A funeral shouldn't be the reason you had decided to come back to town. Losing someone who was once part of your life now turned into memories shouldn't be the reason why you had come back with a thousand of words left to said.
Grief shouldnât drag you home by your neck. To old streets, to old ghosts haunting present and to the man you had never truly forgot.
And a breakup, shouldn't be the reason you were losing yourself to whatever this was.
You had come back looking for answers, to reconnect with yourself and you younger self.
But you found Joel instead,
but he had already found God and faith.
And some love affairs never knew how to truly die.
Need help finding a Joel x reader fic, if itâs still live!
Disclaimer: if this fic has been removed by the author, PLEASE do not send it to me. Iâm not looking to retrieve anything an author has removed, only seeing it if itâs still available for reading.
Apologies in advance for my chaotic explanation, as it wonât do any justice to the fic I read. It was a WIP when I read it, and I want to say it was 1-2 years ago. I think it was on AO3?
- no outbreak
- Joel x reader
- Joel meets reader at a bar, they met on a dating app, it turns out reader had hooked up with a (married) Tommy years prior when reader was young; Joel is cold to reader and meets with her knowing who she is
- Joel and reader hook up at the bar, he leaves her there but they see each other again (and again
I never bookmarked this story because Iâm chaotic and it to this day is one of the most enticing fics Iâve ever read. I think it was only about 3 chapters at the time.
Again, Iâm only looking for a link if the story is still live/published as I canât recall the name/author. If the author is on here, regardless, please know I love this fic and Iâm so sorry my chaotic self didnât take down the info as you so rightfully deserved!
Summary: The passing of time leads you to remember how things used to be between you and Joel. Joel starts healing while you start losing yourself.
w.c: 10.1 k
warnings: angst, mentions of miscarriage, mentions of blood, suicidal thoughts, mentions of panic attacks. No proofreading. English is not my first language.
A/N: Hello. If you had felt like I've been lost for the last few days. You're right. I hope you like this chapter; it made me cry a bit as well. Happy reading, please share your thoughts with me.
AO3 account
dividers by @/saradika-graphics
Jackson. One week before the attack.
Winter had dug its claws in early this year. The snow felt heavy almost every day of the week, the flakes clinging to the branches and over the ground. The cold was difficult, sharp, clinging into your bones even breathing stung on your chest.
Joel wasnât very fond of this time of the year. Not for the snow or the cold that made his joints ache a little bit more nowadays, but because coffee became a scarce.
And you were aware of it.
So, when a passing trade group from the south came by, youâd given up half or your belongings and winter preserves for a single bag of those beans. Even the trader had looked at you as if you were mad. Perhaps you were a bit stupid for doing this, but everything would be worth it for the look on Joelâs face when he gets to try a cup of coffee.
You didnât know at what stage of your pregnancy you were right now, but you knew that things were more emotional for you, and you would do everything to get to see Joel smiling at the little things.
You found thermos inside the cabinets at home, you cleaned it a bit and filled it with the dark brew liquid. The scent made your mouth water, but you were aware you couldnât drink coffee now. Then, you tugged your coat tighter around you as you crossed through Jackson, boots crunching in the snow. The wind bit at your cheeks, turning them pink, but with your fingers wrapped around the thermos, warmth spread through your veins.
You found Joel at the house heâd been working on, hammering at a frame with the help of Tommy, a few others scattered around the site. The place was barely a house yet, wood stacked and windows not even set, but Joel was there, sleeves rolled up over his flannel.
You lingered for a second, just taking a look of him. Focusing on the way his brows furrowed in concentration, the little grunt he made when something didnât line up right. You were so in love with him it made your chest hurt sometimes.
He was too focused he didnât even notice you right away. Not until you called out.
âHey, Miller.â
He looked up at the sound, and his face softened the moment he saw you. That small, personal smile he got just for you.
âWhat are you doing out here, sweetheart? Youâll freeze your ass off.â
You held up the thermos with a grin, âOh, I just brought you a little gift for you.â
Joelâs brow arched in amusement as he set the hammer down and walked over to you. You uncapped the lid, letting the steam curl up between you, and his eyes went wide when the scent hit him.
âDid you bring meâ"
âReal coffee, yes.â You replied, not getting a chance to hide a grin. âI traded something for it this morning. I know how much you missed a good cup of coffee.â
For a second, he stood there without saying anything. Just stared at you like he still couldnât believe you were his girl. The woman he had devoted his life to for the last years.
Without a warning, his hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you in for a kiss that tasted like snow, cold and the taste of coffee because when he pulled away, his forehead rested on your neck, planting a kiss over your it.
âYouâre a miracle.â
You laughed softly. âYeah, well, donât get used to it. This shitâs expensive.â
He chuckled, taking a sip from the thermos, groaning in pleasure like it was the first good thing heâd tasted in his life.
âGoddamn it.â
You smiled, watching him like it was the only thing keeping your body warm.
âI thought you need it. Winter is only getting worse and colder.â
His eyes softened, a thumb brushing over your cold cheek. âAs long as I got you, baby, I can get through any winter.â
You leaned on his palm, kissing the back of his hand, sealing a promise you both had made to each other.
Iâm always going to be there,
Iâm always going to have your back,
until the day death tears us apart.
Jackson, present day
You barely remembered the walk home. Your legs had stumbled more than three times and your tears didnât stop falling.
The cold bit at your skin, the world blurring past you like it wasnât really there. The ache in your chest wasnât sadness settled there anymore but rage. A vicious, clawing thing that crawled up your throat and made your hands shake as you slammed the door behind you.
You made it to the bedroom before it burst out of you.
A lamp went first, shattering against the floor with a satisfying crack just as the sound of your heart. Then the chair by the window, the one Joel used to sit in when he couldnât sleep. You grabbed the small wooden carving Joel had been working on the week before the attack, and it hit the wall so hard the pieces splintered across the floor like scattered bones.
Your hand bled where a sharp edge caught your palm, but you didnât feel it.
You reached for the framed picture by the bed, the one taken in Jackson months ago. You standing beside him, his arm around your waist, both of you caught in a rare, unguarded moment of laughter.
The glass shattered beneath your grip. The frame clattered to the floor.
For a second, just a second, your hand hovered, and something in your chest begged you to stop.
But it was drowned out by the storm roaring in your blood.
And when it was done, when there was nothing left to throw or break, you slid down against the wall, knees pulled to your chest, hands trembling.
The pain on your chest increased with each breath. It felt like a bruising mark had settled there in the middle of your sternum, it even felt like some pair of hands tightening around your heart until every fiber of it was hurting your body, taking your life out, your breath and you will of living.
Some pairs of hands you never thought they would even hurt you.
Joelâs hands, Joelâs words, Joelâs second chance of living.
Everything you had done. Everything you had lostâŚGrieving the death of somebody who wasnât dead. Someone who was alive but felt like breathing reeking air.
You could come to touch him but not to caress him anymore?
How big was the damage you had done to him to make him hate you this much to push you away as if your closeness had burnt his skin, his broken bones.
The tears couldnât stop falling. You stood up, walking towards the closet where you kept the test and onesie hidden beneath your clothes.
You had never wanted to become a mother. In fact, you had never thought about it. This world was too cruel to bring little babies to it. To have their innocence stolen or tainted by creeps committing horrors.
Joel had also gotten older. Being a father again at his age wasnât part of his plans and you knew it, but nature didnât stop because the world has it. But for him, being a father again wouldnât be a source of happiness when the girl he had taken as a daughter and committed more than thousand of mistakes to keep her alive, didnât want to be close to him.
That had scared you that much you couldnât utter the truth for weeks.
But the moment you had found the truth, the idea of holding a baby, your own baby, started to consume your thoughts. You had started dreaming of it, of the life growing inside you. About how that baby would look like.
And that was the exact moment you had become a mother. ´
You could remember one day patrolling with Joel, and as usual, he didnât allow you to be paired with another person who wasnât him. Not that you complained. In the way, the both of you found a store you decided to scavenged, expecting to find something that would serve to community.
Joel was busy roaming some old stuff that would help him to fix something at home, while your gaze had lingered over a little onesie hidden under some worn out papers.
The same one you were holding now, yellow with a duck in the middle of it.
You had become a mother and you hadnât had the chance to taste it and you couldnât help but ask yourself a constant why.
Why you?
Why him?
Why the baby?
What have you done to lose them both?
You came back to the room but it felt too quiet now, too strange. It was too cold for you now. You sat on the ground by the bed and you started crying, but not the silent one. The kind of crying that came with tears no one couldnât hide.
 It was a sob that tore out of you in ragged, broken sobs, your chest heaving like it was being split open.
The tears werenât just for Joel but for everything you had gain and lost in a flicker of time. For what youâd lost. For what you still had. And for the awful truth that loving Joel Miller would never be easy.
The last remnants of twilight slipped through the window, broken glass catching the last of the light like dying stars.
Perhaps they werenât the only losing the spark.
After going to hell and clawing your way back. After sleepless nights at his side, after forcing breath inside his book, with blood-stained hands. After watching him fight for every inch of life he didnât want, while you begged the universe not to take him from you.
And in the middle of all that, you lost that tiny baby.
A tiny life that you hadnât even let yourself imagine until it was gone. And no one knew. No one but Tommy and Maria. And youâd buried it so deep, let the grief fester beneath your skin, because there was no room for grief when Joel was dying.
But now, sitting there on the floor of your now ruined bedroom, surrounded by the wreckage of the quiet life you had built with him, the weight of it hit you like heavy force.
There was gnawing fear that maybe Joel Miller wasnât coming back.
At least, not to you.
The house was dark, save for the weak, flickering light glowing from the window.
Ellie hesitated at the front door, her stomach twisting in that way it did when something wasnât right. She wasnât even sure what had brought her here, maybe the quiet stillness, maybe the aching pull in her gut that told her to check. She hadnât been here much since she moved into the garage behind. Since everything had changed.
The door creaked open under her hand.
âHello?â she called out your name, softly, but no one answered.
The stairs groaned beneath her weight as she climbed, the flicker of light guiding her like a warning. And then she reached the bedroom.
Glass crunched under her boots. The room was wrecked, drawers pulled out, shattered picture frames. And in the middle of it all, you sat on the floor, your back against the bed, face buried in your hands, shoulders trembling with the kind of grief Ellie hadnât seen in a long time.
âShit,â Ellie whispered, rushing forward and dropping to her knees beside you.
âHeyâhey, itâs me,â she said, voice rough as she reached for your wrists, trying to pry your hands away so she could see your face. âTalk to me. Please. Hey, please.â
But you just shook your head, a sob left your throat, while tears streaked your cheeks.
âI canâtâŚâ you choked out.
And for the first time since she had met you, Ellie felt something crack open in her chest. Sheâd spent all these weeks worrying about Joel, she hadnât seen how bad it had gotten for you too. How lost you seemed, how your eyes were nothing but a reflection of sadness.
Without another word, Ellie pulled you into her arms, holding you like Joel used to hold her when the world outside was throwing pebbles at her.
âI got you,â she whispered against your hair as if her words could soothe you into a lullaby, in a way a daughter must console her mother the first time you saw her breaking in front of you the realization that her isnât an indestructible hero.
You didnât even hear or flinch when Tommy and Maria came inside the room. You didnât say a word when they gently coaxed you to your feet. Ellie stood back by the door, arms crossed tight around herself, her face pale as she took in the mess you had made.
And you, there with your hands bloodied, a yellow onesie crumpled in your fist like a scrap of hope you didnât know you were still holding onto.
Maria stood beside you, her face etched with concern, one hand reaching for your wrist. She sucked in a breath.
âYou cut yourself pretty bad,â she murmured, brushing gently at the drying blood.
You just looked past her, no crying, no speaking. There was something eerie about it, about the dead quiet in your expression. Like the light behind your eyes had gone out, and no one knew how to bring it back.
Tommy exchanged a look with Maria, something heavy without words between them. Ellie saw it, felt it settle in the pit of her stomach like a stone.
âYouâre coming home with us,â Tommy said softly, like he was telling a wounded animal it was okay to come out of hiding. âWeâll clean up the-â
âThe mess I made,â you finished, voice flat, detached, and it made Ellieâs stomach twist.
She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but her eyes fell to the scrap of fabric clenched in your hand. The tiny onesie. It was old, worn soft from time, a faded duck stitched onto the chest.
Ellieâs throat tightened. She hadnât known, but now she understood.
She stepped closer; her voice quiet, thick. âHey⌠can I⌠can I hold that for you?â
But you didnât even look at her. Just kept staring out the window as if something far beyond it was pulling you away.
Tommy gently pried the fabric from your fingers, and Ellie took it, holding it to her chest like it was the most fragile thing in the world. She felt her own eyes sting.
Maria helped you to your feet, one arm around your shoulders. âWeâll get you cleaned up,â she murmured.
And as they led you out of the ruined room, downstairs to the kitchen. Ellie stayed behind a moment longer, holding the onesie tight in her hands, the weight of what youâd lost settling over her like a second skin.
The warm sting of water hit your hands as Maria guided them under the tap. The blood had dried, leaving dark stains in the creases of your skin, around your fingernails. You didnât flinch when the water touched the cuts.
You said nothing. Just stared at the wall behind her like it held some answer you couldnât quite see.
Mariaâs hands were soft, careful as she dabbed at the cut with a clean cloth.
âYou should let me stich this one,â she murmured, like speaking any louder might shatter what little you had left.
Out in the hallway, Ellie stood with Tommy, the dim light from the kitchen bleeding across the floor between them. She clutched the tiny onesie in both hands, her fingers fisting in the soft fabric.
âIs sheâŚ?â Ellieâs voice cracked, and she didnât finish the question.
Tommy let out a long, tired breath, leaning one shoulder against the wall. He scrubbed a hand down his face before shaking his head, his voice low and rough.
âShe lost it that night.â
Ellieâs stomach twisted. âWhat night?â
Ellieâs throat closed up, her chest aching sharp and tight. âAnd nobody told me?â
Tommyâs eyes flickered toward the bathroom where Maria worked in silence. He swallowed hard.
âThe night we brought Joel back. Yes, she was pregnant. None of us knew. She lost the baby when she got here.â
Tommy looked at her then, his gaze softening. âIt wasnât about you, kid. It was hers to carry.â
Ellie looked down at the onesie in her hands, stained by the blood of your hands, her eyes stinging at the thought of the storm youâd been drowning in. The hollow in your chest. The way you hadnât been able to let Joel go, because youâd already lost too much.
That maybe the blood in it was the closest thing you have had to caress the baby that should be wearing that in a few more months.
Her thumb ran over the soft, faded stitching of the onesie clutched in her hands. She could still hear the distant sound of water, the quiet murmur of Mariaâs voice, trying to coax you back from wherever youâd gone.
She swallowed hard. âDoes Joel know?â
Tommyâs jaw worked, his eyes dark and lined with exhaustion. He shook his head, a weight behind the gesture. âNo,â he said quietly. âAnd he wonât. Not yet.â
Ellieâs throat tightened. âBut he shouldââ
âI said no.â Tommyâs voice was firmer now, though it wasnât mad. He was just tired. âHe is not in any place to carry that. Not with the way things are between then, and not while heâs looking for reasons to push her away.â
Ellie bit her lip, blinking fast. âMaybe this itâs the reason he shouldnât.â
Tommyâs gaze softened a little. âMaybe. But people like us⌠sometimes we donât get to heal things in the right order.â
Ellie glanced down at the onesie again, her grip tightening. The house felt too still, too quiet, a space heavy with things unsaid.
Boston QZ. 6 years ago
The apartment was too quiet when Joel got back. The thrum of soldiers passing by, talkingâs, FEDRA looming over, it was all swallowed up by a stillness that made his skin crawl.
Tess was sitting by the door, with her arms crossed tight over her chest, and there was something in her eyes that snapped every nerve in Joelâs body to attention.
âWhere is she?â he asked, already moving past her before the words even left his mouth.
Tess caught his arm. âI gave her something to sleep,â she said carefully, her voice softer than he was used to hearing it. âYou donât want to-â
But he was already inside the bedroom. And there you were, curled under blanket on that old bed, a faint swell of bruises marking your cheek, your lip split. The dim light made your face look paler than it shouldâve been, but you were breathing. You were here, that was the most important thing for him.
Joelâs knees hit the floor by your side. He reached out with calloused fingers, brushing your hair back from your face, his touch so gentle it barely stirred the strands.
âJesus, babyâŚâ he rasped, swallowing hard. âWho did this to you?â
Your eyelids fluttered open at his voice, hazy and slow from whatever Tess had slipped you. And when your gaze found him, even though the busted lip, you smiled, faintly.
âJoel,â you whispered.
âHi, baby.â He leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours. âIâm here. I got you.â
And in that moment, nothing else mattered. Not the filth outside these walls, not the people whoâd done this to you, not the bloody trail Joel would leave in his wake come morning. Only this. Only you.
âThe thing went wrongâ you murmured, emphasizing the âthing.â When it came to you, he was always protective. He didnât like you were doing his business by yourself, not because he didnât trust you or thought you werenât good by yourself, but because he couldnât prevent. Â
âI can see.â he told you, brushing your cheek with his fingertips. âRest, baby. I got you.â He kept caressing the skin there until your eyes closed again.
âIâm always going to be next to you, baby.â
Jackson, hospital, present time.
The transition between winter and spring was going slow, the grey of the days bleed through the blinds in thin, reluctant slants. Joel woke up to the sharp, familiar ache on his chest, the one that made his breath difficult to leave his lungs. His heart felt heavy.
His hand instinctively moved to his side, expecting the familiar warmth, the weight of your head resting there the way it had every morning since he came back from the death.
But there was nothing but just the cold stretch of empty mattress, and the quiet silence of your absence.
For the first time, you werenât there.
His throat tightened as his gaze flicked to the chair beside the bed. The blanket you always used was draped neatly over the back of it. No cup of cold herbal tea on the nightstand, no faint scent of your shampoo clinging to the air. The room felt wrong without you in int. Heavy in a way he hadnât noticed until it was stripped of him.
Joel rubbed a hand over his face, the weight in his chest something different now. Something he couldnât blame on busted ribs or torn muscles.
He told himself it was what he wanted, what you needed. But the hollow in the room, in him, said otherwise.
The door creaked open and Mara stepped inside with her usual clipboard and soft expression. But the moment she saw the look on his face, her steps slowed.
âSheâs not coming today,â she said quietly, as if testing the weight of the words before speaking to them.
Joelâs jaw clenched. âI didnât ask.â
âYou didnât have to.â
Mara crossed to the other side of the room, busying herself with the medication tray, giving him the space to be what he was. But Joel didnât move. Didnât speak.
He sat there in the quiet, and for the first time in weeks, the nightmare that haunted him wasnât some bloodied memories, that fist beaten his face, or the disappointment on Ellieâs eyes.
It was your face, your tears falling down your cheeks.
It was the fear of you leaving him forever.
Mara lifted her gaze, looking at Joelâs brown eyes and there was hurt written all over them. âI havenât seen her, but if she isnât here must be because she doesnât want to.â
Joelâs voice was rough, catching on the words before he could fully get them out.
âIs she⌠is she okay?â
Joelâs gaze broke, but he tried hard to hide the pain.
âIâm coming back later to do the exercises, okay?â Mara said, changing the subject.
âOkay.â
Mara lingered a moment longer than she shouldâve, her lips pressed into a tight line, as though she wanted to take the words back, but she didnât. She just gave a small nod, then turned and left, the soft click of the door closing behind her sounding louder than it should have in the quiet room.
