[bardot49]

Age Over Experience - Chapter 3

Synopsis: Embattled survivor, protective older sibling, surrogate parent, town leader, skilled craftsperson. Fifty something Di has a lot more in common with Joel Miller than either of you would ever admit. An enemies to lovers romance that proves it’s never too late for love.

Warnings: MNDI, 18+ story, mature themes, canon gore and violence, character injury and death, eventual smut, PTSD, cursing, alcohol consumption, enemies to lovers, Joel Miller x you but has a nickname Di that is used sparingly, physical descriptions include being in her early fifties who is tall, strong, physically able, has greyish hair and some tattoos

Chapter Summary: Di has her hands full looking after her sister and nephew. As she witnesses the growing rift between Joel and Ellie, she starts to see him in a new light

Masterlist

Previous Chapter

Chapter 3

Joel walks down the street, contemplating whether to go for a drink or to see whatever movie they're putting on in the town hall. Tommy mentioned that Maria and Benjie are going with him. Maybe Ellie will be around though, she won't want him to be there.

Your nephew brushes past him in a hurry, muttering "Sorry" to Joel as he strides towards the shooting range.

Joel doesn't know much about him, but from what Ellie said before, he's a level headed boy.

A while later, you're coming towards him, your brow furrowed as you rush down the street past him.

Joel hesitates, thinking of walking right on and ignoring you but he can't.

He clears his throat before calling back to you "Lookin' for your nephew?".

You turn to where the voice came, and you can't conceal the look of urgency on your features.

"Did you see him?"

Joel simply tells you "He was goin' towards the shootin' range if it's any help".

Your eyes widen in surprise. "Oh…thanks, I'll try there first" you manage to say.

Joel just nods and goes towards the bar.

You go to the shooting range and Joel's right, there's around six or seven of Joshua's friends practising. As you approach, their talking is loud and boisterous with Darren telling a story. Simon spots you and beckons to Joshua, who rolls his eyes, muttering "Shit".

You stand there with your arms folded until he eventually puts his gun down and walks over to you.

"What now? Are you not even letting me practice?" he asks with his jaw set .

You shoot him a look of annoyance, shaking your head "You know I wouldn’t do that. I need you to come home, your mom is asking for you. She heard us arguing".

He rolls his eyes, muttering "fuck" to himself and he runs off to retrieve his gun. You both walk home together in silence. You pass by the hall and it's full, playing some loud movie.

Joshua rushes straight to his mother's side and envelopes her in a big hug, saying "Mama, I'm here. Everything's ok".

Your sister relaxes, leaving out a sigh of relief. She reaches up to gently touch his face, "Oh, my boy, I'm so glad you're here".

You give them a moment so you step into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. You notice the burnt pastry on your apple pie from earlier.

You can master a lot of things, but baking is not one of them.

When Joshua comes into the kitchen, he pulls you in for a brief hug, whispering "Sorry Didi, I didn't mean to upset Mom…or you".

You smile sadly, brushing his hair off his forehead, "It's ok. No harm done." Resting your hand on his cheek "I love you Joshie."

"Love you too" he says with a hint of sadness in his voice. You know he'd do anything to go on patrols.

You do your best to salvage the apple pie and Gigi blows out her birthday candles. The three of you attempt to eat the dried out pastry. It's like chewing cardboard but Gigi seems happy and that's all that matters.

“Mmm, delicious” Gigi tells you, trying to be kind.

You and Joshua look at each other and all three of you start laughing.

After a while, Joshua tells you he's going back to his friends.

"Have fun!" you call after him.

He is a good kid and you understand where he's coming from. After all, when you were his age all you wanted to do was spread your wings and live your own life.

If not for Joel, it would have taken a lot more time go find Joshua so you owe him big time.

You don't like owing anyone anything, but especially to Joel.

You go with Gigi to see the doctor about her eyesight and it's not good news. As well as her degenerative eye disease, he tells you both she has developed a cataract in both eyes but they don't have the facility to operate.

You clutch Gigi's hand as she takes in the news. She starts to tremble but you try to steady her, stroking her finger with your own in soothing motions. The doctor gives you some privacy and you hear her shudder. You don't know what to say. She sits in the chair for a moment and you stay with her.

Eventually her breathing evens out. She turns her face towards you and almost pleads "Can we go for a drink? Like old times?"

You agree, knowing the Tipsy Bison should be practically empty at this hour.

Once she's perched on a bar stool, she comes alive, chatting to Seth about his grandkids as she proudly talks about Joshua.

You can't help but smile, the old her is still there, your vivacious little sister.

After a couple of drinks, it goes to her head. Before long, she's giggling so you decide it's time to go home.

As you're leaving the bar, your shoulder collides with Joel's.

You both mutter "Sorry" and as you try to keep going, Gigi gets a second wind.

"Who do we have here? You sure sound handsome…" she says, her voice sultry as she tries to make out his shape.

He blinks at first and she carries on, "So you're the strong, silent type? That's your type isn't it Di?" as she leaves out a flirtatious giggle.

Joel can't resist a smirk at this, "Nice to meet ya Ma'am, I'm Joel Miller".

"Oh so you're the famous Joel, I've heard so much about you…I'm Gigi, Di's sister" she answers.

Joel glances at you "Huh, that right?"

You feel your cheeks burning, remembering all the times in high school your sister mortified you in front of a boy.

Why the hell is it having an effect on you now?

You mutter in frustration, "Come on Gigi, now is not the time".

"Fine" she reluctantly says as she flutters her eyelashes at him coquettishly, "Until next time, Mr Miller…"

Joel smiles again as you can't meet his eyes.

Gigi's facade slips as she tries and fails to find the door handle.

Instinctively you reach for it but Joel gets there first.

He gives you a slight nod, which you return, to your surprise.

Gigi exclaims, "Now that's a gentleman!"

Once you're outside, you ask her "What was all that about?"

"Oh nothing, just wanted to have some fun, lighten up Di" she replies.

Although her bravado soon fades as the news she got earlier sinks in. She doesn't say anything else until you're back home.

Joel stays at the bar, minding his own business. He never met your sister before. He could see how protective you are with her.

At that moment, you march back in and Joel watches on as you go straight up to Seth, who's busy shining glasses. You mutter something to him and he just shakes his head.

You make a circular motion and Seth just nods. You start looking under the tables and chairs, pulling out each chair with a creak.

He glances over, seeing your head bobbing up and down as you scour the stone floor.

This goes on for a few minutes, you really don't give up.

Eventually you exclaim "Ah ha!" as you hold up a necklace in victory and Seth gives a thumbs up.

You hurry out the door without a glance in his direction.

You hold your grandmother's necklace tightly in your hand as you sprint home. Gigi decided to wear it and the clasp is faulty.

You add it the ever growing list of things to fix so you put it in your workshop for safe keeping.

You were aware Joel was sitting at the bar, watching you go around on your hands and knees. At least he didn't offer to help, you don’t need it.

You're in the stables one morning, checking in on the new foals and talking to Jill the vet about training them. The tiny foals are barely standing on their feet but you know a good work horse when you see one.

When Ellie comes in you hand her the saddle that you repaired for her. She's impressed how much you've improved the tatty old one.

She mentions that she's waiting for Tommy, saying they had arranged to go for a ride together.

She starts feeding some of the horses while she waits so you go back to your conversation with Jill.

Everything seems calm until Joel walks in instead.

You and Jill can't help but watch on.

Ellie looks furious and genuinely disgusted to see him.

She angrily kicks hay on the ground with her boots.

She defiantly tells Joel "You can fuck this ride, I'm not ever going with you."

Joel is crestfallen, as he holds his hands up in defeat, "Tommy didn't think I should…I hoped-".

She cuts him off with a deathly stare, "Well you were fucking wrong, you shouldn't have come…I'm gonna give Tommy a piece of my mind"

His head is bowed, "Alright, it was my mistake…"

"Sure was…" as she breezes past you, leaving him standing there.

You glance up, seeing a profound look of sadness on his face.

His eyes lock onto yours for a brief moment.

He knows you heard it all.

He leaves without another word.

You're shocked to see that and what's surprising is that you feel sorry for him.

Joel trudges home, stung by Ellie's reaction. How the hell did he think she'd agree?

For fucks sake, he should have listened to what Tommy said "Give her space. No good bugging her. She'll forgive ya sometime".

He thought maybe if they were on their own, she'd listen to his point of view but no, she hates him and that's that. He goes home, but it's too quiet. It's only him and his thoughts. He moves from room to room, pacing around frantically.

Joel can't rest, so he goes to the shooting range, lining up some old cans and picking them off one by one. The place is empty. He takes a deep breath, with the weight of the gun in his arms, he doesn't think of anyone or anything in that moment, just focusing on the target. The bullet hits the can in the middle, causing it to land on the ground behind with a crunch.

He keeps going, standing the cans on the fence over and over, once they are all hit. He's not sure exactly how long he's there, only that his supply of bullets is getting low.

He hears voices coming nearer but can't recognise who it is until he sees you and your nephew arriving, guns slung over your shoulders.

He really didn't want to see anyone.

Not you, not after the way you'd looked at him in the stables earlier.

He immediately packs up his guns and puts away what's left of his bullets.

You do a double take when you say in surprise "Joel!"

He puts up his hand in acknowledgement briefly, muttering "See ya" and walks off, his head bent down and his shoulders hunched.

You watch his retreating figure but go back to instructing Joshua. You can't imagine what Joel must be going through. You hope he didn't leave on your account.

Joshua is getting more confident with his gun, hitting most of the targets without too much effort. It hasn't changed your mind though.

As far as you're concerned, he has a long time to go before going patrolling yet. You feel proud at how much he's improved, but it's worries you too.

Next chapter

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[worlds-we-write]

time in a bottle

pairing: Joel Miller x Reader

summary: You survive. Barely. After a brutal ambush meant for Joel, he’s the one left picking up the pieces. As you recover, both of you have to learn how to live with the scars—inside and out. Inspired by Time in a Bottle by Jim Croce

WC: 5.5K

Tags: graphic violence, detailed injury descriptions, near-death experience, PTSD and trauma response, panic attacks, nightmares, body image insecurity, physical and emotional recovery, protective Joel Miller, soft and emotionally vulnerable Joel, hurt/comfort, angst with a soft ending, established relationship, no smut (pure emotional intimacy), canon-divergent

My Masterlist

You’re only supposed to be out for another hour.

It’s a familiar path—worn by hooves and boots, trees thin enough to see through, quiet enough to feel safe. You’ve ridden it dozens of times.

But this time feels off.

You turn your head too late. You barely register the snap of a branch before someone slams into you from behind.

Your forehead cracks against the ground. Pain explodes across your face. Your ears ring. Your mouth fills with dirt.

Boots stomp near your ribs. You try to move, but you’re already being dragged—hands under your arms, your limbs limp, rifle long gone.

They drop you in a clearing like you’re nothing.

You blink past blood.

Three people surround you. One woman crouches in front—built like a tank, arms tense, jaw tight.

You don’t know her.

But she knows you.

“Thought I’d find you eventually,” she says, voice sharp with venom. “Joel always did have a soft spot for strays.”

Your heart stutters.

Joel?

You push up on one elbow. “What… what the hell are you talking about?”

You try to move, but hands hold you down—two of her crew pinning your arms and legs.

“I was hoping for Joel,” she continues, crouching beside you, pulling out a knife. “But you… you’ll do.”

The knife kisses your cheek.

Then slices.

Not deep—but enough to sting. Enough to make you flinch.

Her jaw twitches.

She stands up and kicks you hard in the side. You scream as ribs snap like brittle twigs.

“You don’t get to play dumb,” she snarls. “You’re the girl from Jackson. His… what, girlfriend? Housemate? Fuck-buddy?”

You stare, mouth open, breath stuck. You don’t recognize her, but she’s looking at you like you killed someone she loved.

“I should kill you quick,” she says, pulling a hammer from her belt. “But that wouldn’t hurt him enough.”

You try to crawl backward. The others move to block you.

“I don’t know who you are,” you rasp.

She crouches beside you, grabbing your face roughly. “No, but I know you. And that’s enough. I’m gonna make sure when he sees you, he sees what he did.”

The first hit with the hammer doesn’t come down on your skull—it crashes into your leg. You scream.

She’s not trying to kill you.

She’s trying to destroy you.

Another hit. Another. Your vision blurs. Your shoulder is yanked backward until something tears. You cry out, choking.

She whispers things you can’t make sense of—“My father,” “hospital,” “he didn’t hesitate.”

None of it makes sense.

But all of it hurts.

Eventually, you stop fighting. You just breathe. Try to stay awake.

Then—

Gunfire.

A sharp crack, and one of the men drops.

Another shot—clean through the second’s chest. He collapses.

The woman—though you still don’t know her name—spins too late.

Jesse’s bullet hits her square in the chest.

She gasps, stumbles. Her hammer falls. One more shot and she hits the ground, lifeless.

When it’s over, the world is deathly still.

He rushes to you. You can’t even lift your head.

