⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ she/they ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ 24 minors, terfs, racists, homophobes & assholes not welcome in the playground and will be blocked ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ kiss kiss ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
Tags: Reader is afab and uses she/her pronouns, angst, allusions to smut (sort of, idk), dead animals and skinning though not described. If I missed any tags, please let me know!
Word count: ~4.8K
Read on AO3
A/N: Sorry in advance. Honestly, I did not proofread this. My bad. As always, likes/reblogs/comments are appreciated. Divider by @/saradika-graphics.
PREVIOUS CHAPTER | SERIES MASTERLIST
Three years ago, the first time it happened, the two of you were loose limbed, giggling messes. It was a good day, and good days were few and far between.
Tess had stayed back at the squat, somewhere outside of St. Louis, to watch your things while you and Adam went out to rob a local group of survivors on behalf of another. The two communities, if you could call them that, had been at odds for years, apparently. Both were made up of nasty sons of bitches, but the meaner of the two had taken a liking to the three of you. It was a miracle, really, considering you were planning on pulling one over on them. When you found yourself tied up in a musty basement while Adam and Tess were God only knows where, you decided to admit it and their leader, terrifying in his own right, found you charming. He let you go on your merry way with some food and supplies.
As long as you promised to come back and help him out.
With the dirty work done and booze in your belly, you and Adam laid under the stars, recalling the looks on the sorry bastards’ faces when they realized you had made off with their valuables. You rolled onto your side and shoved your face into his shoulder to muffle the laughter that was pouring out of you at something he said. When you both caught your breath and the fit subsided, Adam lifted your chin with two shaky fingers and kissed you with chaste and hesitance.
At first, you were in shock, lips unmoving and breath caught in your throat. Adam retreated with wide, panicked eyes. Frantic apologies started tumbling from his lips, but you quieted him with a press of your lips. All of your sexual energy, pent up and throbbing, was channeled into the kiss.
Soon enough, you found yourself on your back with Adam’s face between your thighs.
Your orgasm hit you embarrassingly fast and you wanted more, but when Adam lined himself up with your entrance, you froze. Catching your discomfort immediately, he moved off of you, tucked his cock away, and slid your panties back on.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
Gathering you in his arms, he held you, planting a soft kiss on your forehead. “Don’t be.”
That was the last good day you had for a long while, but you kept ending up bare with Adam’s mouth on you, enthusiastic and committed. Every time he made you come, it felt like an oath of some sort. While you never swore yourself to him in the same way, never put his cock in your mouth or felt him inside of your cunt, you were committed to Adam in a sense.
Whatever that meant.
It’s been a month since you arrived in Jackson. After your first trip to the dining hall in which you utterly freaked the fuck out, you’ve been microdosing social interactions. Sitting with strangers at breakfast and speaking when spoken to, going to the store with Adam on Mondays, and, as of today, helping out the butcher.
Tommy somehow hears, you assume from Adam, that you’ve got quite the knack for cutting up dead things, and he corners you after breakfast to ask if you’re interested. You are, in fact, not fucking interested, but you know that you should contribute to the community that’s taken you in. Plus, Adam would be pissed if he found out that you said no. And, really, if you’re being honest, you want to please Tommy for whatever reason.
“Sure,” you agree with a tight lipped smile. “When should I swing by?”
“Today, if you don’t mind. Joel and Seth had good luck this morning.” Tommy motions you to follow him outside. “Simon’s arthritis is actin’ up, so he could use a hand.”
Tommy makes your introduction with Simon brief before heading out, leaving you in, more or less, a shed outside of the grocer. Simon is a burly older man, probably closer to seventy than sixty, with bushy, thick eyebrows that are entirely white unlike his beard, still peppered with black hair. His most prominent feature, though, is the scowl that seems like it’s permanently stapled to his face.
Now that Tommy’s gone, Simon takes you in and doesn’t hold back his obvious disappointment that you’re his new helper. With a grunt, he grumbles, “Hope you know what you’re fucking doing. Not looking to hold anyone’s hand.”
You like him.