Joel let out a breath he didnât realize he was holding, his hand coming up to rub his face, the coarse scrape of his beard rough against his palm. The ache in his chest wasnât from his injuries, it was deeper, old and new grief twisting together.
He looked over to the empty chair by the bed again.
You werenât there and his stomach turned, the air too heavy in his lungs.
Some minutes had passed, heavily quiet, that thick, oppressive quiet that Joel had come to dread in the last few weeks. He sat in that bed, staring out the window as the light bled from the sky, the colors outside turning from grey to light blue in mere second. Every now and then, his fingers twitched, aching to hold something, to fix something. But there was nothing left in the room except the steady silence torturing him.
When the door creaked open again, Joelâs heart stuttered.
Tommy stepped inside, his posture tense, the lines of exhaustion deeper on his face. He looked like a man who was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and Joel knew he was responsible for most of it.
Joel cleared his throat. âHow is she?â It came out rougher than he meant, but the need in it was sharp.
Tommy didnât answer right away. He just crossed the room, setting down a bundle of clean clothes on the dresser before finally turning to face Joel.
His silence stretched, thick and weighted.
Joelâs stomach twisted. âTommy,â he rasped. âJustâ tell me.â
Tommy let out a breath, running a hand over his face.
âWell, sheâs finally sleeping,â he said quietly. âFirst time sinceâŚyou know.â
Joel closed his eyes, the ache in his chest like a fist tightening around his ribs. âIs she⌠eating? Is she talking?â
Another hesitation.
âSheâs quiet,â Tommy admitted. âShe didnât react very well to whatever thing you told her.â
Joel swallowed hard, his eyes burning. âDid she⌠ask about me?â
Tommy hesitated, and that alone was answer enough. âYou donât get to do that, brother.â
Joelâs throat worked around a knot of grief. âI deserve that,â he muttered.
Tommy didnât argue. He just stepped closer, his voice lowering.
âListen⌠whatever happened between you two, whatever you think you were doing by pushing her awayâŚyouâre killing her, Joel. How could you do that to her after sheâŚ?â
Joelâs gaze stayed on the floor; his jaw clenched tight.
âI didnât want to hurt her,â Joel whispered. âI was trying toâŚâ He trailed off, not even sure what excuse he was reaching for anymore.
âYou wanted her to stop loving you,â Tommy finished for him, bitterness in his tone. âBut it doesnât work like that. You donât get to decide when someone gives up on you.â
Joel flinched, the words cutting deep because he knew they were true.
Tommy stared at him for a long moment, then finally spoke, softer this time. âShe already lostââ He stopped himself before he could spill your truth.
âWhat?â Joel pressed. But he was met by Tommyâs silence
âWhat did she lose?â Joel pressed further.
âYou should rest, brother. Because one way or another youâre going to have to face her soon.â He said, changing the subject. As much as Tommy loved his brother, he also loved what you were, to him, to this community, to his family and he owned your loyalty and secrecy.
âIâll come back later, okay?â He said before leaving Joel alone with his guilt and the quiet.
You woke to a dull, deep ache in your muscles, your head pounding like youâd been dragged through hell and back, and maybe you had. The dim light in the room felt too sharp against your eyes, and a low groan escaped your throat as you shifted, your body stiff and sore like youâd been fighting ghosts in your sleep.
It took a second before you realized you werenât in your bedroom and another before you noticed the figure sitting quietly beside the bed.
Ellie was there.
She was perched on the edge of a worn armchair, legs pulled up to her chest, eyes shadowed but sharp as they fixed on you. There was a guarded kind of worry in her face, the kind she usually tried to bury under jokes and sarcasm.
You blinked at her, throat dry, words slow to form.
âEllie,â you rasped.
You tried to sit up, but a fresh bolt of pain shot through your whole body and your hand, you winced, hissing out a curse.
Ellie let out a breath you hadnât noticed sheâd been holding, her shoulders sagging a little.
âYou scared me last night,â she muttered, but there was no bite in it, just something soft, frayed at the edges.
Ellie moved fast, steadying you with gentle hands on your shoulders.
âEasy, easy. Youâre got your hand pretty banged up,â she said quietly.
Your gaze drifted around the room, not yours, you realized now. Tommy and Mariaâs guest room. A glass of water on the nightstand. A blanket draped across your legs you didnât remember pulling up.
And then you noticed the little bundle in Ellieâs lap. The onesie.
Your breath caught. Ellie followed your gaze and swallowed hard.
âI, uh⌠I thought you might⌠I didnât want to leave it there,â she said, voice small.
Your chest twisted, a sharp, awful thing. The grief pressed so tight against your ribs you felt like you might break open again.
âIâm sorry,â Ellie blurted, her words rushing out now. âI⌠I didnât know. Iâ when I saw you like that, I thought⌠fuck, I donât know what I thought. But I shouldâve been there. Before. I shouldâve noticed.â
You closed your eyes, a tear slipping free despite yourself.
âItâs not your fault, Ellie,â you murmured hoarsely.
âItâs not yours either,â Ellie shot back, voice firm, a little desperate.
A long, thick silence settled between you, broken only by the sound of the clock ticking somewhere in the room.
Finally, Ellie spoke again, quieter now. âTommy told me not to tell Joel.â
You opened your eyes, looking at her. âWhy?â
She shrugged, a bitter edge to her voice.
âBecause you donât need to see him right now. Not like this. Not when youâre barely holding it together.â She hesitated.
Your heart twisted painfully in your chest.
Ellie let out a sigh, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. âI donât know what the fuck is going on between you two,â she said. âBut whatever it is⌠itâs eating you alive.â
âHe told me to leave and that he wasnât sure if he even loved me.â You replied.
Ellieâs head snapped up at that, like youâd struck her with a thunder.
For a second, she just stared at you, her expression caught somewhere between shock and fury.
âHe what?â she spat, her voice sharp.
Your throat tightened again, fresh tears burning at the edges of your vision, but you forced yourself to swallow them down. You were so tired of crying.
You let out a humorless, broken little laugh, wiping at your face with trembling fingers.
âYeah,â you rasped. âHe said he wouldnât have done for me what I did for him, what he did for you in Salt Lake. Told me to go. Like I was a burden to him.â
Ellie was silent for a long, thick moment, her jaw clenched so tight you could see it ticking.
âThatâs bullshit,â she finally ground out, voice low and shaking with anger. âThatâs not true. I donât care what the hell came out of his mouth â itâs not true.â
You didnât answer. Because maybe part of you knew that. Knew Joel Miller didnât have it in him to stop loving you, not after everything. But pain makes people cruel. And grief? It turns them into something else.
âHeâs scared,â Ellie said, like she was trying to convince herself as much as you. âHeâs scared and stupid and heâs pushing you away because he doesnât know how to deal with any of this shit.â She gestured toward the onesie still clutched tight in her lap.
You closed your eyes, breathing through the ache.
âIt doesnât matter,â you whispered.
Ellieâs face crumpled, her eyes stinging. Ellieâs throat worked as she swallowed hard, her voice rough when she finally spoke.
âHow⌠how far were you?â she asked, so quietly it was almost a breath.
You opened your eyes but didnât look at her. Couldnât. The ceiling above you blurred, swimming in a fresh sheen of unshed tears.
Your voice cracked when you answered. âSix weeks.â
Just two words, but they felt like a scream.
Ellie let out a shaky breath, her hand tightening around the fabric of the onesie in her lap.
âJesusâŚâ Ellie murmured, like the air had been punched from her lungs. She didnât know what to say. What the hell could she say?
You gave a dry, humorless laugh, shaking your head.
âIt wasnât planned. Wasnât⌠anything. I didnât even tell him.â
That made Ellie flinch. She wiped at her face, trying to keep herself steady for you, but her eyes were glassy.
âI wish youâd told me,â she said softly.
âI couldnât,â you whispered. âI didnât want to make it feel real.â
And for a while, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the clock on the wall ticking too loud in the quiet.
âI pictured her,â you cut the silence, voice raw, like it hurt to drag the words out. âI pictured her as baby girl, how she would look like, with dark hair, brown eyes just like Joelâs. Maybe his crooked smile. I used toââ your breath hitched, but you pushed on, eyes still fixed on the ceiling, âI used to imagine him holding her in the mornings, making him coffee while she slept on his chest.â
Ellie swallowed thickly, blinking fast as her heart splintered.
âIâd think about how heâd grumble about diapers at his age, or how heâd fall asleep on the couch with her on his chest.â
You let out a shaky breath, a ghost of a laugh, so heartbreakingly sad it barely sounded human.
âAnd now I keep wondering if it wouldâve hurt less if Iâd never let myself imagine any of it.â You sobbed, âIf I wouldnât have gone there I would have her growing inside me, but I would have lost Joel.â
âAnd now anything of that matters because he doesnât even love me.â Ellie was crying now, though she tried like hell to pretend she wasnât. She reached out, hesitating, then carefully slid her hand over yours.
It was cold. Your skin rough and cut, but she didnât let go.
âYouâre not alone, you know,â Ellie whispered. âEven if heâs too fucking broken to remember how to hold you right now. Youâve still got us.â
Your jaw trembled; your free hand still clutched tight around that onesie.
âDoesnât feel like it.â
âI know.â Ellieâs voice cracked. âBut Iâm not going anywhere from you.â
You stared at her for a moment before hearing the steps outside the bedroom, Tommy stepped inside, worry evident on his eyes.
Worried about you, about Joel.
He was the perfect image of a helplessness man watching two people he loved tearing themselves apart.
âHey,â he greeted softly.
You didnât answer right away. Ellieâs hand still gripped yours, her thumb brushing against your skin in small, grounding circles.
âHowâre you feeling?â Tommy asked, voice rough.
You shrugged; the onesie still balled up in your fist. âIâve been better.â
A sad huff of air left Tommyâs chest, and he rubbed a hand down his face before sitting on the edge of the bed. âOf course, you have.â Then, he cleared his throat âI⌠uh, I told Joel you werenât feeling really well. That you were resting.â
Your stomach twisted at his name. âAnd him?â you asked, your voice barely there.
Tommy hesitated, then finally spoke.
âHe asked about you. First thing when I saw him.â He glanced at you; his gaze gentle but heavy. âHe didnât say much. He just asked if you were okay.â
Your throat tightened.
âIs he mad?â
Tommy shook his head. âNo. Not mad. He is scared and lost as hell without you, if you ask me. I know that face of him. I know himâ He let out a breath, leaning forward on his knees. âI think he doesnât know how to deal with all of this.â
A sharp ache flared in your chest. The silence stretched, thick with everything no one could fix.
âI donât know if it matters anymore,â you whispered, voice catching.
âIt does,â Tommy said firmly. âYou matter to him. He is broken to say it right now. And I know it donât make up for what youâve been through. But you arenât alone, alright? Me, Maria, Ellie, we all got you.â
Ellie squeezed your hand, her eyes shimmering again but her jaw set.
And though it didnât fix the hollow in your chest, for a moment the thought of having a family warmed your heart.
The room went quiet again.
âIâll check on him later,â Tommy said, rising to his feet. âYou just rest, okay?â
You nodded, your grip loosening around the onesie at last.
As he stood up, you could hear his thoughts roaming inside his head, âI think you should keep seeing Gail.â
You let out a tired, humorless breath through your nose. âI donât need a shrink, Tommy.â
Your voice wasnât sharp, it was flat, worn down like something eroded by the tide over too long a time.
Tommy hesitated by the doorway, one hand on the frame. âJust keep talking to her.â
You looked away, your eyes tracing the ceiling. Ellie still held your hand like she was afraid to let go.
âIâm not good at talking about that.â
âNo one is,â Tommy murmured. âThatâs why it eats people up when they donât.â
The quiet stretched again, thick with everything you didnât have the strength to argue.
Finally, Tommy gave a small, weary nod. âSleep more, you need it.â
âOkay, at the count of three?â
âOkay.â
Joel held Maraâs hand tightly. His breath coming ragged, muscles in his arms trembling as he forced himself upright.
Mara stood beside him, steadying his elbow with one hand, the other curling tight around his rough, calloused palm.
âCome on, Joelâ she teased gently. âYouâre not dying on my watch.â
Joel huffed out a dry, breathless laugh as he finally managed to stand, his weight swaying just a little before he found his balance.
âFuckâ he rasped, âI didnât think Iâd miss feeling my own legs.â
They both laughed then, the kind of laugh born from something new blossoming.
Mara smiled up at him, her hand still around his. For a second, it felt like the heaviness that clung to his chest loosened, just a fraction. Like maybe, in this one brief moment, he wasnât carrying quite so much grief inside his heart.
He laughed so much he didnât even notice Ellie standing on the door, watching all this interaction happening with her hand on the frame, watching them.
The way Maraâs head tipped back when she laughed. The way Joel smiled, really smiled, for the first time in what felt like weeks. And something sharp twisted in Ellieâs gut.
I felt almost like a betrayal because while you lay at home, alone in a bed, clutching that onesie to your chest, Joel was here with someone else. Smiling as if he hadnât broken the love of his life heart.
Like he could learn how to laugh without you by his side.
âAm I interrupting?â
Joelâs head snapped up, that smile on his face faltering from his face as he saw her standing in the doorway. Maraâs hand dropped from his arm, her expression shuttering into something serious.
âHey kid.â Joel rasped, like he hadnât expected to see her there at all.
âI came here to check on you.â Ellie said, her tone carefully neutral but her eyes didnât hide the bitterness. She flicked a glance at Mara, then back to Joel. âDidnât realize you were getting so close with your doctor.â
Joel opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, to stop her maybe, but the look Ellie gave him made him hesitate.
Mara took a careful step back, brushing her hands together as though dusting them off.
âI was just helping him with his exercises,â she said quickly, trying to defuse whatever tension was thickening the air. âI will go.â
Mara gave a brief nod to them both and slipped out, the door clicking softly behind her.
The room felt heavier after she left.
Joel let out a slow breath, sitting back against the bed with a wince. âWhatâre you really here for, kid?â he asked quietly.
Joelâs gaze dropped to his hands, the scars those palms emotionally held, the way they trembled just a little.
Ellieâs arms crossed tightly over her chest, laughing bitterly at the tone on his voice.
âI told you I came to check on youâ she muttered. âPerhaps, you could ask about her, you know?â
âI asked Tommy.â It sounded weak, even to him.
Ellie wanted to shout angrily at him, to tell him the truth you hide beneath your heart but even in her anger she understood better, she was aware it wasnât her place to tell the truth.
Joelâs gaze met Ellieâs, his eyes teary, shaking his head. His voice came out ragged, raw.
âNo.â A beat. His voice cracked. âGod, no.â
Ellieâs throat tightened, the ache in her chest spreading throughout her body. She looked away, trying to steady her breathing, to hold back the sting in her eyes.
âThen why did you say it?â she whispered.
Joel scrubbed a trembling hand over his face, like he could wipe away the memory of those words. Of the way your face had crumbled. âBecause it hurts not being the man she needs now, I didnât know what to do but push her away. I thought that if I was cruel enough, sheâd stop loving me too.â
Ellie let out a shaky breath, her stomach twisting. âYouâre so fucking selfish, Joel. You broke her.â
Joelâs face crumpled as the tears finally spilled, his head bowing under the weight of it.Â
âIâve always admired the type of love the both of you share. How youâd always been there, are there for each other. How well she knew you were in danger that day that she dragged me with her in middle of a fucking snowstorm just to save youâŚâ
Joelâs chest heaved, his shoulders shaking with the force of the guilt he could barely contain. The image of you that day, blood on your hands, refusing to let him die, it gutted him. It had changed him as a person.
Ellieâs voice cracked, the memory of that day hitting harder than she expected. She swallowed hard, fighting the lump in her throat. âIâve never seen anyone love someone like that, Joel.â
Her hands balled into fists trying to contain the anger she felt. âAnd youâŚyou threw it away because you were too fucking scared to hurt.â
âEllieâŚâ he whispered, voice breaking.
âShe held your hand the whole time. She didnât sleep for weeks, sitting at your side, praying to God or whatever was out there for you to wake up. And when you started coming back, even just a little, she smiled again because the world made sense to her again.â Ellieâs throat wobbled a sob. âAnd then you broke her.â
Joel looked away, not being strong enough to face Ellie.
She took a step closer, her voice softer now. âShe was waiting for you.â
Jackson, the day of the attack, dawn.
The snow had stop falling by the time you arrive to Jackson. Dawn was breaking into the horizon, and your body felt like it had been dragged back and fort through war. Your entire body hurt, your heart was breaking at the sight of Joel on that stretcher, as Jesse and some others were helping him.
You saw Tommy first and run, holding onto him, your hold body shaking now that the adrenaline had begun to fade. You could finally breath for a second, you had made it back to Jackson.
But then Tommy pulled back, looking at you, at his brother, and his brow furrowed as he looked down.
There was blood on your thighs, dark, smearing on the fabric of your jeans.
The air left his lungs in shock.
âHey, whatâ?â Tommy started; his voice soft, terrified to ask what he already suspected.
But you shook your head, eyes lost beneath tears, throat too tight to utter words.
âItâs fine. Itâsââ you croaked, your voice breaking as your arms clutched around yourself.
âWe need to get you inside,â Tommy said, waving over Maria, his hand on your arm. âCome onâ"
âNo. Him first,â you rasped, pointing at Joel, who was unconscious now, as they began to wheel him toward the hospital âHe is first priority.â
Tommyâs throat worked as he nodded, but he didnât miss the way you swayed on your feet, or the blood trailing down your legs.
He caught you on time when your knees buckled, holding you up as you clung to him like you might disappear if you let go.
âWeâll take care of both of you, alright?â Tommy promised, his heart breaking as he realized what it meant.
+++++++
You stood beside Joelâs bed. The room was too quiet you could hear the thoughts running around your head. Tormenting you, torturing you. How much you had done to have Joel laying on this bed with a tiny chance of surviving. His face was barely recognizable beneath all the swelling and bruises, blood still crusted along the edges of his hairline, lips split. The sedatives had him still, too still.
your hand wrapped around his, though you werenât sure if you were holding him or holding onto yourself. The tears wouldnât stop. They ran hot down your frozen cheeks, leaving tracks that burned.
Tommy stood in the doorway, watching you with a knot in his throat. Heâd never seen you like this, so small, so crumpled. He had always known the strong version of you but amidst the storm this is what you were now.
âHey,â Tommy murmured, approaching slowly, crouching beside you. âYou should rest, you both needââ
âThe baby is gone.â You spoke, your voice was barely a whisper, cracked and raw.
You didnât look at him. Couldnât. Your gaze stayed fixed on Joelâs face, your thumb brushing along his knuckles, as if trying to memorize every ridge of bone and scar before it was ripped out of you too.
Jackson, present day
âHow do you feel?â
You let a chuckle, as if that question was a joke. But Gailâs eyes kept looking at you with stern on her gaze, perhaps there was a bit
âI feel I lost the baby because I murdered those guysâ you confessed, âAnd I thought it wouldnât hurt because Joel was going to survive, which he did but you now see how it turned out.â You paused for a moment, gathering your thoughts. âAnd I donât know if he despises me for bringing him to life or for what I did.â
You lifted your gaze to meet Gailâs.
âThe day he finds out about the baby, I donât know what is going to happen to me.â
âDo you feel betrayed by him?â she asked, trying to make you talk, to ease the pain. The truth was that Gail wasnât very fond of you due to your relationship with Joel but she felt pain when looking at you now.
