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damneddamsy · 12 hours ago

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falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part xii)

THEOREM OF BECOMING—Transformation is not a moment, but a process.

summary: The journey back to Jackson is full of make-believe of a life that almost feels like it's coming true.

a/n: woohoo, happy AAPI month! I'm sorry this update took so long, I was so indecisive on how I wanted this chapter to end, and what I wanted to depict, especially at the end when it was hard for me to decide where I wanted to place all of them... I just hope it turned out okay! one more chapter left before the epilogue :)

word count: 12,800+ words (dare I say, a short one?)

Joel tried to imagine himself at university. Outlandish things like, what would’ve happened if the world had given him a second door to open?

Because being here—goddamn. It was hard not to wonder what it might’ve felt like, walking into a place like this with a backpack and purpose instead of a rifle and regret.

What kind of kid would Joel have been, sitting in one of those chairs? Twenty years old, maybe. Hell—eighteen if he'd played it straight. No Sarah. No mortgage. No busted-up drywall jobs. No worry about gas bills or whether the AC would hold another summer.

Fuck no, he wouldn't do whatever it was Leela was doing in that lab, with data and diagrams that looked like chicken scratch to him. He would want a degree in something that lets the brain wander. A major in liberal arts, maybe. History. Music theory sounded nice. All that “not real work” crapola folks in his neighbourhood used to scoff at.

He’d always had a good head on him—just never the time or the cash to spend chasing someone else’s definition of smart. See, college wasn’t for men like him. Places like this weren’t made for people like him.

It was a gate you needed a key for, and that key used to cost fuck-ton loans and inevitable debt. More than he ever had or would have.

But that never meant he wasn’t curious. Never meant he didn’t know things.

Truth was, Joel used to like ideas. He liked stories. He read when he could. Listened. Paid attention. Watched old movies with Sarah, sometimes caught the way dialogue turned into meaning. Took in books secondhand, borrowed from neighbours, dog-eared and scribbled in. Kept his head and hands busy. When he worked construction, he could out-measure, out-calculate, and out-plan any of those stiff-collared pricks with their clean hands and degrees nailed to their office walls.

Tommy used to joke that Joel could memorize a script better than a foreman could read a blueprint.

“Man, you ain’t dumb,” his baby brother said once, picking dried cement off his hands. “We’re just poor.”

And he'd agreed. Their whole academic system was a racket, just a way of putting a price tag on knowledge.

Places like Caltech were always for them—it was for the bright ones, the born-lucky, the rich kids with trust funds and internships lined up like bowling pins. Kids like Leela, in fact. He'd never set foot in a real university, let alone one like this. All that prestige and legacy. Hell, even the labs looked like spaceships.

Joel had never even been on a real campus before the world went belly-up, and now here he was, boots echoing in a dead lecture hall, listening to Leela piece together the last remnants of science like she was born for it.

He stood halfway down the sloped aisle, one hand dragging along the edge of a long desk. The laminate was peeling at the corners. He could picture a thousand students slouched here over the decades, bent over laptops or spiral notebooks, yawning, scrawling notes they’d forget the second finals ended.

Behind him, Ellie climbed onto the stage at the bottom of the hall, testing the strength of the lectern like a kid playing teacher. Her voice carried, all grin and gravel.

“Bet you’d sit in the back row. Right, Joel?”

Joel smirked. “Only place I could get away with nappin’.”

“Or so you think. I’d definitely be front row. Raising my hand. Asking annoying questions.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Ain’t nothin’ changed.”

“Pft, whatever.”

Beyond the doors, down the corridor, he could just make out the faint click-clack of keys—Leela, working in the lab with that same eerie calm she always had when the world dropped away and it was just her and the numbers. Her silhouette had barely shifted in an hour. Her hair was loose, falling over one shoulder, half in the light. She looked like she belonged in there.

“Y’know,” he drawled out to Ellie from somewhere inside his head, “I think she and I… if we’d met like that back then… we’d’ve found each other.”

Ellie didn't tease him about it. “Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah. I’d be the guy just tryin’ to keep up. Probably complainin’ about the campus coffee and the goddamn parking passes.”

She grinned. “She’d dodge you for two whole weeks.”

“Hm. Sounds ‘bout right.”

