Summary: Post-Part 1/ Season 1 AU where Joel lives. Jackson is thriving and survival has finally started to look like living again. A slow-burn Joel × Female Reader built on years of trust, new political tensions inside Jackson, and the quiet moments that make the loud ones matter. Featuring MC, Joel, Ellie, Tommy, & Maria, among others & OCs you'll (hopefully) grow to love, and an eventual romance that's earned, not rushed.
Series Rating: Eventually explicit; violence; gore; etc. (18+ only. MDNI)
WC: this chapter ~4,800 (full series TBD)
~ What makes home worth protecting? ~
The barn is awake long before the sun rises.
Faint lantern light paints the rough-hewn beams, throwing long shadows across stalls lined with sleepy horses and fresh hay. Outside, Jackson still sleeps beneath a blanket of blue-gray dawn, but inside the barn the day has already begun.
“Easy, girl,” you murmur, one hand resting against the mare’s damp neck. “You’re doing fine.”
The mare answers with a strained whicker, muscles trembling beneath her sweat-darkened coat.
Tommy stands a respectful distance away, sleeves rolled to his elbows, looking far more nervous than the horse.
“You’ve said that about six times now.”
You don’t look up. “That’s alright, she doesn’t understand the words.”
“Then why keep sayin’ it?” He asks.
A tired smile tugs at your lips. “Because I do.”
Tommy huffs a quiet laugh, though the worry never quite leaves his face. His eyes drift back to the mare as another contraction rolls through her.
“Never gets easier watchin’ this.”
“No.” You shift closer, moving your hand to rest against the mare’s shoulder now. “It doesn’t.”
Straw clings to your knees. Your flannel is already streaked with sweat and dirt, carrying the familiar smell of leather, horses, and fresh hay. You’ve been awake for hours. It doesn’t matter. The mare comes first.
“There you go,” you whisper. “Come on, mama.”
A pair of tiny hooves appears.
Tommy instinctively leans forward.
“Front feet.” You nod once. “Good.”
He lets out a breath he probably doesn’t realize he’s been holding.
“You always make this look easy.”
You glance at him with a tired smile. “I promise you it isn’t.”
Minutes stretch. The mare continues to push.
Finally, with one last exhausted push, the foal slips into the straw in a wet heap of impossibly long legs and oversized ears.
For one terrifying heartbeat... nothing. The entire barn seems to hold its breath. Then – The foal sneezes.
Tommy laughs so suddenly it startles one of the nearby horses.
“There we go,” you whisper, relief washing over you.
The mare immediately stretches toward her newborn, nickering softly as she begins cleaning him with slow, determined strokes.
You finally sit back on your heels and let out the breath you’ve been holding.
Tommy rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t care how many times I see it.”
A few moments pass before the colt makes an ambitious attempt to stand. His front legs wobble. His back legs seem to have entirely different plans. He collapses sideways into the thick bed of straw.
You can’t help smiling. “He’s got the idea.”
“Didn’t inherit the coordination.” Tommy observes.
A laugh escapes before you can stop it. “They never do.”
Another attempt. Another collapse.
You shake your head. ‘Nope.”
“He has to figure out where his legs are.”
Tommy watches the colt struggle through another determined attempt before nodding slowly. “Fair enough.”
On the fourth try, the colt manages to stay upright. One second. Two. Three... Then tips right back over.
“Are vets always this optimistic?”
“Usually takes a cup of coffee…”
As if the barn itself hears you, the big wooden door creaks open. Cold morning air slips inside. Heavy boots cross the worn floorboards.
“You about done playin’ midwife?”
You grin, and shake your head before you even turn around.
Joel stands in the doorway, bundled against the morning cold, two steaming tin mugs in hand
His eyes sweep the stall – the mare, the foal, then you.
You wipe your forearm across your forehead, leaving a streak of straw behind without noticing.
“Healthy colt.” You repeat.
Joel gives one quiet nod. “Good.”
He crosses the stall threshold without another word and offers you one of the mugs.
You accept it with both hands, grateful for the warmth more than the coffee itself. “Can’t believe you remembered to bring it.”
His brow furrows. “‘Course I remembered, can’t face the day without’a cup.”