After all she knew you were a woman in love who would have burnt the whole world to bring to save Joel.
âYes,â you whispered. âI do.â Your voice cracked at the truth, but you force yourself to keep going âI feel like I died out there, too. That day, I saved a man that is not Joel anymore. Not the man Iâ" You stopped yourself, but it was already out there between you.
Gailâs gaze softened. She wasnât good at this, at being soft by someone else, but what she saw in front of her was just another woman bleed in a different way.
Both of you had lost the love of your lives in different ways.
âI know you love him,â Gail said quietly. âI never doubted that.â
You met her eyes again, not making the effort to mask the ache that had settled in your bones âI love him so much it scared me. you admitted, voice trembling. âAnd I still do. Even if he canât look at me. Even if he resents me. Iâd still do the same thing over and over again.â
A long silence stretched between you. Gail took a breath. âYou didnât lose the baby because of what you did.â She said it firm, leaving no room for doubt.
But you didnât believe it. Not fully. Not yet.
âWhen he finds out,â you whispered, the dread sinking, âI donât know if itâll break him or if heâll break me.â
âHe has no right to ask anything from you right now.â She said, trying to make you understand.
âWhat do I do now?â you asked, changing the topic, âWhat do I do with all the love I was holding for that baby?â
Gail was left speechless. Ever since she met you, she had known the strong force of a woman you were, but what she got in front of her now, was a glimpse of her.
You were losing the spark, your willing to live and she didnât know how to help you.
You wiped your tears, streaming down your face, feeling the exhaustion of the past weeks taking a tool on you, pression down on your heart with a force. Heavy. âAnd I donât know how to live in a world where he hates me.â
âHe doesnât hate you,â Gail said quietly. âHe hates himself. Thatâs a different kind of grief.â
Jackson, two week later
Joel had lost the count of how much time he had spent inside the four walls of this room at the hospital. Every time he opened his eyes it was the same view, blue walls, white covers, a small window, an empty chair where the only person he wanted truly see was you.
Joel was struggling more than anyone wanted to admit. His body was healing slowly, but his mind wasnât at all and that was a different story.
Mara was trying so hard to get him through his physical therapy, guiding him through some stretch and light exercises to help him to recover the strength he had lost. His face pinched tight in pain and frustration.
Ellie was looking at him, sitting in the corner of the room, with arms crossed, jaw tight, with worry and simmering resentment she hadnât managed to let go of yet.
Because she was glad, he had made it. She was glad they would have time to fix their bond, but she still couldnât stop looking at him as the man who had stole her choice from him.
Tommy was also there, standing by the doorway, he felt helpless watching his brother falling apart. How easy it was for him to walk to steps and then not being able to truly improve anymore.
It felt like time stopped. Joelâs breath hitched; his hands started trembling violently as Mara tried to coax him through a simple movement. His chest heaved, eyes darting around the room like a trapped animal. The walls closed in on him all at once, the smell he was sick of, the blinding light from the window, the ache in his bones, the emptiness inside his chest.
His voice cracked, âIâI canâtâI⌠I need her. Where is she?â
Mara heart went heavy, she tried to calm him, assuring she was here by placing a hand on his shoulder, but he recoiled like the touch burned.
âNot you, my girl. I need her.âhe choked out, panic lacing his voice, his breathing ragged and uneven. âNothing works without her. I canâtâI canât fucking breathe without her.â
Ellieâs stomach twisted. She stood abruptly, âIâll get her.â
But until what point this was fair to you?Â
âPlease, Ellie,â Joel rasped, eyes glossy with tears, âtell her Iâm sorry. Tell her I⌠tell her I didnât stop loving her. I donât know how to do this without her.â
Ellie found you by the stables, hands buried in the hay, eyes unfocused, staring at nothing. She called your name four times until you finally looked up, there was so much exhaustion in your face it made her chest ache the same way it ached for Joel.
âJoel is asking for youâshe said, voice hoarse by looking for you everywhere.
You didnât answer. Not at first. The weight of it sat between you both like something heavy and jagged. Finally, you shook your head, eyes stinging.
âNo.âyou whispered.
âWhat do you mean no?â
âI canât face him.â
Ellieâs jaw clenched, the sharp burn of frustration rising in her throat. It wasnât anger, but she was really grieving the love you and Joel share. She didnât know how to carry the pain you both have.
âHe had a panic attack today. He couldnât breathe. He only asked for you.â She said, stepping closer.
You closed your eyes, a tremor running through you. Her words dug into your chest. Â
âI canât face him, Ellie.â Your voice cracked. âI canât see him and not tell him. Not tell him what I lost. I donât know if I can carry it in front of him because he will resent me even more.â
Ellie swallowed hard, her hands trembling at her sides. She wanted to grab you, to shake you, to hold you, she didnât know what, âThen tell him. Or donât. But heâs drowning without you, and you are too.â
You didnât answer. The only sound was the quiet shuffle of the horses behind you, the sun faintly making the pain on your face glow.
Ellieâs voice softened. âI donât want to lose you both, please.
Jackson Hospital, at night.
The hospital was silent at night, the kind of silence that felt almost sacred in the dead hours while everyone slept. Most of people in Jackson was asleep, including the nurses in the front room, curled in their chairs, a single lamp flickering.
You moved slowly through the hallways, the ache in your chest making every step feel more difficult than the last. It had been two weeks since the last time you had seen Joel and your heart somehow knew you were about to see his face again.
And when you reached his room, you lingered at the door.
Joel lay there, still, chest softly rising. His face had recovered color. It wasnât pale and bruised. Now it was almost the same man you had loved for so long.
You stepped inside the room without doubt and sat down beside him, at the edge of the bed. For a long moment, you just watched him. You draw traces of his face inside your mind. Then, your hand reached for his, trembling a bit as you took it into both of yours. His skin felt you achingly familiar still it made your heart burst. You brought his knuckles to your lips and kissed them, the salt of your own tears catching in the corner of your mouth.
âPlease, donât hate meâ you whispered against his skin. âI canât live with that.â
Your voice cracked, the words breaking free from the cage you got them under. Â I donât know how to live in a world without you in it, Joel.â You squeezed his hand tighter. Your forehead dropped to the back of his hand, your tears hot against his skin.
And you felt the faintest, instinctive squeeze of his fingers around yours.
A soft shuffle at the door made you lift your head, eyes blurry with tears as you blinked toward the sound.
Mara stood there with her arms crossed, the faintest edge of tension in her jaw. Her hair was loose, eyes tired, expression unreadable.
âYou canât stay here,â she said quietly, stepping inside the room.
You stared at her, your hand still cradling Joelâs as if letting go might broke you.
âBut he asked for me,â you whispered, voice rough.
Mara sighed, a flash of something like sympathy darting across her face before it hardened again.
âI know. But youâll confuse him,â she said, softer this time, glancing toward the still form of Joel in the bed. âHe doesnât know whatâs real right now, what day itis, where he is. You being hereâŚâshe hesitated, âI just⌠it isnât good for his recovery.â
You felt like your heart was unraveling thread by thread. âYou think Iâm hurting him.â you said quietly, a bitter ache rising in your throat.
âI think youâre both hurting each other,â Mara admitted, not unkindly. âAnd I think right now, what he needs is stability. Familiar routine. No surprises.â
She approached, kneeling slightly so you were level. âIâm just staying tonight.â
You looked at Joel again, at his face again.
âNo.â she said, this time sternly.
Your body ran cold, but you nodded, brushing Joelâs knuckles with your lips one last time before slowly setting his hand back down.
âIf he asks for me againâŚâ you started.
âHe wonâtâ she said, looking at you as if you were poising threatening to hurt Joel.
Outside Jackson, the next day.
Spring was making it presence noticeable. Landscapes were greener and flowers were blossoming everywhere on the route. You and Nick were riding in silence, the breeze caressing your skin with a delicate ease.Nick gave you a wary glance as he rode his horse beside you. He was younger that you, a few years maybe, with a heart too big for this world. Youâd always appreciated that about him. Sometimes he felt like the little brother you never had.
âAre you sure you are okay about this?â he asked, frowning.
You forced a tight smile. âYeah. Better than sitting around.â
He didnât press it, just gave a short nod, and the two of you keep riding in silence, looking around your surroundings.
The route was quiet for a while, too quiet. You barely spoke, and when you did, it was small things. Nick trying to make you laugh, you giving him some fake smiles.
You shouldâve known it wouldnât last. You should have known it wouldn't last. Three clicks came quickly, emerging from behind a fallen tree just as you turned onto a trail. Nick yelled, grabbing his rifle. You dismounted, but something inside you, you didn't move the way it should. You didn't reach for your weapon. You just stood there.
You could hear them, the horrible, wet smacking, their bodies jerking with hunger. And a sick, empty part of you felt calm for the first time in weeks.
You could let them take you.
You barely registered Nick's voice, distant and panicked.
âWhat the fuck are you doing?!â he screamed, shooting one clean in the head as it lunged.
The others came closer, too close to you and you still didnât move. Still mounted on your horse watching as them came to take you.
Nick fired again, blood spraying the ground, then stabbed another with his knife as it crashed against him. The last one came for you and you didnât even flinch.
Nick got it first, turning to face you with fury on his face.
âWhat the fuck was that?! Are you out of your fucking mind?
You opened your mouth, but no words came out.
And then you felt dizzy, the world lurched, wobbled, before slipping beneath you. You fell off your horse, hitting your head on the ground. A sharp pain, and then nothing but darkness.
The last thing you heard was Nickâs voice breaking, desperate.
âFollow me, itâs clear,â Joel murmured, pulling you through a gap in the fence.
The both of you had ended up in the middle of the woods, laying in the grass staring up at a sky you rarely got to stop to see.
Joel stood up, disappearing into the brush for a moment. When he came back, he was holding a little white wildflower and he knelt beside you, grinning at you.
âI canât get you a diamond, darling, but I can make you this.â
You laughed, sitting up to look up at him better, âJoel, what are you doing?â
âMarrying you,â he said like it was the most obvious act.
Your breath caught when he looped the flower turning into a ring, a small, crooked one, from the flowerâs stem, around your ring finger. His hand lingered in yours, warm.
âThere,â he murmured, a bit shy now.
Iâm always going to be there, Iâm always going to have your back,
Where you go, I go, always.
until the day death tears us apart.
tags đ: If you want to be removed or you're not interested in the story anymore, please tell me so I can remove you. :)
series summary: After Abby's brutal attack, the aftermath leaves Joel, Ellie, and you forever changed. Joel wakes haunted by the man he used to be and the shadow heâs become. Wracked with guilt and convinced he no longer will be the same, he pushes you away, even as it breaks him to let you go.
warnings: Graphic violence, mentions of blood, emotional trauma, angst, self-loathing, guilt, depressive thoughts, isolation, mentions of death, nightmares, survivor's guilt, fluff. It contains spoilers from season 2 of The Last of Us.
A/N: I don't know if this one is a proper fic about the sadness Joel Miller caused me. But I've been thinking about healing and the long process it takes to get back to what you were or how it is to embrace a new self, and in this one, I would like to imagine what the aftermath of the events that happened to him is. By the way, I'm also moving to AO3 soon :)
found something in my notes and ummm iâm obsessed ?
đĄ catfish Joel Miller who uses photos of his younger self (like 30-35) on a dating site to pick up young women. When you come over to his house, you see that heâs more likely in his late 50s or early 60s, but he acts innocent and lures you in for a friendly dinner and a talk.
âDarlinâ, I promise I didnât expect you to be that young either! Sarah, my baby girl set up this thing, said she was tired of seeing her old man sad anâ miserable. Guess she didnât think I was mighty attractive anymore.â He says with a sad chuckle. You feel bad for the man, your heart clenching. He was still definitely handsome. His stomach slightly more visible, hair heavily streaked with greys, crows feet prominent. But he still got it, in a silver fox kind of way. âYou drove all the way here just to be disappointed, I canât tell you how-â
âIâm not disappointed,â you interrupt quickly, your hand squeezing his forearm in a reassuring gesture. âJust surprised, but thatâs not a bad thing. We both unknowingly catfished each other.â
âCatfish? Ainât that a type of fish?â
âNo,â you laughed lightheartedly, the man was adorable, âitâs when you⌠You know what, no matter, itâs not important.â
âI want to make it up to you before you go. I made us a nice dinner when I thought you were about thirty years older,â Joel tightened his lips and gave you an apologetic smile. âIt ainât catfish, just a steak, but I swear on my mama itâs good.â
Your stomach growled in response, and your hand jumped to it as if trying to silence the sound.
âWell, I donât see any harm in that,â you smile and step inside his house. The warm light makes everything look homey, and a hardwood floor creaks gently under you. âIt was quite a long drive.â
âFeel at home, sweetheart, Iâll just grab something real quick.â
You didnât see the way his eyes lingered on the exposed skin of the back of your thighs, his tongue flicking over his lower lip in anticipation.
Summary: It is the station's annual open house. Naturally everyone is eager to have a good time and raise some money for our girls and boys in blue. Even the mayor is making his way down to join for the afternoon auction. So when Lori asks you to help out, you, the good sport that you are, don't hesitate to pitch in. You're sure the chief won't mind. Especially since him and you have been on such good terms since Tommy's BBQ. What could possibly change that?
Note: Jesus has resurrected and so have I. You waited, so now you shall receive.
Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3
"Really, it is just one afternoon, nothing extravagant. Just coffee," Lori says and her nervous gaze tries to focus on your face. It has been a hectic day to say the least. The guy who was supposed to auction off a tarot reading apparently lost his psychic abilities and has fallen through. So now Lori needs another act for the whole spiel.
"I told you, I can totally wing it," you say. "I'll just get one of those card decks and talk a lot about mercury in retrograde."
She shakes her head. "Zain is a medium, love. You cannot just wing that. You are born with these abilities." It feels like Lori has taken this thing very seriously and probably was the one usually bidding for a precious hour with Zain.
"Didn't he quit because he lost his abilities?"
"He goes through phases," she explains. "He told me that I would meet my second husband in a WholeFoods near the spices and I always feel a particular sensation whenever I pass that special aisle."
"Oh," you say. "And did you? Meet him, I mean?"
"Oh honey, no. I am still in my first marriage," she replies. "But please don't try to read cards. Just give them some minor, non liable, legal advice or whatever they feel like talking about, yes?"
You shrug. "Sure, I can do that."
She presses her palms together and gives a little bow. "Thank you."
You mirror her gesture and grin. "My pleasure, Lori."
A couple of hours later, you're standing next to Daniel and his friend Mark talking about spear fishing and you wonder how on earth you got into this conversation.
"It is so thrilling, I am telling you," Daniel says and leans over to you. "You totally need to come the next time we head out."
"Thanks," you say. "I'll totally think about it."
The station is filled with an incredible amount of people you didn't even know could fit inside. It is packed. Everyone is talking, drinking and eating little sliders and sweets that one of the officer's sons made for the day. You haven't seen the chief at all. Not that you were looking for him. That would be weird. You definitely weren't. You're just concerned that the person in charge of this station hasn't deemed it appropriate to grace ya'll with his presence.
"Have you seen the chief?" You ask Daniel, who shakes his head.
"He's probably outside with the mayor. He usually only comes in for the auction," he explains.
Lori's voice resounds from the back of the room, calling everyone to the little makeshift stage. You huddle next to Daniel, trying to get a good spot, but get pushed a little to the back by some very eager elderly ladies. The first item for auction is a mug with the police station's logo on it. So we're starting quite low. The second one is a basketball signed by the high school team. Both items get auctioned off to the two older ladies in front of you, who, for whatever reason, are having the time of their lives.
"Do you have your eyes set on a prize?"
You could point out that voice that trails down your neck from anywhere. The low rumble against your right ear and the hot breath against your skin. You don't turn your head, just lean back slightly, checking how much space he has left between you two. By the feel of his chest grazing your back, not much.
"Maybe," you say. "But there's lots of competition." You subtly point to the two women in front of you.
The chief chuckles almost inaudibly and leans forward ever so slightly. You can feel the buttons of his shirt press into your shoulder blades. If you weren't surrounding by a crowd of people, all pushing against each other, this might be outrageous.
"Nothing you can't handle, I assume," he says.
"They seem very determined to me," you reply.
"I wouldn't have thought you'd be afraid of two senior citizens," he says.
"Clearly you have no idea what damage two women over 70 can do."
"Maybe I just have a lot of faith in you?"
You turn your head and meet his eyes. The brown is warm and inviting, nothing like before. Golden specks dart inside of them, showing off their dance. His hair is combed back, but his beard isn't trimmed, making him look rakish. He isn't wearing his usual white button down, but a flannel and a jacket you've seen him wear a couple of times.
"Maybe you should talk to a priest about that," you say.
"Nothing I haven't considered before," he replies and a small tug appears at the corner of his mouth. The seconds pass like the lazy ticking of a clock. If you weren't a reasonable women you would almost say it's hypnotising having him looking at you like that.
"Hi," the chief says softly, holding your gaze.
"You're late," you reply.
"Briefing with the mayor," he says and cocks his head.
"Do you have your eyes on anything particular?" You ask him.
His brows furrow. "I need you to specify that question for me, Darlin."
You roll your eyes and sigh.
"Are you bidding on anything today?" You say.
He shakes his head and is about to say something when you hear your name called from the back. You turn your head and Lori is standing on the little stage, waving eagerly. Everyone has turned to face you.
"Oh god," you say and immediately moving forward a bit, putting some distance between you and the chief.
"What in Jesus name-," Joel whispers and then Daniel is there to grab your hand and pull you towards the back of the room. In a matter of seconds you're being pushed up on a couple of boxes next to Lori, who is beaming at you.
"This is our lovely new assistant for the summer. She's a big lawyer from the city and has kindly offered to pitch in for the sake of the station." Her exaggerated introduction gets a round of applause.
Your eyes search for familiar ones and once found can only spot Joel's face of disbelief. This turned out to be weirder than you thought it would be.
"We're auctioning off a special dinner with her. She's kindly offered to also help with some of your legal questions, but we all know that spending an evening with this lovely lady should be enough of a prize as is. The first bid is 50$," Lori shouts.
Your head snaps to the side. "You said coffee, Lori."
You try to keep your voice down, but can't help hide your surprise.
Lori pats your arm and whispers, "Sorry dear, you're a lovely girl, but nobody is going to spend 50$ on coffee and we really needed to make up for Zain's part."
You look at her, stunned.
"You'll be fine," she says and turns back to the crowd. "Can I hear 50$?"
There is a stretch of silence that feels like two hours and then all of a sudden near where Joel is standing, Tommy raises his hand and shouts. "Here for 50$".
You mouth a silent thank you towards him. He gives you a thumbs up and you're almost relaxing, when another hand goes up further back near the door.
"60$!" A guy in a polo shirt with the most severe sunburn on his face shouts from the side.
Oh Lord. This is going to be a tough one. You try to search for Joel's face and maybe telepathically tell him to step the fuck up, but his face has morphed back into his usual stern expression, giving away nothing.
Tommy raises his hand again and goes for 80$, but the guy matches him at 100$. The man looks at you with a grin that is definitely giving creep vibes. When you're about to convince yourself that he's probably just a normal guy, he actually licks his lips while making full eye contact. Hell nah. You're about to abort this mission, when someone shouts from the back of the room.
"500$!"
The whole crowd gasps in unison.
"Do we hear 510$?" Lori shouts and after a couple of seconds of silence she claps. "The mayor has just donated 500$ to the station!"
