𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝟭; 𝗵𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗶𝗻𝘃𝗮𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻
⌞ Jackson, Wyoming isn't what you thought you’d call home, neither is the house that smells like pine and old cologne. After being discovered by a group of survivors, you're offered a home and sanctuary. The only catch, you won't be living alone.⌝
⌞tags: intro/backstory, character origins. plus-size!reader x jackson!joelmiller all the enemies to lovers. joel being a dick head ⌝
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Joel didn't like this. Housing a woman, having someone other than him in his home.
All due to the fact Tommy was insistent about letting you stay with him. Jackson was filling up quickly as the years passed on. Where once empty homes stood, they were now filled with blooming families and rowdy neighbors. To put it another way; Joel didn't have a choice.
Which led him here, sitting on his couch, watching as you and Tommy bring in the handful of items you owned. It wasn't much, two bags.
Joel hated stuff. He liked it neat.
You were going to be anything but neat.
He could already tell.
Tommy led the way upstairs, by way of greeting. Joel watches as you follow excitedly, your hands grabbing at the finished railing he put in last winter. It was a busy project he put himself up too.
“Dont mind the grumpy fucker sitting on the couch.” He uttered, leading you to the small hallway on the second floor. It was almost cozy, with the smell of pine lingering in the air. If the outdoors had a smell, Joel's house is what it smelled like. Rustic, dare you say, you enjoyed it.
It brought back memories of the city, the one you used to call home. Even through the outbreak, you made it yours.
Tommy placed your things in the untouched bedroom upstairs, placing them on the neatly made bed and sighing, wiping his forehead. He had been with you every step of the way, you appreciated the company and the reassurance, making home somewhere that isn't out in the confines of the city was odd for you.
Having a home was odd.
“Joel's bedroom is across the hall, he should stay outta your hair, hell’ I'll make him” Tommy gave a hearty laugh, turning to you; “If he gives you a hard time let me’know.” You nodded quickly, heading the disguised warning.
Tommy gave a once over of the room, “If you need anything else-"
"Let you know?"
He nods, "You got it,"
Tommy's boots retreated to the doorway, before your voice halted him,
Your worries needed to be spoken, “He’s not the get-angry and I'll kill you type is he?”
Tommy gripped the door handle and smiled, “He sure is.”
Great. Tommy put you with a psychopath.
When he noticed the disdain washing over your features, his smile creased, “But don't worry, I'll make sure his anger isn't directed toward you”
Tommy nodded his goodbye, shutting the door with a rusty click. His boots retreated downstairs, leaving you with your worries and the heavy silence of bags needing to be unpacked. You were excited, still.
Somehow.
Your torn bags had been unpacked hours ago, the two shirts you had now rested in one of the slightly broken drawers. Your journal clutched in your hands, the box of pads you managed to find stuffed away underneath your bed frame. Everything you owned now had a spot.
The room you had been given was, slightly deteriorating, the light blue walls reflected the snowy weather outside, the chipping paint only added to its character. It wasn't perfect, it didn't feel like home.
But with time, you hoped that would change.
A small platform had been carved out under the window, allowing pillows and blankets to rest there. Decidedly, you grabbed one of the threadbare blankets Tommy had gifted to you and your journal, joining the window.
The people of Jackson were out and about this afternoon, all the laughter from children playing in the streets echoed through the glass of your watching position. The old leather book clutched in your hands, filthy with dirt and dried blood was the single most important item in your life.
You had kept it for years, making sure you always had it when you moved zones. The half broken pencil tucked in the spine too, you fished it out with ease like you had done so many times before. With the outside world as background music, you started to write
A week had gone by in Jackson, its residents left you to get settled for the most part. A kind woman had baked a few muffins as a welcome gift, which you devoured happily. You had barely seen Joel, he had always been coming or going. Whatever he did, he was always doing it.
Not that you minded, having the entirety of the house to yourself wasn't terrible, you particularly liked the very end of the couch, where the blazing fireplace heat hit the skin of your thighs at just the right angle for maximum coziness. So far, Jackson amounted to a version of safety.
But you still couldn't sleep.
Which left you here, after a particular rough Friday night of tossing and turning, You had enough. The light of the hallway turned on as you groggily made your way downstairs, Comparable to that of a literal zombie.
You found yourself drifting toward the finished cabinets, opening every one, searching for a glass. Maybe a cup, anything you could drink out of. Finally, after rooting through the last one, a chipping mug had been tucked behind a couple of dusty plates.
Guess Joel didn't exactly have family dinners often. In the darkness of the early morning, you reached for the hardware of the sink faucet, your mouth begging for water. Fortunately, turning the handles had given you a stream of cool water.
The chipped mug caught the remnant as you lifted it to your mouth, enjoying how your lips had just resigned from the Sarah Desert and ventured into the Rain Forest region. The creaking of the second floor broke through your wave of bliss, pulling your attention to the man now making his way down the stairs.
“What are you doin’?” It wasn't a question, but a demand. Joel's voice was cold as he drug a hand through his uneven curls,
“Drinking water.” Your heart hammered, Only half of the man's features were visibly in the dim light. Still, you noticed, he did not display a nice face.
Joel ignored your response, as if he had not asked the question, instead he sidestepped you to pull open a wooden drawer just beside your hip. You moved instinctively, taking your mug with you.
“Your shirt doesn't fit.” He said, the back of his head facing you as he continued rummaging through what looked like a junk drawer. What did he expect? It's not like you had unlimited access to the highest fashion in the city, or here for that matter.
Your placed your empty mug on the table, focusing on the man. “Listen, asshole. I know you might not like this living situation, but you don't need to be a dick about it” Your surprised at the tone you took up with Joel, and so is he, judging by the way he slams the drawer and turns to you, abandoning his mission.
“Got quite a mouth on you for someone who's livin in my home.” His studded eyes were creased with age, it didn't stop the way he glared at you, the frown etched into his face seemed more prominent now.
“It's not like you're ever in ‘your home’ ” Your arms crossed, your spine had been riddled in defense mode, making your back rigid. Joel’s head tilted,
“Too busy avoiding you.” He shrugged, his tone sharp enough to cut ice.
“You don't even know me.” You quipped back, narrowing your eyes.
“And with damn near any luck, I won't have too.”