“You don’t even like coffee.” Joel mumbles.
You smile into the mug, just thankful for the caffeine.
“Also correct, tastes like burnt dirt and smells like… how does Ellie put it?” You pause, chuckling quietly.
“Burnt shit.” Joel deadpans, he looks mildly offended but a smile threatens the commissure of his mouth.
“Ain’t exactly hard to remember your order, more cream n’ that cup than coffee.”
Tommy watches the exchange over the colt’s latest failed attempt at standing, the corners of his mouth slowly lifting up.
“I suddenly feel like I’m interruptin’ somethin’.”
“You are,” Joel says giving his younger brother a look.
Behind them, the colt finally finds his footing. His legs shake like tiny saplings in the wind. He blinks once. Then immediately toddles away from his mother.
Joel looks down as the tiny nose that bumps curiously against his brown leather boots.
The colt nudges him again.
Joel sighs the long-suffering sigh of a man who somehow becomes everyone’s problem without ever volunteering.
‘You got the wrong fella, kid.”
“I think he likes you,” you say, taking the first sip of coffee.
Joel shoots you a look. “He’s got poor judgment.”
Tommy barks out another laugh.
“Well,” he says, clapping his hands together, “that’s one less crisis ‘fore breakfast.”
You finish another sip of coffee while the colt tries—and fails—to chew the cuff of Joel’s jeans. Joel doesn’t move him; he just lets the little thing investigate.
You catch yourself rubbing tiredly at one eye, yawning slightly.
Joel notices but he doesn’t say anything, instead he simply reaches over, plucks a piece of straw from your hair, and flicks it onto the floor like it’s the most ordinary thing in the world. The gesture is over before you can thank him.
He adjusts the rifle slung over his shoulder and jerks his head toward the brightening doorway.
You nod, setting your mug aside as you reach for your coat hanging beside the stall. Your backpack and rifle not far away.
The colt lets out one tiny, indignant whinny as you start toward the barn door and makes its way back to his mom to nurse. You glance back over your shoulder.
Whether you’re talking to the foal...
...you’re not entirely sure.
The early spring cold greets you the moment you step outside.
The barn door swings shut behind you with a muted thud, muffling the soft nickers and rustle of straw until only the crisp morning air remains. Dawn has begun its slow climb over the eastern ridge, painting the mountains in pale lavender and muted gold. Frost still clings stubbornly to patches of grass, sparkling wherever the first light catches it.
Joel is already waiting a few yards away, both horses saddled and ready.
He stands beside the hitching rail with one hand resting on the broad neck of a massive bay gelding. Phoenix lifts his head as you approach, ears flicking forward before nudging impatiently at Joel’s shoulder in search of another treat.
“You already spoiling him?” you ask.
Joel scratches the gelding between the ears without looking up. “He’s persistent.”
Phoenix blows warm air through his nostrils as though thoroughly pleased with himself. Beside him stands Magnolia.
Your mare turns the moment she hears your boots on the packed dirt, dark golden coat catching the first rays of sunlight. Her silver mane hangs in loose braids from yesterday’s patrol, now slightly frayed from a night’s sleep. One ear swivels toward Phoenix before both settle squarely on you.
Magnolia lowers her head just enough for you to rub the white star centered between her eyes. Her lips twitch against your sleeve as she searches hopefully for an apple that isn’t there.
“Sorry,” you murmur. “Fresh out.”
Joel hands you the reins before checking the cinch on Phoenix’s saddle one last time.
You pat the rifle that’s slung across your back and shrug your shoulders that carry your backpack.
“Knew I’d still be in the barn.”
Of course he figured. He probably knew the moment Tommy came knocking several hours ago that you’d never make it home before patrol. Neither of you mention it.
You tighten Magnolia’s saddle cinch a notch before slipping your boot into the stirrup. With practiced ease, you swing your leg over her, settling comfortably as Magnolia shifts beneath you with a quiet snort.
Joel mounts Phoenix a moment later.
The gelding is everything Magnolia isn’t – tall, broad through the chest, built for strength more than speed. Magnolia dances lightly beneath you, alert to every bird call and shifting breeze. Phoenix simply stands, patient and steady, carrying Joel with the same quiet confidence Joel seems to carry himself.