The whole crowd cheers. The mayor? What on earth is happening here. People are still cheering, when Lori guides you off the stage into Daniel's arms.
"Did you just see that?" He shouts and pats you on your shoulder.
"I literally was standing up there."
He shakes his head. "Wow, that is so cool. To be able to spend a whole evening with the mayor. You're so lucky, he is the coolest guy ever."
Daniel apparently has a crush you didn't know about.
"What makes him so cool?" You ask and Daniel starts rambling on about how he has worked his way up all on his own bla bla bla - you get the gist. From what you're hearing is that the mayor is literally just a guy.
"Sounds like a real shooting star," you say, sarcastically.
"Please, only my mother calls me that," someone says from behind you. You turn around and there he is - the famously cool mayor.
You didn't expect him to be so.. young? He looks about mid 30s, with a neatly ironed blue button down on and some dark blue slacks. Without a tie and his sleeves rolled up, he looks not much older than Casey or Daniel. His hair is so dark, it makes the green in his eyes even more striking. You can tell from the way it is styled into a perfect side swoop that he probably spends more time in front of a mirror than at work. He is, besides the dramatic hairdo, uncomfortably good looking. And then he smiles only to reveal a set of perfectly straight white politician teeth.
You can't help but smile back. "Your mother sounds like a real supporter."
"You can never outgrow your parents, can you?" He says and offers his hand. "I don't think we have been introduced yet."
You shake your head and take his hand. "Nice to meet you, sir."
"Oh, let's leave the formalities to the rest of them, shall we? I'm Sebastian."
You say your name and let go of his hand. "You didn't have to do that by the way."
"Do what?" He raises his eyebrows.
"The bid," you say. "That's a lot of money you spent there."
He shrugs. "It's just money."
"Bold thing to say in this economy," you say and he smiles.
"You don't think an evening with you is worth at least 500$?"
"I might think so, but you have no idea who I am, maybe I am unbearable and only like to talk about particular species of tropical insects?"
Sebastian laughs. "And maybe the possibility of getting to know that about you among other things is worth much more to me than 500$ in my pocket."
That shuts you up and Daniel elbows you in the side. "See, I told you he is cool. So suave."
"You should start putting him on your payroll," you say pointing at Daniel. "He's really been advertising your role."
"Has he now?" Sebastian raises his eyebrows. "And here I was thinking I wasn't the station's favourite."
Daniel scoffs. "Of course not, I've been rooting for you for years now. I actually think what you did for our town has been incredibly necessary."
"I'm glad you think so," Sebastian says, running a hand through his hair.
"I've been meaning to ask you," Daniel says. "Would you like a tour of the station?"
Sebastian grins. "Sure, I'd love to. Would you like to join us?"
He turns to you, expectantly.
"Sure," you say and follow them through the crowd. Daniel first shows the archives and the offices as well as the staff kitchen. You make your way down to the basement, which harbours the equipment closets and the shooting practice range.
"I don't think I've ever been down here before," you say.
"That's because it's usually only open for officers," Daniel says and opens the door to the range. "But today I'll make an exception."
You follow the men into the room. It is quite dark and even once Daniel turns on the lights, it doesn't really get any brighter. There are three stalls next to each other, with a long table about hip high. In the back you can see the practice papers showing prints resembling figures and large crosshairs.
"Nice plays you got," Sebastian says and steps up to one of the stalls. "How often of you get to practice down here?"
"Whenever I want," Daniel says. "The chief doesn't really use it."
"He doesn't need to practice?" Sebastian asks.
Daniel shrugs. "I don't think he likes it much."
Sebastian hums.
"Do you want to try it out?" Daniel asks you both, grinning.
Sebastian takes a step forward. "You think that's fine with your boss?"
Daniel nods eagerly. "Told you he's never down here and I don't really care what he thinks."
You frown. "Okay Brutus, calm yourself down."
Sebastian laughs and Daniel opens up one of the closets, which, as you now see, are stacked with firearms.
"Funny," Daniel mumbles and takes a gun out of the cabinet. "Which one do you want, sir?"
"He'll have mine pointed at him if he takes one step toward the one you're holding right now," the chief says from behind you.
He's leaning against the door, arms crossed, lethal stare ready to kill. Fuck. His hair is a little dishevelled like he has run his hand through it quite a few times and the top of his shirt is unbuttoned one button too far. He breathes a bit too heavily for having just waltzed in the door.
You and Daniel both take a step back away from him.
Daniel almost trips as he staggers back. "Sir, I was just-
"Put the gun down, Riley," Joel says calmly.
"I'm sorry, Chief, I was just-"
"Get out," Joel barks and takes a couple steps into the room to open up the doorway he was blocking.
"I am so sorry, I really didn't mea-" Daniel starts again and Joel just stares at him. He cocks his head and like a bad behaving child, Daniel puts the gun back into the cabinet, struts out of the room and almost runs up the stairs.
"Now to you," Joel says a after a second and his eyes land on Sebastian, who has taken a seat on one of the tables, seemingly enjoying the show. He does not look at you once.
"You're gonna tell me off too, Joel?" Sebastian smiles mockingly.
"You should go back upstairs and do your job," Joel replies.
"And what might that be, huh?"
"Shaking hands, making empty promises, kissing ass," the chief answers. "You know, whatever you're good at."
Sebastian's grin fades quickly. "Bold statement coming from a person that's serving my office."
Joel's expression stays blank. "Bold statement coming from the only man in this room who's not armed."
He uncrosses his arms, to reveal the gun strapped to his shoulder holster. "Or are you hiding something under that hair of yours?"
"Are you threatening me now?" Sebastian says nonchalantly, but moves off the table to stand.
"I am giving you an order," Joel says.
"It's cute that you think I take orders from you, Miller."
"Let's see how cute you think being escorted from the station for trespassing is then."
"Daniel let us in here. That is not trespassing or do you need to refresh your police academy education?"
"Do you see Daniel anywhere here?" Joel asks and looks around him. "I sure as hell don't."
He takes a step toward Sebastian. "This is a secure room, only to be entered by people who are employed at this station. As the operating chief of police it is in my power to enforce these regulations and to remove any threat to this station and its employees. I repeatedly told you to vacate the premises. If you do not follow this order I will personally make sure you get a personal tour of one of our holding cells for the night, how does that sound, Mr. Mayor?"
Sebastian looks at you.
"Don't look at her, look at me," Joel growls.
"You should know when to stay in your lane, Miller."
"If you think I am above carrying you out of this station then you think entirely too highly of me," he replies and after a moment steps out of the mayor's way. "It was a pleasure having you, please come again."
Sebastian hisses the most subtle fuck you, you've ever heard and gets out of the room. Right as he passes you buy, he turns to you.
"If you ever want to work for someone sane, you give me a call," he says and then smiles mischievously. "I'll call you about that dinner."
The mayor steps out of the room and walks slowly up the stairs.
The silence he leaves is deafening.
"Close the door," Joel says slowly.
You do as he says. The heavy metal door closes with a loud thud and you turn back around toward him. He is leaning against the table Sebastian was just sitting on, staring back at you.
"Listen-" you start, but he raises his hand to stop you.
"Do I look like I want to hear your explanation?" He says, sternly.
He's looked at you angrily before, but never like this. His features have hardened into the mask you've gotten to know better over the last few weeks. The mask that has only slipped for a couple of moments here and there. Moments that make their way to the forefront of your mind whenever you're all by yourself, whenever your eyes close, you're trying to focus or falling asleep. Moments that feel so fleeting that remembering them feels like trying to trap a hummingbird with your bear hands. You drop your gaze.
"Two things," he says slowly, ripping you out of your thoughts. "One, you will not be going to that dinner and two, you will start listening to what I say or you're out." The chief holds up two fingers in front of him.
"You can't tell me not to go," you say. "I'm not your property."
"That's right," he says. "Much worse. You're my employee."
"Which means you should actually do as I say," Joel leans forward and almost growls when he says, "If you go to that dinner, you're done here."
"That's blackmail," you whisper.
"That's an order," he insists.
"I don't take orders from you," you snap and Joel lowers his head, threateningly.
"Did you not just see what happened to the last guy that tried that shit with me?"
You shrug. "Did you not understand the first time I told you that?"
"You will be taking a lot more than just orders from me, if you keep up this tone, Darlin."
"Is this the part where you tell me off like the boys or do I get the usual "I'm the chief of police and what I say goes"- speech?" You say. "Or does that come later?"
Joel exhales sharply. "Why were you down here with them?"
"Were you looking for me?"
"Just answer the damn question."
"Daniel asked if he could show Sebastian around and he asked if I wanted to join and I said sure," you reply.
"It's Sebastian now, is it?" He spits out the name like its some fruit gone bad.
"That was how he introduced himself to me," you say.
Joel nods slowly. "And you thought it would be a good idea to shoot some guns with Sebastian, huh?"
"Daniel said it would be fine, if we wanted to try it out," you argue.
"Christ," Joel says and rubs a hand over his forehead, freeing a lock that falls into his face.
"I didn't think it would be a that big of a deal," you say.
"You didn't think that's for sure," Joel snaps.
"I wasn't going to do it alone, Daniel was here," you reply, getting annoyed.
"Daniel had to take his shooting tests three times. He needs regular training to keep up with the rest. Did he tell you that as well?" Joel barks. "Did he also tell you that almost 30,000 people hurt themselves each year due to accidental firearm injuries? People get killed by not thinking."
You cross your arms. "I am around guns here all day. Maybe if someone would show me how to properly use one, I wouldn't be the liability I apparently am!"
Joel shakes his head. "You might work here, but you still are a civilian. Not a police officer."
"Daniel would have shown me," you say. Joel cocks his head to the side.
"Daniel would do a lot of things if you let him," Joel says, his eyes darkening.
You raise your eyebrows. "Does that make you angry, sir?"
He scoffs. "If you're asking if Riley makes my life harder the answer is yes."
"But does it bother you?"
"You should know that it takes more than that puppy to make me angry," Joel mutters.
"So it's me," you say. "I make you angry."
"You get on my nerves, there is a difference."
"Maybe if you stop treating me like an incapable child and more like a person with a functioning brain it might stop," you say.
"Maybe if you start acting like a person with a functioning brain I might start treating you like one," Joel replies.
"Then show me how to shoot and I won't need to rely on Daniel to protect me if I get into trouble," you say.
"Let me make a couple of things clear to you right now," he says. The strand of his hair is dangling into his right eye, making you slightly loose your focus. "First of all, you will not ever rely on Riley to protect you and second, as long as you are working here at this station, you will not ever get into anything that even resembles the kind of trouble you are talking about. Because I will make sure that that stays as far away from you as possible."
"So other trouble is allowed?"
He frowns, his eyes widening for a split second. "What kind?"
"What do you think?" You say and Joel huffs out a breath.
"Don't even st-"
"The kind that might come from me asking you to show me how to use a gun?"
Joel groans and pushes himself off the table. "Jesus Christ, fine!"
He walks toward the closets on the side of the room and he grabs a gun from the shelf. A couple of clicking sounds resound and then he turns back to you.
"Stand in front of the table," he says.
You grin and step up to the shooting stall, facing the paper figures in the back. You feel him even before you hear him coming up behind you. His breath blows against your neck and you can't help but think if this is another moment that is going to bite into your brain later and never let go.
"That is the safety," he says, pointing to a little lever on the gun, he's holding out in front of you. "You release it, the gun is hot, you close it, it won't fire."
Joel lifts his hand and holds the gun up to you. "Take it."
You wrap your fingers around it, slowly. It is heavier than you thought it was going to be. The cold metal a weird feeling on your skin.
"Lift it up and aim," he says and you follow his instruction.
He leans back a little. "Spread your legs for me," he says.
"Sorry?"
"Your stance needs to be wider," he says, tapping your outer thigh. The slight touch of his fingers feels like they're burning a hole through your pants right down to your skin, leaving a mark. When you keep looking at him, he adds, "Eyes on the target."
You move your legs to a wider stance.
"Shoulders back," he says and you pull back your shoulders, only to have them press into his chest. The materials of your shirts audibly scrunching against each other.
If you were concentrating on anything but the feel of his chest against your back, you might have noticed his breathing getting heavier. But when he lifts his arms and wraps his hands around yours, holding the gun steady in your hand, you finally loose all focus, wondering if this actually was the stupidest idea ever.
"Lock your arms," Joel utters. "Whenever you draw a gun, you should always have your body in this position to protect your shoulders from the recoil and to have a secure shot."
You nod, trying to concentrate on anything else than the sensation of his belt against your back. Christ, it's like you've never been close to a man before. But now you're close enough to sense his smell and you kind of don't want to move away, ever.
"Once you're ready to shoot, you take a deep breath in," he says and you inhale, shakily. "Take a deep breath out." You slowly exhale.
"And shoot," he says.
You pull the trigger and the sound that comes from the gun is nothing but a click. You pull the trigger again, but the only thing that resounds is the clicking sound of an empty gun.
"What?" You say and turn your head to find Joel grinning.
"You didn't give me a real gun?"
"Oh, it is a real gun," he says. "Just not loaded."
"Are you serious?" You say.
"You didn't actually think I would let you shoot a gun, did you? Are you out of your goddamn mind?" He says, stepping back, making room for you to turn around.
"I can't believe you," you exclaim and let the gun fall onto the table.
"This ain't some movie bullshit, Darlin. You can actually hurt yourself and I am not putting you in a position where you are able to do that."
"How could I possibly hurt myself when you're literally standing right behind me?"
"You don't need to fire a gun to know how to handle one," he says.
"So you just wanted a little feel up close behind me, did ya?" You hiss and cock your head. "Maybe you should have bid at the auction so you could have gotten your money's worth. But no, Sebastian got there first, too bad."
Joel slams his hand on the wall next to your head, separating the shooting stalls. "If you think even for a second I'm gonna take that guy's money and let you go to that dinner, you're dead wrong, Sweetheart."
"Don't Sweetheart me, Miller," you say. "And it is not up to you whether or not I go. At least it's not that creepy fucking dude in the polo."
"Oh", Joel raises his hands mockingly. "The mayor to the rescue."
You narrow your eyes. "Did it even for a second occur to you that you could have been the one bidding on that stupid dinner to save me from going out with that weird dude?"
"It did not, no."
"Wow," you say. "Thanks for that. I'm auctioned off like some fucking horse and you did not bother to think about helping me. Real nice, Miller."
Joel sighs. "I am not allowed to bid at the auction. None of the staff is. And I am your superior. I can't bid on an evening alone with you. That would be highly inappropriate."
"Right," you say, crossing your arms. "Because that's the one thing to happen now that would be inappropriate. Sure."
He rolls his eyes. "And if I had known that you were up there, I wouldn't have allowed it in the first place."
"Allowed it?" You say. "Who are you? My school principle?"
"Why on earth did you even agree?" He asks and ignores my jab.
"I agreed to a coffee. Lori said it would just be a cup of coffee."
"Christ," Joel groans. "Does no one ever run anything by me at this fucking station anymore?"
"That feels like a you-problem to me."
"Thanks for the input," he says sarcastically and you silently stare at each other. The golden specks in his eyes have been replaced by a stern darkness. His face has hardened again, leaving no room for any funny business.
"And unlike the mayor I do not need to pay 500 bucks to spend some alone time with you," Joel says. "I just wait until the next time you stumble into my bathroom in a bikini."
You inhale sharply. "That was an accident!"
"Okay," he says. "Then I'll just show you how to really shoot. Turn around again for me, honey, so I can get a good feel, huh?"
"You're such an asshole, Miller," you hiss and raise your hand to push against his chest, but he grabs your wrist before you can hit him. With one quick tug he pulls you tightly against him and turns your arm around your back. One step forward and he has you trapped between his body and the shooting table. You're breathing heavily and he's close enough for you two see a single bead of sweat trickle down his neck over his tan skin into the front of his button down.
You lift your chin in a challenge. "You can just tell me if you want to take me to dinner. No need to get all riled up."
"Imma take you to a lot of places," he says, his southern drawl slipping through, "dinner won't be one of 'em."
You laugh. "Uhh, I'm shaking in my boots."
"You so desperately want to be taught a fucking lesson, don't you?" He hisses and his eyebrows narrow, his grip fastening.
"And you so desperately want to teach me one, don't you, Mr. Miller?"
He lifts his free hand, placing it on top of the table, pushing you to lean back onto it. For the first time your bodies are consciously fully pressed against each other and almost as if it is a reflex, you slowly open up your legs for him. Joel's head snaps down to your hips, his eyes widening. You think he's about to say something but his lips just part slightly as he moves to step in-between your legs. He's towering over you, still holding on to the wrist that's pinned to your back. This cannot be good. Your mind goes completely blank as his eyes trail up from your hips over your body and fasten on yours. They're like a gloomy dark sky harbouring the promise of a storm.
"What did I tell you about calling me Mr. Miller?"
"Last time I checked, I'm not wearing a bikini and this isn't your house," you whisper.
"Exactly," Joel says, "so it's Chief for you."
"Does that only apply when you're between my legs or also when you need to scratch that power itch again?"
Within the blink of an eye he lets go of your hand and pushes himself away from you. "Who says these are two separate things, Darlin?"
You sit up, scrutinising him.
Joel narrows his eyes. "Now get out, before I change my mind about that lesson."
You push yourself off the table. ""Look who's talking now."
"You need me to spell it out for ya?" He says and walks toward the door, opening it, motioning for you to get out.
"Thanks for the instructions, Chief," you say sarcastically as you make your way out of the room. "Really helpful. Especially the practical part."
His fingers imperceptibly brush against your lower back as you pass him by the door. "For the rest of the day," he starts and lowers his gaze to yours. His eyes giving him away for the quickest second. "Be a good girl now, will ya."
You step out of the room and turn for the stairs. One last glance over your shoulder. "Yes, sir."
Making your way up the stairs, you don't need to look back to know why Mr. Miller is leaning against the door, his gaze following your figure moving away - his sharp intake of a breath tells you all you need to know.
Summary: Let's rewrite Joel's story together, shall we?
Warnings: language, graphic violence, character death (not Joel or Ellie), blood, guns, knives, angst, guilt, reader is a badass
A/N: if you are an Abby fan, I suggest skipping this one.
"Ellie! This way!" you shout over the howling wind. She twists around in her saddle and yanks on the reins, steering Shimmer towards you through the blistering snow.
You point towards the ground â horse tracks, two sets â that head up the mountain.
"Maybe they found shelter there!" she yells, pointing towards an abandoned ski lodge. Years ago you remember clearing it of infected but it isn't part of your usual patrol routes. You nod and dig your heels into the sides of your horse, urging the poor thing through the blizzard and up the treacherous terrain.
You ride the rest of the way in silence. Not that you could hear her anyway, but you both seem to have the same heavy pit in your stomach. You haven't checked out this place in a long time. Anything or anybody could be in there. But Joel and Dina might be in trouble. You had to go.
When you approach the lodge, you bring your horses inside. It's quiet when you slide down from your horse. You exchange glances with Ellie and jut your chin upwards.
"They'd go up high," you say softly. "So they could get a good look at the land."
She nods in agreement before equipping herself with her rifle. You each check that your guns are loaded â long range and side arms â and double check your knives are still hidden in your boots and belts before advancing towards the massive staircase.
Foolishly, you allow yourself to think everything is fine. That they just came in to warm themselves up and wait out the storm. But as you approach the double doors, you hear voices. Ones you don't recognize.