“Then one day you’d say something too smart that’d make her stop and think. And boom. Now you’re study partners.”

He sighed. “I ain’t smart, kiddo.”

“Nah, you’re smart.”

“Not that kinda smart.”

“Bullshit. You literally remember everything. Details. Faces. The way you describe a guy’s boots, I feel like I was there.”

Joel clucked his tongue. “You learn to read people when your life depends on it.”

She shrugged. “Still counts.”

He didn’t answer, but his mouth twitched—somewhere between a smile and a grimace. “Hey, know what else? She’d’ve helped me cheat on a math exam.”

“Ha, no way. Leela would smack you across the face.”

He rubbed his jaw, the beginnings of a smile ghosting across his mouth. “But she’d tutor me. Make me memorise some dumb equation by makin�� it a song or somethin’. She hums that stuff sometimes, y'know? 'Spretty cute.”

Ellie gave him a look—half fond, half exasperated. “Jesus. Jesse was right. You're cuntstruck.”

“Ellie,” he muttered, more warning than scolding, but it didn’t carry much heat.

“Aw, c’mon, Joel. Can you just imagine a life where,” she sighed, “you just live that time-honoured, grey area of life? Be a normal dude with a college sweetheart or some shit?”

“How the hell do you know all that?”

“I'm just that baller.”

“Jesus.”

Now, Joel meant to leave it there, but the thought had already taken root.

He let his eyes drift toward the broken chalkboard at the front of the room, and the lecture hall around them seemed to grow in his mind—less ruin, more memory of something he never had.

He imagined Leela sitting at a desk beside him, in a school that let smart kids like her and dumbasses like him sit together—just one of those big halls with sticky floors and ceiling fans that clicked when they turned, where the smart ones always found the front row and the tired ones sat wherever the sun didn’t hit their eyes. She’d be chewing a pen cap, probably, maybe twirling a strand of hair around her finger, nodding all serious while some professor went off about Gödel or Fermat or one of those names that felt more like hexes than people. Joel wouldn’t understand a lick of it—not even on his best, most caffeinated day.

But maybe—she’d lean in, whisper it in Layman's for him. Not to make him feel dumb, but because she wanted him to know. All sweet, patient, gracious Leela.

He’d pretend to follow along, nodding at the right times, but mostly he’d be watching the way her mouth moved around the words, the way her brows bunched up when she really got into it. Watching the gears turn in her beautiful, brilliant head. Joel still did that, when she went off on a tangent in their living room between her blackboards, he'd just want her to kiss her until she was blue in the face.

He nevertheless would've fallen so damn hard for her. Right on his ass. No question about it.

Wouldn’t have taken him long to ask her out, either—not if they’d met like that. Not if she didn’t already know all the things the world had done to a man like him. He would have acted like his balls had just dropped or something—nervous as hell, but trying to play it cool. Sweaty palms, rehearsed lines in front of his mirror. Something about those big, dark eyes of hers, her fancy shoes, or her mint-condition books. Something along the lines of: I promise I’m more interesting than I look… though I realise the bar’s low since I’ve been standing here staring at you for the last thirty seconds.

And if she’d fold and giggle ‘okay’—and he liked to believe she would—he’d take her out someplace decent. Someplace with candlelight, silverware, suited waiters, cloches and folded napkins. He’d pick her up in front of her building. Show up with a fat bouquet of daisies. Pull her chair out for her at dinner. Hold the door. Call her ma’am without even thinking. He would be flat-broke in that life too, but he was raised right with Texan manners imbued upon him by Mr and Mrs Miller, after all.

Leela would probably tease him a little, maybe make fun of how stiff his shirt collar was or how he kept checking the long-ass bill like it was going to change. But she’d smile through it and offer to go Dutch instead. That rare, toothy smile of hers that made her look so young, unguarded and just a little bit shy.

He imagined them walking back across campus after—quiet, inseparable, arm around his. Maybe it was autumn. Maybe the crimson maple leaves crunched under their feet, and she kept pushing her hands into the sleeves of her coat like she always did when she was cold but didn’t want to say so. Maybe he’d offer his jacket. Maybe she’d take it. Maybe he’d blow into her hands in an attempt to kiss them.

