spring cleaning (drabble)
in which: you mutter about dusting the house with joel and enjoy a slow saturday morning in bed
tags: fluff, happy/soft!joel, my horrendous attempt at being poetic
an: haha this has been sitting in my notes since idk...... 2024..... i wanted to post smth because i'm trying to make myself more productive, pretend like this isn't absolute shit ok, mwahā” this is also exclusively game joel!!! so if you imagine anything but that glorious clump of pixels please click off my account, ty byeee
your favorite days are saturdays.
saturdays mean that you get to stay in bed; no getting up at ungodly hours to head out into the freezing wyoming cold, to scout the surrounding areas of town, to deal with infected and raiders and the bullshit that plagues your nightmares - because maria is kind enough to let you off during the weekend.
saturdays mean sleeping in bed ātil noon, tangling beneath the covers as snow gently falls on the asphalt and dirt streets outside, a promise of the even chillier weather to come. they mean being able to stay up as late as you possibly can, let ellie sit you down for a movie night, let joel show you just how much heād missed you during his patrol the day before.
this saturday is no different.
youāre sprawled out in bed, revelling in the warm feel of the covers and mattress because (as cruel and screwed up as life is) the feeling of softness and physical comfort is far too addictive not to succumb to. laziness thrums so strongly in your veins that you donāt even want to roll over from your current position. why would you when youāve got all the time in the world?
youāre just about to drift off once again, eyes shut and resting, limbs splayed a little strangely beneath the thick blanket, when you hear only what can be the bear of a man you share this very bed with reacting to the dust motes hovering in the air. the sound is muffled through the bathroom door; if ellie were here, sheād complain how the monkeys in colorado can hear him.
you want no part of whatever dreams which involve monkeys in colorado. girlās got some strange visions, thatās for sure.
your eyes open at the sound. thereās that split second when your body tenses, muscles contracting, a light flicking on in your head with the whirring question of ādo i need to fight? do i need to run?ā itās unfortunate, but itās normal. to be honest, youād rather flinch and be safe than be slow and stupid and (by now) dead. instincts keep you alive.
at least the survival ones do. the instinct to dust every surface in the house is⦠weaker for you. for joel, too. precision lies in shots and bullets and arrows, not in cleaning.
your lashes lower again once the sound passes and the split-second fight-or-flight instinct settles, but you donāt close them fully. instead your gaze trails along the grooves of the ceiling, registering the small cracks and slits in the wood youāre so familiar with. your hand stretches out a little towards joelās side and is met with the slowly-fading warmth of a body that was once there. he left the covers messy, probably didnāt care to tug them back once he got up, and youāre left with little gaps which allow too much cool air into the habitat youāve made yourself. you remedy it with a push of your wrist, a tug of your hand, and the blanket settles once again, stopping the airflow and allowing warmth to build up again.
the bathroom door clicks open, the sound of joelās silent footsteps filling your ears. you can feel him without seeing; his broad form lowering slightly over the bed, calloused fingertips taking hold of the edge of the covers as he tugs them up again.
the airflow resumes, and you huff out a little breath, willing him to settle quicker.
he, ever the observant bastard, hears your small sound, and glances at you out of the corner of his eye.
āyou alright?ā he drawls, voice ever so slightly heavier with that roughness of not having fully woken up just yet, and your skin suddenly feels a little warmer. you forget about the blanket problem for a moment.
āmm-hmm,ā you reply with a hum. your wrist drags against the covers until you inevitably lift it, making space for him once again.
ānearly made me jump with that sneezing of yours.ā
now heās the one who huffs at you, and you can almost see the little curve at the corner of his mouth which knows how to make you melt.
āsorry, your highness,ā the bed gives a small squeak as he sits down, sliding into the warmth he had the nerve to leave earlier. āāmeant no offense.ā
you canāt help but let your own lips curl a little, too. half because sarcasm is joel millerās middle name and you find it charming, and half because he doesnāt delay slinging a heavy arm around your back. just like that, youāre being tugged into his chest, your limbs arranging themselves around his, your chest meeting his own. you donāt care to open your eyes, and instead settle your forehead beneath his collarbone, the warm cotton of his sleep shirt tickling your nose.
āgo back to sleep,ā you hear his low grumble above your head, the coarse hairs of his beard gently settling into your hair as he breathes out.
life is strange. youāve seen this man take down bloaters twice the size of himself. now, in a minute, youāll shove your hand beneath his shirt, and heāll no doubt grumble about your hands being cold while covering them with his own, keeping you there until either ellie starts banging on your door, or you decide that you want to see and touch more of him without the barrier of clothes between you.
you wouldnāt trade it for anything, of course.
ācanāt,ā you murmur against his chest, hitching a leg up and letting it drape over his hip. his hand helps you, calloused fingertips sliding from the underside of your knee to the hem of your shorts before he allows it to settle. āwhat if you sneeze on me?ā
he huffs. all this man does is huff. you like hearing him huff, and you like the inhale of oxygen that comes after the huff even more. it means that heās alive; still breathing, still kicking.
āif i sneeze on you it just means that you did a shitty job dustinā yesterday.ā
rude. but true. it makes you chuckle under your breath.
you pinch his side for the comment, and he grunts, instinctively catching your wrist and pressing it into his chest. you donāt resist.
āonly when you insult my cleaning capabilities.ā
āaināt no capabilites there to insult, sweets.ā
you scoff, pressing your forehead further into his warmth, and your wrist follows the gentle rumble of his chest as he chuckles.
āmy dusting is fantastic,ā you murmur. āitās you who doesnāt know how to sweep.ā
thatās the deal; roles change every week. yesterday was his turn with the broom, and yours with the duster. neither of you were very successful, it seems.
he shifts slightly against the pillow, making your head dip for a moment. āsuppose weāll have tādo it all over again.ā
you will. eventually. maybe today if you feel gracious. maybe tomorrow. maybe youāll just blackmail ellie into doing it for you, then scold when she does an even worse job than you, then make her watch and learn. youāll see.
ālater,ā you say. āwhen spring comes.ā
he chuckles again, and your lips curl at the sound.
āitās january, angel.ā
send asks, requests, anything atp, i need to be bullied into writing hehe, kiss kiss