You look at Ellie once again and she shoulders her rifle. You press a finger against your lips and she nods as you creep quietly over the ancient floorboards. Holding your ear up to the door, you listen.
"Because it doesn't matter if you have a code like me, or you're a lawless piece of shit like you," you hear a woman's voice say. You swallow nervously and grip your revolver tighter in your hand.
"There are just some things everyone agrees are just fucking wrong."
You hear footsteps slowly cross the room. It sounds like they are heading in your direction, towards the doors. Your heart slams loudly against your ribs but you are laser focused. The adrenaline in your body sharpens your senses and it's like you can practically see through the doors. You can imagine whoever this is stopping near something by the wall, just feet away from the door where you stand ready on the other side.
You give Ellie one more nod, confirming you're both ready to do what it takes to save the ones you love, and you take a deep breath.
Ellie is first. She kicks the door in and almost immediately gets knocked down by some man standing guard, but somehow you know it's fine. She's not hurt, she just got the wind knocked out of her.
You don't even see Joel or Dina yet. You only see the girl in a grey henley shirt, tucked into her oversized khaki pants, standing in front of a set of golf clubs.
She swivels around in surprise and you lock eyes for one devastating moment. She seems to understand her fate before you. Maybe she sees the pure rage and anger written on your face, one that she herself harbored for five years. Maybe she always knew it would end this way, same as her father.
You raise your revolver and slide one eye shut. It feels like it takes an eternity but it's really only a split second. The girl in front of you no older than Ellie holds her breath. You see fear and helplessness flicker across her eyes before your finger curls around the trigger and a loud bang echos through the vast, open ski lodge.
Blood sprays everywhere and her body drops to the floor with a thud. It seems to have shocked the other four members of the group because there's a moment of hesitation. A small hole burns right between her eyes and thick, sticky blood begins to pool underneath her braid. Her eyes remain open, staring lifelessly at the ceiling.
Ellie is still on the floor, but the man who knocked her down isn't paying attention. You shoot him in the knee and step into the room. Behind you, the man shouts and drops to the floor. You hear the sickening sound of Ellie's switchblade sink wetly into his ear, then the yelling stops.
It feels like you're on autopilot. Like you are barely aware of what you're doing. You feel shockingly calm. Looking back on it, you chalk it up to some primal, baser instinct. You've always heard people are capable of doing impossible things when they are under extreme duress.
This was one of those times.
Ellie clambers to her feet behind you. You can hear her fumbling with her gun, but you pay it no mind.
Three people left.
There's a woman with no hair reaching for a gun leaning against the fireplace. You exhale steadily and take aim â another loud blast, dark red blood sprays the light stone wall, and another heavy body hits the floor.
The last remaining man and woman begin to scream.
The girl with the black hair and bangs charges you with a knife. You turn, expression blank, and raise your gun, but Ellie gets there first.
A bullet lodges itself into the side of her head. You see her face go slack and her eyes roll back before she crumples to the ground. Warm mist sprays you, covers your face and neck, but you don't care.
You swivel on your heel when you hear footsteps running towards the door. The last man. He kind of looked like Tommy, you notice idly. You roll your shoulder, loosening it up, and raise your gun.
You feel completely at peace when you pull the trigger and your bullet sails through the final man's cheek. He yelps and falls to the ground. He stays alive for about thirty seconds, howling in pain, until finally his body stills and silence fills the room.
It was done. Not what you expected to do today, but it's what you trained for â the unexpected. To do what it takes to save your own.
"Oh, shit," Ellie says, holstering her gun and rushing across the room. You turn, heart rate spiking when you snap out of your haze. Ellie is crouching over Joel on the floor. She is hovering over his leg and it's only then when you notice blood pooling underneath him.
"Joel!" you cry out, dropping your gun to rush to his side. With an indescribable amount of relief, you notice aside from the fucking shotgun that blew a hole in his knee, he's otherwise untouched.
"Theyâ they wrapped it up," he stammers. You look and see the belt wrapped tightly around his leg for the first time. You frown, confused, but shake it off.
"Okay," you breathe, "can you walk?"
He nods but his face is prickled with sweat and he looks pale.
"We got the horses downstairs. We- you can ride back with me. We'll be alright," you assure him with a small smile. Next to you, Ellie jumps up. She rushes over to Dina and begins to shake her shoulders, yelling her name.
"She's gonna be out for a bit," Joel grits. You lean down and offer him your shoulder. He wraps an arm around you and you hook your own arms under his to pull him up with a loud groan. He makes a pained sound but he finally is able to stand, leaning against you with his wounded leg hovering in the air.
"They sedated her," Joel explained when Ellie shot him a panicked look. Dina looked pale too, but she was breathing.
"Why?" Ellie asked. Joel shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut.
"Can we talk 'bout this later?"
"Ellie, help me get him down to the horses," you say. She begrudgingly stands and gives Dina one more look. "We'll get him on mine and then come back for Dina," you assure her. She nods and ducks underneath Joel's other arm, supporting his weight as all three of you slowly make your way down the stairs to the horses.
It takes a while, but when you have both of them ready, you finally are ready to leave behind the nightmare you almost walked into.
"Jackson," Joel says weakly behind you. You're leading your horse down the mountain, towards the town currently engulfed in flames. You swallow and square your shoulders.
"Tommy's there," you say confidently, "he knows what to do. I'mâ I'm sure it's fine."
Half a mile passes in the worst blizzard you've seen in years before Joel speaks again.
"You saved me."
You stiffen but otherwise remain silent, focused on the trail ahead. So he speaks again.
"She was gonna kill me," he continues. Tears well in your eyes and you shake your head.
"But she didn't."
His grip around your middle tightens.
"I killed her father," he adds solemnly. You shrug.
"We've all killed people."
A beat passes between you.
"Her father wasâ was the doctor."
It takes you a moment, but you connect the dots. You remember what Joel told you about that day in Salt Lake City. What he did to save Ellie. What he swore he would do again, if given the chance. A decision you agreed with and still do.
"Well," you sigh, "it was either them or us."
"I deserved it," he says firmly. You nearly turn around a deck him, but you stop yourself.
"Shut the fuck up, Joel."
"It's true," he urges.
"I don't give a shit," you seethe over your shoulder. "We all do bad shit to save the ones we love. It's the world we live in now. Anyone in your position would have done the same thing."
Joel goes quiet again and you glance to the side. Ellie is nearby but the wind is too loud. She can't hear you. Besides, she's too worried about Dina to care.
"Would you have done it?"
"What?" you scoff, "kill whoever stood in my way to protect the one I love?"
You feel him nod against your back.
"Isn't that what I just did?"
You steer your horse through the trees. You're about halfway to Jackson now. The fires have almost been put out. Whatever happened is coming to an end. The next few months will require a lot of work, a lot of rebuilding. Your lives are all once again forever changed, but you've been through worse.
Summary:Â He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town.
Lee discovers life on her own.
Pairing:Â Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)
Rating:Â Explicit đ
A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange bedroom besties 𧥠Here we are, this is the end! I'll see you on the other side 𧥠@frannyzooey marry me? đ§Ą
Word count: 8.6k (I'll never learn)
[prev] * [series masterlist] *
Epilogue: In The Beginning
He comes to you every Friday, in the loneliness of your room, in the hollow space of your life, through the cold hard rectangle of your phone.Â
Hey, baby.
Hey, Frankie.
Howâs my girl doing?
The caress of his voice convokes the memory of his touch, of the bedspreadâs synthetic fabric, stained and slippery, and the rough material of the brown rug abrading your knees.Â
You close your eyes, so you can see it better. His freckles, his dimple. The dip between his collarbones. His skin of gold, the smoothness of his curls, gliding between your fingertips.Â
His cold hard stare. His soft sad eyes.Â
Iâm good.Â
You close your eyes and smile, because heâs there, still, another week, true to his word, and the modulated sound in your earpiece lets you hear his own relief, breathed out in a smiling exhale.Â
Through space and distance, through memories, his hands ghost your skin.Â
Sometimes, the round accents of his low husk guide your hand downward, down between your legs, wringing wistful waves of pleasure out of you.Â
Let me hear you come, baby.Â
Itâs a distant echo. A forlorn imitation of what his body did to yours in the motel room. Outstretched shadows on a caveâs wall.Â
And afterward, his voice sounds pained, hurting the same way your heart feels bruised.Â
Sometimes, most times, he just wants you to talk.Â
Tell me. Whatâd you do this week? Learn anything new?
Is it worth it? What you've learned in this seven day gap, this open wound of a time-stretch, waiting for his voice to fill your ears like his body once filled your life, is it all really worth it?Â
Your bones are worn out, your skin feels too big. Your heart is shrunk, aching, heavy like lead, blackened like coal, near the wild creature crying ruby tears.Â
And yet, you learn. Every week, you have something new to tell him. Every week, intently, he listens.Â
In the loneliness of your room, in the hollow space of your life, through the cold hard rectangle of your phone, your love continues to grow, nurtured by words and silences.Â
â
In a surprising turn of events, you donât entirely dislike New York.Â
The city still mildly scares you. Its buoyant history feels like a sparkling secret youâll never be let in on. Its mythical aura makes you feel small and provincial. Itâs definitely too big, too noisy, too stressful. And, youâve learned at your expense, ridiculously pricey.Â
But it is also completely, blissfully anonymous. People donât only ignore who you are, they also do not care. Since you got here, your name hasnât once elicited the silent gasp or double take it never fails to provoke down in Tampa.Â
And instead of drowning, forever disappearing, you wake up every morning and breathe in a big gulp of saturated New York air, making the conscious choice to tame the current.Â
Spring is undecided, imprecise. It oscillates between chilly mornings and warm afternoons, cumbersome jackets and disorientation.Â
Your shabby blue suitcase stands out like a sore thumb in a corner of Polly and Avaâs living-room, styled with slick 1950s furniture, straight lines, confidential art pieces, and quality material.Â
Thrown from a life sentence in a glass tower into this transient condition, you vacillate, but hang on tight, and you wait, in between Fridays, to be tethered by the thread of Frankieâs praise and encouragement.Â
On weekdays, from 9 to 5, you sit behind a black square desk on the third floor of a modest Manhattan publishing company, proofreading copies of psychiatric essays for typos.Â
The work is dull, tedious, an entry-level position hardly above an internship, but the task is concrete, its results tangible. It provides you with a decent salary you might owe entirely to your connection with Polly, and the priceless satisfaction of a job accomplished when the working day is done.Â
You miss him.Â
Summer is unforgiving. The entire city smells like hot trash, melted asphalt, car exhaust and overwrought engines. The combined heat from millions of strangers' bodies pressed together in urban proximity is otherworldly.Â
The nearby presence of the Atlantic Ocean, centuries of waves, dark and unfathomable, is impossible to conceive. Your frazzled eyes search the city sky in vain for the line of the horizon.Â
The commute from your furnished studio apartment in Jackson Heights is uncomfortable and never-ending. You read voraciously, to prevent your mind from wandering to the square window with the yellow curtains, the black-edged mirror and the one dollar store painting of the Appalachian. Your lost paradise. Your unexpected home.
At night, youâre too tired. Too tired to eat, too tired to read any more, or even watch television. You stumble onto your empty bed and pray for an empty sleep.
On weekends, you seek refuge in air-conditioned museums. There, in the bustling silence, among crowds of eclectic tourists snapping performative pictures in square format, your life is suddenly, quietly upturned: art understands. Art heals. Art is the key to translating your raw feelings. A catharsis for your searing emotions.Â
You miss him.Â
With fall come crisp winds, clear lights and yellowing leaves, and the city turns another kind of spectacular. You finally seem to find your bearings.Â
At work, youâre given more responsibilities, along with your very own intern. A tall, polite young man in an awful suit that hangs off his lanky frame, he stops blinking every time you address him, hungry eyes snapping to your lips every now and then. It makes you smile, what you do to him.Â
In your kitchenette, which is really more of a narrow corridor than anything else, youâve taped a world map on which you pin a round, colourful thumbtack for every new cuisine you taste. Cold burritos shared with Frankie on the motelâs dirty carpet are hard to beat. But Columbian chicharrĂłn ranges at a close second.Â
Forsaking rest, you spend your Sunday afternoons in a 1st Ave cinema, which specializes in pre-war films. In the solitary darkness of the red velvet-lined theater, you fall in love with Louise Brooks, with Pabstâs German realism, and Murnauâs Sunrise. New names and faces crowd your thoughts during your daily commutes: Bette Davies, Theda Bara, Marion Davis... Slapstick comedies have you kicking your feet, and you devour every book and article you can dig out on the Hays Code.Â
On Tuesdays and Thursdays, you clock off early and hurry uptown, where you attend evening classes in art history in a small overheated classroom decorated with faded museum postcards from all over the world.Â
The attendees form a small mismatched crowd of second-chancers, seeking meaningful connections more than a proper education.
Thierry is the first to approach you. A stupidly handsome, late twenty-something man, sporting a dark Mohawk and second-hand bespoke shoes matched with a leather perfecto, Thierry claims to be French Canadian, and you know better than to call him out on the obvious fib. If anything, youâre more than willing to play along. Thierry takes you out as often as youâll let him, sometimes to cafĂŠs and thrift stores, but more often to gay bars. He says youâre the best wingman heâs ever had, with your distant demeanor and the melancholy in your gaze.Â
âMy peers love your brand, bĂŠbĂŠ,â he says.
On one of these drunken late-evenings turned early-mornings, in a Brooklyn dinner with greasy pleather benches, over eggs Benedict and burnt filter coffee, Thierry tells you he was born Travis, in Nowhere, North Dakota. His voice remains surprisingly steady when he explains how, tired of living in fear, he ran off to New York with less than 18 dollars to his name. But his eyes wonât meet yours. Too shiny. Too liquid.Â
He tells you about the straight man, married with children, who once broke his heart, and asks you about the one who broke yours.Â
âI didnât need a man to do that,â you answer in earnest. You watch the tears brimming in his dark blue eyes. You hear him say, âI love you, Lee. Youâre the best friend I have,â and you believe him.
Around mid-October, Vera joins the Thursday evening class. Sheâs prompt to initiate conversation, and soon, you spend every other Saturday afternoon in her quaint Brighton Beach apartment, eating blini with homemade jam, mesmerized by her deep gravely voice as she recounts tales of her life in the USSR. Of how she fled the country, back in 1986, with nothing but grit, a suitcase full of photographs, and a heart bleeding memories. She speaks, you find, simply because you are willing to listen. Before you leave, she hugs you strong enough to crack your spine.Â
Vera was a mother, once. To a blond boy named Igor, who died of undiagnosed leukemia not long after heâd learned to walk.  Â
When you leave her place, your clothes are impregnated with her scent, bergamot tea and vanilla tobacco. You take a long stroll to Coney Island in the brisk dusk, clutching your scarf high on your face. The sharp Atlantic wind makes your eyes water. Shivering, you sit on a boardwalk bench, and marvel at the Wonder Wheelâs lights, brightening the crepuscular fall.
You miss him. Â
Ava seldom has time for you in her ever busy schedule. Sometimes, the two of you meet for a quick lunch, and every once in a while, she takes you to an art performance where young adults with edgy haircuts douse their naked bodies in paint in front of a live audience to protest climate change or human trafficking. You donât always understand, in truth, you rarely do, but you always welcome the opportunity to broaden your horizon.Â
Polly makes sure to have you over for dinner at least once every two weeks. The regularity is touching. Some nights, you feel like indulging, and take a cab back to your place.
You learn. Every day, you learn. Through sweltering heat and ice-sharp cold, through lively chatter and the crackling of dead leaves. Through loneliness, yours and otherâs. You learn.Â
Home isnât always a place. Sometimes, home is people.Â
And you miss him, you miss him, you miss himâŚÂ
â
Twenty-nine Fridays.Â
Frankie once more sat down behind Lupeâs desk at the dispatch center, to count down the weeks since your departure on the large cardboard calendar.Â
Thereâs 29 of them now. Soon, those empty Fridays will outnumber the ones you filled with your skin and your scent.Â
Your absence has torn a gaping hole inside his chest, and loneliness came pouring in to fill it. The feeling is alienating. Itâs worse than shame, worse than fear, fear of hurting and fear of dying. The grief is all encompassing. Itâs worse than everything heâs ever been stricken with.Â
âTime will help, hermanito,â his sister had said shortly after youâd left. âTime is gonna make it better, donât worry. Paso a paso.âÂ
Will hadnât said anything. Will would never lie to his face.Â
Frankie knows, just like Will does, that time ainât gonna do shit. If anything, time will only make it worse.
Time has forsaken him. Everywhere around him, people go on with their lives, moving forward, making plans.Â
Luaâs curls grow longer, her babbling evolving into fully formed words, and her balance becoming surer as she explores the world around her with her big bright eyes wide open. His beacon. His pride. His little miracle.Â
Marcus moved in with Lupe. There was a proposal, quickly followed by talks of a spring wedding. Â
Tessâll be starting college soon, sponsored by the Redfly Family trust, her little sister already attending middle school.
Will went back to Colorado, where he found a counseling position at the VA office in downtown Aurora.Â
Benny quit the MMA circuit and followed his brother, like he always does. Met a girl back home, a brunette with water-clear eyes, a kind heart and a sharp sense of humor. Now, they work together on her fatherâs tree farm, and he says things like, âshe gave me a purpose.â
And Frankieâs stuck here. Stuck inside his pain, locked up within his loss with a hole the shape of you inside his chest, surviving on the promise of your voice every Friday at 7pm. Of your cheery tone when you talk about what youâve discovered and learned, your new friends, your new tastes, your unassertive victories. Your steady healing.Â
Only he knows your life up there canât always be milk and honey. But you wonât tell him about the hardship. Bottling it up for his sake, he assumes, but then, whereâs his fucking purpose?Â
His longing just follows him everywhere, dimming the sun, turning his food all wrong, turning his friends to enemies, places that once brought him solace no longer meaning relief. The cab of his truck devoid of your scent, a song on the radio that youâre not here to hum, and his blood turns to lead. The whole world around him, a reflective surface to reverberate his grief.Â
So Frankie waits. Minutes, hours, and days. He aches and simmers and he waits. Heâs cut for grit and patience and restraint, anyway. He waits for time to remember about him, to let him hop back onto that fast-paced train, he waits to be alive again. Hold your body close to him, feel the coolness of your touch, breathe in the scent of your perfume. Be your man. Keep you safe. Forever and always.Â
He waits, until one afternoon in early December, when Lupe approaches him in the break room after his shift.Â
âWe need to talk,â she says.Â
The following morning, a Thursday, an incoming call wakes him up. The sound of your sobbing comes in shaky and muffled through the receiver, and his spine grows rigid.
âI need to see you,â you say.
And Frankie knows heâs done waiting.Â
â
The front door rattles with three successive knocks. Like a bloodhound, you still, head perking up, a near white-knuckle grip on the vacuum handle. You press the tiny button on your headphones to pause the music, and Kate Bushâs voice fades to silence, allowing the vacuumâs roar to resurface. You kill it, too.Â
Itâs impossible you could have heard anything over all this din.Â
You balance the vacuum handle against the dresser to grab your phone thatâs lying there, and check the time on it.Â
Noon. Frankieâs plane just took off. He isnât due here for another three hours. Leaving you just enough time to finish tidying up the apartment, take an everything shower and hop on a cab to go pick him up. You purposefully postponed the cleaning until the very last minute, so you wouldnât go insane waiting for him in these last hours.
