fucking get it. You get to go outside whenever you feel like it."
Joel hesitates before he stands up, his knee popping as he places the book on the chair he'd been in. "If I take you outside, are ya goin' to run?"
"No." The answer is instant, but Joel isn't convinced. He leans over you, hand clasping your thigh; you're a big girl, plush thighs and round stomach that comes both from genetics and a steady eating habit, but you still look small underneath him, the palm of his hand covering entirely the scar on your soft skin— It's the only scar on your body apart from a small nick on your left knee, your skin soft and untouched by the horrors of the world as if your body hadn't taken brunt of surviving a broken society. Joel's skin was a collection of scars and bad memories, freckles and spots and wrinkles that showed his age and experience, that showed the monster he'd become in exchange for survival; he'd never be fit for you, never be the man someone as soft and untouched as you needed.
He keeps his hand on your scar even when you try to pull your leg away.
"If I take you outside, are you going to run, babygirl?"
"No." You repeat, more forcefully than before and, this time, Joel knows you mean it. He feels your anger towards him through the bond, but he also feels the honesty in that single word. No, you won't run.
Not yet, he thinks. Hopefully never again, if he can help it.
Joel undoes the binds and helps you up slowly, giving you a light jacket from his closet and an old boot that ended up being too big for Ellie; your wrists are a little swollen and bruised and, much like he did that first night, Joel brings them up to his lips and presses a kiss in each of them.
"I hate to see ya hurtin'." He says, and it's true— But he'll take sore wrists if it means you're there, protected under his roof and under his care. " 'M gonna make it better."
You twist your nose at him, and Joel can see you don't believe it but he does. He will make it better, at any means necessary. He shows you around the property; not everything, he's not an idiot and he doesn't want you to go looking for escape routes, but he shows you the tangerine tree, the vegetable gardens where all of your meals come from and, eventually, the coop.
It's with the chickens that you come alive. It's a metamorphosis right in front of his eyes, your eyes regaining their sparkle, a soft smile curling on your lips when you crouches down and waits for the animals to near you. They come slowly, curious but cautious, and Joel regrets not bringing you anything to feed them with.
"What are their names?" You ask, and he shrugs. Despite his conversations with the animals, he'd never bothered to name them before.
"Chickens and rooster." He doesn't mean it as a joke but you chuckle anyway, carefully patting one of the chickens before it clucks away from you— The bird seems interested in Joel's shoes, pecking his boot. "You can name them, if you want."
"That's Nugget." You say immediately, pointing to the golden brown chicken that pecks at the ground. Joel raises an eyebrow.
"Like a chicken nugget?" You blink at him, your face blank as if he'd just spoken another language. It's the same look you'd given him as he introduced you to cheese, which means you have no idea what he'd saying. "It's a kind of food, from… Before— Ground chicken, battered and deep fried. Kids ate a lot."
You gasp, mortification bleeding all over your expression. "Oh my God, no! I meant like a gold nugget. Because she's orange."
Joel laughs. It's a belly laugh, the sort of sound that leaves his mouth before he can stop it; the situation itself isn't that funny but the look on your face is priceless, the high pitch of your voice, the way you turned to look at Nugget as if you expected it to be offended.
"Shut up!" You say, but he can tell you're about to laugh as well. "I didn't mean it like that!"
"I know you didn't, kitten. That just makes it all the better." Joel rubs his chest, his eyes falling to your face momentarily before he nods towards the rooster. "What about 'im? What're you gon' call him, Colonel Sanders?"
You scoff, chin raised high, the joke flying over your head. "His name is Mohawk, because of the—" You move your hand above your head, fingers spread wide as you mimic the rooster's comb.
"Not as creative as Chicken Nugget, but less offensive I suppose."
You end up naming the other three chickens Coco, Juniper and Spotty— You don't explain your thinking behind it, but Joel can guess: Coco is a deep, rich brown color, Juniper's feathers are a luxurious black that's almost blue under the sunlight, and Spotty— Well, her speckled feathers make it easy to understand your choice.
The two of you sit on the dry grass near the fruit trees until the sun start to set, the smell of the tangerine tree surrounding you both— None of the fruits are ripe just yet, Joel having picked the last of them earlier that week but you don't seem to mind, twirling a white flower between your fingers. There's also a fig tree and an apple tree further away, as well as a half-dead peach tree close to the house, but you had made a beeline for the tangerines the moment you saw it, and Joel was more than happy to trail after you.
Neither of you speak, sitting there in silence until it's too cold to stay outside, but Joel doesn't mind. He's used to it, the world being too quiet around him despite the animals clucking in the distance and the soft noises from the forest that surround his property— His life has never been as silent as it is now. First with Tommy being a loud teenager, and then with having a small baby and then everything that came after his baby died; the gurgling of the infected, the gunshots, the cries of the survivors. The bustling of a QZ, the yells of the soldiers, the mourning of families that lost too much. In a dead world, peaceful silence — the sort of silence that came from the desire for it, not the need — was a luxury that Joel never thought he'd have again. It's not the silence that comes before a clicker, or that comes after a gunshot.