The two horses suit you perfectly. Without another word, you nudge Magnolia forward. Phoenix falls into step beside her.
The streets of Jackson are mostly quiet.
With the exception of a few, windows remain dark, their curtains drawn against the lingering chill of morning. Thin ribbons of smoke curl lazily from a handful of chimneys, drifting into the clear mountain air before disappearing entirely.
Somewhere farther into town, a rooster crows, and another answers.
The sounds echo gently through the settlement before fading back into the morning stillness.
Magnolia’s hooves make soft, rhythmic clops against the packed dirt roads. Phoenix’s heavier stride follows close behind. Clop, clop, clop.
Neither horse seems to be in much hurry this morning. They know the route as well as you do.
You ride past rows of modest homes; each one built a little differently than the last.
Some are little more than restored cabins with freshly repaired porches and neat stacks of firewood waiting for winter while others have additions built onto the sides; evidence of growing families. Extra bedrooms and larger kitchens. Hand-built fences enclosing tiny yards where children’s toys lie forgotten from the evening before.
Life leaves little footprints everywhere in this town. A knitted blanket hangs over a porch rail; tiny green boots outside the front door; a bicycle leaned carelessly against a fence post; someone has painted bright blue flowers around the windows of one house; another family has carved wooden birds along their porch supports.
Nothing matches yet everything belongs.
Ahead, the community garden stretches across nearly half a block.
Rows upon rows of vegetables sit beneath neat trellises, their leaves still jeweled with dew. Beyond them rises one of Jackson’s newest greenhouses, its glass catching the morning light like scattered diamonds.
Inside, you can already see movement. An older woman bends over trays of seedlings while a younger man wheels buckets of compost between rows of tomatoes.
“Greenhouse doubled production this summer, so Maria says.” He states.
You lift your eyebrows, giving a small nod of approval.
Not far beyond the gardens sits the playground. It stands empty now. The swings sway gently in the breeze despite there being no one to push them. A weathered wooden climbing fort rises proudly at the center, patched together over the years with mismatched lumber from a dozen different buildings but functional.
Someone had painted smiling animals along its sides. The colors have faded but the smiles haven’t.
“Bet it’ll be chaos in another hour.”
Joel glances toward the playground. “...Yeah.” There is something different in his voice. Not sadness, something softer; but you don’t comment on it.
The road bends gently toward the center of town.
A bakery near the main square has just begun its morning work. Warm light spills through the front windows, followed almost immediately by the unmistakable smell of fresh bread.
Magnolia flicks both ears forward.
“She ain’t getting’ any.”
“I was thinking it.” You admit as a sleepy laugh escapes you.
The baker steps outside carrying a tray to cool, offering the two of you an easy wave.
“Mornin’,” you both answer almost in unison.
A few more people have begun filtering into the streets now.
A young father carries a drowsy little girl wrapped in a blanket toward the dining hall, her head tucked sleepily beneath his chin.
Two teenagers haul buckets toward the well, still arguing quietly about something neither seems willing to let go.
An elderly man slowly sweeps yesterday’s dust from the boardwalk outside his workshop.
No one rushes and no one looks afraid.
The settlement wakes with an easy rhythm earned over years of hard work.
You realize, not for the first time, that Jackson has begun to sound different than the outside world. Out there...every snapped twig makes your pulse jump. Every bird falling silent means something.
In here...the noises belong to people, their conversations, dogs barking, children laughing; someone practicing guitar badly enough that you’ll probably hear Tommy complain about it later.
Home has its own soundtrack.
The main gate comes into view at the far end of town, towering timber walls rising against the brightening sky.
Already, a handful of patrol riders gather nearby, checking saddles, tightening straps, exchanging quiet greetings that drift through the cool morning air.
Joel straightens slightly in the saddle as Phoenix slows on his own accord.
The easy silence of the ride settles into something sharper. It’s familiar and comfortable.
You glance once over your shoulder at the town waking behind you.
A dog chases two chickens across the square while someone shouts half-heartedly after all three.
For now, the world is exactly as it should be.
Lanterns still burn atop the watchtowers, though their glow fades against the growing daylight. The massive timber gates remain closed for now, guarded by two men bundled against the morning chill while a third flips through a worn patrol ledger balanced on a barrel.