A little pang of guilt flares hot across your neck and cheeks, quick and sharp, at how shamelessly you begged over the phone, a couple of days prior. Letting him hear your sniffling, the sound of your tears rolling down your face, if you could have, just because you couldnât bear the misery of crying on your own anymore. Unabashed and so very selfish in your need of him. Of his hold and his warmth. His eyes and freckles. The weight of his body, the low thrum of his heartbeat. Petulant like a child. Please, please come here.
You snatch the headphones off your head. The room is silent. Three floors down, the neighborâs yelling at her husband again, their baby crying. No one in the hallway knocking on your door, then. Â
âDamn it,â you mutter, tossing the headphones on the dresser and padding over to the minuscule entryway. Wearing nothing but your sleep shorts and ragged college t-shirt, all of which should have been in last week's laundry load. If someoneâs here, theyâre in for a smelly treat.Â
You wrench the door wide open, like a dare, like a vain wish, and youâre met with the solid wall of Frankieâs broad chest.Â
A gasp, yours, short and high-pitched, and he collides into you, his arms circling your waist, pulling you flush against him. His face burrowing in the curve of your neck, his hat knocked off his head with the force of the collision. A hard press, a sharp inhale, heâs hoisting you up and carrying you inside, kicking the door shut behind him.Â
Your heart, black and shrivelled, is suddenly too big for your rib cage. The wild creatureâs purrs are deafening. Dopamine floods your brain, youâre madly happy, a relief so intense youâre trembling.Â
âIâm not leaving this stupid city until youâve given me this t-shirt,â he says, his mustache grazing the tender skin behind your ear.Â
He smells like cold air, and underneath it, him. Old leather, a hint of sawdust, blond and taffy-sweet, and you smile through the tears lumping the back of your throat, wrapping your arms over his shoulders, fingers threading through his curls, digging into his thick jacket, socked feet dangling an inch above the floor.Â
âItâs gross. Iâve been sleeping in it for a week, at least.â
âYea, well, thatâs the point, baby.â
You laugh, a choked up sound, half elation half sob, the curve of his own grin felt against your throat.Â
âIâve missed you. Fuck, Lee, Iâve missed you so much,â he groans, and his words, rasped and warped, bear the weight of his loneliness. Months worth of sleepless nights.Â
His large hands span your back in all directions, a needy grasp at the soft curves of your hips, back up to your shoulder blades, and down to your waist, making sure âAre you real?â making up for everything thatâs been lost. Your back arches into his chest, into his pulsating life force, your leg hitching up along his cold denim.Â
Thereâs all of his strength, all of his need in this embrace. Forever imprinting the shape of you into his flesh.Â
âIâve missed you, too,â you whisper.Â
His right hand leaves your back, barely, just long enough to slide the strap of his black rucksack off his shoulder, before it returns to you. Fingers curling around your nape, his forearm aligning with your spine. The metal of his belt digs into your belly as you push into him with a near matching strength, no space left between your bodies for anything but this bright beaming bliss.Â
Entwined like honeysuckle and ivy, you stand there, in the entryway, under the dangling naked bulb. Basking into each otherâs scent. Bodies thrumming high and strong like a power line of the highest voltage.
âLet me look at you,â he says after a while, hands cupping your face, dark eyes raking over your features under his creased brow, âhow are you feeling, baby?â
His gaze flicks over to the thin scar in your hairline before it locks with yours, and itâs a binding spell, again, always, intact and unaltered. Black magic and fate, things that arenât even real except he makes them.Â
âIâm good!â you laugh, your fingers curling around his forearms, a stubborn little tear hanging from your lashes. âIâm good, now.â
âYea? Good,â he nods. âYou look good. You look fantastic.â
Your lips pinch down a bashful, incredulous smile. He leans back into you and presses a pointed kiss to your lips, greedy, wet, open-mouthed, and you respond in kind, eager, starved. He tastes of coffee and him, and you might lose your sanity with how content you are feeling, how happy, how frighteningly complete.
His hands snake under the hem of your t-shirt, and thereâs the cold tip of his fingers, the warm cup of his palms, spanning the expanse of your back, roaming over your shuddering skin and your body ignites in their wake, coming back to life, inch after inch after touch. Â
Youâre the first to break the kiss with a sudden concern, irrelevant, futile, and heâs holding your face again, his eyes hooded with want, drinking you in.Â
âI thought your plane landed at 3pm. I wanted to come pick you up. Iâm not even done cleaning, Iâm sorry.âÂ
âNo, no, Iâm sorry. I got to the airport too early,â he chuckles. âFigured I could change my flight. I shouldâve texted you.â
âOh no, itâs fine,â you start, but his face slots back into the curve of your neck, and you flinch with a new sensation, as he nuzzles his way up, his plush lips a soft caress over the shell of your ear, his scruff a soft tickle. A dark shade of amber pooling down inside you. The thinner hair on your nape standing up.Â
âIâm so glad youâre here, Frankie,â you breathe out, voice weighed by that thick and sticky thing coiling in your center. âIt must have cost you a fortune.â
âGot a veteran discount. And even if I didnât, I couldnât fucking care less about the price,â he murmurs into your skin.
A veteran. A pilot. Once more, always, the notion turns your blood to mush, thick like molasses, saccharine like a schoolgirl crush. And then, a thought, overwhelming, terrible: this man, a veteran, a pilot, dropped everything to fly across the country and make sure you were okay. Because to him, you are worth it. Because he cares. Because youâre his.
Pride, fierce and territorial, tightens your belly. Pride and that something else.Â
âDo you want something to drink?â you manage to ask, a reminder that youâre still very much your motherâs daughter. âCoffee? Something to eat? Do you need to rest?âÂ
âThanks, baby,â he says, straightening up to let you see the wicked grin dimpling his gorgeous face, âI got everything I need right here.â
â
Through the density of his body, tense and giving, through a need stronger than the both of you, in the stifling intimacy of a closed motel room, month after month, week after week, youâve learned him.Â
Out of necessity, youâve allowed time and physical distance to come between you and him, only to find the knowledge is still there, constituent to your very being. Ingrained, ineradicable. Like an instinct, like the sunâs fiery circle burnt into your retinas through closed eyelids.Â
Mellow inside and out, lightheaded and boneless, you follow him to the kitchen. Standing close to him by the steel sink as he washes his hands, enraptured, enamored, chest pressed to the back of his arm, cheek rubbing the brawny swell of his shoulder. Humming, like a cat purrs.Â
You lead him into the room where you eat, sleep, and dream of him, bare walls, sparse furniture you never chose, a single narrow window. Itâs supposed to be home but doesnât feel like it, until he steps in, and everything changes. Â
He looks massive in here, just like he did in the kitchen, too large for your everyday life, all proportions distorted, your perspective reframed by the scale of his shape.Â
You watch him undress, and the details of him resurface. The plane of his solid chest, the breadth of his shoulders, when he removes his jacket. The graceful arabesque of his wrist tattoo, his lean forearms, when his flannel slides off his frame. The dip of his collarbones with its firework of sparkling freckles. His tanned skin, his softer belly, his scars and old wounds, when he tugs off his t-shirt. The trail of darker hair underneath his navel. His thighs, as he slides down his denim, thick and strong, his knees, his calves, the harmonious shape of him, the sum that surpasses the parts, everything so perfect, and you realize just how much you remember, how delusional you had been, thinking you could go on without it.
Everything pushed to the back of your consciousness, so the separation could be bearable.Â
As he stands before you in the gray midday light, your desire is tinged by mute apprehension. You fled Tampa moved by the urgent necessity of your own survival. Now that you've shed most of your scarred skin, now that the danger no longer feels imminent, how will you survive his absence, once heâs gone?
Frankie calls your name, his round husk roping you out of your head, and you ask, âShould I keep my t-shirt?â
âNot today. Today, you take off everything.â
Sat on the edge of your bed, he beckons you, guiding you to stand between his spread thighs with firm, tender hands. The reverence that softens his mahogany eyes, the love and want you find there, itâs all yours. Yours to keep and treasure.Â
The tip of his fingers thread along your curves in a delicate touch, brushing down the back of your legs, up to the small of your back, along your spine. Then down your arms, his lips nestling into the inside of your wrist, smooth and fragrant. A soft trail of love, light kisses and caress, shedding weeks of longing in their wake.Â
You cup his face, thumbs slotting in the bare patches of his scruff jaw, and relish in the way he leans into your hold.Â
He bends into you, his mouth a wet press to your soft belly. The scrape of his teeth, gently teasing.Â
Twining your fingers into his thick curls, your fingernails scrape over his scalp. The echo of his groan reverberates deep into your center, slick leaking warm down your folds. You tug his face back to look at him, and ever so quiet, he hums, the sweetest sound, the greatest gift, eyes flickering shut under the pleading arch of his brow, a smile curling the corner of his lips. So much abandon. So much trust. Youâre falling.
A fleeting memory tugs at your heart, wistful, indelible. Yours for the night only, and your breathing falters, youâre sinking deeper.Â
Yours forever, if youâd only say the word.Â
âDo you remember when you wouldnât let me touch your hair?â you tease, but thereâs hardly any air left in your lungs.Â
His smile broadens.Â
âRemember when you told me your name was Marion?â
Your laughter rushes out of you and his eyes flash open, his smile fully bloomed, transforming his face, all dimples and crinkly eyes.Â
âCome here, Marion,â he chuckles, sitting you over his sturdy lap.Â
All at once, youâre crushed against his chest to the music of his rumbling mmhs, before his embrace loosens, head dipping, nipping at your collarbone, calloused palm skimming up the underside of your breast.
âFucking perfect,â you hear him growl before his mouth latches around your nipple.
You keen, quiet, grateful, eyes fluttering close as his tongue twirls around the hardening bud, hanging on for dear life to the breadth of his shoulders. So many sensations, after feeling so little for so long. Thereâs a live-wire buzzing down from your sternum to your core, and your pulseâs a desperate staccato, you struggle to remain afloat.
With an appreciative sound, he sucks on your nipple, a rough hand squeezing your breast, and when he bites into the soft flesh of it, it shoots straight to your clit. Your hips bucking forward of their own volition, seeking more.
Under your folds, his cock twitches, exquisitely stiff for you, already.Â
âI could come like that, you know?â you pant, rolling your hips into the bulk of his want.
A shake of his curls, and he lets go, his mouth releasing your breast with a wet sound.
âNo,â he husks, teeth ghosting the column of your neck, âyouâre coming on my cock. Put it in.â
Your heart stutters, skips a beat, or two, or several.Â
His fingers dig into the meat of your thighs but heâs not moving you away, and thereâs no space between your sealed bodies, no leeway for any movement. Youâre trapped in his hold, pinned to his skin, glued to the amber golden light of him. And your hips keep rolling, and your heart keeps tripping, and your want keeps swelling.Â
His lips wrap over the beating vein in your neck, sucking on the tender skin, sharp and stinging, teeth sinking into the surfacing blood. You lean into him, lean into the bite, lean into the pain.
You give yourself to it, all the love and the want and the affection, lose yourself in it, limp and pliant as it pours inside you, and everything has a name, now, everything is right, as his touch dissolves all the hurt calcified around your heart, all the fear you wouldnât let out, all the failures and the doubt.Â
You breathe out his name, and he breathes out yours, and youâre whole, bright, in bloom. Brimming with life.
He fits in your hand, warm and hefty, smooth skin and bulging veins, throbbing under the caress of your thumb, leaking thick and tangy over your knuckles, and youâre desperate for a taste, but you canât let him go.
âPut it in, come onâ he grits, but thereâs no bark to his words, only need, bleeding into the bruising furrow of his fingers into the plush of your ass.Â
A lift, youâre weightless in his hold, and heâs pushing thick and stiff at your entrance. Your face hanging above his, lips parted, trembling, and itâs already too much, the way everything within you pulsates and tingles.Â
His gaze levels with yours, and his eyes spear into your eyes before he lowers you onto him with an unyielding grip and a shaky exhalation. And with each splitting inch, the searing girth of him stretching you blind.Â
Fingers curled around his biceps, forehead pressed to his, you sink down to the hilt. The coarse hair at his base grazes your clit and sweat beads over your temple.Â
With measured breaths, he pauses, giving you time to adjust. Eyes skittering over the small line splitting your brow, the quiver of your lip that you're too full to bite down on.Â
For the first time ever, there has been no Stop me. This is something else.Â
This is what comes next. What youâve earned, what youâve prayed for.Â
Thereâs a tremor in his frame, the only evidence of his waning control, and he grabs at your ass, rocking you onto him, languid, scorching, a deep grind, perked up nipples grazing his solid chest, and you're already ascending.Â
âFrankie,â you whine, plead, beg, walls a frantic flutter as his cock slots right into the center of you in rolling waves.
âLet go, Leeâ he rasps, âlet go, I got you.â
With the hushed assurance of his words, round and sincere, your release crackles and tenses. You slump in his arms, undone, rebuilt.
âIâve missed you, Lee,â he presses into the slope of your shoulder, âGod, Iâve missed you.â
â
Heâs insatiable. Some of it is reminiscent of your first encounters at the motel, when his hunger was indiscernible from his rage.Â
Tied up, with your arms behind your back and your face buried in the mattress as he holds your ass up with a bruising grip on your hips and pounds into you hard, rough, relentless.Â
His fingers tangled in your sweat-damp hair, your knees on the hard tiles of the shower as he fucks your throat until you forget how to breathe.Â
And suddenly reverential, his gentleness nearly too much when he wakes you up to cover your body in kisses and strokes. Overwhelming, the desperation with which he seeks the contact of your skin, his gaze spearing into your eyes as he grinds deep into your heat.Â
The urgent, low husk of his voice when he murmurs, âTell me what you want, Lee, let me give you what you need.âÂ
When he sits you on his face and relents control, when you pull on his curls to press him closer to where you want him, shameless and wanton, riding your release.
â
âAnd what about the Russians?â you ask, propping your chin on his chest. âHave you ever fought against the Russians?â
âJesus, woman,â he laughs, âhow old do you think I am?â
âIâm not talking Cold War Russians, Iâm talking CIA stuff. I know you lot, Delta operatives.â
âOh yea?â he grins, cocking an eyebrow. âWhat have you heard?â
A mischievous expression dances on your face and he chuckles again, a wider grin pulling his lips. Lightheaded, is one way to put it. Melting inside is another. Giddy like a teenager with your levity.Â
Your eyes flicker down to his dimple and you lift your hand off his chest to brush your finger into the dip in his cheek. You keep it there for a beat, seemingly absorbed, enthralled by the touch, and then itâs over. You lower your head back onto him, cheek resting right over his scar, he knows thereâs no coincidence to it.
Frankie lets out a silent sigh. His head lolls back on the fat pillow. Twenty-nine Fridays, carved out and hollow. Twenty-nine weeks, 1123 miles, carrying his love and hunger like a penance, and then this. Your naked body tucked against his, under the thick downy comforter, in this tiny room saturated with your scent. Your taste on his tongue. Your easy laughter. Your gaze sinking into his eyes. It's a blessed sensory overload. That old slicing ache in his chest singing another song.Â
Somehow, you look younger than when he last saw you. Maybe not younger, just more carefree. Understandably so. Those last weeks in Tampa, you had become so frail. But youâve put on some weight since. It sits harmoniously on your figure, suits your features and brightens up your face. Means thereâs more of you, too, and he canât keep his hands from roaming your curves.Â
He knows heâs gotta talk to you at some point. Itâll kill the mood, probably. Inform you of that decision Lupe took that will affect his life for the foreseeable future. Affect yours as well, maybe. To some extent at least. That insane rippling effect. His past choices always breathing down his neck, when heâd give everything for a clean slate.
But you look so fucking delicious. He went so fucking long, too fucking long without you, now he cannot get enough. Itâs too soon to risk it.Â
There were plans. An itinerary you had drafted in the short lapse of time it had taken him to organize his trip here, and that youâd texted him on the night before his flight. Things you wanted to show him, places that matter to you. The Coney Island boardwalk, the Guggenheim, and some marine paintings in the Frick Collection you were excited to share with him. Heâd texted back with some requests of his own: your office building, the place in Brooklyn where you attend the evening classes, your favorite places to eat.Â
But since he arrived, heâs kept you in, or you have him, he cannot tell. Either way, the two of you havenât left the dim apartment, and any notion of time has been reduced to the alternation of semi-dark urban nights and stonewashed winter days.Â
He tries not to dwell on the fact that your apartment barely looks lived in. Bare walls, save for that map in your kitchen, if he can even call that a kitchen. Your suitcase standing beside the dresser, like youâre ready to take off. No curtains, no rug, no lampshade. Itâs almost like you donât really want to settle. Like youâre still trying to decide if you truly belong here.Â
The only evidence of you is taped to the mirror above the dresser. A Polaroid of a kid in pigtails blowing raspberries, washed out yellow and blurry by the years. Your sister, if he had to guess.Â
And that receipt tucked between the pages of a leather-bound book on your nightstand. From the cantina. That very first Friday he brought food to the motel. He checked the date stamp.Â
It breaks his heart, the way youâre torn and scattered. Neither here nor there. His guilt might be irrelevant, misplaced, but it churns his insides nonetheless.
Still, New York is where you live now. Youâve made some good friends, work a job you seem to like enough to give it your best. Itâs probably just a matter of time before you store away the suitcase.Â
Part of him wants to go out and explore this city that has robbed you from him. Learn everything he can about your life here, so that when he flies out on Saturday morning, he can picture you in your environment, going about your daily life. Anything to try to survive your absence.Â
He wants to meet your family. A dinner is scheduled sometime this week with your sister and her girlfriend. Heâd like to meet your friends. Further explore the mixed emotions and feelings he experiences whenever you mention these people, whenever he thinks of them. Gratitude, for the affection and comfort they give you. Envy, for the parts of you that are familiar to them and that himself will never get to know.Â
The person you are when youâre with them.Â
âFrankie?â you call quietly, your leg a smooth brush against his as you hitch it higher.
âYes, baby?â
âHave you ever thought about how people are like⌠made of layers?â
âThatâs funny, I was just thinking about it.â
âReally?â you exclaim.Â
Your head pops up comically, and his jaw tenses. Why canât he bring himself to let you see the dopey smile that melts his face whenever you look at him like this? Until now, heâs never felt vulnerable demonstrating his affection.Â
But things with you are different. That living pull between you is too big, bigger than him. He senses it thrumming behind your lungs while it whirs inside his chest like an answer, constantly, it might bleed him dry with its intensity. Like first love. Pristine. Brand new. All encompassing.Â
âMmh,â he grunts, gathering his brain. âYea. Or maybe like puzzles?â
âYes,â you agree, your tone serious, and you scoot up a notch, propping your head in your hand, so you donât have to crane your neck to look at him, âpuzzles, exactly. And everyone you know holds a different piece of you.â
âYea, pretty much, I guess.â
âAnd so the puzzle of you is never truly complete because the pieces are never all together at once.â
You pause, pondering over your reflection.Â
âDo you think all the pieces could fit together, if they were assembled?â Frankie asks after a moment, a strange sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, like his center of gravity has suddenly shifted.Â
âProbably not,â you muse, head shaking imperceptibly, your gaze lost somewhere in the distance.
The memory of the motel room resurfaces, stifling heat, amber lighting. The distance that sometimes clouded your eyes, your silent retreat within yourself, that inner world of yours, your island. Week after week, getting closer, within his reach, yet never fully accessible. He swallows thickly.Â
âI think you got all my pieces,â you say in a casual tone, in contradiction with his thoughts. Â
He tightens his grip around your waist.