“Hey. Hey, I got you,” he whispers, falling to his knees, pressing his hands to your bleeding side. “Oh fuck, oh my god…”

You try to speak. Your lips barely move.

He leans in close.

“…Joel,” you breathe, tears mixing with blood. “Don’t let him… blame himself.”

Jesse shakes his head, panicking. “No. No, don’t talk like that. We’re gonna get you home.”

He shrugs off his jacket and wraps it around you, lifting you carefully into his arms. You scream—your shoulder’s dislocated—but he holds you like you’ll break. Because you will.

“Shhh, I know, I know,” Jesse pants, voice shaking. “It’s bad. It’s so bad. Just hold on.”

He starts running.

“I’m getting you back. I swear to God. I swear to God,” he pants, staggering toward the trees, back toward Jackson, covered in blood that isn’t just yours.

Behind you, she lies dead in the dirt.

But her legacy is carved into your skin.

And all you can do is close your eyes and hope he gets you there in time.

You never even got her name.

He hears the shouting before he sees the blood.

Joel’s just outside the stables when the gates open too fast—too loud. His head snaps up.

People are running. Someone yells for help. Maria’s voice barks orders from the tower. Joel drops the shovel in his hand and moves before he can think.

Then he sees Jesse.

And everything stops.

Jesse is soaked in blood. His arms are trembling. And in them, slumped and broken, is you.

Joel doesn’t recognize you at first.

Your head lolls back. Hair matted with blood. Face unrecognizable—swollen, bruised, sliced. There’s something wrong with the way your arm hangs, like it’s not attached right. One of your boots is gone. Your jacket is torn and soaked through.

Joel’s stomach drops. His vision narrows.

“No,” he hears himself whisper.

Jesse pushes through the crowd, shouting— “I need help! She’s still breathing! She’s alive!”

Joel moves to intercept, chest heaving, but Jesse shoves past him, too focused.

“Get outta the fuckin’ way—Maria! Get a goddamn stretcher!”

Joel follows, dazed. “What happened?” he croaks. “Jesse—what the fuck happened?!”

Jesse’s voice breaks. “They jumped her, man. Out past the old checkpoint. One of ‘em—she knew who she was. Said her name. Said your name.”

Joel goes still. The cold wraps around his spine.

“Who?” he demands.

Jesse doesn’t answer.

They reach the clinic. The doors slam open. Jackson’s medics rush forward, shouting over each other, hands everywhere, lifting you from Jesse’s arms and onto a gurney.

Joel sees your blood smear Jesse’s jacket.

“Ribs are broken—she’s lost a lot of blood—”

“Shoulder’s out—maybe punctured lung—”

“She’s going into shock—get the morphine now—”

Joel doesn’t hear the rest.

He’s stuck.

His boots feel nailed to the floor as the doors swing shut behind the gurney.

You’re gone. Out of his reach.

And he wasn’t there.

He always told himself he wouldn’t let it happen again—not to Ellie, not to Tommy, not to you.

But he did.

He let you go.

He let you go out there alone, and now you’re somewhere behind those doors fighting to stay alive because of something he did. Something he caused. A ghost from his past, lashing out in a way he never saw coming.

Jesse is breathing hard, leaning against the wall, blood on his face and hands.

“I shot her,” he mutters. “The woman. Whoever she was. I killed her. Killed the others too. But I—” he swallows. “I wasn’t fast enough.”

Joel can’t even respond. His throat won’t work. His hands are fists at his sides.

All he can do is stare at the closed doors, heart pounding like war drums.

You’re in there.

And he’s out here.

Alone.

Again.

The machines are the only things making noise.

Soft, steady beeps. A faint hiss of oxygen. The occasional rustle of gauze or plastic as the nurse changes your IV bag in silence. Joel barely hears any of it.

He hasn’t moved in hours.

He’s sitting beside your bed—hands clasped tight between his knees, boots planted on the cold floor, head down. Watching your chest rise and fall.

You look… barely human.

Your face is swollen on one side. Purple, green, black. Stitches across your temple. Your arm is bound to your side, shoulder reset. Tubes in your nose. Dried blood crusted beneath it. A faint line of bruises runs along your throat like a cruel necklace.

Joel stares at your hand resting on the sheets. There’s an IV in it. A splint along your wrist. He hasn’t touched it yet. He’s too afraid you’ll be cold.

Or worse, that you won’t squeeze back.

He swallows hard. His eyes sting. But he won’t cry.

Not here.

Not where people can see.

The room clears eventually. Nurses change shifts. Jesse came by once—left you a cup of water and a little stuffed bear someone gave him when he was in the clinic for a busted ankle. Joel didn’t say much.

He just waits. And watches.

And breaks.

He doesn’t talk out loud at first.

For the first few hours, Joel just sits in it. Lets the silence crawl under his skin and stay there. He thinks of everything he could’ve done differently. Should’ve done. Would’ve done—if he’d known.

Shouldn’t’ve let you go out alone.

Should’ve been the one on that route.

Should’ve recognized the signs.

Should’ve told you to stay.

Should’ve told you the fucking truth.

Eventually, the silence gets too loud, and the guilt starts to spill.

“I should’ve been out there,” he says, voice rough and too quiet. “You should’ve never been alone.”

You don’t move.

Joel glances at your face. You’re still far away. Too far.

“I think she was lookin’ for me,” he adds, words slow like he’s choking on each one. “The one Jesse killed. She said my name.”

He runs a hand over his face, jaw tight.

“I don’t know what I did to her. But I’ve done enough to enough people that it don’t matter. It always comes back around.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. For a second, he looks older than he’s ever felt. Like the weight of the whole damn world is back on his shoulders.

“I told myself I’d never let someone I love get hurt again,” he whispers. “Not like this. Not like Sarah. Not like Ellie. But here I am. Sittin’ in another fuckin’ hospital chair. Watchin’ you fight for your life.”

Joel swallows hard. His hands shake.

“You didn’t even know her name,” he says. “You got all that pain and blood for someone you didn’t even know.”

He finally reaches out and brushes your hand with the back of his fingers.

It’s warm.

Barely.

He’s trying to stay strong. Like he always does. For Tommy. For Ellie. For Jackson. For you.

But there’s a crack in him now—and it’s spreading.

He rubs a hand over his face for the fifth time in an hour, like he can scrub the emotions away if he just tries hard enough. But his breath catches when he looks at you again.

You’re so still.

Too still.

And he can’t stop seeing the blood. The way Jesse held your body like it might fall apart in his arms. The way your fingers didn’t move when Joel reached for them. The bruises. The silence. The stillness.

He blinks fast. Looks down. Jaw clenched so tight it hurts.

But then—

A sound slips out of him.

Small.

Involuntary.

Like a wounded animal.

He squeezes his eyes shut, like that’ll hold it in.

It doesn’t.

His chest heaves, and the breath that comes next is a sob.

Low. Broken. Shameful.

“Goddamn it,” he rasps, pressing the heel of his hand against his mouth. “Goddamn it…”

The tears come slow at first—hot and silent. Rolling down his face before he can stop them. He hides behind his hand, hunched over, shoulders shaking.

It’s not loud. Not the kind of crying that screams.

It’s the kind that hurts more because it doesn’t.

He leans forward, elbows on your bed, forehead resting gently near your arm.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, voice thick. “I should’ve been there. Should’ve known. You were just tryin’ to help. And I left you out there…”

Another sob claws its way out of his throat.

“I’m so goddamn tired of losin’ people,” he chokes. “But if I lose you—if you don’t wake up—I swear to God, I don’t think I’ll survive it this time.”

He breaks fully then. Quiet, ugly, aching. Like his soul is caving in on itself.

It’s been years since he cried like this. Since Sarah. Maybe not even then.

Because this time… he let himself love again. He let himself believe he could have something good. That maybe, just maybe, someone could love him back.

And now you’re lying here—broken, because of him.

He stays there, folded in on himself, for a long time.

Holding your hand.

Letting himself fall apart where no one else can see.

It starts with sound.

Dull and warped, like you’re underwater. You can’t tell what’s real—what’s dream or memory. There’s pressure in your head, a deep ache in your chest, and something burning in your shoulder every time you try to breathe too deep.

You want to move.

You can’t.

Everything is wrong.

You try to blink, but your eyelids feel like they’re glued shut. Even thinking is hard. Like someone filled your skull with cement and let it dry.

Voices blur in and out. Someone’s crying, maybe. Or maybe that was just you.

Then—

A voice cuts through the fog.

Rough. Southern. Familiar.

Low like gravel and thunder.

“…can’t do this again…”

You try to move toward it. Just a twitch. Just your fingers.

Nothing.

“…can’t lose her…”

Your heart trips in your chest.

You know that voice.

Joel.

God—Joel.

You try to say his name, but your throat won’t cooperate. It’s raw. Like you swallowed glass.

More words. Barely audible. Like he’s talking to himself.

“…should’ve never let her go alone…”

There’s something about the way he says it—like he’s crumbling. Like he’s been holding himself together by nothing but spit and string and your heartbeat. You can feel it in the air. The weight of him. Heavy. Exhausted.

You blink again.

This time, your eyes open a sliver.

The room is dark. Dim light from a lamp in the corner. The shadows are soft. The world is blurry, like it’s behind a veil.

Joel is sitting beside your bed, hunched over with one hand pressed to his face. Shoulders shaking just slightly.

He doesn’t see you looking.

You try again. Just a whisper. Just his name.

“J…Joel…”

It’s barely sound. More like a breath shaped around a memory.

But he hears it.

His head jerks up. Eyes wild.

“Hey—hey, hey,” he breathes, scrambling to sit forward. “You—you awake? Baby, can you hear me?”

You manage a twitch of your fingers. Barely.

He lets out a noise like relief and agony all tangled together. One hand cups the side of your face, trembling like he can’t believe you’re real.

“You’re alright. You’re here. Jesus Christ…” He sucks in a breath like it hurts.

You blink again. His face is red, tear-streaked. His beard’s thicker than you remember. His eyes look like he hasn’t slept in days.

Your lips part.

“You okay?” you rasp, barely audible.

Joel lets out a sharp exhale that’s half a sob, half a laugh.

“Am I—? No, darlin’. Don’t ask me that,” he says, brushing your hair back from your forehead so, so gently. “You’re the one lyin’ in a goddamn hospital bed lookin’ like you got trampled by a fuckin’ truck. You askin’ me if I’m okay…”

Your eyes flutter. You want to smile, but it hurts.

“Didn’t mean to worry you,” you whisper, a flicker of humor in your broken voice.

Joel closes his eyes like that hurts worse than anything else.

“You didn’t worry me. You near killed me,” he murmurs. “Don’t say sorry. Not to me.”

You shift slightly—just enough to let the pain remind you it’s all real. The weight of your body. The ache in your bones. The bruises singing beneath your skin.

The flashes come in bits and pieces— The dirt. The hammer. Her voice.

You shiver.

Joel notices. He wraps his hand around yours instantly, warm and grounding.

“She’s dead,” he says, like he can read your mind. “Jesse shot her. She won’t hurt you again.”

You blink, slow.

“I didn’t… even know her,” you whisper.

Joel nods, jaw tight. “But she knew you. Knew me. That’s all it took.”

Silence falls again. You can feel your body begging you to sleep—but you don’t want to. Not yet. Not while he’s here.

Joel leans in closer. His voice drops.

“I love you,” he says, rough and low, like it’s been sitting on his tongue for years. “You hear me?”

You blink slowly. Nod once.

“I love you, too,” you rasp, and it hurts—but it’s worth it just to see the way his eyes close like he’s praying.

He presses your hand to his mouth and stays there. Quiet. Breathing with you.

You fall asleep with his fingers laced through yours, the echo of his voice still in your ear.

And this time, you know you’ll wake up again.

Because Joel’s here.

And he’s not letting go.

The days bleed together at first.

Morning and night don’t mean much when your body refuses to do even the simplest things. Breathing hurts. Talking drains you. Moving? Feels impossible.

Still—Joel is always there.

He helps you sit up the first time, cradling your spine like it might splinter in his hands.

You cry. Not from pain—but from the humiliation of it. Of being this weak. This… broken.

“Hey,” he murmurs, brushing tears from your cheeks before they fall. “You ain’t broken. Just healing. There’s a difference.”

You don’t believe him, not yet.

It takes a week before they let you leave the clinic. Joel argues to bring you home earlier, but the nurses insist on waiting until your fever passes and your oxygen holds steady.

When they finally wheel you out in a battered chair, Joel’s already waiting on the porch with a blanket, a flask of weak tea, and that look in his eyes—the one that never left from the moment he saw Jesse carrying you in.

Wrecked. Quiet. Protective.

He carries you inside like he’s afraid the wind might steal you away.

You sleep in his bed.

He insists.

“Only place in the house that don’t creak,” he grumbles.

He sits with you through the worst of it.

The fever sweats hit first—cold and sudden, leaving your body trembling under damp sheets while your teeth chatter like glass. Joel is always there before you even call out. A towel in one hand, a water cup in the other, his voice low and steady as he presses cool cloths to your forehead.