Several riders are idle; some tighten saddle cinches; others check rifles, count spare rounds, or quietly sip from steaming mugs before another long day outside the walls.
Morning patrol has its own rhythm, and nobody wastes energy.
A broad-shouldered patrolman finishes securing a saddlebag to his saddle before giving Joel a nod.
Joel returns it. “Mornin’.”
Another woman crouches beside her horse, inspecting a loose shoe before calling toward the farrier. “Think she’s throwin’ another nail.”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” comes the reply from nearby.
No one sounds rushed, any problems are simply... solved.
You get off and guide Magnolia alongside the hitching rail while Joel swings down from Phoenix to check both horses one last time. His hands move automatically over buckles and straps, giving each one a practiced tug.
Adjacent to the gate, a weathered map has been pinned to a wooden board beneath the watchtower. Colored pegs mark each patrol route branching away from Jackson like spokes on a wheel.
One of the gate guards runs a finger down the list.
“Wilson Valley’s already out.”
“Elk Creek leaves in ten.”
He looks up over his glasses as the next pair approaches.
The riders acknowledge him with a wave before falling into position near the gate.
The whole process is efficient and deliberate.
Everyone knows where they’re going before they arrive. There’s never confusion nor shouting, just routine.
The guard scans for your names.
Joel steps forward. “Here.”
“…And.” You answer with your own name.
The guard makes a quick mark in the ledger.
Joel nods once. “Any updates?”
The guard consults another page.
“Tower Three reported fresh elk moving through the southern ridge yesterday. Couple downed aspens across the service road after last week’s wind.”
Joel gives a short nod. “We’ll verify.”
The guard tears a small slip from the ledger and tucks it into Joel’s hand.
“Standard checkpoints. Radio if anything changes.”
Joel folds the paper without looking at it and slips it into his jacket pocket. He already knows the route and his role by heart. You do too – still, protocol is protocol.
Nearby, another patrol receives instructions before riding toward the gate. The heavy timbers groan as they begin to swing outward.
Cold mountain air spills into the yard.
Beyond the walls, the world stretches wide and silent beneath the rising sun.
One pair rides through, then gates half close; next pair – open again, another patrol leaves. The process repeats until only you and Joel remain waiting.
One of the guards glances up from the ledger, telling the men running the gait.
Joel swings easily back into Phoenix’s saddle. You settle onto Magnolia beside him.
The guard offers the familiar reminder everyone hears before every patrol.
Joel snorts quietly. “We’ll do our best.”
The guards strain against the gate, the hinges groan and morning light pours through the widening gap.
Magnolia shifts beneath you, ears pricked toward the open wilderness. Phoenix barely moves, Joel gives him an absent pat on the neck.
A gentle squeeze of your legs and click of your tongue sends Magnolia walking forward. Phoenix follows. The walls of Jackson pass slowly behind you until the gates begin to close once more with a deep, echoing thud.
The sound carries farther than it should. Every patrol begins with that same noise, and every patrol ends with the hope of hearing it again. Neither of you look back.
The trail climbs steadily through towering pines, their branches still heavy with dew that sparkles in the early sunlight. Patches of old snow linger in the shadows where spring hasn’t quite reached, while meltwater trickles through narrow ditches beside the old road.
For a long while, only the sounds of leather creaking, birdsong, and steady hoofbeats accompany you.
Joel finally breaks the silence.
You think about the mare, about the hours spent waiting.
He glances over once. “You’ll tell me if you’re draggin’.”
“I always do.” A beat passes and you look over at him. “I’ll be alright.”
He studies you for another second, then gives one small nod.
“Alright.” Nothing more is said. It doesn’t need to be.
Ahead, the road bends west toward Teton Village, disappearing beneath a canopy of pine and spruce.
Another patrol; another day; just the two of you; exactly as it’s always been.
The ride to Teton Village passes much as it always does. Neither of you speaks much. There isn’t much to say.
Magnolia picks her footing carefully over exposed roots while Phoenix follows at his usual steady pace, barely needing Joel’s guidance. You pass familiar landmarks as naturally as old friends. A weathered mile marker half swallowed by moss; an abandoned pickup truck slowly disappearing beneath earth that is consuming it; the collapsed remains of an old campground, its picnic tables now little more than splintered lumber.