It just is, and he's happy to share it with you.
—
By the end of the third week, Joel knows he can't postpone it anymore. The stitches on his leg pop open one night, well past the window where that wasn't concerning, and he finds himself strapping supplies to his horse in the early hours of the day, before you wake up. He's at a crossroad, unsure of how to proceed; he doesn't want to tell you he'll be away, doesn't want you asking questions or trying to flee while you're alone, but he also doesn't want you to worry if you call for him and he doesn't show up. He needs you to know that he'll show up whenever you need him, that he's just a whistle like like a loyal dog to its owner. In the end, Joel settles for a half truth.
"I need'ta step away for a coupla' hours."
"What do you mean, step away?" You frown, and Joel can tell that the way you tug at your binds is involuntary, as if you've momentarily forgotten they're there.
"We need some supplies." He decides not to tell you about the seriousness of the injury you gave him; he doesn't want you feeling guilty about hurting him, after all. "And I need to figure out yer situation. Can't have ya tied to the bed for the rest of your life, no matter how much I like seein' ya like that."
Your eyes squint at him and Joel's fairly certain you'd flip him off if you could. You settle for giving him your tongue instead, the action so innocent and petulant it makes him want to shove his fingers into your mouth.
"You can't leave me tied up like this while you're out."
"I'll be gone just for a few hours. You won't even miss me." He ignores the 'Sounds about right' you mumble under your breath, instead cracking open a sliver of the window so you can get some fresh air. "I'll bring you somethin' nice, and I'll let you out if you behave."
That certainly peaks your interest. You jolt upwards, eyes wandering all over his face as if you were searching for any untruths. "Let me out?"
"Of the binds. Not for long, don't trust ya like that yet. But we can have dinner on the porch, it's not too cold tonight. I'll cook somethin' special."
A date, or as much of a date as he can get after the end of the world. He has enough canned vegetables to trade in town for a nice bottle of wine, and the rabbit he'd caught that morning was meaty enough for a nice roast— He could probably even corral Ellie into making some dessert: Last time he'd been to Jackson the girl was learning how to bake from Dina, and the pie she'd given him had been half decent.
"What's your favorite color?" He asks you on his way out, after making sure the binds were loose enough for you to reach the bottle of water by your side but still strong enough that you wouldn't be able to untie them; you'd probably have to kneel on the bed to be able to drink it, but it was better than nothing.
"Blue." You answer after a beat, curiosity behind your eyes. You've been less and less verbal with him, but Joel thinks he's getting better at reading your physical cues, the way your face shifts and shapes differently as you swallow down your emotions.
"Imma get you somethin' blue, then."
—
The ride to Jackson is a little under two hours on horseback, but with his concern for you and the way his fucked up stitches rub against the hard denim of his jeans, it's excruciating. He arrives a little after breakfast, waving a white piece of cloth high above his head to signal it's him— Joel's in a pissy mood by the time they finish the song and dance with the dogs to make sure he isn't infected, but the warm embrace from his brother helps improve his mood ever-so-slightly.
"M'leg's fucked." He tells Tommy once the volunteers start to go through the cases of goods he's brought, a small commotion on the center square attracting his attention; it's market day, which means he came around the perfect time to trade. "Think y'got some amoxicillin I could borrow?"
Tommy frowns, looking over Joel's body as if he'd be able to find the wound over his clothes. Joel shuffles a little, trying to get the weight off of his bad leg, and his brother's eyes instantly fall down to his thigh.
"How'd you get hurt? Found any trouble up there?"
"No." Joel says immediately. "Cut myself while I was settin' up the chicken wire around the vegetable garden. Stupid mistake."
He's decided not to tell his family about you just yet— Tommy would want to get to know you, and Ellie would want to grill you, and he's certain they wouldn't understand your predicament. He needs you a little more docile first, and then he'll start inviting them up for dinners. Maybe you'd cook and he'd clean, and the two of you would welcome Tommy and his wife with open arms, sharing stories and laughs over a bottle of wine.
Tommy squints his eyes in a way that makes it clear he doesn't buy it. "Is it, now? That's funny, 'cause the patrol guys said they found—"
"Joel!"
He's never been so relieved to hear Ellie's voice as he is in that moment. He pulls the girl into a sideways hug, ruffling her hair as she ducks away from him.
"How're ya doin', kid? Givin' Tommy all of 'em new gray hairs I see?"
Tommy scoffs as Ellie beams at them, already tugging Joel away.