When the spasms start—violent jerks that rip through your legs, your healing ribs—he doesn’t flinch. Just slips his hand beneath your shoulder blades, murmuring your name over and over like it might steady your spine.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, voice like warm gravel. “I got you. I got you, sweetheart.”

Some nights, you wake screaming.

No build-up. No warning.

Just full-body panic, lungs dragging in air like you’re drowning, fingers clawing at invisible restraints. You don’t know where you are. Can’t tell what’s real. You think the hammer’s still coming down. You think the dirt’s still in your mouth. You think you’re still dying.

And Joel—he’s already there.

“Hey, hey—it’s just me,” he says, voice low, hands up like he’s approaching a wounded animal. “You’re home, baby. You’re safe. I got you.”

You sob. You shake. You try to get the words out, but your throat won’t work.

So he climbs into bed behind you, pulls you back against his chest, and just holds you—one hand wrapped around your middle, the other cradling your hand against his heart.

You cry until your body gives out. Until all that’s left is soft hiccups and a shaking breath that finally, finally goes still.

Other nights, it’s worse in its quiet.

You don’t scream.

You just… tremble.

Eyes open, unfocused. Breath shallow. Hands clenched in the sheets so tight your knuckles go white. Frozen in place like your mind’s trapped somewhere your body can’t follow.

Joel notices right away.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just slides into the bed, lays on his side, and touches your back—light and slow, letting you feel the weight of his palm so you remember where you are.

“You with me?” he whispers, after a while.

You nod.

But then the whisper comes, cracked and pitiful, over and over again like a broken record:

“I didn’t know her. I didn’t know why.”

Joel squeezes his eyes shut, face buried in your hair.

Every time you say it, it cuts deeper. Not because you’re admitting something—but because you’re still carrying it. Still shouldering it.

He holds you tighter.

“I know,” he always says. “I know, baby. I’m so sorry.”

And it’s not just for what happened. Not just for the pain, or the bruises, or the sleepless nights.

He’s sorry for letting you walk out that gate.

He’s sorry for not telling you about his past. About the ghosts that still walk, still kill, still reach for the people he loves.

He’s sorry he wasn’t the one who took that beating.

And if he could take it from you—every scream, every scar, every ounce of fear—you know he would.

You feel it in the way he holds you.

Like you’re something he’s not just afraid to lose—

But something he knows he doesn’t deserve, and still begs the universe to spare.

Recovery isn’t linear.

It’s a jagged, crawling thing—three steps forward, two steps back, and a whole lot of days where it feels like you’re going nowhere at all.

You’re angry. A lot.

At your body, for not doing what it used to. For aching with every movement. For stiff joints and a limp you can’t shake. For how the skin around your shoulder pulls where the sutures were. For how even breathing sometimes feels like a betrayal.

But mostly, you’re angry at your face.

The first time you see it clearly in the mirror, you can’t look for more than a second.

The swelling is down now, but the bruises are stubborn. Deep. Sickly yellow in some places, dark red in others. One scar stretches along your temple in a jagged, cruel arc. Another bisects the curve of your lip.

You touch the stitches near your jaw with shaking fingers.

You barely recognize the reflection.

You drop the mirror on the counter and leave the room. You don’t talk for the rest of the night.

Joel notices. Of course he does.

But he doesn’t push.

He never does.

When you snap at him for standing too close, he just nods and gives you space. When you burst into tears halfway through trying to button a shirt, he wordlessly takes over—finishing each button with patient fingers and no pity in his eyes.

He carries you to the bathroom when you’re too weak to walk. Sits on the floor while you shower with your back to him, hands braced against the tile as the hot water runs over scars you don’t want anyone to see.

But he never stares. Never comments.

When you nearly collapse trying to shave your legs, you snap, “This is fucking pointless, Joel!”

He just gently eases the razor out of your hand and says, “Ain’t nothin’ pointless ‘bout feelin’ like yourself.”

And when you do finally cry into his chest again, fists clenched tight in his shirt, he just holds you and lets you fall apart.

“You don’t have to be okay every second,” he murmurs into your hair. “Just let me carry some of it when you can’t.”

He reads to you at night.

Old books. Short stories. Sometimes old letters he found in a busted file cabinet out near the edge of town—ones he thinks you might like. You fall asleep most nights to the sound of his voice and the weight of his hand resting over yours.

One day, weeks into your recovery, you catch your reflection by accident.

It’s late. You’re in the bathroom, brushing your teeth slowly, shoulders aching from using the cane all day. You glance up—and there you are.

Scarred. Pale. Tired.

Not you.

You stare at your reflection for a long time, toothbrush hanging loose from your hand.

Then you step out into the bedroom, where Joel’s sitting on the edge of the bed, unlacing his boots.

“Do I still look like me?” you ask, voice small. Barely audible.

Joel doesn’t even hesitate.

He looks up. Straight at you. And his expression is… soft. But unflinching.

“You look like the woman I was gonna spend the rest of my life with,” he says, steady and sure. “You still do.”

Your breath hitches. Your lips part—but no words come out.

He stands, steps closer, careful like he always is now.

“You think those scars make you look less like you?” he asks gently, brushing your hair behind your ear. “'Cause all I see is you. Braver than anyone I’ve ever known.”

You look away. “You’re just saying that.”

Joel cups your face, thumb brushing just below the old bruise near your cheekbone.

“I ain’t never just said anything to you in my life,” he murmurs. “And I sure as hell ain’t startin’ now.”

Tears burn behind your eyes.

You don’t try to stop them.

He pulls you in close, and you let yourself be held—not because you’re weak. But because you’re strong enough now to know that being held doesn’t mean broken.

You’re healing.

Slowly.

But you’re still you.

And Joel sees all of it.

It’s a few weeks after you come home when Jesse finally stops by.

He knocks once—three quick raps, casual, almost sheepish—then pushes open the front door like he’s done a thousand times before.

You’re sitting at the kitchen table, Joel’s sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder, your cane resting against the chair leg. There’s a blanket around your legs and a mug of tea gone cold beside your hand.

When you see Jesse, you try to smile.

“Hey, hero.”

He raises an eyebrow. “If I’m the hero in this story, we’re all fucked.”

You let out a soft laugh, which still pulls at your side. “Don’t sell yourself short. You saved my life.”

Jesse walks in with a brown paper bag clutched in one hand. “Brought you that soup you like. From the new kitchen down by the stables.”

You blink. “The mushroom one?”

He sets it in front of you. “You think I didn’t memorize your post-patrol cravings after all this time?”

You go quiet. The steam rises between you.

Jesse leans against the counter, arms crossed.

“You look better,” he says finally. “Still a little like a raccoon with PTSD, but you know… cuter.”

You snort. “You always did know how to charm a girl.”

The silence after stretches. Thicker. He doesn’t look at you at first—just stares at the edge of the table.

So you say it.

“I never thanked you.”

His jaw flexes. He shakes his head. “Don’t.”

“I mean it, Jesse. You… you showed up when I thought no one would. You put a bullet in her without hesitating. You carried me back. You—”

“I said don’t.”

You stop.

Jesse finally lifts his eyes to yours. His voice is lower now. Calmer, but shaking just underneath.

“Don’t thank me for doing what anyone who loved you would’ve done,” he says. “That wasn’t brave. That was… reacting. I saw what she was doing to you and I just—” He swallows. “I didn’t even think. I just fired.”

You blink, watching his hands clench into fists against his arms.

He exhales hard through his nose and looks away.

“I’ve never been that scared in my life,” he mutters. “Not even during the outbreak. Not even when the infected rushed us last winter. Nothing’s ever scared me like seeing you lying there, not moving.”

You’re quiet.

“I thought I was too late,” he says.

You shift in your seat. “You weren’t.”

His eyes meet yours again, darker now. “Joel didn’t talk for two days after. Did you know that?”

You shake your head slowly.

“Just sat there. Outside the clinic. Hands covered in your blood.” Jesse’s voice goes rough again. “I brought him water. He didn’t drink it. Brought him food. He didn’t touch it. I think if you had… if you hadn’t woken up—”

He stops. Runs a hand through his hair.

“You’re the only reason Joel didn’t break entirely,” he finishes.

You feel that. In your ribs. In your throat. In the parts of you that are still learning how to beat again.

Jesse looks at you for a long time, then pushes off the counter.

“So yeah. Don’t thank me.”

You nod. “Okay.”

“But…” he adds, more softly now, “you’re welcome anyway.”

He gives you a half-smile, ruffles your hair gently, and starts to head out.

At the door, he pauses and glances over his shoulder.

“You ever wanna talk about it… about her, or anything… I’m around.”

“I know,” you say.

And you do.

The world doesn’t stop hurting.

But it gets softer.

Months pass. Slowly. Some days feel like entire winters packed into the space between breakfast and sleep. But your body grows stronger. The cane becomes more accessory than necessity. The ache in your ribs dulls. You walk without flinching. You sleep without screaming.

You live.

One breath at a time.

Joel never leaves. He gives you space when you need it, patience when you can’t ask for it, and love in the quiet, steady way he does everything — with his whole damn soul, hidden behind a low voice and calloused hands.

You find yourself falling in love with him all over again, this version of him that isn’t trying to be a hero. Just a man.

Your man.

Spring comes early that year.

The snow thaws, the streams swell, and Jackson begins to bloom again — cautious and slow, like it’s remembering how.

That’s when Joel shows it to you.

He doesn’t tell you where you’re going—just helps you onto one of the horses and rides beside you for twenty quiet minutes, down a path behind the eastern fields.

You’re confused at first. Until you reach the end.

A clearing.

A hand-built bench nestled beneath a twisted old tree, branches just beginning to bud green again. A stream runs past it, water glittering in the afternoon light.

The view is breathtaking—wide and open, far from town. It smells like fresh grass and wild mint.

You slide off the horse slowly and limp toward it, one hand bracing against your thigh.

“You made this?” you ask, turning back.

Joel nods, standing with his thumbs tucked in his belt. “Started workin’ on it when you were still in the clinic.”

“Why?”

He shrugs, looking away like he’s embarrassed.

“Needed a place to talk to you. Where it was quiet.”

You sit down on the bench. It creaks under your weight, but it’s sturdy. Comfortable.

Joel lowers himself beside you and pulls something from his coat pocket.

A leather journal.

Worn edges. Filled thick with pages.

You frown. “What’s that?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just presses it into your hands.

You open the cover slowly.

The first page is dated the night Jesse brought you home, soaked in blood.

March 4th. She’s not waking up. I can’t stop thinking about what her last thought was. Was it me?

Your breath catches.

You flip to the next.

March 5th. She always hated the silence at night. I’m talking out loud to her anyway. Told her the whole story of how I saw her at the market the first time. I think I talked for an hour. If she can hear me, I hope she knows how beautiful she is, even now.

Page after page. Memories. Guilt. Confessions. Anger. Fear.

He wrote you letters he never planned to send. Pieces of himself you never knew he could give.

There’s a page with lyrics. Half-remembered ones.

"If I could save time in a bottle…"

The ink is darker there. Blotted in places. You realize he was crying when he wrote it.

Your hands tremble.

“Why give me this now?” you whisper.

Joel leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice low and steady.

“‘Cause I spent too long not sayin’ the things that mattered. You damn near died with me never tellin’ you half of ‘em.”

He looks over at you, eyes full of something raw and terrifyingly real.

“I wrote all that down ‘cause I didn’t think I’d get another chance. But I did. And I ain’t gonna waste a second of it.”

You blink back tears and look down at the last page.

Just two lines.

If I could save time in a bottle… I’d save every second I wasted not telling you how much I love you.

You close the journal and hold it to your chest.

Joel watches you for a moment. Then reaches out and takes your hand.

You let him.

The two of you sit in silence—shoulder to shoulder, fingers laced—listening to the stream and the wind in the trees.

And for the first time in a long time—

You don’t feel haunted.

You feel held.

AN: if you made it all the way here… first of all, I love you. second, I hope your heart is okay. this one meant a lot to me — I wanted to write something that felt like grief and healing holding hands, and Joel just being there in the most Joel way possible. soft hands, steady love, long recovery.

Dividers by @saradika-graphics 🫶🏼🫶🏼

[finco99]

Okay, so THAT was grief and heartbreak in a nutshell 😭😭😭

Gosh, the sweet sweet healing right after that too 💘

[vodkaandpizza]

Javier Peña Goes to Ikea

A Ghosts of Bogotá drabble, 650 words

AN: in this post @sin-djarin posed the question and @the-blind-assassin-12 had excellent takes on the other PPCU boys. And @maggiemayhemnj was 100% right, given the option Javier Peña would prefer to just wait in the car.... this Javier didn't get that option... so without further ado...

Javier Peña Goes to Ikea

“I can’t believe there isn’t a more efficient way to get through this fucking place.” Javier grumbled as they landed at the top of the escalader.  Bright yellow arrows pointed cheerily to the first of many, many, showrooms.

“Well, I suppose we could have just looked online and then given our order at the end.” His youngest daughter, Hels suggested helpfully.