“Lucky for you, it’s not my first day on Earth,” you quip, snatching the oversized apron from his hands. Raising an eyebrow, you shrug. “It’s my second.”
“And she’s a comedian.”
“Oh, no. My audition for Comedy Central was shit.”
“You even old enough to have watched Comedy Central?” Simon says, laying knives out in front of you.
He’s testing you, you know it.
“No.” You grab the knife with the curved edge. “But my babysitter spent a lot of the time on the phone with her boyfriend.”
That earns a laugh. A genuine, big laugh that shakes his whole being. A laugh that tells you that you passed the test. You bite back a smile as he takes a seat, dropping with the urgency of molasses.
Skinning a deer isn’t the same as filleting a fish, but it’s similar enough. If anything, it’s easier. Due to its size, you don’t have to worry about being as precise. There’s more room for error, but you don’t make an error. If you do, Simon doesn’t notice or, at least, he doesn’t say anything.
Simon talks a lot. By his expression when you first walked in, you expected him to be a silent brooding type, but that is not at all the case. He talks your ear off about his time in the Navy, his ferocious love of The Goonies, and his burning desire for a Cuban cigar. At first, you’re annoyed by the incessant monologing, but you soon realize that if he keeps talking, you don’t have to. After a few hours of cutting, pulling, and splattering blood all over the place, you’ve finished. At some point, the apron comes off and it shows. Your clothes are a deep crimson and you reek, that metallic stench that lingers. At least it’s not fish.
Throwing the last backstrap on the table, you wipe your bloodied hands on your now ruined jeans. These pants are now only appropriate for butcher duty, you suppose. Simon is still going on about a fishing excursion from last summer when you interrupt him.
“I’m going to head out,” you declare, motioning to the door with your thumb. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Well, alrighty,” he says with a nod. “You know, Joel was wrong about you.”
“Joel?” You raise an eyebrow.
“You aren’t as moody as he said.”
“Moody?”
“Yeah, he said you might be a little…touchy.” Simon shakes his head. “No, no. That’s not the word. It was—”
“Not sure I want to know, actually.” You feel your face heat up. Unsure whether it’s anger or embarrassment, you attempt to recover from your defensiveness by giving Simon a forced smile. “Like I said, I’m gonna go.”
“Sure, sure. Well, he was right about one thing. You’re damn good with a knife.”
Simon pats your shoulder and you flinch away from him like his touch burns. He leaves the shed before you get the chance to say anything else. You’re left alone with the remnants of the deer. Just blood and bone and skin. Staring straight ahead, you chew on Simon’s words. Moody, but also, good with a knife. The criticism and praise swirl around your chest like a tornado. It kicks something up within you that you’ve been stomping into the dirt for a while now.
The stench of the shed abruptly becomes unbearable and you decide to head back to the apartment for a shower. It’ll be your second one of the day which isn’t that unusual for you. The hot water still feels like a novel luxury. You’re daydreaming of suds in your hair when you see that unmistakable jacket. Someone greets Joel jovially and he responds with a more subdued, but still kind, hello. Most shocking, though, is the smile on his face.
A smile that he used to reserve for only you in the quiet early hours of the morning that you used to share.
Soft and kind.
By the time you swallow the rageful bile that’s rising in your throat and think of turning the other way, Joel catches your gaze. Acting like you didn’t see him and walking right by would be childish, so you stop in your tracks as he approaches you. Why is he approaching you?
It’s not like you’ve been intentionally avoiding each other. Well, you haven’t been avoiding him. You wouldn’t know how to. It’s not like you’re aware of Joel’s schedule, if he has one, or what he does during the day. Now that you’re thinking about it, you don’t know much about him at all anymore.
“Hi,” Joel says. Does he sound nervous? He sounds nervous. Eyes traveling down your body, they settle on your stained jeans. “You, uh…got a ‘lil somethin’ there.”
Rolling your eyes at his attempt to joke, you do your best to smother the part of you that’s been set aflame merely from those brown eyes taking you in. “Yeah, Adam finally got on my last nerve.”
