*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ before everything. before ellie, tess and the QZ.
*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
A mostly intact, off-grid farmhouse outside Bloomington, Indiana. The job went sideways. It always does.
You shut the door harder than you meant to, the creak of the hinges echoing off the quiet drywall like a gunshot. The night air’s still thick with smoke and rot. In your periphery, Joel’s silhouette slumps into the kitchen chair like the weight of his body’s finally caught up to him.
There’s blood on his temple, already crusting near his brow, but it’s the back wound that worries you. You caught a glimpse when he peeled off his jacket — long, messy, and just deep enough to flirt with dangerous.
“You need to sit still,” you mutter, dropping your pack onto the counter. You can feel his eyes on you, the way they always are when he thinks you’re too quiet or too angry. He’s not wrong tonight.
“I am sittin’,” he grunts.
That tone. The dry, slow Texas sarcasm that grates like gravel on your nerves, mostly because it always covers something else. Pain, guilt. Regret. You don’t press. Not yet.
The farmhouse is better than most — no spores, no squatters, no bodies in the tub. Clean enough to not hate. You grab the small med kit from the bathroom, the one you tucked under the loose tile weeks ago. You’d hoped you wouldn’t need it. You always hope that.
When you return, Joel’s peeled his shirt the rest of the way off. Blood stains the lower half, smeared down his side like war paint. His back is broad, lined with old scars — knife, maybe bullet. You don’t ask. You never do.
“I’ll need to clean it.” Your voice comes out too soft, but he doesn’t comment. You kneel behind him, cotton ball in one hand, the bottle of antiseptic in the other. His breath hitches when the alcohol hits raw skin.
“You always this gentle?”
You don’t answer. The silence stretches. You know he can feel your hands pause at the base of his neck, lingering where calloused muscle meets skin. The air between you shifts. You feel it, same as always — the thing neither of you ever names.
“You got reckless today,” you say. Flat. Dismissive. But it’s not. You were scared. When he went down, when you thought—
He turns, not enough to see you fully, but enough to shift your touch to his shoulder.
“And you didn’t?” he asks, quiet now.
Your hand curls into a fist against his arm.
“You weren’t supposed to take that hit.”
“Wasn’t supposed to be anyone on that road.”
You nod once, jaw tight. You finish cleaning the wound, tape it closed. It’s ugly but sealed. He leans back into the chair with a grunt like an old man, eyes on the ceiling.
“You should sleep,” you say. It’s late. You’re tired. And if you stay here one second longer, you’re going to ask him why the hell he always jumps in front of the bullet. For you.
Joel glances at you then — just a flicker. His face is unreadable, but the look lingers too long. “You gonna stay?” he asks. Not casual. Not quite a question, either.
You hesitate, then nod once. “Couch is fine.”
You don’t look back when you leave the room, but you feel the weight of his gaze long after the door closes.