“I suggested that.” He grumbled. He’d not only suggested it, he had printed out options of each item required and pinned it to his corkboard in his home office, complete with colour options and prices. Anything to avoid this.

But when he showed his wife, Ana, she said tactfully.  “This is great research baby,” for one perfect shining second, he thought he was off the hook, “but I still need to see what we’re getting.” Fuck.

So, there they were at 10am in Berkely, California walking through an elaborate maze that Javier was certain had been expressly designed by Swedish intelligence officers as some sort of social experiment designed to torture fathers with college aged children. As if sending his baby girl three states away wasn’t cruel enough.

So that morning Javier grumbled as he slid a short pencil behind his ear, wishing it was a cigarette instead.

“If you’d like,” Ana said cooly, too busy to indulge her petulant husband, “we can leave you in the playroom, with the rest of the children if you intend to pout this entire time.”

“No mi reina, I’m sorry, let’s get this over with.”

By the time they’d gone through the kitchen and living room showrooms, Javier’s eyes were darting around looking for an exit sign, as though he were a caged beast, “How big is this fucking place? This has to be the near the end right?”

“Javi, have you never actually been to an Ikea before?” Ana asked. They’d shopped for their house furniture at far nicer places, investing in pieces that would last for their cheerful San Antonio home. And truth be told, Javier had always just bought what Ana said would be best anyway. She had great taste and it minimized the time in the store. The only time he was remotely interested in a piece of furniture they bought, it was so he could plan what way he might be able to ravish his wife on top of it once they brought it home.

Shopping for his 17-year-old daughter’s dorm room furniture, Javier was very much hoping absolutely NO ravishing would be done on the items they purchased that day. He eyed the pressed manufactured wood. The good news there was that he doubted the cheap college furniture would be up to the task. Was there a bed that could automatically collapse if more than one person was on it at a time?

Javier stood hand on hip as he watched his wife and daughter discuss the pros and cons of each single bed. Then sighed quietly while they went over what comforter and sheets paired best together.

“Javi! Did you hear me?” Ana, he realized, was staring at him.

“Sorry, I was looking at this…” he lifted the tag on the nearest bed frame, “KL- KELPSTAAD?”

“Well, we’re going to go with the HERMANS it’s a little bit more expensive, but it seems more sturdy, we wouldn’t want it to break, and it has drawers for more storage underneath.”

Javier pinched the crown of his brow, “Great.”

“Anyway, I said we’ll grab lunch now.”

He brightened up instantly, freedom! He couldn’t believe they were getting out of there already. Though it had been nearly two fucking hours or torture. “Okay what do we feel like, Italian, Mexican, Chinese…”

“Swedish meatballs.” Hels said cheerfully.

Javier heart sank as they turned the corner to the in-store restaurant, “I can’t believe there’s a fucking restaurant in the middle of a fucking furniture store.” This place really was a Swedish fucking prison.

P.S. He liked the meatballs but he wouldn't admit it.

Materlist

If you want to know how the rest of the college drop off week went I wrote this one shot of them dropping their daughter off at her dorm then going for a little vacation in San Francisco (it get spicy once they ditch the kid😏): With Somebody Who Loves You

Taglist: @bardot49 , @midnights-temptation, @bergamote-catsandbooks, @awkwardpaws, @petalsinblood, @queenofslowburn

[fullmoonlovestuff]

Throwback: Pedro at the Emmy Awards 2025

what a fine man...

[writingdose]

the fic you write doesn’t have to be a masterpiece, it just has to be the story you want to explore for yourself and your own enjoyment

[persephatta-crescent]

Mr Darcy: So I have learned from Elizabeth that Jane is in fact in love with you.

Mr Bingley: Oh my gosh, that's wonderful! When did Elizabeth tell you this?

Mr Darcy: When I proposed to her.

Mr Bingley: ...

Mr Darcy: ...

Mr Bingley: You proposed to the sister of the woman you said I shouldn't marry because of her family's unsuitability?

Mr Darcy: If it helps... she said no

Mr Bingley: *tackling him to the floor*

[wetheurban]

It's okay if joy and grief keep visiting on the same day.

[nyxwithchaos]

Big news for Pedro!

[pedroncigarettes]

Pedro deserves it !!!

[isabellaboo2025]

Through The Wall - Part Fourteen

Pairing: Din x Reader.

Chapter summary: Cara Dune pays a visit, and your pregnancy hormones send you into a jealous spiral.

Warnings: 18+only. Fluff and smut 🥰

A/N: Enjoy this one, because the angst is on its way…

Part Thirteen IIII Part Fifteen

Din Masterlist

➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰🚀➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰

Din tells you about the visitor three days before she actually arrives. He says it plainly, with no embellishment, while cleaning a vibroblade at the worktable he’s set up in the corner of the main room of the cabin.

“Cara's passing through Nevarro on Marshal business. She's going to stop by, stay a night or two.”

He runs the seam of one gloved finger over the blade and nods as though satisfied with both his own work and the delivery of the news.

“You'll like her. She's good people.”

“That sounds fine,” you reply from your position on the couch, and, at that moment, you mean it.

You know about Cara Dune. Din speaks of very few people from his life before you, but Cara’s one of the names that comes up every so often – the ex-shock-trooper, the mercenary turned marshal, the woman who fought beside him through more scrapes than he'll ever fully detail. There’s always a warmth in his voice when he mentions her that he reserves for almost no one and you’ve thought nothing of it before.

You think a great deal of it now.

You’re thirty-six weeks pregnant, your body a vast and aching landscape you no longer recognise, your ankles swollen and your back in a permanent state of mutiny. You feel enormous, ungainly and lumbering. And the hormones that have your body in their grip have lately taken to ambushing you with emotions so sudden and so vast they leave you breathless – weeping at the sight of a banthacalf or laughing until you can’t breathe at nothing at all. And lately, increasingly, a low simmering possessiveness that flares hot and irrational at the smallest provocation.

So when Cara's transport sets down in the yard and the woman herself comes striding down the ramp, you feel the jealousy hit you like a physical blow before she's said a single word.

The cruel, immediate truth of it is that she’s magnificent. Tall, broad-shouldered and built like a warrior carved from durasteel, her arms corded with muscle, her hair framing her heart-shaped face, all coming together in a way that makes her look strong but also, strangely, sensuous. She moves with the easy lethal grace of a woman who’s never in her life felt ungainly, never lumbered, never had to negotiate a doorway around the weight of another person growing inside her.

She’s everything you currently are not – lean, powerful, free.

Din comes out of the cabin to meet her with a warmth in his body language you see instantly. You see the way his shoulders ease, the way his head tilts, the way Cara grins and slams a fist against his pauldron hard enough to ring the beskar.

"Mando," she says, a whole history in the single word. "Look at you all…domesticated. Never thought I'd see the day."

"Cara." Din's voice holds that rare warmth. "It’s good to see you."

"Good to see you breathing. Heard you've been busy making yourself a family."

Her dark eyes find you then, where you stand in the doorway, one hand braced on the frame, the other resting on your enormous belly and her widens, easy and genuine.

"And there she is. The woman who tamed the Mandalorian. Stars, look at you – you're about ready to pop."

"Not long to go," you says, hearing the stiffness in your own voice, and hating it.

Cara crosses to you, sticks out a hand, and you shake it – her grip strong and warm – and she looks at you with such open friendly interest that you immediately feel horribly guilty for the venom coiling in your chest.

"It's good to finally meet you," she says. “He talks about you, which, if you know him, is basically a love poem. Man barely says ten words a day and half of them lately are about you and the baby."

You know she means it kindly as a compliment, a generosity. But all your hormone-addled brain hears is Din talks about you to her, they talk, they have a whole life together you aren’t part of, and the jealousy flares hotter.

“That's nice," you say, and the words come out clipped. You see the briefest flicker of confusion cross Cara's face before she smoothes it over.

"Come in," Din says, oblivious – gloriously, infuriatingly oblivious, the way men so often are. "I'll get the caf on. Cara, you can stay the night. We have room."

Cara nods happily, follows you inside and it is, by any reasonable measure, a perfectly pleasant evening. She’s warm and funny and easy company, full of stories about jobs and scrapes, careful and kind in the way she includes you in everything, never once making you feel like the outsider.

And Din is happy. That’s the thing that twists the knife. He’s relaxed in a way you rarely see, leaning back in his chair, trading old war stories with Cara, the two of them falling into the easy rhythm of people who’ve bled together and lived to laugh about it.

You sit through it with a smile nailed to your face and a furnace of irrational misery burning in your chest.

It’s nothing they do and that’s what makes it so maddening. Cara never flirts, never touches him beyond the rough camaraderie of old comrades, never gives you a single genuine reason for the green poison flooding your veins. Din, when he reaches for you – and he does, constantly, his hand finding your belly, your knee, the small of your back, as automatic as breathing – is as devoted as ever. But every story Cara tells that you weren't part of, every shared laugh over a past you had no place in, every reminder that this gorgeous powerful warrior-woman had known Din long before you did, feeds the fire.

She fought beside him. She's strong and free and beautiful. She knows the parts of him you'll never know. She held the line with him. What have you held? You can barely hold your own weight.

The thoughts are ugly and unfair, and you know it even as they consume you, the knowing only making it worse. You've never been a jealous person. This isn’t you. It’s the hormones, the exhaustion, the helplessness of your enormous aching body. But knowing the source of the poison doesn’t make it any less potent.

By the time Din shows Cara to the fold down bed in the living room and comes to your room, you’re a tightly wound coil of misery, lying on your side facing the wall, your jaw clenched.

He undresses in the dark, and you feel the bed dip as he slides in behind you, his bare chest warm against your back, his hand sliding over your hip to find your belly in the familiar way.

"You're quiet," he murmurs against your shoulder. "Tired?"

"Mm."

His hand stills because he knows you too well. "You’re angry. What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong."

"You're a terrible liar, cyar’ika." His thumb strokes over your belly. "Did Cara say something? Did I…"

"She didn't say anything,” you reply, sharper than you mean to. "She was lovely. She's wonderful. She's perfect."

The silence behind you takes on a careful quality. "Okay," Din says slowly. "But I'm getting the sense that's not actually a compliment."

You say nothing. You stare at the wall, your throat tight, hating yourself, but unable to stop.

"Talk to me," he says softly. "Whatever it is, just say it."

It comes out of you in a rush, all of it, helpless and humiliating.

"She's strong, Din. She's beautiful and strong and free and she can fight. She can do everything. She's everything I'm not right now. She held the line with you. She pulled you out of bad spots. You light up when she's here, I've never seen you that relaxed. You talk to her, you…"

Your voice cracks, and to your horror you feel tears spilling hot down your face.

"And look at me. I'm enormous and…and slow. I cry at banthas. I can't do anything because I can barely walk to the door. I…and she's just…she's everything, and I'm…"

"Hey." Din's arm tightens around you, alarmed. "Cyar’ika, I don’t understand…"

"Don't."

You try to pull away, which is absurd because you can’t go anywhere, but the misery has you in its grip.

“I know it's stupid, I know it is, I know there's nothing…I know she's just your friend, I know you don't…but I can't…"

The sobs take you fully now, ugly and gasping, your whole body shaking with them.

"I can't help it. I see her and I see everything I used to be and everything I'm not anymore and I hate it, Din, I hate feeling like this, I've never been like this, and I just…she could give you…she's everything you…"

"Stop!"

There’s a sudden fierce edge in his voice, and he moves, pulling you over onto your back with careful insistence, looming over you in the dark so he can find your face through the visor.

"Stop right now and listen to me. You think I want Cara?" he says, and there’s something almost incredulous in it. "Cara Dune?"

"She's…"

"She's my friend, cyar’ika. My brother-in-arms. There has never been – not once, not for a single second – anything between us but that. The thought of…" He makes a low sound, somewhere between a laugh and disbelief. "She'd break my arm if she heard you say it. I'd break my own arm. It would be like…it's not even a thing that exists, the idea of me and Cara. It's not real. It was never real."

"But you…you're so happy with her here, you talk, you…"

"Because she's an old friend and I don't have many of those." His hand comes up to cradle your wet face, his thumb wiping at the tears. "Because she reminds me of a part of my life that's over now. That I left behind for this." He presses his other hand flat against your belly. "You hear me? I left that life. The fighting, the running, the bad spots Cara pulled me out of…. I walked away from all of it. For you, for this. Because none of it ever made me feel one tenth of what walking through that door and finding you and our baby makes me feel."

You’re still crying, but the sobs have begun to gentle, your hands coming up to grip his forearms.

"You think I want strong and free?" he goes on, his voice low and rough and fierce. "I had strong and free. I had a whole galaxy of it. I had a ship and a creed and nothing to lose and I was the loneliest I've ever been in my life. And then I found you. Soft and stubborn and brave and so full of love it spills out of you." His thumb traces your cheek. "And for a while we rode that life together but now…you're not less than you were. You're carrying my child, cyar’ika. Do you have any idea, any idea at all, what you look like to me right now? What you do to me?"