There’s no point in telling him what you were really doing. He, apparently, already knows. After Joel blows air out of his nose, instead of actually laughing, the two of you stare at each other wordlessly. If either of you are trying to say something with your eyes, you’re both doing a shitty job. Just blank, empty looks like you’re trying to find the words, but can’t.
“Tommy’s gonna ask you and Adam about comin’ to family dinner at his place on Sunday.” Joel’s voice is flat when he breaks the silence. When you don’t answer, he shoves his hands into his pockets and clears his throat. “You don’t gotta say yes.”
“Yes, Joel. Thank you for reminding me that I can make my own decisions.”
Joel’s cheek twitches only for a second like he’s trying to suppress a wince. “Just sayin’ ‘cause…I’ll be there.”
“I figured when you said ‘family dinner’ that meant you would be there.”
Crossing your arms, you give him a curt nod and walk past him towards the safety of the apartment. The apartment without Joel.
God, you wish you had a camera to capture the look on Adam’s face when you tell him that you’d be happy to attend Tommy’s family dinner. And, yes, you know Joel will be there. It’s fine, Adam! Everything’s fine!
It’s not like you’re lying to Adam. It’s true—you are happy to go to the Miller’s family dinner especially if you get to watch Joel squirm at the sight of you. The discomfort that shrouded him when you ran into each other, admittedly, gave you some sick satisfaction. Joel should be uneasy or ashamed. Whatever bad feeling he’s feeling, you’re happy about it. In fact, you ride the high the rest of the week, finding yourself in an uncharacteristically good mood.
When Sunday comes, you feverishly dig through your pack to find the very much expired tube of mascara that you pillaged from one of the stores that Bill and Frank had haunting their apocalyptic paradise. You’re not sure why you packed it before leaving the QZ, but now that you’re thinking about it, there was a sliver of hope wedged into you back then. Hope that you would see Joel again and have a reason to put it on. It was girlish, childish even, but you’re grateful for your past self’s foresight. Though your meeting was not what you expected and you’re now using it as a sort of method of psychological torture, you put it on with glee.
After the third or fourth swipe on your left eye, a sinking feeling sets in. What if you’re misreading Joel’s expressions? Maybe what you thought was shame is actually disdain. Maybe Joel is disappointed that he had to see you again. Maybe he hoped you’d never cross his path. When tears threaten to wreck your freshly coated eyelashes, you blink rapidly and brush away the flake of dry mascara that’s fallen onto your cheek. You do what you normally do. Push it down, swallow it, ignore it. It’s all you can do.
On the walk over to Tommy and Maria’s house, Adam clasps the back of your neck and jostles you. “Are you going to be on good behavior tonight?”
“Jesus, Adam,” you groan, “what am I? An unsocialized shelter dog?”
He doesn’t object, but instead says, “Just try not to be so…snappy.”
If you defend yourself right now, all you’d be doing is proving him right, so you’re silent until you reach Tommy and Maria’s porch. Adam raps softly with his knuckles and Tommy swings the door open swiftly like he had been waiting right next to it. The grin under his mustache nearly takes up half of his face, but it’s sincere.
“C’mon in.” He shakes Adams hand and gives you a polite nod. Then, Tommy calls out, “Maria, our guests are here!”
Stepping through the threshold almost feels like you’ve gone back in time, similar to how it felt to go to Bill and Frank’s. It’s less polished, sure, but it still feels nostalgic of a world without cordyceps. Unlike the apartment you share with Adam, it’s decorated and cozy. The entryway has a credenza with miscellaneous objects strewn about and a tapestry with a tree hangs above it. You shove your hands in your pockets to stop yourself from touching the fabric or opening the doors of the credenza.
It feels invasive, how intensely you’re surveying the space.
You follow Adam and Tommy into the living room, but when they head into the kitchen, you linger. Without other sets of eyes watching you, you give in and let your hand brush over the throw blanket that hangs on the back of the well-loved sofa. It feels handmade. Did Maria knit it? You can’t imagine her knitting. She seems all business, but it’s sweet to you to imagine her indulging in a hobby that’s often associated with old ladies that have glasses perched on their nose. Hobby. This is a place where people can have hobbies and decorate their homes.