Everything is exactly where you left it 2 weeks ago.
Just before the tree line opens, Joel lifts a hand.
Ahead, Teton Village spreads quietly across the valley. What was once a bustling ski resort now stands frozen in time. The chairlifts hang motionless above empty slopes. The lodge windows stare back like dark, hollow eyes.
Nature has begun reclaiming the place. Pines push through cracked pavement, and young aspens grow between abandoned cars dusted with decades of weather.
Joel studies the village for a long moment. “Looks quiet.”
You unsling the binoculars from your pack and bring them to your eyes, slowly sweeping the buildings. You look at the lodge, the maintenance garage, the lift station… nothing.
You continue toward the eastern ridge where one of Jackson’s patrol checkpoints overlooks the valley. “There.”
A small ranger station sits tucked against the hillside, weathered but intact. Someone long ago reinforced the walls with heavy timber, and Jackson has maintained it ever since. You ride over to it.
Once there, you dismount, tying Magnolia’s reins to the hitching post while Joel checks the perimeter out of habit.
Inside the station, little has changed. A cast-iron stove occupies one corner, the shelves hold emergency medical supplies, spare batteries, and neatly stacked firewood. Mounted beside the door, a weatherproof metal box protects the patrol log.
You unclip the latch and pull the notebook free. The pages are worn from years of use.
You flip to a fresh line and jot down a few quick notes.
Fresh elk tracks along southern ridge; Downed aspens still blocking sections of service road.
Joel steps inside, brushing a few pine needles from his sleeve.
“Put that bridge on there, too.”
You nod, adding another line.
Footbridge over eastern creek remains stable.
He glances over your shoulder.
You slide the notebook back into its metal box before securing the latch.
Outside, Magnolia lifts her head suddenly, both ears point toward the valley.
You notice it at the same time Joel does – she’s listening.
Joel goes still. “What’ve you got?”
Instead of answering, you raise the binoculars once more. The lenses sweep slowly across the lower village.
Past the ski rental shop and past the maintenance sheds.
Then – movement. Near the base of an old chairlift.
Two figures move, slow and uneven, unnatural twitches to their step.
You lower the binoculars slightly.
Joel is already taking his rifle off his shoulder. “Distance?”
You watch another moment. “No.”
He nods once. “Left one’s yours.”
You settle the binoculars back into your pack before unslinging your rifle, the familiar weight settles comfortably into your shoulder.
Joel has already found his position beside the corner of the ranger station.
You move without discussing it; years together have erased the need. You take a knee beside a fallen log while Joel braces against the station wall.
The runners wander aimlessly between rusted lift machinery, oblivious to your presence.
You steady your breathing. Slow inhale. Half exhale. The crosshairs settle.
Joel speaks quietly without looking away from his scope. “Ready.”
Two shots crack across the valley and your runner drops instantly. Joel’s follows a second later.
The echoes roll through the mountains before fading into silence. Neither of you moves for a moment. Joel keeps his rifle trained on the village.
You lift the binoculars again, scanning every rooftop, every alley, every shadow between abandoned buildings.
Nothing. No answering movement, no sound, no shifting shapes emerging from the trees. Just the familiar Wyoming wind. After another long thirty seconds, Joel finally lowers his rifle.
You nod. “Guess the report changed.”
He walks toward Phoenix, already slinging his rifle over one shoulder.
“We’ll update it on the way back.”
You take one last look through the binoculars.
The valley is still again. The two bodies lie motionless where they fell, already becoming another quiet part of a world that no longer notices the dead. You climb onto Magnolia’s saddle.
He gives Phoenix a gentle squeeze with his heels.
Together, you ride deeper into the valley, disappearing beneath the towering pines as the morning settles fully over the mountains.
The rest of the patrol passes much the same. Your checkpoints logged; a small section of fence repaired where winter storms have splintered the rails. Fresh elk tracks noted along the ridge. No further infected. Just another day outside the walls.
By the time Jackson comes back into view, the sun hangs low over the Tetons, bathing the valley in warm amber light. The mountains cast long shadows across the fields beyond the settlement, while thin curls of smoke drift lazily from chimneys inside the walls.