"Better than you, dickhead. You look like you haven't slept in a month."
It's not exactly a lie. He's been sleeping, although not through the entire night. What's been really screwing with his body and sleep schedule is the couch: He can't sleep in his old bedroom, not since you broke the window, and he's not about to invite himself into your bed, no matter how much he wants to. The couch it is, then, even if his back complains every morning.
The doctor doesn't stitch him back just yet, concerned the infection might fester inside a closed wound and instead settles for a topic antibiotic that hurt like a motherfucker and would take twice as long to heal as a pill, but it was better than nothing— They were running low on supplies again, Tommy mentions in passing, to the point where they're having to ration everything. Usually Joel would be the first one to offer help; he wasn't living in Jackson anymore but he was still somewhat part of the community, still looking out for Tommy and Ellie even from far away, but this time he doesn't. He can't, because he has to think fo you first; he can't leave you by yourself at the farm and, while Tommy could come up to care for the chickens and the garden while he's gone, Joel really really doesn't think he can explain the girl chained up to Ellie's bed in a way that his brother would understand. So, Joel simply nods and shoves his hands in his pockets. Tommy eyes him like he knows Joel is hiding something, but doesn't mention it again.
He has breakfast with Ellie and it almost feels like it did before, back when it was just the two of them on the road, the girl — that is somehow taller than the last time he'd seen her — talking a hundred miles per minute about her life in Jackson, about a girl she made friends with and how much she fucking hates going to school again.
Her life was so normal it almost makes him cry. It brought back memories of Sarah, sitting by their dinner table, recounting her day at school, the gossip between her friends and complaints about her teachers— The sort of teenage chatter he never thought he'd hear again, the one he'd taken for granted so many years prior. Joel smiles at Ellie, his own food forgotten as he listens to her and he can't fucking wait for you to meet her.
You're his soulmate. He knows you're going to love Ellie just as much as he does.
—
"I have an odd request." Joel tells his brother at the end of the day, when he's saddling his horse back up to leave. Ellie wasn't around, had already said her goodbyes and ran off as if parting with Joel didn't physically hurt them both, and Joel knew was better that way. "I need a glass window. Broke one accidentally."
Tommy ran a hand over his mustache, but nodded. "Accidentally, like you accidentally stabbed yourself in the thigh?"
"Yes."
They stare at each other for a moment, Tommy waiting for the truth while Joel refuses to budge; the younger man relents eventually, letting out a long sigh. "The structure is sound? Just need the glass?"
Joel nods. "Just the glass."
"Aight. I'll see what I can do. Might take some time, though."
" 's fine. I boarded up but it's gon' be a problem when the snow settles."
"I'll swing by your house soon." It's as much of a promise as it is a warning, and Joel doesn't look back at Tommy when he nods.
"I'll see you 'round, brother."
He trots past the same abandoned car every time he comes in or out of Jackson. It's hidden by the overgrowth, away from the path of the horses and such part of the scenery that Joel barely pays attention to it anymore— Cars were one of the first things people ransacked back when the Outbreak happened, and it's hardly useful to raid through them anymore. The sun is starting to set when his horse trots past it on his way back home and there's something about the way the sun reflects against the metal that makes Joel stop. The trades at the market were fruitful, but Joel hadn't gotten everything the two of you would need; he had some clothes for you — whatever he could get away with people thinking he was getting for Ellie and whatever he could steal without anyone noticing —, a bar of hair conditioner the maker swears it's 'deeply hydrating' and the something blue he promised, but it's not enough. It's not even close to everything the two of you need— You need more clothes, better ones, and whatever it is that women use nowadays for their period; Joel has no idea how to handle that, even though he knows it'll become a problem at some point; Ellie had never mentioned it during their trek across the country, and Tess was already going through menopause by the time they moved in together. He figures it's something he'll have to ask you about it, make sure you have everything you could possibly want. Hell, the two of you could probably make a field trip out of it, raiding smaller settlements and abandoned buildings away from home, as long as you were obedient enough to be let out of your binds.
So, without anything to loose other than a couple of minutes, Joel ties his horse to a tree just outside of the main pathway, and stalks to the car. It's covered in moss and rust, vines growing from it and around it and Joel can guess it probably has been parked there since Outbreak Day, but the trunk of the car is clean— Not a single leaf, no moss, no dirt. It's what had attracted his eye in the first place, the surface shiny with how clean it was; it had been used recently, clearly, someone had either stored something or looted something from the trunk of the car and Joel doesn't stop to think if he should; he simply pulls out his hunting knife and uses it to pop the trunk open, half expecting an infected to jump out at him.
There's nothing alive inside the trunk, but what he comes across is much, much better. As he shoves it into his backpack, Joel can't help but hope you like it— He knows it'll look pretty around your neck, and it fixes the biggest thing that's been bothering you.