"Din…"

"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." He says it flat and certain with no room for argument. "Not despite. Because. This body…" his hand sweeps over your belly and your hip, reverent and possessive, “…I can't even look at you without losing my mind. You think I want lean and hard and free? I want you. Round and full and soft and mine.”

The poison in your chest starts to drain away, slowly, replaced by a flood of shamed relief and a returning, traitorous heat.

"I'm sorry," you whisper. "I'm so sorry, I know it's irrational, I know it's the hormones, I…"

"Don't apologise."

He leans down and presses the helmet to your cheek, your jaw, then the corner of your mouth.

"You feel what you feel. I just need you to know the truth underneath it. There is no one, cyar’ika, no-one but you. There will never be anyone but you. You’re my wife. My riddur. Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum. Cara could walk in here right now and I wouldn't take my eyes off you for a second."

"Don't say that, she might actually walk in," you say, a watery laugh breaking through the tears.

And you feel his body rumble as it shifts over yours with that careful attention he always gives your changing shape, feel him hardening against your thigh, feel the want rising in him as surely as it’s rising in you.

"Din," you breathe. "She's right next door…"

"Then you'll have to be quiet, cyar’ika." The helmet drags down your throat. "Or you won't. I don't care. You're mine, and I'm going to spend the rest of this night proving it until there's not a single doubt left in that beautiful head of yours."

His hand slides down between your thighs and finds you already slick – jealousy and tears and want all tangled together into a desperate need – and he groans low through the modulator against your throat.

"See?" he murmurs. "All this misery and you're still soaked for me." His fingers part you, slide through your wetness, and you gasp and arch. "Let me fix it. Let me make you forget there's anyone in the galaxy but us."

He undresses you with slow reverence, easing the sleepshirt up over the swell of your belly, baring your breasts – so heavy and sensitive now that the first brush of his palm makes you whimper. The cool beskar rubs gently over your nipples in turn and you have to press the back of your hand to your lips to muffle the cry that wants to escape.

"That's it," he breathes, his hand never stopping its slow torment between your thighs. "Quiet, unless you want her to hear exactly whose name you're going to be saying. Because it's going to be mine. Over and over, until you can't remember why you ever cried about anyone else."

He arranges you carefully on your side again – the position that’s easiest now, that lets him hold you and your belly safe – and slides in behind you, the hardness of him nudging hot and insistent at your entrance. Then he pushes in slow, sinking into you inch by inch, and you both had to bite back the sounds that want to tear free.

"Kriff," he breathes against your ear, seated fully inside you, his hand spread wide over your belly to hold you against him. "Feel that? Feel how perfect you are? How perfectly you take me?"

He rolls his hips, a slow deep grind that makes stars burst behind your eyes.

"No one else fits me like this, cyar’ika. No one else is mine like this. Just you…only ever you."

He moves in you slow and deep, the careful rolling rhythm your body demands, the helmet at your throat and his hand splayed over the place where his child grows, and with every thrust he murmurs into your ear – a low filthy litany of devotion, of possession, of how beautiful you are, how perfect, how completely and utterly his. The misery that consumed you melts away under the heat of it, burned out and replaced by the overwhelming truth of him wrapped around you, inside you, worshipping you.

"You're the only one," he pants, his thrusts deepening, his control beginning to fray. "The only one I want. The only one I think about. The only one I come home to. This is everything, cyar’ika. You're everything." His fingers find your clit, circling, and you have to bury your face in the pillow to muffle your cry. "Say you believe me. Say you know it."

"I believe you," you gasp. "I know it, I know, Din, I'm sorry, I…"

"Don't be sorry, just be mine."

His hips drive into you, harder now, the bed beginning to creak, all his careful quiet beginning to slip.

"Be mine and let me prove it. Let her hear if she has to, I don't care. I want everyone to know exactly who you belong to."

You come with his name muffled against the pillow, your body clenching hard around him, the climax rolling through you in long pulsing waves made all the sweeter for the shame and relief and love tangled up inside it. Then his own restraint shatters, and he buries himself deep and holds and spills inside you with a low broken groan through the modulator, the helmet pressed hard against your shoulder.

You lie tangled together afterward in the dark, both of you breathing hard, him still buried in you and his hand still spread over your belly, holding the three of you together.

"Better?" he murmurs against your neck, and you can hear the smile in it.

"Better," you admit, your face hot with embarrassment now that the haze has cleared. "I really am sorry. I don't know what came over me.

"Vesha warned us about this part, remember,” he says softly, his thumb tracing idle circles over your belly. " The moods…the crying." A low rumble of amusement moves through his chest. "Though she did not specifically mention you'd accuse me of pining after Cara Dune, of all people.”

"Stop." You bury your burning face in the pillow. "I know how stupid it was. I knew it was stupid while I was saying it, that’s the worst part. I could see exactly how irrational I was being and I just…couldn't stop the feeling."

"I know." He presses the helmet to the back of your neck. "You think I don't know what irrational feelings feel like? We all have things that rise up bigger than sense, cyar’ika." His arm tightens around you. "I'd rather you tell me, all of it. As long as you don't lie there beside me suffering in silence and let me think you're just tired. That's the only thing I can't stand."

You turn your head to look at him in the dark, at the smoothness of the beskar, "You really don't…there was never anything…"

"Never,” he says with absolute finality. "I'd swear it on the Creed, on anything you want. Cara is one of maybe three people in the galaxy I'd trust with my life, and the thought of her as anything more is…incomprehensible. She'd say the same but probably less politely." He shifts slightly. "If it would help, I could ask her to confirm it in the morning, though I suspect that conversation would mortify you more than it would reassure you."

"No…" You shut your eyes. "She can't know I…did she hear us just now?"

"Almost certainly." There’s no shame in it at all, only a low warm satisfaction. "I wasn't exactly quiet at the end, and neither were you, despite your best efforts."

You groan into the pillow, and he laughs again.

"Let her hear. Let her know exactly how this Mandalorian feels about his wife. I want there to be no doubt. Not in your head, not in hers, not anywhere."

You can’t help the reluctant laugh that bubbles up through your mortification. "You're impossible."

"I'm yours." He gathers you closer, your back to his chest, his hand finding its familiar place over your belly. "Which is the same thing, apparently."

You lie there in the warm dark, the last of the poison gone from your chest, replaced by a deep and settled contentment. Beneath his palm the baby stirs, a slow lazy roll, and you feel Din go still the way he always does, the wonder of it never fading no matter how many times he felt it.

"There," he murmurs. "There she is. We probably woke her up.” His thumb traces the curve of your belly. "Won't be long now. Weeks, maybe less."

"I'm scared," you admit quietly, the confession coming easier now in the dark, in the aftermath. "Not about the jealousy. About…all of it. The birth, after…whether I'll be good at it. Whether I'll know what to do."

"You'll know." He says it without hesitation. “You’re going to be the best mother our chid could ever ask for.”

You felt your throat tighten again, but it’s a different kind of tightness now, warm and full instead of poisoned.

"And you won't do it alone," he goes on. "Not the birth, not after…none of it. I'm not leaving you to figure it out by yourself. We do this together, cyar’ika, every part of it. The good and the terrifying and the parts where you cry at banthas. I'll be there for all of it. I promise. Wherever you are, I'm there. Whatever happens, I'm there."

You turn in his arms – carefully, with his help, the manoeuvre requiring negotiation now – until you’re facing him.

"I love you," you whisper. "I'm sorry I doubted it tonight. Even for a second."

"You didn't doubt it." His hand comes up to cradle your face. "You doubted yourself, there's a difference. And I'm going to spend the rest of my life making sure you never have to." He kisses you through the beskar. "You're the most beautiful thing in any galaxy. There's just you. Always just you."

You believe him this time. Fully, down to the bone, the way you should have all along.

You fall asleep tangled together, his hand spread over your belly, the helmet cocooned by your hair, and for the first time all evening there’s no poison in your chest at all – only the warm, settled certainty of being completely and unshakably loved.

****

In the morning, you come out to find Cara already up, sitting at the worktable with a cup of caf, her boots up on a crate. She looks up as you waddle in, and there’s a knowing glint in her dark eyes, and the corner of her mouth twitches.

"Sleep well?" she asks, far too innocently.

Heat floods your face. "Cara…"

"Relax."

She grins, easy and warm, and there’s no malice in it at all, only a rough, affectionate humour.

"Walls are thin, it’s fine. Honestly, it's good to hear. Din spent years being the most miserable, locked-up, lonely son of a bantha in the Outer Rim. Half the time I figured he'd die alone in that beskar shell of his, too stubborn to let anyone close."

She nods toward the bedroom, where Din’s still getting dressed.

“Then he goes and gets himself all this. A wife, a baby, a home and he’s…I've never heard him talk the way he talks about you. Never seen him relaxed like he is around you."

She meets your eyes, steady and sincere.

"Whatever you're worried about, don't be. I'm just glad somebody finally got through to him. He deserves it and so do you."

The last of your shame melts away under the plain warmth of it, and you feel your eyes sting again – the stupid hormones, always so close to the surface.

"Thank you," you manage. "And…I'm sorry, if I was cold yesterday. I wasn't…it wasn't about you. It was…"

"You're almost nine months pregnant and your man's old war buddy showed up looking like this." Cara gestures at herself with the cup and smirks. "I'd have wanted to throw me out a window too. No apology needed."

She stands, stretches, her joints popping, and claps you gently on the shoulder.

"He's a good man, under all the beskar and the brooding. The best I've known. He's lucky to have you so, take care of him. And let him take care of you - Maker knows he's desperate to. The man can barely stand to be in a different room from you."

Din emerges from the bedroom then and crosses to slide his arm around your waist, his hand finding its automatic place on the curve of your belly. He looks between the two of you, the visor sliding from side to side, reading something in the air.

"Everything okay?" he asks.

"Everything's great," Cara says, draining her caf. "Your girl and I are square. I was just telling her she's got good taste, considering what she has to work with. Don't worry, Mando, I'm not stealing your woman, or correcting her opinion of you. Both seem suspiciously high."

Din's arm tightens around you, and you feel the warmth. "They're not high enough," he says quietly, "but I'm working on it."

His fingers twitch slightly on your belly, and you move your hand to rest over his.

“I have to ask…” he starts, “if…”

“No, you don’t,” Cara interrupts him. “The answer is yes. The answer is always yes.”

You look between them, confused. “What’s the question?”

Both of them stay silent, but Cara nods, just once, her expression serious whilst, outside the window, a lone Nevarro bird cuts through the air, its blue and gold feathers dulling under the shadow of a gathering ash cloud.

➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰🚀➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰

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[remanence-of-love]

[golden-prairie]

When Spring Returns

Summary: Post-Part 1/ Season 1 AU where Joel lives. Jackson is thriving and survival has finally started to look like living again. A slow-burn Joel × Female Reader built on years of trust, new political tensions inside Jackson, and the quiet moments that make the loud ones matter. Featuring MC, Joel, Ellie, Tommy, & Maria, among others & OCs you'll (hopefully) grow to love, and an eventual romance that's earned, not rushed.

Series Rating: Eventually explicit; violence; gore; etc. (18+ only. MDNI)

WC: this chapter ~4,600 (full series TBD)

AO3 Link

~Chapter 6~

The first few afternoons pass without a single shot being fired. Marcus practices how to clear a rifle quickly before Joel lets him load one; how to check the chamber even when he already knows it’s empty; how to work the bolt until the motion becomes automatic; how to change a magazine with gloved hands or his eyes fixed somewhere other than the weapon… Joel makes him repeat each movement until frustration starts creeping into the younger man’s face. Then, he makes him do it again.

By the end of the first week, Marcus has stopped asking when they are finally going to shoot. And that’s when Joel lets him.

-

Marcus shifts his weight from one foot to the other, the rifle hanging more comfortably over his shoulder now. That alone feels like progress.

Joel notices this but doesn’t say anything, he simply reaches for his own rifle as he steps to the firing line. You fall into place beside him. Marcus watches the both of you from a few feet away.

Joel works the bolt, checks the chamber and then closes it. There’s nothing hurried or flashy about it, just something that he’s done hundreds of times.

You mirror him, almost without thinking; years of routine together. Joel glances sideways towards Marcus. “Watch.” He says focusing back in front of him. That’s all, no lectures or grand speeches.

He settles the buttstock into his shoulder before he breathes one slow, controlled breath. The rifle cracks, the sound echoing off the nearby trees. A neat hole appears just left of center. Joel lowers the rifle and looks over at you.

You raise yours, aim, take a breath, and pull the trigger. Your shot lands slightly low and to the left on the target.

Joel glances over. “Pulled it,” he mutters.

“I know.” You say already readjusting your technique.

“Again.”

You smile to yourself.

“Yes, sir.” You say in a stern tone.

Joel ignores the joke completely. You fire again. The hole appears next to Joel’s, but more centered than his. He gives one small nod. Marcus has been watching every movement. Not the targets but the motions, how each of you breaths and focuses… the rhythm.

“Your turn.” Joel says now facing Marcus.