Maybe that night, standing outside her place, she’d look up at him with that same quiet challenge in her eyes she had now—like she was daring him to be gentle.

And he would’ve been. Gentle as fuck. Their first kiss wouldn’t have been some clumsy, rushed thing. No desperation. No fear of the dark coming back. Just... time. Time you don’t know you’re wasting until it’s gone.

He imagined her fingers curled into his coat on maybe their fourth date, maybe he'd just taken her out ice-skating or bowling, and she would push the coat off him, and pull him a little closer. Stay with me tonight. A breath caught between their lips. And maybe—God help him—maybe they’d have stumbled into the fancy elevator of her expensive off-campus apartment, shoes kicked off halfway, giggling when she nearly tripped over her own purse left by the door. He’d catch her waist, steady her, and she’d glance at him with those mischievous eyes that already knew what he wanted. I want all of you.

They’d lock the door behind them, not because they had to, but because they could—because no one was chasing them, nothing was breathing down their necks. Just a night in. Quiet. Private. Theirs.

The desk lamp would still be on, casting light over her math books still open, forgotten now, pages fluttering. Her room would be warm, a little cluttered, with too many books for one person. A corkboard with pinned movie stubs and Post-it reminders. A polaroid of them, maybe, from some campus event—Joel squinting at the lens, Leela mid-laugh as always, her nose scrunched in that way he loved.

They’d peel off layers slowly. Clothes in a trail from the doorway to the bed. His shirt, her dress, his belt, her tights, his boxers. Her bra hanging from the lamp. They’d laugh a little, giggling some, fumbling with the condom in his wallet like it was a joke they’d made earlier in the week—about how just in case that had suddenly become now.

No pressure. No pain. First times. A night they got to have too late. No urgency, no hunger born from grief or fear. Just intimacy. Just plain, affectionate, stumbling, careful sex. Earned. Trusted. Wanted.

He pictured them afterwards, her curled against him beneath tangled sheets, tracing lazy shapes on his chest while the radiator clanked in protest against the cold. Nodding while they discussed their upcoming test, how she’d incentivise him with a kiss for each question he scored, fingers moving through her hair, catching on a tiny braid she must’ve done while studying.

The window would fog up by morning. They’d sleep through their alarms. Maybe skip class like dumb rebels. Maybe make breakfast instead—pancakes from a box, the batter too thick, the frying pan too hot. He’d burn the first one and she’d steal it anyway, kissing him with syrup on her lips. Good fuckin' morning to me.

They’d graduate together, in this life. He’d be in the back row on ceremony day, shoes shined for once, hair swept back neatly, watching his best girl stride across the stage to grab her scroll. Top of her class, honour roll, summa cum laude. Maybe he didn’t get a diploma of his own—maybe he took night classes, taking the slow route out—but he’d be there, standing up before anyone else, clapping like hell, hooting her name with his hands cupped around his lips.

And she’d find him later, tassel on her crooked hat flying, gown wrinkled, eyes shining, leaping into his arms, and he’d spin her about. Kiss her right there in the crowd like he was the luckiest son of a bitch alive.

And in that life—the life he never got—maybe they’d go on like that for years. Their families are all tight-knit, spending holidays together, all of them waiting on hand and foot for Joel to pop the question, but he promised his girl all the time in the world. No muss, no fuss.

Graduation photos in front of some ivy-covered wall. Travel photos of the two of them from roadtrips and weekend escapes—mountains in Telluride, coasts in Monterey, lighthouses in Nantucket. Maybe later they’d rent a shitty apartment together in a big city even if he hated it—New York, or London, or some big German town with a zigzag skyline and a bakery on every corner—while she chased her PhD dreams and he’d just be happy to take care of them. Joel would take on carpentry jobs to keep the lights on and fix things around the building in exchange for rent. He'd play gigs, strum his old guitar, in pubs and bars all night for a good sum of cash. Patch the leaky sink with elbow grease. Assembling furniture that they couldn’t afford to buy. Shelves full of her notes. Coffee rings on the floor. Late-night supermarket runs. Eat dinner for breakfast and fall asleep with her textbooks open between them. The laughter of a life being made from scratch.