The soft crackle of an amber fire draws you near, and your eyes land on the mantle. Well, not really the mantle, but what sits upon it. It’s a chalkboard. Simple and mundane.
Kevin and Sarah.
Sarah.
In an instant, you’re in the QZ. It’s almost palpable. Your ear and cheek pressed to his bare chest. It’s almost clear as day. The sound of his heart thumping, the rumble of his voice as he says, “I wasn’t always this bad at it. Reckon it got worse after Sarah.”
But you’re not there. You’re in Tommy’s living room with eyes like saucers as you stare at the white lettering. The handwriting is clear, clean. If Tommy’s handwriting is anything like Joel’s, there’s no way it’s his. You bet it’s Maria’s, and you bet Kevin is hers, too.
Before you see her, you feel her presence behind you. Maria stands next to you in silence and mirrors your body language. Slumped shoulders, blank eyes. What’s she thinking about? The first time she laid eyes on him, touched his skin. Maybe the sound of his laughter or his first steps. It’s impossible for you to understand her grief fully, but you wish you could tear some of your heart out of your chest to fill the holes in hers.
That’s not possible, though. So, instead, you look at her with eyes that say what your mouth can’t. Maria nods knowingly and the corners of her lips twitch ever so slightly. To your relief, the moment of quiet understanding is broken by Tommy and Adam’s laughter from the other room.
“Tommy,” Maria raises her voice so that her husband can hear her, “can you get her a drink?”
“Sure, what’s she drinking?”
Almost through the archway, you hear two opposing answers overlap each other. A cacophony that makes your skin crawl.
“Whiskey.” Joel.
“Wine.” Adam.
“Or you could let her answer,” Maria suggests once you’re in the kitchen.
The drink you’re looking forward to is quickly forgotten when you see him leaning against the counter with a whiskey glass that looks impossibly tiny compared to his hand. Joel’s wearing the faintest pout. It matches his furrowed brows perfectly. The jeans clinging to his thick thighs are impossibly clean, as are his boots and flannel. Did he slick his hair back with a little gel?
“S’not the kind she likes,” Joel says to Adam.
The wine. Right, the wine. The drink. You need that drink.
Just to be a contrarian asshole, you reject both of their answers. What does Joel know about what you like or don’t like? You walk right by him and stand next to Adam, snatching the beer from his hand. You take a long swig. Honestly, it’s the best alcohol you’ve had since the Beaujolais from Bill and Frank. Not that it has much competition. All the drinks you’ve had in the last few years have tasted like straight up rubbing alcohol.
“Thanks!” Giving Adam a smug smirk, you bring the bottle to your lips again and hum in approval. “This is good. You should try it.”
Tommy laughs, pulling another bottle from the fridge and sliding it across the island to Adam who gives him a nod of appreciation. The screeching of the back door startles you, your beer sloshing in the bottle as you instinctively pull your arms to your chest. Hopefully no one noticed.
“I dropped Benji off with Dina.” Ellie declares, stomping into the kitchen with muddy boots. Maria and Tommy’s son. Adam filled you that first week in Jackson. Ellie continues, “I think they’re going to play—wow, don’t you look pretty, Joel!” A shit-eating grin stretches across her face as your eyes dart between the two of them. So he did do something different with his hair. “What are you all dressed up for?”
“If that’s your idea of dressing up, Joel…” You suck in a breath between clenched teeth, raising a single teasing eyebrow at him.
“Shut up,” he grumbles and, you swear, his cheeks flush.
It’s unclear whether it’s directed at you or Ellie. The two of you exchange a glance that feels like you’re bridging a gap created by a gun to the head and a knife to the leg. Much to Joel’s chagrin, surely. He’s avoiding eye contact with both of you, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
It’s unnatural, the way you’re holding your tongue. There are a thousand questions you want to ask Ellie and Joel, and they all weigh on the tip of your tongue, but you choke them down. Now is definitely not the time.