âI donât think I do, baby. But itâs okay,â he lies, as if heâs not free-falling from the sky, plummeting straight into your ocean.Â
Slipping out of his hold, you sit up on the rumpled bed, your naked back turned to him.Â
âDo you think Iâve got all your pieces?â you ask.
âGod, I hope not,â he sighs, running a palm over his face.Â
Hugging your knees, you lean forward, away from him. The room is thick with a compact silence, as if all the sounds were absorbed by fresh snow.
âWhy donât you tell me whatâs on your mind?â he asks, brushing his knuckles along your spine. A shiver fizzles under his touch.
âI was wondering⌠Is it important? Do you have to know someone to love them? Whatâs the right balance between knowing your partner, and knowing yourself? Whatâs the tipping point?â
His hand splays over your lower back.
âThe tipping point to what?â
You shake your head in frustration, straightening your back, your knee bumped against his thigh. Offering him your profile, but not your direct gaze.
âI donât know how to explain. When do you start losing yourself to be what others⌠what people expect you to be? At what moment do you start feeling isolated? Misunderstood? In a relationship, I mean? Because thatâs the beginning of the end.â
âFuck, Lee, I donâtâ I donât have those answers,â he frowns, sitting up with a cinch. âI know I love you, all of you, even the pieces I donât know. I donât want you to ever feel like you have to be someone else.âÂ
Reaching behind you, you take his hand and weave your fingers with his. Your fingertips are cold, and he squeezes his into the back of your hand, to imprint some of his heat into you. Some of his words, too.Â
At last, you fully turn. Under your scowl, something darkens your gaze. Something Frankie cannot decipher. His face close to yours, his eyes boring into your eyes, the moment tightens his throat, decisive, important. The pregnant silence. The gray winter light painting shades of blue on your pale skin. The old pain spears through his heart, sweet and beaming. Itâs gonna split him in half. He knows heâll never forget it. Never let go of this sensation.Â
âI trust you, Frankie.â
âI trust you, too.â
Your brow shifts, the tiniest inflection, and your eyes widen, luminous like a rising sun, like a summer morning.
âI promise Iâll always be honest with you.â
âI promise Iâll always be honest with you, baby,â he rasps, the weight of his secret sitting on the back of his tongue.Â
â
On the fourth day, at last, you venture outside, ushered by your sisterâs and Pollyâs dinner invitation.Â
The itinerary had to be stripped to the bare minimum. Frankie will be flying out in two nights. Your heart stutters and sinks every time you think of him leaving.Â
The cold is unforgiving, the sky a gray shade of white, heavy and full like a quilted blanket. Against reason, you offer to take him to Coney Island, where the Atlantic wind will freeze the ears off your head. Youâre not sure why itâs important for you to take him there, but he says heâs game.Â
Bundled up in your thrift store coat, your face half concealed between a scarf the size of a tablecloth and a wool hat, you watch him brave the cruel temperatures with nothing more than a Sherpa lined trucker jacket over a fleece shirt, and his ragged Standard Heating Oil cap.Â
As you stand and shiver, waiting for the bus âthe first act of an interminable routeâ the tip of his ears poke out from underneath his curls, reddened by the frosty air. Sliding your numbed-out hand in his, youâre surprised by the warmth of his palm. Your mind wanders to the harsh conditions his former life has trained him to endure. You squeeze his hand with all of your strength.Â
Later, sitting side by side on the subwayâs hard plastic seats, you rant to him about your love-hate relationship with the NYC Metropolitan Transportation Authority. The never-ending rides, ideal for reading, listening to music, or idle contemplation. The welcome aloneness of anonymity, in a sea of indifferent strangers.Â
He listens, his sharp profile tilted down in concentration over your words, and youâre mindful to downplay the downsides, the maddening time-consuming sprawl of the city, the promiscuity, the last-minute route changes and the undecipherable PA announcements.Â
Itâs not a lie as much as an omission. You canât send him back over there with the knowledge that despite all its perks, youâve failed to make this place your home.Â
Thinking of your earlier promise, you fall silent, the deafening thunder of the trainâs wheels over the tracks ringing out in your ears like a metallic injunction.
Your head lolls onto the round slope of his padded shoulder. His large hand curls over your thigh with a strong squeeze as he presses his lips to your temple.Â
âWhat are you thinking, baby?â
âI was thinking that Iâm not sure if Iâll ever get used to living here,â you confess.
His shoulder slumps under your cheek.Â
Itâs another hour on the F train before you make it to the ocean.Â
On the boardwalk, by the deserted amusement park, the wind slices through you, biting the exposed skin of your cheeks and chilling your bones. The defunct Parachute Jump stands erect like a skeletal sentinel, guarding over the memories of summers past. The graceful Wonder Wheelâs silhouette stands out in bright colors against the bleak December sky, like a benevolent promise, the assurance of continuity and the return of better days.Â
âI think itâs my favorite season to be here,â you murmur.
âI can see the appeal,â Frankie rasps against the wind, eyes trained on the line of the horizon over your head. His arms circling your waist, the wall of his solid heat at your back.
âWhat have you told your sister about me?â he asks after a moment.
âNot much. Are you nervous?â
âNo, not really. Wait, should I be? Her girlfriendâs a shrink, right?â
You laugh heartily, and immediately regret it when air made of pure frost rushes inside your lungs, freezing its way to the very end of your bronchioles.Â
âPollyâs nice, donât worry about her. Donât worry about either of them. I love them, but Iâm not waiting for their blessing.â
Youâre done abiding that collective âwe.â Another resolve rising up to the surface without your conscious knowledge of the process.Â
âOh shit, look at that,â Frankie exclaims.Â
Above you, snowflakes descend from the white sky in a fast-paced twirl. Your very first New York snow. Itâs neither fluffy nor cute, though, more like fierce little icy shards barreling toward you like small crystalline weapons.Â
Your first thought is of his child.
âHas Lua ever seen the snow?â
âNo.â
You squint against the wind and the stabbing snow, against the white daylight and all of your past hesitations.
âI can't wait to meet her, you know.â
He pulls you in closer, reaching out for your body through layers and layers of winter clothes.Â
For a while now, the feeling has grown steady and strong inside of you, taking up more space each day. Nurtured by the pictures and many stories youâve asked Frankie to share with you. This time, youâre better equipped to name it, from the very beginning. And itâs strange, in a tranquil kind of way, the unconditionality of this love. The irrationality of it. You love her, without any reason for it. You love her, just because.Â
âHow is it, being a parent? Did you know from the start what to do?â
âOh fuck no,â he scoffs wryly. âMost of the time, I feel like sheâs the one teaching me how to be her dad.â
The honesty of the statement makes you smile.
âDo you think you could bring her, next time?â
âSheâs gonna have to get used to it.â
Frankieâs words reach your ear as youâve already spoken yours. You whip around in his arms to face him, struck by the look on his face. Like heâs trying to chew his molars.
âWait, what? Used to what?â
âSheâs gonna have to get used to the snow.â
â
Your eyes are fucking blazing, so big they eat up half your face. A single teardrop clings to your lashes, from the near polar gale, probably, and youâre shivering cold.Â
He canât stall any longer. Not again. Not this time. Not when he just gave you his word to always be honest with you.Â
âLuaâs mother's getting married. Theyâll be moving to Rochester in the spring. Her fiancĂŠâs from there. His father passed away a couple weeks ago, and his mother has ALS. He wants to move back to take care of her.â
âRochester⌠New York, Rochester?â
Frankie nods. Against his chest, your lean figure grows stiff.Â
âSheâs taking Lua with her?â you ask in a thin voice.Â
Frankie nods again. The wind picks up in gusts, those sharp snowflakes falling down obliquely, murderous, whipping your faces relentlessly. He wants to get you somewhere inside, somewhere warm. What if you get sick when heâs about to leave?Â
Why you seem to fall for the things that are the most arduous to love is a complete mystery to him. This place in the winter. Him.
Your fingers curl around his lapel.Â
âSheâs taking Lua, yea. We talked about it. Iâm gonna have to relocate. Thereâs no way Iâm seeing my kid less than I already do. I started scouting for jobs in the area.â
âIs that why you came here? To tell me?â
âI came here because you said you needed to see me, Lee,â he answers, the hint of a scowl sharpening his tone.
You tilt down your face and furrow into his neck, your woolly hat a fuzzy tickle against the scruff of his chin. Your unrelenting tenderness, that brought him back from the darkness.
âIâve checked the flights here from up there. Itâs a short trip, a little under two hours. I could come down to visit every other weekend. If you want me to, of courseâ he adds, his voice warped with sheer fucking terror, his heart thumping in his throat.Â
âI donât like it,â you shoot right back, rising your face to look him dead in the eye.Â
Itâs that same look again, the one from that very first night at the bar, feverish, lost, hopeful against all odds, against your better judgment. Instinctively, his hands fly to cup your face. Itâs cold as marble, and his palms ignite at the contact of your skin, again, still, always. Your eyes pool with something dark and dense, your fingers leaving his jacket to cuff his wrists.Â
âEvery other weekend isnât enough, Frankie. Itâs not enough.â
âWhat are you saying, Lee?â
âI'm saying I want to go there with you.â
His pain huffs out of him. Disbelief in a puff of white breath.Â
âYou want to follow my ex and her new husband to fucking nowhere up north, when you just settled here?â
Brow pinched in a stern expression, you nod frantically between his palms.
âYes. I want to be with you.â
âWhat about your sister? Your job? Your friends? What aboutââ
âI can find another job,â you cut it, words punching out of you and landing straight into his gut. âYou said itâs only two hours to fly here, I can visit them, I want to be with you, Frankie, please, please, pleaââ
His mouth crashes over yours, silencing your plea. Your lips are icy-cold as you press back into his kiss. He feels your arms rounding his back, your little fists bunching his jacket, clinging to his shoulders. He could swear he feels your heart, too, pounding loud against his, leaping out into his rib cage, exactly where he wants it, where he needs it, next to his, to keep it warm and safe.Â
How did he get here, on this freezing boardwalk, facing the dark immensity of the Atlantic Ocean on the cusp of a second chance? On the verge of everything he never dared to long for? Everything he has ever truly wanted?Â
âYouâre gonna come with me, baby?â he chokes, the words rolling thick over his tongue.Â
âYes,â you sniffle, a tear running down your cheek.
âYouâre gonna let me love you? Gonna let me build you a home?â
âYes, Frankie,â you nod again, a smile tugging your lips, more tears slipping down your face, and heâs surprised the wind doesnât turn them into pear-shaped diamonds.Â
âOkay. Okay, alright,â he smiles. âCan we get somewhere warm now?â
You laugh, leaning into his hold. Blue lips, red cheeks, pink scar. Eyes of gold.Â
âYes,â you agree with another sniff. âRemember when we wished for seasons?â
The End
****
End notes: alright, Orange bedroom besties, raise your hand who thought they wouldn't end up together? I tried, this time I really tried, but there's nothing I can deny this man... or you, I guess?
This series took a big chunk out of my life. It consumed a lot of my heart, time, energy, brain, emotions... Wow, look at that, not unlike therapy, huh? Anyway, enough about me, my point is, THANK YOU.
Thank you for your patience, I know I'm the slowest and I feel terrible, thank you for reading, or for just passing by, thank you for bookmarking for later, engaging, lurking, liking, commenting, reblogging, sending an ask, reccing, thank you for supporting me in any way and manner, thank you thank you thank you, Ily and I appreciate you, genuinely, so very much đ§Ą
Thank you Kelli my love, for beta reading that whole damn thing with so much kindness, for teaching me so patiently, for holding my hand every step of the way, for listening to my endless rambling, for being you, smart and talented, selfless and gracious, for being my friend. This is a story about hope, and your stories brought back hope into my life. I love you, I like you, I admire you, until the end of times đ§Ą
Thank you Lua @pedrit0-pascalit0 for letting me love you on main, oops I mean use your name! Thank you for sharing your thots on the Pilot⢠with me, thank you for being a menace in DMs and keeping me alive and alert with your smart and talent and humor. Ily. Big loads đ§Ą
@dreamymyrrh you know what you did, and everything you gave this story. I'm so grateful for you 𧥠I love you more, I don't want to hear anything, shhhhh đ§Ą
Now I'm gonna go lie in the dark utterly terrified that I won't ever have another idea or write another word rest a little bit and get back to work as soon as inspiration strikes again!
if iâm ever brutally murdered and everyone feels like they need to do something productive in my memory, all i want is for you to pass legislation banning LED headlights in my name. regardless of how irrelevant it is to my murder. itâs relevant to my heart.
cws/tags: 1st person pov joel, angst, discussions of sex trafficking/sexual assault, death, mild smut, au where nothing bad happens between ellie and joel, author has not played tlou 2 yet (donate to kofi lmao), guns, alcohol consumption, light enemies to lovers, cordyceps works different in this one (more predictable and slower-acting)
summary: joel's letter to reader
a/n: i watched the beginning of tlou (joel playing guitar) and it made me cry so hard. so, this is inspired by that, but also i listened to funeral by arcade fire and for emma, forever ago by bon iver while writing this. neighborhood #4 (7 kettles) by arcade fire makes me cry so hard.
thank you to @jennaispunk for beta reading/proofreading !
join my taglist | purchase a commission
divider is from @danowh0re
playlist for fic: required listening!!
I thought therapy was a bunch of bullshit - a scam at worst, a waste of my time at best. But, since you left us, Tommyâs been making me go. He keeps saying, âitâs what she wouldâve wantedâ, and I think it is. But, that doesnât mean I like it.Â
My therapist told me if Iâm not gonna talk to her about my past, I should at least talk to someone. I told her Iâd talk to you, if you were here. She told me it was a good idea, that I should write it out in a letter. She told me I could write to you, or to Sarah, but I figured Iâd better write to you âcause thereâs some things a daughter shouldnât hear about her dad. Even - especially - the most fun times heâs had. Iâll get to those later.Â
Did you know I hated you when we first met? I never told you, but I think you knew. I thought you were a self-important, entitled bitch who acted like sheâd been through hell when I knew she hadnât because of how well-adjusted she seemed. I thought you had some sort of unearned valor. I know thatâs not the right way to put it. I think the word Iâm looking for is ârespectâ. Tommy, Maria, even Ellie were so quick to respect you when I had to earn it.Â
âThe reason people donât like you is because youâre an asshole,â you told me. âYouâre fucking scary when youâre mad, too.â
âWhatâs that saying? Itâs better to be feared than to be loved?â
âThatâs what Machiavelli said, but that doesnât mean heâs right.â
I think he was wrong. I was jealous of how much everyone loved you, and they didnât love me because they feared me. You were so fucking right, and that was one of the things that I hated most about you.Â
I used to think about how young you were in comparison to an old man like me, how you were only a little younger than Sarah wouldâve been, and how stupid I wouldâve felt if Sarah was always outsmarting me. Until I remembered all the times that Sarah did just that, and how much I loved her for it, rather than in spite of it. (Note to self: tell Sarah this in your letter to her).Â
Thatâs not to say I loved you, not yet. I did love you, but I realized that a little later. I had to learn to like you first.Â
Do you remember our first day out on patrol together? I begged Tommy to change my schedule. I would rather have spent my time with anyone else in the community -- Hell, I wouldâve asked Tommy to give you a day off if itâd get me out of having to work alongside you.Â
You overheard me talking to Tommy, and said to me, âYou could at least wait until Iâm out of earshot to bitch about me, you know?â
âI know,â I said.Â
And we didnât talk for almost the whole shift. Well, I didnât talk, but you kept on talking, almost like you were talking to yourself. You didnât even care that I was ignoring you.Â
âItâs okay. I donât like people either.â
âWho says I donât like people?â
âYour face, your voice, basically your whole demeanor.â
You were so honest, and you had every right to be. It shut me right back up again. I donât know if thatâs what you wanted. Maybe you thought provoking me would make me talk, but Iâm a stubborn, old asshole. I donât think you need me to tell you that. Â
âWhat did I do to piss you off?â You asked, after I gave you what you viewed as the silent treatment, and what I saw as peace and quiet.Â
âNothing. I just think youâre a little bit... egotistical.â
âSo are you. You think you know everything.â
âNo, but I know more than you. You havenât got half the experience I have, and believe me, kid, you donât want it.â
âYouâre so melodramatic. And for what? Has the brooding bad boy behavior gotten you laid yet?â
For your information, yes, it had absolutely gotten me laid. Â
But before I could tell you that, you stopped me, looked me dead in the eye, and said, âand by the way, you have no idea what youâre talking about.â
âTell me, then.â
âTell you what?â
âAbout all the horrors youâve experienced. If Iâm so wrong, then prove it.â I challenged you because I thought you wouldnât be able to come up with anything. I wouldnât have said that if Iâd known what I do now.Â
You were so angry that you laughed at me. âFuck you. You donât deserve to know shit about me.â
A couple weeks later we knew each otherâs whole life stories. I told you more than Iâve ever told anyone else, more than I think I ever will tell anyone else. It started when we got lost in the woods together. We were arguing as usual, and we only got ourselves even more lost. The sun was starting to go down, and I could see it in your eyes - you were getting scared. Maybe, for a second, I took some sort of satisfaction in knowing that you were the one who couldnât handle it, but Iâm still human - it feels a little cruel saying that now - so I wasnât gonna let you suffer.Â
âItâs not gonna do us any good to keep arguing, so can we agree to drop it?â
âTruce,â you said, holding out your hand, and when I shook it, you added, âbut let it be known that you surrendered.â
âDonât push it. You know if we stay out here long enough that we have to resort to eating each otherâs flesh, youâre gonna be my dinner, not the other way around.â
âI hope I taste good.âÂ
You did, baby. Youâre the sweetest thing Iâve ever tasted.Â
I think we had our first date that night. Sort of. It was late when we got back. Most people were asleep, and the bar was closed, but you had the key.Â
âTommy gave you a spare key?â
âUh-huh. I assumed you had one too, but I guess Iâm the favorite.â
âYouâre prettier than me. Of course, you are.âÂ
I still canât believe I said that -- I wasnât even drinking yet. I can be a real idiot when Iâm talking to a beautiful woman.Â
âDonât be so hard on yourself. You looked very pretty when you bothered to wash your hair last week.â
âI wash my hair, okay? Sorry Iâm old and donât wake up looking like a supermodel.â
âWho does?â
âI know you want me to say âyouâ, but Iâm not taking the bait.â
âThatâs okay. I know youâre thinking it, and thatâs what matters.â
I was thinking much more than that, darling.Â
You walked behind the counter, and asked me, âwhat do you drink?â, and I think that was the moment I knew I liked you. You couldâve --shouldâve -- told me to fuck off. You had other friends (not that we were quite âfriendsâ), but you chose me that night. I was a real fixer-upper of a companion, but maybe you liked a challenge.Â
âWhiskey. Neat.â
You gave me that look -- that fuckinâ look -- that raised eyebrow and a tiny smirk. And it made me feel like a teenager caught staring at his crush.Â
âPlease and thank you," I added.Â
You got up on the stool behind the bar, grabbed the bottle on the top shelf, and said, âyou deserve it.â
âNo, I donât,â I said. âBut Iâll take it.â
You sat beside me, and sipped your whiskey. (And you looked pretty hot doing it.) After a good minute of silence you said, âthank you for not killing me and eating me in the woods.â
âIâd get pretty goddamn bored if I didnât have you yapping in my ear constantly.â
âI thought you hated it.â
âOnly sometimes.â
âThen, why donât you ever talk to me?â
âIâm talking to you right now.â
âBarely.â
So, I turned to you, put my elbow on the counter, laid my head in my hand, and gave you the same face you were giving me. I tried to pretend I was mocking you, but I think you knew I was trying to practice being more likable, being more like you.Â
âTell me something,â you said.