And maybe one day, not in a church, not even in a courthouse—but under that oak tree just outside her big, white house in Jackson, they’d say their vows. Soft ones. Barely louder than the wind. Just a handful of people who mattered, a patch of wildflowers in springtime, and the gold ring he’d carried in his pocket for years. Her hand in his, sliding the band into place. Her thumb brushing his knuckles while he tried not to cry. I offer you all I have, my dumbass and beating heart.

And she’d laugh when he picked her up, white dress, veil and all, just to prove he still could, and carry her over the threshold, whilst her sandals dangled from his fingers. They'd make love like it was the first time, on a nice, month-long honeymoon in the Maldives or Bali, on a linen, canopy-frame bed that wobbled by the time they were through.

And one day, he’d come home—sawdust still in his hair, tired to the bone, aching for his long shower—only to find a positive test on the bathroom sink, and they’d smile at each other like they’d just won the lottery. Those soft, teary eyes they’d share. You think we've got room for one more around here?

And from that moment on, Joel would've been all in. No half-measures. No second-guessing. Just him, right in her pocket. He wouldn’t leave her side unless he had to—work, maybe, or some emergency—and even then, she’d be on speed dial (not that she already wasn’t). He’d check in constantly. Make sure she was drinking water, eating enough. Sitting her antsy ass down.

Late at night, he’d press his ear to her belly, grinning when their baby kicked like she already had her mama’s fire. He’d murmur promises against her skin—about giving her the world, about love, about never missing a thing again. And he’d mean every damn word.

He wouldn’t miss a single ultrasound, even if the clinic was across town and the truck was coughing smoke. He’d be there for all of it—Lamaze classes, nausea, mood swings, sleepless nights, midnight drives for god-knows-what. He’d baby-proof every damn inch of the house, stock the cabinets with baby items, triple-check the crib screws, read every parenting book he could find, even the ones with goofy cartoon covers.

Overbearing? For fucking sure. She might threaten to divorce him half a dozen times before the third trimester—but he’d take it, all of it. With a grin and a kiss and a Yes, ma’am.

And when it was time—when the world narrowed to a hospital room and the sound of her hurting wails—he’d be right there, surgical gown and all, holding her hand through every contraction, brushing damp hair from her face, whispering through the panic, through his heart tearing in two: I’m right here, baby. I ain’t going anywhere.

And Maya would come hollering into their lives. Of course, that’s what they’d name her in this life, too. Radiant, beautiful, nascent Maya, looking just like her mama and holding his heart in her tiny fist. All that imagining he’d ever done—every if, every maybe—had somehow led to this little girl he called his.

He pictured Maya clearly in that other life—the one that never got to be. Toddling around their grad-school apartment, leaping onto his stomach in PJs on a lazy Sunday morning, giggling through a mouthful of sugary cereal while Leela chased after their little thief, trying to snatch the box from her sticky hands. One sock is on, and the other is always missing. Her wild curls bouncing as she ran to him when he walked through the door—always early, maybe this time in a stable job which involved him wearing a suit and tie, lugging a briefcase—arms outstretched, shrieking Da-da! like he was some kind of superhero, and without fail, he'd rain at least a hundred kisses on her before letting her go.

She’d throw a fit in the toy aisle over exactly the faulty stuffed animal, with lopsided eyes and a ripped tag, and Joel would fold like wet paper the second she pouted.

And if the bad times did come, the only arguments he and Leela might’ve had were the soft kind, inconsequential—disagreements over something like Joel’s brief, doomed venture into stocks, or Leela being scatterbrained with the grocery runs, or whether Maya should go to that elite preschool an hour away with the long waitlist and sterling reputation. Joel would’ve wanted the best for her, the kind of start he never had. But Leela would just want to keep Maya close a little longer, probably even attempt to homeschool her if she could swing it.

They’d make up over pizza on the couch—Maya asleep between them, still clutching that faulty toy, cartoons flickering on the TV. Their fingers would find each other over the back of her blanket, apology and forgiveness exchanged without a single word spoken.

And thereafter, the mornings were ones where he'd juggle coffee cups, lunch bags and backpacks, dropping Leela off at her university, her hair still wet from a rushed shower, pencil skirt on a tight ass that waited for it's morning squeeze, a thick binder clutched to her chest, a soft lingering kisses shared over the console; and then Maya in the backseat, singing along to the radio, squealing when he pulled up to her school next. She’d barely get her backpack on before she tore across the pavement to her friends, flashing Joel a quick flying kiss and a grin that damn near knocked the wind out of him every time.