“Alright,” Ellie says, raising her hands and letting them smack haphazardly on her thighs, “I’m hungry. Are we gonna eat or what?”
“Thought you were cookin’?” Tommy teases.
Ellie narrows her eyes at him. “Ha-ha. Seriously, I’m starving.”
The spread on the dining room table is impressive. A roasted chicken, asparagus, and potatoes. You have to remind yourself that your eyes are bigger than your stomach, still adjusting to the availability of food.
Adam strolls into the room with an ease that you covet. Two beers in hand, he takes his place on the left side of the table and sets one bottle down where you’ll presumably sit. Before you reach the chair, Joel pulls it out for you without even glancing at you, completely missing the bewildered look plastered to your face. Ellie’s eyes shift between you and Joel as he sits next to her. You’re directly across from each other.
While you went into dinner with the intention of making him as uncomfortable as possible, you failed to consider how awkward you would feel. As dinner commences, you focus on your food and nod when you should as everyone starts to make conversation. Joel’s a reflection of you with his head down as he eats. You’ve never had great self-control, so every now and then, you sneak a glance at him. If he’s doing the same, you never catch each other.
“So,” Maria says, pointing between you and Adam, “how long have you two been together?”
“We’re not together like…that,” you answer quicker than you probably should.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I assumed—”
“Don’t worry about it,” you assuage her worries. “We kind of do have the faces of a couple you’d see on the news for a murder-suicide.”
“You know,” Adam says, pointing at you with his steak knife, “I have thought about smothering you with a pillow while you sleep.”
“God, how I wish you would.” Adam huffs out a short laugh at you, but the rest of the table is silent. “Adam snores,” you blurt out, “and it’s like…put me out of my misery already.”
“I do not—”
“Can’t be worse than Joel,” Ellie interjects. “He sounds—”
“—like a fucking lawnmower,” you finish for her. “It used to keep me up. On jobs. When we…smuggled shit together.”
If Ellie notices your stammering, she doesn’t say anything. Everyone else, though? They definitely notice. Tommy and Maria exchange a brief look and Adam raises a brow at you, almost amused. Joel, however, looks like he could throttle you. Thankfully, Ellie jumps in to rag on Joel before you can acknowledge the way his glare makes your face feel hot and your thighs clench.
“Right?! Dude, you should seriously see a doctor for that,” Ellie says as she takes a bite, knocking her elbow into Joel’s.
“S’always been like that. Since we were kids,” Tommy remarks, joining in on the ribbing. He claps Joel on the shoulder who hasn’t had a second to get a word in. “I dunno how Tess put up with that for so long.”
Don’t ask. Don’t ask. Don’t ask.
“Where is Tess these days anyway?” Tommy’s chewing when he speaks.
If there is a god, you think, they would put you out of your misery. Zap you into oblivion so you wouldn’t feel like a thousand pound weight is on your chest. The moment you’ve been dreading is here. The guilt gnaws at your joints, coming dangerously close to biting clean through. You can’t bring yourself to lift your head, but, like a child looking to her parents to order for her at a restaurant, you helplessly glance sideways at Adam through your eyelashes. He sighs and taps his knuckle on the table, cheek protruding from where his tongue presses into it.
“I’m sorry.” That’s all Adam says. That’s all that really needs to be said.
The silence covers the room like a wet blanket. Heavy and suffocating.
Joel looks like he’s playing the most serious game of poker ever. Face flat and even—there is not one line on his face that hasn’t been etched by time. His shoulders and neck, though? That’s a different story. Tight and straining against his flannel, you fear the seams might burst from the pressure.
Ellie’s studying him when she asks, “Who’s Tess?
After a beat, while staring directly at you, Joel says, “She was like family.” It’s the first time he’s said anything since you all sat down. Even during the teasing he was mute.
Family that you left behind, you want to say, but you don’t.