He steps forward, raising the rifle, attempting to mimic you and Joel but not quite getting it.

Joel immediately reaches out. “Pull it in.”

Marcus blinks. “What?”

Joel taps the buttstock and Marcus adjusts it to sit more snugly in the pocket of his shoulder now.

“Good.”

He starts aiming now, finger hovering over the trigger.

“Finger.” Joel says as he continues to watch Marcus.

Marcus immediately removes it from the trigger, still focusing on what’s in front of him.

Joel nods once. “Breathe.”

Marcus inhales.

“Hold.”

The rifle wobbles slightly. Joel waits quietly for a moment before saying, “Soften your shoulders.”

Marcus exhales and the weapon steadies in his hold.

“Now.”

The rifle fires and the round strikes the berm several feet left of the target.

Marcus winces while he lowers the gun slowly, “...Not even close.” He slowly looks towards Joel who stands there, expression unreadable.

“Again.” Joel says. He offers no encouragement but also no real criticism either. Just... again.

Marcus works the bolt, getting the next round in the chamber before trying again. The second shot catches the edge of the wooden frame. A small flash of hope crosses Marcus’s features. Joel says nothing except that word – again.

The third shot lands on the edge of the worn target paper. Marcus can’t help the grin that settles on his lips for a brief moment.

“I hit it.”

“You did.” Joel acknowledges as he nods back at the target. “Again.”

A small laugh escapes Marcus.

“I was wondering if I’d get more than one word.”

Joel looks at him, “I’ve said plenty.”

You chuckle quietly, grinning at Marcus. “Trust me, he has.”

Marcus shoulders the rifle again and this time, his stance is steadier and his breathing is slower. He pulls the trigger and this shot lands in the outer ring of the paper.

Joel studies the target for a moment. “...Better.”

Marcus lowers the rifle. That single word means more than any speech could have. You catch the wide smile he tries – but fails – to hide.

Joel pretends not to notice. Of course, he notices but he just doesn’t make a production out of it. Another magazine appears in Joel’s hand and he passes it over to Marcus who takes it automatically.

Joel gestures toward the firing line, “Again.”

Marcus sighs dramatically.

“...I had a feeling you were gonna say that.”

For the first time all afternoon... Joel smiles. Just a little. “Good.”

-

The crack of rifle fire begins filling the training field most afternoons after patrols. At first, Marcus misses more than he hits, but then he starts catching the edge of the paper more and more. Then the center. Not consistently, but it’s progress.

Joel’s corrections, however, remain consistent.

“Shoulder.”; “Breathe.”; “Again.”

You fill in the spaces Joel leaves behind, making small adjustments to Marcus’s stance, explaining why he keeps anticipating the recoil. Showing him how to slow his breathing without holding it so long his arms begin to shake.

Between the two of you, Marcus learns quickly. Not gracefully, but quickly.

The next several weeks settle into a rhythm. Patrols in the mornings, training in the afternoons. Rifle drills give way to moving targets. Moving targets become shooting from behind cover.

Then comes riding. Marcus already knows enough to saddle a horse and stay seated at a walk, but the mountains demand more than that. You teach him how to distribute his weight over uneven ground; how to let the horse choose its footing instead of fighting every step; how to mount and dismount quickly with a heavy rifle slung across his back; how to keep the reins from tangling; how to watch his surroundings without forgetting the animal beneath him.

The first time his horse shies sideways at a flapping tarp, Marcus nearly ends up in the dirt but catches himself against the saddle horn at the last second.

Joel watches from Phoenix’s back. “Comfortable?”

Marcus straightens with what remains of his dignity. “Very.”

You bite back a smile.

By the end of the second week, Marcus no longer grips the reins like they are the only thing keeping him alive. By the third, he can trot without looking personally betrayed by the motion.

He still talks too much. Still asks questions faster than either of you can answer them sometimes. He still keeps a small notebook tucked inside his jacket where he records nearly everything. Routes, distances, weather patterns, Joel’s clipped instructions and what they mean, your notes on terrain, etc.

He even sketches the different patrol markers used at the checkpoints, carefully labeling each one as though there will be an exam later. There will not be, but you don’t tell him that.

Whenever you are not on patrol or training Marcus, another hour seems to find its way into the map room. Zeke never demands your time. He simply asks, usually in passing. Sometimes it’s through a short note left with one of the council aides, sometimes catching you in the dining hall.

Would this crossing still be usable after heavy rain?

How long can horses reasonably travel before they need rest?

Which roads look safe on paper but offer too little visibility?

Most answers take only a few minutes. Others turn into longer conversations over maps stretched across the table. You begin recognizing Zeke’s handwriting and the spaces he begins leaving beside certain routes for your notes. Neither of you comments on the habit that forms.

The map room changes quietly around you. More colored pins appear along the eastern roads. New lengths of twine stretch beyond Jackson’s established patrol routes.

A second map is mounted beside the first, older and more worn, with sections redrawn in darker ink. You notice the changes without asking about them. Trade has always required planning. Jackson is simply doing more of it now.

-

The first time you hear the name Riverside, it is spoken over lunch.

The two men that sit a couple tables away are arguing over the origin of a replacement truck battery. You eat your sandwich alone, quietly observing the interaction, but not staring.

“Came outta a settlement near Cody.” One man says confidently.

“No, it didn’t,” says the other.

“Then where?”

“That little settlement east of here.”

“What little settlement?”

“Riverside.”

The second man says the name like everyone should already know it. “They’ve been talking over the radio for months, apparently.”

His friend tears off another piece of bread.

“They got batteries?”

“They got people who know how to rebuild ‘em I heard.”

The conversation moves onto something else shortly after that. You look out the window and down the streets of Jackson, enjoying the peaceful solitude of your lunch alone for once.

-

A few days later, someone else mentions that Riverside has trained medics. Another person claims they have goats that produce more milk than any animal reasonably should. Someone else says they have fewer than a hundred people and barely enough wall to call themselves protected. The details rarely match but the name remains: Riverside.

-

One afternoon on your way to the barn, you catch Zeke standing on the road that leads to the council building. He is talking with another council member. You only hear part of the conversation. “…I’ve been talking with them, if Riverside keeps growing, they’ll need more provisions before winter.”

“I know,” Zeke begins, you can’t quite make out the rest, but you think you hear him say something about the routes.

You continue walking.

-

Spring settles more firmly over Jackson. The grass coming in gets greener by the day, rainstorms rather than snowstorms come through, the children count down the final days of school with an enthusiasm their teachers also share. Morning patrols still begin under cool skies and return beneath a warmer sun. The days grow longer but the new routines hold firm.

At some point during the month, you and Joel meet with Tommy to discuss Marcus’s progress. Tommy takes notes and quietly plans the next steps.

On the last day of May, Tommy finds the three of you at the barn after you’ve finished training for the afternoon. Marcus is cleaning mud from a saddle while Joel sits on a hay bale cleaning his rifle. You’re not far from the two of them as you run your hand down a horse’s forelimb, checking that the small swelling above the fetlock is improving.

Tommy clears his throat as he moves to rest a shoulder on one of the wooden support beams.

“Tomorrow.”

Marcus looks up immediately, but Joel does not.

“What about it?” Joel asks.

Tommy tips his head toward Marcus with a smile on his face. “He goes out.”

The rag in Marcus’s hand goes still and for once, he says nothing. His eyes are wide and a grin forms almost instantly across his lips. He looks quickly between Joel and you then back at Tommy.

You wince as you push yourself up, the muscles in your back tight. You stand beside the horse looking at Tommy now.

“Which route?” Joel asks, still cleaning the rifle.

“Good one.” Tommy replies as he folds his arms, “Elk Creek.”

Joel finally looks up, “Weather report?”

“Clear.” Tommy nods.

“Recent activity?”

“Nothing unusual reported.”

Joel gives one measured nod before looking over at you. You give him a small nod back. Marcus still has not moved.

Tommy studies him now, “You ready?”

Marcus glances first at you. Then at Joel. Whatever answer he finds in your faces seems to settle something in him. He sets the rag down carefully.

“I think so.” He says finally, trying to sound confident.

Joel returns his attention to the gun in his hands. “That ain’t an answer.”

Marcus takes a breath. “Yes,” he pauses for a second, “I’m ready.”

Joel finishes reloading the rifle before saying, “We’ll find out.”

Tommy smiles at this. Marcus looks as though he has forgotten how.

Outside, evening light stretches across Jackson’s roofs and fences, warming everything it touches. Beyond the barn, the town continues its duties for the evening. Construction noise is heard in the distance, an aroma comes from the dining hall’s open windows, somewhere in the council office, more pins are being added to the eastern map, and in the morning, your three horses will leave the gate together for the first time.

-

You wake up the following morning feeling a bit more tired than usual. You work the muscles on your back and shoulders with your hand before making your way downstairs.

The knock at your door comes right on cue as your clock reads 6am. You open the door to find Joel standing there. Today, he wears a denim button up with a light brown jacket over it.

“Mornin’.” He says as he passes you a mug.

You take the coffee from him and meet his gaze with a soft smile. “Hi,” you say, taking in a deep breath of the steam. “Thanks.”

Joel nods. You step out of the doorway, gesturing him to come inside for a second. He steps into your entryway, taking a sip from his cup.

“Sorry,” you begin to say, grabbing your boots and making your way to the kitchen table to put them on. You sit down, ignoring your muscles as you do. “I’m just a couple minutes behind today.”

“S’alright.” Joel says as he watches you, taking another sip. He looks around at your place. A manilla folder with some papers spilling out of it sits on your coffee table. Several post-it notes are stuck to the pages and a couple pens are scattered around. Some empty cups litter the living room. A few dishes are in the sink. He doesn’t comment on any of it before he looks back over to you.

You bring your hands down on your thighs with a small clap. “Okay,” you say as you stand. “I’m ready.”

Joel studies your face for a fraction of a second as you approach him. You swing your jacket on in one motion. You hadn’t noticed that he had picked up your rifle and pack from the floor but he hands them to you now.

You smile at him again. “Thanks.”

Joel hums a reply, expression not quite readable.

You grab your coffee and the both of you make your way to the barn where Marcus waits.

-

The morning air carries a cool dampness as the three of you gather at the gate with the other patrol groups distributed in small pockets.

A handful of townsfolk cross the street toward the dining hall, coffee mugs warming their hands. Somewhere farther down the road, a horse nickers from the nearby pasture, answered by another. Jackson is beginning to wake.

Magnolia stands patiently beside you while you tighten her cinch one final time. Joel adjusts Phoenix’s saddle with practiced efficiency, too. Done, there’s no wasted movement, no second guessing. Routine.

Marcus, however, is still checking Smoke’s tack. The older, dappled gray, gelding waits with saintly patience while Marcus inspects every buckle on the saddle. Then, checks them again. He then tugs lightly on the breast collar. He pauses before checking the cinch one more time, running a hand beneath it. He then looks thoughtfully at the stirrups.

Joel watches for a moment before speaking.

“Once.”

Marcus looks over, “Huh?”

Joel gives a small nod toward the saddle.

“Once is enough.”

Marcus blinks, “I just wanted to make sure.”

“You did.” Joel confirms, his expression isn’t harsh though.

Marcus glances back at Smoke, “...Right.” He drops his hand. Smoke sighs heavily, as though grateful someone had finally intervened. You smile to yourself as you finish inspecting Magnolia’s bridle.

“Nervous?” Joel asks.

Marcus lets out a sheepish laugh. “A little.”

“Good.” Joel watches Marcus before continuing, “You should be.”

That seems to surprise him. Marcus looks at you quickly, then back at Joel.

You gather Magnolia’s reins as you look at Joel now.

“Nervous means you’re paying attention.” You tell Marcus. His shoulders seem to relax a bit at this.

Joel swings into Phoenix’s saddle with ease, “Just don’t let it slow you down.”

Marcus nods, “Got it.”

You glance toward Smoke, who has already lowered his head in search of a patch of grass.

“He’ll help.” You say.

Marcus follows your gaze, “He seems... calm.”

“The calmest horse in the barn.” You say as you reach over to scratch Smoke’s neck. “He doesn’t care if it’s your first patrol or your five hundredth.”

Marcus smiles. “I think I like him.” Smoke flicks one ear back toward the sound of his voice before returning his full attention back to the grass.

“You will,” you say, “he’ll take care of you.”

Joel looks over, “So long as you don’t give him a reason not to.”

Marcus nods seriously, now. “I won’t.”

A few minutes later, the gate groans open. Sunlight spills across the path beyond the walls. Joel nudges Phoenix forward first. You follow. Marcus takes one last glance back toward Jackson before gently asking Smoke to move. The older gelding steps through the gate without hesitation.

-

Elk Creek begins as a broad game trail winding through gently rolling foothills before narrowing beneath a canopy of lodgepole pines and Douglas fir.

Morning light filters through the branches in scattered patches, turning the forest floor into shifting patterns of gold and shadows. The trail itself is well worn. Not because it’s safe, necessarily, but because it’s dependable. It has good visibility where it matters and there’s enough cover to stay under the radar. There are several natural overlooks where patrols can stop and listen before pressing on.