And at night—the three of them crammed around a too-small kitchen table, Leela would sit, drafting her research papers or scribbling in a notebook, Maya in her lap, doodling in the margins, asking about black holes and dinosaurs in the same breath. Leela would answer every question like it was the most important one she’d ever been asked. Joel would just listen, smiling into his beer, tuck the moment away somewhere safe inside him, like a man who knew exactly how fragile good things could be.

And Maya would believe everything her mama told her. Because why wouldn’t she?

Joel blinked, staring at the cracked chalkboard. The room was silent, save for Ellie’s soft humming and the hum of distant power from the lab down the hall.

But that life—that life—wasn’t the one they got.

But maybe... maybe it wasn’t too late for some piece of it. Not the degrees or the papers.

But the love part. The quiet part.

Maybe that kind of life still had a place in this one. Maybe that was still real. Maybe it was standing just down the hall, surrounded by equations, stubborn as ever.

He smiled to himself, soft and stupid, like a man who’d just lived a whole other life in three minutes.

A loud metallic clatter broke the spell.

Joel turned—slow, blinking like he'd just woken from a dream—and found Ellie grinning at him, holding up a dusty diploma frame like she’d just pulled a sword from a stone. The glass was cracked in one corner, the name beneath faded and half-eaten by sun and decay. But scrawled across the middle in thick, unapologetic black marker was something brand new:

Dr. Leela Miller.

“Well,” Ellie said, lifting it higher like a trophy, “I didn’t know her last name, so…”

Joel stared. His breath caught on something warm.

“Reed,” he said, slow and quiet, like the name had weight. Affection weaved through it like a thread. “But this… this is fine.”

He could almost see it—this on the wall of that little apartment they never had. Over a desk cluttered with paper and empty mugs and one tiny sock, someone still hadn’t found the match for.

Ellie held it out to him like a kid offering a crayon drawing. ��It’s probably not, y’know, technically accredited,” she said with a crooked smile. “D'you think she'll feel a little better?”

He snorted, folding his arms. “That's a ten-dollar word from a dollar-sized person.”

“Hey, fuck you.”

He gave her a look, soft and knowing. “Well, Leela won’t say it right now, but yeah. She will.”

Then he glanced across the hall.

There she was—his smartass, hunched on a table littered with papers and old, curling printouts. Leela had one hand braced against the edge, the other pressed over her mouth like she couldn't believe what she was seeing. Her fingers moved through a page, tracing lines of ink like a woman touching scripture. Like she was holding a piece of a language she'd thought was long dead.

Joel brought two fingers to his lips and let out a sharp, low whistle.

Across the hall, Leela jolted a little—more like a reflex than real surprise—blinking over at him with a stunned, empty look. It cracked after a second, softening into something small and sheepish, but Joel didn’t miss the way she moved, like she was dragging herself up from somewhere far away.

He tipped his head toward her, half a smirk pulling at his mouth, trying to keep it easy, light.

“Weather’s turnin’,” he called, voice carrying across the dusty floorboards. “We oughta get movin’ along before it gets any worse.”

“Um...”

Leela hesitated, staring back at the whirring, flickering monitor like it was something alive she’d been charged with keeping breathing. Her hand lifted slowly, clumsily, brushing her hair out of her face with the back of her wrist.

She gave a stiff little nod—obedient, automatic, like she wasn’t even aware of doing it.

Joel opened his mouth—half-ready to tell her it was fine if she needed more time—but Ellie piped up behind him.

“Ooh, we gotta head down to the coast first. Ay, you promised the beach, old man!”

Joel felt the beginnings of a headache forming behind his eyes. He turned slightly, cutting a look back at Leela for silent backup.

And Leela just shrugged. Just the barest hitch of her shoulders, like even the decision didn’t mean much anymore. Her mouth twitched at the corners, a hint of old amusement surfacing and dying again all at once.

“I've almost finished the upload,” she said, tapping the corner of the monitor, where some ancient progress bar crawled along painfully slow. “Just... eleven more minutes.”