You do, however, build up enough bravery to face those around the table. Maria gives you the same unmistakable look of understanding that you gave her before dinner when you found the makeshift memorial in the living room. While she’s a stranger to you, there’s a sort of familiarity between the two of you. It could be pity, but you’d like to think it’s recognition.
There’s a thread that ties people together at the end of the world. For better or for worse.
“I’m gonna go get some air,” you mumble as you rise from the table, averting your eyes once again.
It occurs to you as you’re walking away that you should’ve said excuse me, but it’s too late for that and you’re far too wrapped up in focusing on your own breathing to be concerned with manners. You fish out the loose cigarette and matches that you threw into your jacket pocket. The hand-rolled cigarette is bent from the walk over and you do your best to straighten it out with shaky fingers. Once it seems stable enough, you slot it between your lips and strike a match.
On the first inhale, you hear the screen door swing open and shut behind you with a thud. You know who it is before he stands next to you, each hair on the back of your neck standing up. Resting one hand on the railing of the back porch and shoving the other in the pocket of your jeans, you try to hide the tremors. A coyote, the crepuscular creature that it is, darts across the yard into the treeline. You watch it with envy as its frail frame disappears behind budding foliage.
Joel’s shoulder brushes yours. Gently, not at all the way you briskly knocked into him in the clinic a few weeks ago. Without the audience, you feel, to your surprise, like you can allow your eyes to meet his. It’s enough to make you fear your knees buckling. Those pools of russet brown carry a twinge of sorrow. In some ways, they always do.
“Was it quick?” Joel seems like he doesn’t want to ask, yet the words push themselves past his lips.
You’ll cry if you speak. You know it as soon as your bottom lip begins to quiver. Joel must know it, too, because he just nods. Miraculously, you’re both still staring at each other.
If you were a different woman and he were a different man, you’d reach out to each other. You’d tuck the the curl that’s threatening to fall into his eye behind his ear. It’s long enough to do that now. He’d touch your bottom lip with tenderness as if to quell the sting from the pointy edges of what’s unsaid. Bodies would melt into each other and apologize with the heat of your chests. Palms would soothe the ache.
But you’re not a different woman and he is not a different man. You’re two jagged pieces of glass that scrape against each other, not slotting together, but create a harsh screech.
“I’m sorry,” you squeak, voice smaller than intended. “I should’ve told you.”
Joel nods. “I reckon there’s a lotta things we should’ve done differently.”
“That might be the first thing we’ve ever agreed on.”
“Y’know that’s not true.” Joel’s hand inches towards yours, but before his skin can kiss yours, you jerk away and take a drag of the cigarette. Does Joel grimace? You don’t get to consider this too thoroughly before he starts again. “‘Least I think we agreed on a few things. Like how we ain’t too good at talking ‘bout our…”
“Feelings?” Finishing his sentence for him, you huff out through your nose, smoke blowing out like a dragon. Joel nods again and this time you mimic him, bobbing your head in unison. The next thing you say is barely a whisper. “Yeah, well…I’m sorry about Tess. I know you cared for her. I did, too.”
What you don’t say sits heavy on your tongue. You wish you could spit it into his mouth, let him carry it for a second. Lighten the load. Make you forget all about it like he used to.
When you set your hand back on the ledge, cigarette pinched between your index and your middle finger, Joel doesn’t give you the time to pull away before he rests his significantly larger hand atop of yours. Electricity courses through your veins until your hand is buzzing at the contact. With a squeeze, he lets go of you and it all fizzles away like a sodapop that’s lost its carbonation. Joel sticks his hand in his pocket. Maybe he’s still clutching onto the feeling of your skin, you think. Maybe he’s putting it there for safekeeping.
Joel goes inside without saying another word. You start to miss him the second he walks away. Once you’re positive that you’re alone, you press your lips to the back of your hand and the cigarette smoke burns your eyes. You stand like that for a while until it burns down to the filter you made from scrap paper.
It’s the first time in a long time that your hands have felt like yours again.
surgery is so intimate like what do you mean im gonna be naked and asleep on a table while surrounded by a group of people who are responsible for my very life. kind of sexual. i mean who said that