Magnolia picks her way confidently over exposed roots. Phoenix walks a few yards ahead, ears turning toward distant birdsong. Smoke settles into the middle without needing much guidance from Marcus. Exactly where an experienced patrol horse belongs.

For a while, no one says much; the woods have a way of encouraging quiet. Marcus gradually stops riding like every movement requires conscious thought. His shoulders ease just a bit and his grip on the reins softens. Instead of staring at Smoke’s ears, he begins looking farther down the trail.

You notice him glancing toward a fresh set of deer tracks crossing the path. Then up into the trees. Then toward one of the small clearings where daylight spills across knee-high grass. Not because he’s distracted but because he’s finally beginning to observe instead of simply ride.

Joel notices too as he occasionally looks over his shoulder.

Without turning around, he asks, “What do you see?”

Marcus doesn’t answer immediately. He takes another slow look across the clearing.

“Deer came through not too long ago.”

Joel waits.

“Couple hours, maybe?”

You catch Joel’s almost imperceptible nod.

“What else?”

Marcus studies the edge of the tree line, “No fresh human tracks.” A moment passes before Marcus continues, “the birds haven’t stopped singing.”

Joel finally looks back over one shoulder, “Good.”

With that one word of approval, Marcus tries very hard not to smile.

You notice anyway and so does Joel. Neither of you says anything as the three horses continue deeper beneath the pines, the trail narrowing once more until the forest quietly closes around them.

-

The patrols settles into an easy pace. The morning stretches on beneath towering pines, the forest opening and closing around the narrow trail in gentle waves. Several more checkpoints come and go without incident. An old trail blaze still hangs where it should. The footbridge spanning a shallow creek remains sound, though one plank has begun to split along the edge. You take a mental note for the log later.

Marcus has stopped asking questions every five minutes. Not because he’s run out but because he continues to observe and learn. The forest often has its own way of teaching.

Chirps drift through the canopy. A squirrel darts across the trail. Somewhere deeper among the trees, a woodpecker hammers steadily against dead timber. It’s all normal, exactly what you want to hear.

The trail bends gently around a rocky outcrop before widening into a small clearing where sunbeams pour through an opening in the canopy.

Joel’s horse slows first, not abruptly but just enough. Phoenix’s ears prick forward before he stops.

Joel raises one hand.

The signal is immediate. You bring Magnolia to a silent halt. A second later, Marcus pulls on Smoke’s reins and catches himself just before asking why.

Joel points once toward the ground ahead of him. Nothing more. You ease Magnolia forward until you’re standing beside him. You follow the line of his gaze. At first, you don’t see it but then the light catches something dark against the pale dirt.

Blood.

Old enough to have browned around the edges but fresh enough that rain hasn’t washed it away. Someone has haphazardly kicked loose soil over part of it.

Joel’s eyes sweep the surrounding trees. Yours follow. Neither of you speaks. You simply reach for your rifle; the familiar weight settles naturally into your hands. Joel does the same. Behind you, Marcus remains exactly where he is and Smoke stands quietly beneath him.

Joel glances back once and gives a small gesture that means stay put. Marcus nods, his head bobbing just a fraction.

You and Joel dismount almost together, your boots meeting the earth without a sound.

For several long seconds, nothing moves. The breeze shifts gently through the pines. The birds continue singing.

Joel motions toward the blood. You angle wider, moving slowly through knee-high grass along the edge of the clearing.

Your eyes sweep constantly through the environment around you. Ground, trees, rocks, brush, then ground again. That’s when something catches your eye – not blood, but branches.

A pile of dead tree limbs are gathered awkwardly beneath the stand of some younger pines. It’s too deliberate, too tidy. You look back to Joel who meets your eyes almost instantly. You point silently; his eyes follow your finger towards the discovery. Together, you slowly approach, rifles half-raised, ready to fire at a moment’s notice.

Joel nudges the first branch aside with the barrel of his rifle. Then another. The smell reaches you; it’s faint at first but soon the rot settles in around you.

More branches fall away exposing grayish skin, torn clothes cling to the flesh. An outstretched hand lays palm up. Three infected lie tangled together beneath the brush. Each bears several clean knife wounds. These were done efficiently and purposefully.

Joel crouches down now, his eyes move quickly over the scene.

“Not ours.” He breathes, quiet enough that only you hear.

You nod. Jackson patrols would’ve logged something like this immediately. Warned the next group. Marked the location.

You kneel beside the nearest body studying the entry point of the knife beneath the jaw. It’s clean, professional, skilled. Your fingers hover near the wound without touching it. Less than a day old, two at most.

Your eyes drift across the other two infected. One still wears the remains of a faded hiking pack. Another has mud caked along one sleeve. Details, tiny details.

The sort you’ve catalogued a thousand times before. Normally, you’d take another minute to study the direction they came from, look for more footprints, ask yourself why someone bothered hiding infected instead of leaving them where they fell…

Instead – your thoughts are broken by Marcus’s hushed voice saying your name. He’s still waiting on the trail, watching you and Joel’s every movement. Your head lifts automatically before you stand. Joel does the same. You sigh giving Marcus a nod that it’s probably fine to speak now.

“What do you see? Was it hunters?” he calls quietly.

“Maybe,” you shrug, looking back towards the bodies again. For the briefest moment, you realize your thoughts have already moved on. Not because you were finished but because someone is waiting for your answer.

“They’ve been dead less than a couple days.” You say, still trying to scan the area.

Marcus dismounts only after Joel gives a slight nod. He approaches carefully, exactly as he’d been taught. His attention fixes immediately on the knife wounds.

“So... somebody else was here?”

“Looks that way,” you answer.

“When?”

“Recently.” You confirm.

“Who?” Marcus asks before kneeling where you had been only moments earlier. Curiosity replaces caution as he studies the scene.

You open your mouth, “I –” you pause for a second, “don’t know.”

Another question forms almost immediately.

That’s when Joel speaks. “Kid, we’re all gettin’ the same information right now.”

“Right.” Marcus says, shaking his head at the questions, knowing there aren’t answers right now.

The three of you spend another several minutes searching the clearing. Joel circles wide through the trees, scanning for additional tracks before returning with a single shake of his head.

“Nothin’ fresh.” He mutters.

You nod in response, taking your notebook out before jotting down your assessment.

Blood on trail, concealed with dirt.

Three infected – neutralized – knife wounds.

Bodies concealed.

No sign of who did this.

You finish the notes by writing the approximate location and underlining it before closing the book.

Joel gives the surrounding woods one final look. “We’re done here.”

Marcus studies the bodies one last time before quietly asking, “We just… leave ‘em?”

Joel nods, “For now. We’ll send a larger team out to investigate.”

Marcus nods. He doesn’t seem entirely satisfied by the answer, but he accepts it. The three of you return to your horses. Magnolia greets you with a quiet nicker as you approach. You scratch absently beneath her mane before swinging into the saddle. The familiar motion steadies something inside you.

Smoke falls naturally into the middle once more as the patrol resumes. The forest seems unchanged. Wind still stirs the pines. Shadows spill across the trail in scattered patches. Only now, everyone seems to notice it a little more.

Marcus breaks the silence first. “So...”

He glances over his shoulder at you, “When you said the wounds were only a day or two old.”

You look ahead at him, his facial expression sincere.

“How could you tell?” he asks.

You explain how tissue changes, the scents, and even how insects arrive in stages.

Marcus listens with the same focus he’d given every lesson over the past month. By the time his questions finally slow, the scene is long behind you.

The conversation drifts naturally into something lighter as time passes. Trail markers; how elk migrate through the valley this time of year; which streams stay cold longest into summer. You answer patiently, Joel occasionally interjecting his own replies, too.

Though your mind feels like it’s somewhere else as you speak.

At one point, Marcus asks whether Phoenix has always hated crossing water.

Joel answers with a quiet, “No… he just likes makin’ me work for it.”

Marcus smiles, “So it’s personal?”

Joel deadpans, “Everything’s personal.”

Marcus laughs at that. Even you smile. The patrol settles once more into comfortable silence. Hours pass that way. Nothing else unusual surfaces before Jackson’s wall comes into view in the distance.

Magnolia flicks an ear back toward your voiceless sigh. Beside you, Joel glances over, just briefly. Then, without a word, he turns his attention back to the gate.

The three horses ride home together. When you arrive at the gate, you and Joel give your full report. Marcus watches and listens, jotting down notes of his own as you both speak.

Over the years of patrol together, you and Joel had been through some real precarious shit, making today’s events irrelevant in the grand scheme but for reasons you can’t quite name, today felt just a little heavier than it should.

[itzzkaylaaa]

how it started vs how it’s going ℘

[itzzkaylaaa]

⬩ Celebrating fifteen years of SEBASTIAN STAN as JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES in the Marvel Cinematic Universe

[paper-wounds]

via

[strangergraphics]

crochet dividers:

please like and credit if you use, reblogs are appreciated! thank you! 💕

[isabellaboo2025]

A Different Kind of Love - Part Fourteen

Pairing: Joel x Reader.

Plot summary: Your husband’s missing, presumed dead, and you’re falling in love with Joel.

Chapter summary: Matt heals, and your family slowly mends itself back together in ways you're not sure how to deal with.

Warnings: 18+only.

A/N: So much angst for poor Reader 😪

Masterlist

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Matt gets better the way strong men get better – faster than he has any right to, faster than Dr Vee likes, straining against the splint and the bed rest with a restlessness that tells you more about the two years than any story could. The fever breaks fully on the second day and by the third he’s sitting up. By the fourth he’s demanding, half-joking, to be let up to walk, and Dr Vee’s threatening to have him sat on if he tries it before she says so.

You come every day, you and Dylan both. It’s the natural thing, the expected thing, the thing the whole town assumes and approves of – the grieving family made whole, gathering at the bedside of the man raised from the dead – and you let it be that, let yourself be carried along by the sheer rightness of it in everyone else's eyes, because it’s easier than looking too hard at the thing sitting underneath.

You’ve lost count of the number of people who’ve stopped you in the street and congratulated you. They tell you their own stories of loss and always end with words such as, you’re so lucky. And all you can do is nod, smile and agree.

You bring Matt food, real food, and watch him eat it slow, savouring, closing his eyes over the taste of a stew that isn’t scraps thrown to a captive. You bring him clean clothes from the goodwill box, and you bring him a razor. On the third day he shaves the ragged beard down to something neater, and when he’s done and you see his face clean for the first time in two years, see the face you married under all the hard years the world has piled on it, something turns over hard in your chest. He looks older, used up and worn thin.

But it’s him.

Under everything, it’s still him, the man you loved. Your body still knows it, and that’s a complication you have no idea what to do with.

Mostly, you talk.

That’s the thing that surprises you – how much there is to fill, and how you fill it. Matt’s starving for it, all of it, every ordinary detail of the life you've built without him. He's been two years in a hell where the only news was who died and what they'd taken, and now he lies propped on a clinic cot and drinks in the small, warm particulars of Jackson like a man drinking clean water for the first time in his life.

"Tell me about the town," he says the day the fever breaks and his eyes come clear. "Tell me everything. What's it like? What's it actually like, living here?"

So, you tell him. You sit in the chair by his cot with the afternoon light coming gold through the window and you tell him about Jackson – about the walls and the patrols and the hydro dam that gives power, about the way the town governs itself, about the seasons and the harvests and the plain astonishing fact of a place where children grow up behind walls and sleep without fear.

You watch his face while you talk, watch the wonder move across it, and think about the road you'd all been on when you lost him, the months of scavenging and running and never sleeping twice in the same place, and you understand in your bones what it means to him that you landed somewhere like this. That his last, desperate, dying-man's bargain had actually paid out. That the picture he’s kept alive on for two years is real.

"I have a shop," you tell him, and you can’t quite keep the shy pride out of it. "A seamstress shop. Well, mending mostly. I make the odd thing too, if someone asks for it. And I’m busy,” you nod, “always busy. After the QZ…it’s nice to have something like that. Something…almost normal.”

Matt watches you with wet eyes. "Look at you," he says softly, the same thing he said in the yard. "You’ve built a whole life."

"We built it," you say, nodding at Dylan who’s perched on the end of the cot. "Both of us."

And then it’s Dylan's turn, and he lights up like a lamp, because he's been waiting, because he has two years of his own to pour into his father, and he does it with the headlong enthusiasm of a sixteen-year-old who's gotten the one impossible thing back.

He tells Matt about school, about the horses, about learning to ride properly, about his chores and his friends and training for patrol and the whole shape of a life lived in safety. He glosses over some of his more questionable behaviour, and then, inevitably, he tells him about Ellie.

"She's the best," Dylan says, and there’s a warmth in it that makes you glance at him. "She's from outside. Like, way outside. She walked across the whole country with Joel to get here and she's seen everything. She's got this comic she likes, Savage Starlight, and she quotes it all the time and thinks nobody knows she's doing it."

His face is animated and alive.