Magnolia lifts her head the moment she spots home. Her ears prick forward, her steady walk becoming just a little more eager. Phoenix follows with his usual quiet confidence, though even he seems to know the day’s work is nearly done.
“You think they know?” you ask.
Joel glances between the horses.
The gates stand open as the evening patrols begin filtering back into Jackson.
One pair rides in ahead of you, exchanging a few words with the guards before disappearing into town. The guard on duty recognizes the two of you immediately.
Joel gives a single nod. “Routine.”
“Anything worth reporting?”
You answer before Joel can. “Two runners near the lower chairlift. Cleared ‘em. Fresh elk sign on the southern ridge. Footbridge is still holding.”
The guard scribbles quickly into the ledger. “Appreciate it.”
Joel tips his chin in acknowledgment before nudging Phoenix through the gate. The familiar weight of Jackson settles around you the moment the walls close behind. The difference is immediate. Home.
Children laugh somewhere down the street; someone splits firewood in a steady rhythm; the smell of woodsmoke mingles with smells coming from the dining hall.
Magnolia relaxes beneath you. So do you.
The ride to the stables is slow, neither of you is in much hurry, tomorrow will come soon enough.
As you pass the greenhouse, a handful of volunteers carry baskets overflowing with leafy greens toward the kitchens. The gardens glow in the last light of day, neat rows catching the gold of the setting sun.
Near the playground, children race through a game only they seem to understand, their laughter echoing between the houses. One little boy launches himself from the top of the climbing fort into a pile of wood chips with complete confidence that the world will catch him. It does.
An older couple sits together on a porch shelling peas into a metal bowl, pausing only long enough to wave as you ride by. You return the gesture. The ordinary rhythm of the settlement wraps around you like a familiar blanket.
It should feel exactly like every other evening.
Instead... something is different.
You notice it first in the way people move, not necessarily hurried or frightened but purposeful.
Small groups drift towards the center of town instead of their homes. Conversations stop midway as neighbors quietly fall into step beside one another.
A pair of patrol riders you recognize veers away from the stables altogether, heading toward the old church.
You catch Joel watching them too.
He gives a small grunt. “Yeah.”
Neither of you says anything else. You continue toward the stables and then dismount in silence. Magnolia nudges your shoulder as you loosen her girth.
“I know,” you murmur, rubbing her neck. “Dinner’s coming.”
Phoenix waits patiently while Joel removes his saddle, the gelding lowering his head with a contented sigh.
“You spoil him,” you say.
Joel doesn’t even glance up.
He almost smiles. Almost.
You lead Magnolia into her stall; hay is already waiting for her. You untack her fully and then run a brush over the sweat marks left beneath her tack before hanging everything neatly where it belongs.
Across the aisle, Joel finishes with Phoenix at nearly the exact same moment. Neither of you planned it. You rarely need to.
Just as you’re about to step back outside, the church bell rings.
Silence. Then another three. You stop. Joel does too.
Around the stable, conversations taper off. People pause in the middle of chores, turning instinctively toward the sound.
“It’s not an alarm,” you say quietly.
Then, somewhere beyond the stable doors, a voice carries across the settlement.
“Settlement meeting! Council requests everyone at the church square!”
The announcement passes from person to person until it ripples through the whole town.
You and Joel exchange a glance; not really worried but just curious.
“Didn’t expect that,” Joel mutters.
Together, you step back into the evening light.
The streets that had been slowly settling toward supper now flow in a different direction, neighbors leaving porches, workshops, kitchens, and gardens alike. Families gather together. Patrollers fall into step beside farmers. Children weave through the growing crowd, trying to see over the adults.
Near the front of the square, Maria stands with Benji balanced comfortably on one hip, speaking quietly with Tommy. A few yards away, Ellie slips through the crowd with the effortless confidence of someone who has never met a stranger, craning her neck to get a better look at whatever has everyone so interested.
She catches sight of Joel. Raises a hand in greeting. He answers with the smallest lift of two fingers. Then his attention returns to the church steps and so does yours.
Whatever this meeting is about...
It wasn’t on the schedule this morning.