âWhat do you want me to tell you?â
âTell me about you.â
âMy name is Joel Miller-â
âWeâre not at AA.â
âYouâre goddamn right weâre not. This would be the shittiest AA meeting ever.â
âOkay, okay. How about you tell me when your birthday is?â
âSeptember 26th, 1981.â
âSo, youâre a Libra.â
âOh câmon, tell me youâre not into that shit. I was finally starting to tolerate you.â
âIâm a Cancer.â
âTell me something I donât know.â
âCancer like the crab, not like the disease!â
âMm-hmm. Iâm sure youâre familiar with crabs as well.â
I got a laugh and a smack on the arm in return, and the laugh was worth the smack.Â
âIâm sorry, Iâm sorry.â
âItâs okay. I know you canât help being an asshole, so at least youâre making me laugh.â
I didnât realize your hand was still on my arm until you asked me, âWhatâd you do before this? Youâve got nice arm muscles.â
âI worked in construction, I was a contractor.â
âLike a carpenter?â
âYeah.â
âThatâs what Jesus was. I bet he had good arm muscles.â
âI donât think thatâs his most notable feature, but sure, why not?â
Despite the fact that we were talking all things Jesus, you were feeling me up. And you werenât subtle about it at all.Â
âDo you wanna play darts?â you asked, breaking the tension.
âOkay.â
You walked up to the dartboard all confident, and I expected an instant bullseye. Youâd only had one drink and you were focusing so hard, practicing the swing of your arm like a golfer would. The first shot missed the board entirely.
And thatâs when I learned you were awful at darts.Â
âYouâre terrible at this.â
âYeah, I know.â
âThen, whyâd you ask me to play?â
âFor fun. Plus, how else am I gonna get better?â
You werenât even close to the bullseye. You werenât even hitting the board at all half the time. Over the next couple of years, you got better, not a lot better -- I still won every game we ever played -- but you got closer. But, close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, as they say. It probably counts in terms of people too -- I like to think our closeness counted for something, even if it couldn't last forever.
âYouâre lucky youâre pretty," I said.
âYouâre lucky youâre good at darts," you fired back.
âIs that an insult? Because Iâm holding a sharp object and Iâve got good aim.â And with that, I threw the final dart, hit the bullseye, and won. âWhat do I get?â
âFor what?â
âWinning.â
âYou get to keep your pride.â
I was happy with that, but you turned back to me, stepped closer and whispered, âand this,â before you kissed me.Â
I donât know which one of us was more nervous. All I knew was that I liked you a lot more when you were quiet. All I heard from you was a little gasp when I lifted you onto the counter so I could keep kissing you without having to lean down and hurt my back âcause Iâm an old man. I really thought my brooding bad boy look was gonna get me laid again that night, but you stopped me before I could get your top off.Â
âUh-uh,â you said. âYouâre gonna have to do more than beat me at darts if you want more than a kiss.â
âFair enough. Whatâs your price?â
âIâm not a hooker.â
I didnât understand why you looked so upset until that day by the water when you told me. Iâm sorry I said that, I really am.
âSorry. What I shouldâve said is, âCan I take you to dinner on Friday?ââ
You gave me a nonchalant âsureâ, and I assumed youâd keep it hush-hush, but you bragged about getting asked out. Why would you brag about me? That's something I still don't understand.
The next day, I went and asked Tommy for advice because I hadnât dated in a long time, and heâs more of the romantic type. I thought our dinner date would be news to him, but youâd already told him.Â
âYeah, I know. She came in here asking for advice too actually.âÂ
Heâs got a bigger mouth than you do. Thatâs why you two got along so well -- you were like those little old ladies gossiping at the hair salon.Â
âWhatâd she say?â
âIâm sworn to secrecy.â
But Tommy always had a certain loyalty to you. He keeps your secrets to this day -- some of âem.Â
âGive me some advice, please.â
âYou were married once. You won a womanâs heart. Just do what you did back then.â
âI think youâre forgetting the fact that my marriage ended in divorce.â
âJust be yourself.â
âThatâs bullshit.â
âYeah, it is. How about smiling for once?â
I tried, but Iâd almost forgotten how to over the years.Â
Tommy feigned disgust and said, âI take it back. Keep your usual pissed-off look.â
You taught me how to smile again. I donât know that you meant to do it, but you did. Tommy says he knows when Iâm thinking about you because of the way I smile.Â
When I came over to pick you up for dinner, you opened the door wearing a bathrobe with your hair in curlers. I guess I was looking at you funny because you made sure to tell me, âDonât worry, Iâm not wearing this out. Go sit in the living room.â
âIâm not worried. You look beautiful already.â
âI do not. I look like my grandmother.â
âI imagine she mustâve been a hot commodity then.â
âShe was actually -- or at least, thatâs the story she used to tell us. She was Prom Queen and all that jazz.â
You could talk for hours, about anything. I could say one word and you could give me a tangentially related 20 minute long monologue. You were a good storyteller. I donât think I ever told you this, but I used to think about how youâd be great at making up stories for our kids one day -- if we ever had them. I know I told you I didnât want to have any, but thatâs one of the few lies I told you. I was too scared to imagine that kind of a future with you.Â
I had you in the present, and thatâs what I cared about. I donât remember what you wore that night because I spent most of our date looking at your face, trying to memorize every dimple, freckle or scar I could see. All the details.
Iâm sure your dress fit perfectly, but what I cared about was how your hand felt when I took it in mine as we walked to the restaurant -- it felt right, more so with our fingers intertwined on the way home.Â
It was one of the longest dinner dates in my not-so-long history of dating as it took you quite a while to finish your meal because you donât talk with your mouth full (usually). I think our waitress was mad that we were there for so long. They were cleaning up by the time you were done eating.Â
I donât remember all the things you said. Even if I did, I donât have enough paper to write it all down. But I do remember when you asked me, âCan I tell you a secret?âÂ
âSure.âÂ
âThis is my first date.â
I wouldâve been less surprised if youâd told me youâd killed someone.
âMine too,â I said.Â
âLiar! Tommy said you were married... before all of this.â
âDoes Tommy tell you everything about me?â
âNo. He wouldnât tell me when your birthday was. Thatâs why I asked you.â
âThatâs âcause he forgot it.â
Really, I wanted to know if he told you about Sarah, or if Iâd have to do it myself. Both. As it turned out, he told you before we ever really met. I told you by the river, but that came later.Â
When I walked you home, we lingered by your door, and when I leaned in to kiss you goodnight, you turned your head, and I shouldâve realized how special you were to me âcause I felt my heart sink. But, you asked me to come inside. You were always shy about kissing in public, but not on your living room couch.Â
When we were inside, you let me take off your dress, but only after I agreed to take off my shirt.Â
âJesus,â you said when you watched me undress.Â
âWe talked enough about Jesus last time. Itâs about you and me now, baby.â
I learned to be a gentleman growing up in Texas, that wining and dining a lady includes putting her first in the bedroom too. But you called the shots -- that night and all of the others we had together. You got down on your knees and gave me the most irresistible face. It was embarrassing how quickly I came. Itâs still embarrassing, and youâre not even here to tease me about it anymore. I thought Iâd get the chance to prove myself to you that night, but you stopped me. I remembered what you said, âthis is my first dateâ, and I assumed you were a virgin.Â
It was about a week later when I was trying to teach you how to skip rocks in the river that I asked you if you were one.Â
âItâs not a big deal if you are -- not to me, I mean. I just figured maybe because you said that was your first date.â
âItâs kind of a long story, so take a seat if you want the answer.â
I donât know what I expected you to say, but I already felt like Iâd fucked up by asking. I didnât want to make this mess Iâd gotten myself into worse than it already was, so I sat next to you and waited for you to speak.Â
âItâs not actually a long story, I guess. Just a sad one.â
It was the first sad story you told me, and you told me more stories than Iâd ever been told by anyone else at this point. It was impressive how many happy ones you held onto, especially after everything that you told me that day.Â
You didnât look at me while you spoke. You mumbled and picked at the grass beneath you. Like a child.Â
âIâm not a virgin, but I wasnât lying when I said that was my first date. Thereâs just some stuff that you donât know about me... âcause I didnât want you to know these things about me. But itâs not like I was ever gonna get away with not telling you. Itâs better that it happens now anyway.â
You started to cry, so I put my hand on your shoulder, but you shrugged it off. I was so used to the one doing the pushing away that being pushed away was jarring.Â
âBefore I came to Jackson, I used to do things for money. Those sorts of things. Itâs not like I wanted to, âcause Iâm not like that, you know.â
You explained how youâd lost both your parents by the time you were 16 and didnât have any siblings, so you ended up with whatever friends you could find. Some of the few good people that were left.Â
âThere was a group of men who killed my friends just to loot their pockets, but they realized that itâd be more profitable to keep me alive.â
âSo they forced you to...â
âHave sex for supplies, yeah. One of them was my first time, I guess. They did that stuff for a while, but once Iâd been with a decent amount of men, they decided I was too âused upâ or something to be worth having sex with. I canât decide if that made me feel better or worse. On the one hand, I didnât have to have sex with them anymore, but I was also too gross to be wanted.â
ââUsed upâ is bullshit. Back when the world was a little more civilized, those bastards couldâve gone to jail.â
âTheyâre dead.â
âDid you kill âem?â
âNo, but I thought about it all the time. I remember thinking about strangling a man once. He was alone, so no one wouldâve seen me do it, and the guys couldâve taken all of his shit too. They probably wouldâve been happy if I had. I think thatâs why I didnât.â
âIf you didnât kill them, then how did they die?â
It probably wasnât appropriate for me to pry, but the sadistic part of me needed to know that they got what was coming for them. I needed to know there was some justice left in this world.Â
âThey wanted food from some guy whoâd gone hunting and they tried to sell me to him, but he said ânoâ. He looked so offended that I thought I was pissed off âcause theyâd given him a bad deal... but he shot the one standing in front of him. Then, he yelled at me to turn around and I was sure I was gonna die, but I heard him walk into the other room, another shot, and when the third walked in from outside, another shot. He walked over to me, and I started crying and begging him not to kill me. He told me he wasnât going to, but he made me close my eyes while he led me out of the house.â
ââCause he didnât want you to see the bodies.â
âYeah... and I still thought he was going to kill me, even when he took me with him on his horse, and said he was taking me back to some place called âJacksonâ.âÂ
I donât know if I would say you got a happy ending, at least, not the one you deserved, but I saw a hint of a smile when you mentioned Jackson. And you didnât have to tell me who the man was -- I know him well.Â
âTommy,â I said, confident in my guess.
âYeah.â
After I dropped you off at home, I went by his place and thanked him. And then I went home and cried. For the first time in a decade.
âYou know it doesnât change how I feel about you, right?â
âHow do you feel about me?â
âI like you⌠most of the time.âÂ
What I meant was, I love you. I just didnât know it yet.Â
âI guess I owe you a story too, then.â
âYou donât owe me anything... but you can tell me whatever you want.â
I think part of me wanted to tell you, or at least, part of me wanted you to know. âI had a daughter.â
âI know.â
I shouldâve known, considering how close you and Tommy were.
âTommy told you, didnât he?â
âTo be fair to him, he told me he had a niece.â
âYeah, he did. Sheâd be a little older than you. Itâs crazy to think that sheâd be in her 30s when the last time I saw her she was 13.â
âI know saying âIâm sorryâ doesnât really do anything, but Iâm still sorryâ
âIn a way, Iâm glad she doesnât have to see all these things. All the infected. She died before we ever had to go to a QZ.â
When you told me about the first QZ you lived in as a kid, it confirmed that for me. It pained me to hear about you watching your dad get bitten and leaving him behind, saying goodbye without knowing he was dying -- in one way or another.Â
You told me later about how the only person youâd ever killed was your own mother, how she used to sell herself like you did, how you missed the first shot and you saw how scared she was to die. I think you had it worse than I did.Â
âI think she was mostly scared because she knew I couldnât do shit with a gun, and that Iâd end up surviving the way that she did... and she was right.â
âNeither of you deserved it, and I bet sheâd be proud of you now.â
âWhy?â
ââCause Iâm proud of you.â
You cried, but you finally let me hold you. You cried so long that I thought youâd never stop.Â
Do you remember your last day? I told you I wanted to be with you until the end, but you reminded me about your mother. You told me that even if a shot to the head had to be the way you went out, I wasnât going to be there to give it to you. We had two choices: either wait until that day came or let you go before then. I said I wanted to go with you. I wanted to ask Tommy to give me the same cocktail he was gonna cook up for you. You said no. It was your last wish that I stayed.Â
âI donât wanna live without you.â
âI donât wanna die, but I donât get to choose. If I could live longer, I would. But just because Iâm dying doesnât mean you get to leave everyone else behind.â
Yeah, you brought Ellie into it. I wanted to tell you not to bring her up. Iâm glad you did because as much as it hurt to think about her watching me die the way that I watched you die, it made me stay. Iâm glad I stayed. Things are okay, but our last day is still my favorite day.Â
We got up early and watched the sunrise, and I told you I loved you for the first time.
âI know,â you said with a smile on your face.Â
âHow?âÂ
You just lifted your coffee cup. When you moved in -- something I didnât realize was happening âtill it had already happened -- I started making coffee every morning before you woke up, and I started buying that French Vanilla bullshit creamer. I hated it. It was so sweet it made me nauseous. I couldâve gone and bought my own, but Iâm still stubborn, Iâm still a cheapskate, Iâm still me -- even without you (which is something I thought Iâd never be able to say). But that wasnât why I started taking my coffee the same way you took yours.
It was one day when youâd already left for work but my shift didnât start until later. I hadnât slept at all the night before -- and not for any good reason, not for more time with you -- so I was tired when I woke up. I made myself some coffee, but I wasnât even thinking straight, so I hadnât noticed that I had put that creamer in my mug until I tasted it. But I wasnât disgusted. I thought maybe youâd left yours behind and Iâd absent-mindedly picked the wrong one up off the counter -- I very well couldâve gotten caught up in putting the toaster on the right settings (thatâs something we could never agree on) -- but when I looked down, it was my mug. Yours was dirty in the sink. You were gone for the day. I was stupid to think otherwise. I was fantasizing. That was new.Â
So, just as I am right now, I take my morning coffee like you took yours. It tastes like you, like you kissing me.Â
I waited anxiously for you to say you loved me too.Â
âAre you not gonna say it back? Do you not-- do you feel the same?â
âWhat do you think?â
âI hope so.â
You gestured for me to come closer so you could whisper in my ear and I thought maybe youâd give me a wet willy. But you said, âJoel Miller, I have loved you for a long time.â
I didnât say anything. I donât think Iâve ever been very good with words -- talking was your thing. I grabbed your hand and squeezed. We went out onto the porch and sat in silence. I wonder what you were thinking about.Â
âWill you sing me something?â
You know I donât take requests, and you know I donât like an audience, no matter how small that audience is.Â
No one would refuse the wish of a dying woman, but I couldnât refuse you even if I knew youâd be there tomorrow and every day after. I only protest because you look cute when you beg. Not in that way -- you look hot when you beg like that.Â
âWhat song do you want?â
âSurprise me.â
I sang Peaceful Easy Feeling because, as much as a part of me felt a sense of urgency, knowing our time was running out, most of me was just thinking about you, and I love you. Simple as that.Â
You gave me a standing ovation just to see me blush.Â
We all planned something special for your last dinner. I know you like simple things, so I tried to make it as simple as I could while still making it special for you. Maybe it was selfish to make it a night to remember when Iâm the one who gets to remember it.Â
Tommy and Maria were chef and sous-chef (you can guess who was who in that scenario), and Ellie was the waitress.Â
âWhat are your specials tonight?â you asked.Â
âWe have either the steak and baked potato or the steak without the baked potato.â
âIn that case, Iâd like it with the baked potato.â
We probably lit a hundred candles to fill the room with enough light to see each other -- we had time while you were getting ready, since youâre a bit of a slowpoke. We picked flowers from the garden and put them in an empty wine bottle because we couldnât find a vase, and conjured up a decent tablecloth. We had ice cream sundaes for dessert -- or at least, you did. You know what I had for dessert.Â
âHow about you, sir, would you like anything for dessert?â Ellie asked.Â
âNo, I think Iâll be having dessert when we get home.â I tried to subtly wink at you.Â
âEw! Thatâs disgusting. I donât wanna hear about your sex life.â
âYouâre the one assuming I was talking about sex. How do you know I donât have a tub of ice cream waiting for me in the freezer at home?â
There was ice cream in the freezer, but the sweetest thing Iâd ever tasted was between your legs. The moment we got home I picked you up bridal style and carried you up to our bedroom.Â
âBaby, I know how long you spent getting ready, and Iâm sorry to do this to you, but this needs to come off,â I said before I yanked down the zipper of your dress. You laughed as I ripped off your clothes.Â
You gently undid my tie and when I watched you fumble with the buttons on my shirt, I said, âJust rip it, baby.â
âI donât wanna ruin your clothes.â
âI donât want you to worry about me or my clothes tonight. I want you to have me however you want me.â
âYouâll do whatever I want?â
âWithin reason.â
âHow do you feel about roleplay?â
âI suppose it depends -- what are the roles?â
âHusband and wife.â
âAs long as I can be the husband.â
And then you kissed me -- with your typical tenderness but a new level of dedication. Slow and passionate, showing me what our lives couldâve been like.Â
âIâm an impatient husband, and I want my beautiful wife to lie down because I think Iâm gonna lose my mind if I donât get to taste her.â
My mouth is useless when it comes to talking, but we both know I have other uses for it. I tried to go slowly, but I couldn't help myself. I swear your pussy was so perfect it made me reconsider my views on God. Though, I donât think I am a man deserving of an angel. I think I just got lucky.Â
That night I couldnât care less about how loud you were. âJoel- fuck- youâre gonna have to slow down, or, or, put your hand over my mouth âcause - oh!â
ââCause you donât want anyone to hear? Whatâs the problem with them hearing, darlinâ? Married couples make love all the time, itâs what weâre supposed to do.â
Without a condom, too. We werenât worried about you getting pregnant, so we went out with the best bang of âem all. I think the last time Iâd done it like that was when Sarah was conceived, and based on how easy that was, I was always cautious.Â
Husband and wife roleplay wasnât very different from the sex we typically had. I guess we were really only a piece of paper and wedding bands away from being those âcharactersâ.Â
Earlier that day, I was worried I wouldnât sleep that night. I didnât want to sleep. I wanted to savor every moment with you but when you curled up in my arms I fell asleep before I could even consider staying awake.Â
Waking up next to you was my last clear image, even our goodbye kiss was a little blurry âcause I was already a little teary-eyed.Â
But before that, over breakfast, you mentioned something that Iâve thought about every day since.Â
âYou know how sometimes people see a bird or something and theyâre like âoh, thatâs my dead relativeâ?â
âYeah.â
âIâll come back as a butterfly. One of the blue ones. You donât see those too often. I donât want to be something too common, like a bird, then youâll probably mistake someone else for me.â
I donât think I had seen a blue butterfly in Jackson until after youâd left us, but thereâs one outside my window right now.Â