"She was there, Dad, on the patrol when we found you. She's the one who spotted the camp. If it wasn't for her, we'd have ridden right past and I'd never have…"

His voice catches, the enormity of it landing on him again the way it keeps landing on all of you at odd moments.

"I'd never have seen you."

Matt reaches out and squeezes his son's ankle through the blanket. "Then I owe this Ellie girl about everything there is."

"You can meet her. She wants to meet you properly. I mean, you'll meet everybody when you come home. That's the thing I keep…Dad, I keep thinking about it. When you come home and you're just there, and it's normal, and you're at the table and you meet everybody and…" He can’t finish it, his whole heart in his face. "I can't wait for you to come home."

And there it is.

Home.

The word that’s been sitting in the centre of all of this, the word nobody’s actually stopped to define. The word that has a shape in your son's mind so simple and so total that it hasn't once occurred to him it might be complicated.

When you come home.

To Dylan it means one thing – his father, in his house, at his table, in his mother’s room. The family made whole and put back exactly the way it was broken. He's said it a dozen times over the last four days, easy, certain, glowing, and every single time it’s gone through you like a cold blade. Because Dylan doesn’t know what that night was supposed to have been. He doesn’t know that his mother walked across the whole town in the dark and knocked on another man's door.

You see Matt's face when Dylan says it. You see the way when you come home lands in him, the way it lights him up from the inside – and you see too, that Matt’s watching you as it happens. That some part of him, the part that’s survived two years by reading rooms and reading captors and reading the smallest shifts in the people who held his life, is watching your face for how you take the word home. And you know that you haven’t hidden it well enough. You know, from the flicker that crosses his face, that he’s caught something. Not the whole of it, but something.

He doesn’t say anything then, not with Dylan there, but on the fifth day, Dylan goes off to help Tommy with the horses and, for the first time, you and Matt are alone.

The clinic’s quiet, Matt sitting up against the pillows, his leg still splinted and propped but the colour good in his face now, the man coming back into the used-up shell of him more each day. You sit in the chair by the cot with your hands folded in your lap, feeling the quiet settle and also feel what’s coming before he says a word.

"He's a good kid," Matt says finally, his eyes on the doorway where Dylan’s gone. "You raised him good. Better than good. He's kind, and brave, and he's got manners, out here, in all this. You kept him kind." His voice thickens. "I keep looking at him and seeing the fourteen-year-old I said I'd catch up to. And he's this whole person now. This whole person I missed. In two years he’s become a man."

“Well,” you say, “he hasn’t always been easy…”

“No, I get that, even from what he’s not saying. But…” he smiles at you. “You’ve done a great job, honey.”

"He never stopped talking about you, not really. Even after – even when we tried to accept it. He kept you. You were a hero to him, Matt. You've been a hero to him for two years."

Matt shuts his eyes, a breath going out of him, long and unsteady.

"That's a hard thing to hear. Good, but hard."

He opens them, finds your face, and holds it.

"I'm not, you know. A hero. I want to say that to you while it's just us. I held them off for about four minutes before I ran out of bullets and hid in the rocks like anybody would. I didn't do anything noble. I did the math and the math said run. So, I told you to run and then I tried to save my own skin and I got caught, and then I spent two years doing whatever they told me to do to stay alive. Hauling…digging…standing in the front so I'd take the bullet meant for one of them."

His jaw works.

"There were things I did to keep breathing that I'm not…that I wouldn't want Dylan to know about. That I don't want you to know about. So don't let him make me into something I’m not. I'm just a man who wanted to come home bad enough to do about anything, that’s all I am."

You reach out and take his hand. It’s the natural thing, the human thing, and you do it before you've thought about what it means.

"That's not nothing, Matt. Wanting to come home that bad is not nothing."

His fingers close around yours and there’s a long moment then, the two of you, hand in hand and it’s warm and familiar and so complicated you can hardly breathe through it.

"I need to say something to you," he says, "and I've been trying to figure out how, for days, lying here. So, let me just…let me get it out, and you don't have to say anything back, alright? You don't owe me anything back."

Your heart starts thumping. "Okay."

He’s quiet a moment, gathering it. When he speaks again his voice is low and careful and there’s a steadiness underneath it that you recognise, distantly, as the same steadiness Joel has – the steadiness of a man who's learned to say hard things because the world has stopped letting him avoid them.

"Two years is a long time, I know that. I've had a lot of hours to think about exactly how long it is. Two years is…it's long enough to bury somebody. It's long enough to grieve them all the way through and come out the other side. It's long enough to build a whole life, the way you have, without me. And I know that you had to and I’d never in a thousand years hold that against you."

He draws a breath.

"And two years is long enough that I'd be a fool to walk back in here and expect everything to just…snap back, like I was gone on a supply run. Like there's a slot with my name on it and I just step into it, and we all pretend the last two years didn't happen."

He shakes his head slowly.

"I don't expect that. I want to say that to you so you're not carrying around some worry that I do. I don't expect anything to happen fast. I don't expect…"

His voice catches and he pushes through it.

"I don't expect you to feel about me today what you felt two years ago. You're not the same woman and I'm damn sure not the same man. We'd be strangers making each other into ghosts."

You can’t speak, your hand tight around his.

"But."

His eyes come up to yours, and there’s such naked hope in them, such careful, banked, terrified hope, that it breaks something in you to see it.

"But I love you. That never changed. Two years in hell and the one thing that didn't change was that. And I've got a son I missed becoming a man and I want…God, I want to be his father again. His actual father, at the table, teaching him things, being there. And I want…"

He swallows hard.

"I want us to be a family again. However slow, however careful…however long it takes to become something real again instead of something we're pretending back into shape. I'm not asking for tomorrow. I'm not asking for anything you're not ready for. I'm just…I'm telling you where I stand. I want to come home, and I want us to try. And I'll wait as long as it takes for you to know if you want to try too. I've gotten really good at waiting."

He smiles sadly.

“I’ve had two years of practice.”

And you sit there with your dead husband's warm, living hand in yours and feel yourself tear straight down the middle.

Because it’s everything. It’s the most decent, the most generous, the most loving thing a man in his position could possibly say. No demands, no expectations, no leaning on Dylan’s joy or the town's approval or the plain crushing weight of I crawled out of hell for you to force your hand. Just the truth, laid down gently, with a patience that asks for nothing but the chance to try.

It’s exactly, you think with a kind of horror, the thing you'd have wanted him to say. It’s the thing that makes him impossible to refuse without becoming a monster. He’s giving you every out, and in giving you every out he's closed every one. Because how can you look at this good man, this man who said run so you could live, this man who kept the picture of you alive through two years of hell, this father your son adores – how can you look at him and say I've met someone else?

How can you say it and still live in your own skin?

And underneath all of it, cutting through it, is Joel.

Joel, who said follow your heart even though he knows where it points.

Joel, who told you your place is here with him and left before you could answer.

Joel, who held the line as long as he could and then broke it against the wall of his own house and who let you have your not-goodbye out of pure love while knowing, the way he knows everything, that it was a goodbye all the same.

Joel, who you’ve mentioned to Matt exactly once, in the list of friends, tucked in at the end – and Tommy, and Maria…and Joel – and who you've been so careful not to say too much about that the very carefulness has probably said everything. You don’t know if Matt caught it. You don’t know how much he read off your face when Dylan said when you come home. You don't know if the man lying here offering you all the time in the world already suspects that the time he’s offering has already been spoken for.

You realise your silence has gone on too long. Matt’s watching you, and the hope in his face has gone careful and guarded with the look of a man who's learned to brace for the blow.

"Matt, you don’t…you don't have to say it like that. Like you're asking for scraps. Like you have to…to earn your way back to your own family."

Your swallow hard.

“Dylan and I are alive because of what you did that day, and you spent two years paying for it, and there's not a person in this town who wouldn't say you've earned the right to come home and be his father and take back your…"

You stop, because you can’t say your place. You can’t, because you don’t know anymore whose place it is.

"That's not an answer," Matt says gently.

"I know it's not."

"I'm not asking for one. I told you that."

But his eyes stay on your face, and there’s something patient and terribly perceptive in them now, and you understand that the two years haven’t only worn him down – they've sharpened him too and turned him into a man who can read the smallest weather in a person's face because reading it has kept him alive.

"I've been lying here five days," he says slowly, "watching you come and go. And you've been good to me. You've been kind, and you've been here, and you've held my hand and fed me and told me all about the life you’ve built. And I've watched your face the whole time, because your face was the thing I kept alive on for two years and I know it better than my own."

He inhales raggedly.

"And your face is glad I'm alive. That's real, I’m not doubting that. But your face isn't…" He searches for it, carefully. "It isn't the face of a woman whose life just got handed back to her whole. It's the face of a woman whose life just got complicated. And I've been trying to figure out for five days what the complication is."

The afternoon light hangs between you. Somewhere outside a horse neighs, and a child laughs, and the ordinary sounds of the town you've become part of go on around the small, charged quiet of the clinic room.

You could tell him – right now. He's opened the door as wide and as gently as it can be opened – your face isn't the face of a woman whose life just got handed back whole – and you could walk through it and say the thing.

There's someone, Matt. While you were gone, I built more than a shop and a life. I built a whole heart around another man, and I was going to tell my son, our son, about him the very night we found you.

You could lay it down because it would be the honest thing. It would be, in its way, the kind thing – kinder than letting him wait two more years' worth of patience on a slot that has another man standing in it.

But Dylan's voice is in your head.

When you come home. Dad, I can't wait for you to come home.

Your son's whole shining face, the family made whole, the one impossible thing the world has ever given back.

And Joel's voice is in your head too.

You're not the kind of woman who could live with herself if she tore up her son's family the same night it got put back together.

He'd been right. Standing there with his own heart in pieces, Joel told you the truth about yourself that you didn't want to hear, and it’s still true now. You’re not the kind of woman who could do it, not without breaking your son's heart the same week it’s been made whole. Not without looking at this good man and telling him the thing he's survived two years to come home to is already gone.

"The complication is that I grieved you,” you hear yourself say, your voice very careful. “All the way through, like you said and out the other side of it. It took me a long time, but I did it. And I built a life where you were…where you were a hero on the wall and a person I'd loved and lost. I’d accepted…that you were never coming back, no matter how hard I might have wished for it."

You make yourself hold his eyes.

"And now you're here. And I'm so glad you're here, Matt, I'm gladder than I have words for. But the woman you knew grieved you and moved on, because she had to and because that's what surviving is. And now I have to figure out how to un-grieve you. How to move a person from the past back into the present and I don't…"

Your voice breaks, and this at least is wholly true, so true it hurts.

"I don't know how to do that. I don't think there's a right way. I think I just have to feel my way through it, slowly, like you said."

It isn’t the whole truth, but it isn’t a lie either. It’s the part of the truth you can give him, the part that’s real and will let you both keep breathing. And you watch it land in him, watch him take it and weigh it and decide, with the enormous patience he's promised, to accept it.

"I can do slow. I told you. I've got practice."

And he lifts your joined hands and presses his lips to your knuckles, gentle and brief, the ghost of a gesture from another life, and it makes your chest ache with a grief and a tenderness so tangled you couldn't have said where one stops and the other starts.

"Thank you," he says. "For being honest with me.”

And that lands like a blade too, because you’re not being honest. You’re lying by omission, by the shape of the truth you've chosen to give him. You’re exactly the thing he’s thanking you for not being. And you sit there and let him thank you for your honesty and hate yourself, the way you knew the night you let Joel fuck you that some part of this was going to require you to become a person you’re not sure you can live with being.

The door opens and Dylan comes back in from the horses, hay in his hair, his face bright, and behind him, is Ellie.

“Dad, this is Ellie,” he says, grinning broadly. “This is the one I told you about.”

Matt lets go of your hand and turns his warm face towards her. “So, you're the one I owe everything to.”

Ellie immediately looks thrown, her gaze shifting from Matt to you and back again. “I mean, I just saw the tents. It was mostly Joel…”

And there it is again – Joel. You watch Matt's face register it, watch him file it and he glances at you – just a flick, just a heartbeat – and then back to Ellie, smiling, being charming and grateful and good.

You sit in your chair by the cot and understand that you’ve bought yourself time and nothing more. That slow is not a solution. That the truth you've folded up small and handed him will not stay folded forever. That somewhere across town a man is holding the whole thing down hard the way he holds everything, letting you go the only way he knows how – by not making you choose, by loving you enough to stand aside and be silent and let the world's own gravity pull you back toward the family you've been handed.

And your son’s laughing, and your husband’s alive and mending and it is, from the outside, from any window a passerby might glance through, the most beautiful scene in the world – a broken family made whole, grief undone, the one impossible good thing.

You sit in the middle of it with your heart torn straight down the seam, glad and ruined in the same breath, and you do the thing you've promised Matt you'll do, the thing your son needs to see, the thing that costs you more than anyone in that bright room will ever know.

You smile, and you let it look real, even though you're crumbling inside.

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

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[wardengrill]

Misfortunes, we are told, have been sent to test our fortitude | Pride and Prejudice (1995)