Eleven minutes.

It used to drive Joel a little crazy, if he was honest. He’d thought it was grief or obsession. Maybe denial. He’d even thought as much, once—there wasn’t anyone left who cared about prime numbers and proof sheets. Leela's long nights hunched over scavenged paper, her fingers smudged with graphite and ash, scribbling until her wrist cramped. A fucking waste indeed.

No one needed the big hypothesis solved when there were clickers on the road and medicine running thin.

And now he saw it.

She wasn’t trying to bring the old world back. She was trying to make sure some vestige of it survived.

Not the comforts. Not its power grids or grocery stores, or monuments. But it's thinking. It's questions. The bones of the mind that had once built bridges and satellites and figured out how to split atoms. She was keeping that, preserving hope for the world that would eventually look back.

And she was sending it forward like a time capsule in the shape of code—across a patchy uplink, through battered infrastructure, to a settlement that might not even know what to do with it.

One day, someone would.

Someone with a mind like hers. Someone with less blood on their hands and more time. A student, a child, a generation down the line who’d never seen the world fall and might still wonder how it once stood.

She was sending it all to Jackson—not as salvation, maybe, but as seed.

Something to plant. Something to grow if they ever got a spring again.

And if that someone asked, if they searched—she’d be there. In the pages, in the math. In the margins, scrawled with her restless handwriting. A woman who had no lab, no colleagues, no safety, but still sat down and thought.

Joel rubbed his thumb over a dent in the metal of the desk. It was humbling, what she was doing. Quiet and unadorned, the way most real things were.

And for the first time, he didn’t feel far from her work. He didn’t feel like it belonged to a world he couldn’t touch. He was somehow a part of it, too.

He exhaled through his nose, scratching the back of his neck. Eleven minutes. Seemed like a small enough thing after everything they'd been through.

He shifted his weight, the old floor creaking under his boots, and his gaze caught on the diploma again—still cradled in Ellie’s hands, the cracked glass catching the faint grey light.

Dr. Leela Miller.

Miller.

His name. His... wife.

He hadn't expected it to hit him like that. The word sitting there plain and heavy, stitched onto her like it had always belonged. The beginning of his other life.

His name stitched there so plainly, so firmly, like it had always been meant to sit against her like that. A jolt went through him—sharp and unexpected—settling low in his gut like a stone thrown into deep water.

He could almost see it, just for a second—clearer than any dream he ever allowed himself to linger on: Leela standing beside him at some clean, sun-warmed courthouse, signing her new name across the marriage license with a little grimace, muttering about how bureaucratic nonsense would outlive them all. Joel, laughing under his breath, taking the pen after her, signing his name next to hers. The flash of a cheap camera. The clap of a judge’s hand on his back. Her grinning face turned up to his, awaiting a congratulatory kiss. And he would make it linger, pressing two, three, four kisses before he murmured against her lips: You alright there, Mrs Miller?

Yes, Joel didn’t feel the press of the world closing in.

He just stood there, hands planted firm on his hips, heart too big for his ribs, and thought, Maybe it ain’t the life I thought I'd have.

When he was young—back before the world cracked open—he thought he understood what a good life was supposed to look like. Steady work. A home. A little backyard for Sarah to tear around in. A dog, one of those loud mutts that drove the neighbours crazy. Bills paid on time. Supper on the table by six. Simple. Straightforward. A line you followed if you kept your head down and your hands busy.

He’d built toward that life once. Brick by brick. Sweat and sacrifice and stubbornness. And he’d watched it all turn to ash in a single night, leaving nothing but the brutal math of survival behind.

Wake up. Choke down rations. Shoot. Kill without a thought. Stay alive. Sleep with one eye open. Repeat.

Hope had been a dangerous thing after that, an unaffordable luxury. Like college.

But standing here now, and Leela hunkered over that blinking screen like she was fighting the universe itself to save what little good was left in it—Joel realised he’d been wrong about what makes a life and what was worth holding onto.

It wasn’t about clean houses or paid-off trucks or picture-perfect little towns.

It was about this.

It was about watching the woman he loved refuse to give up on the world, even when the world had given up on her. It was about Ellie clutching a battered diploma like it was the goddamn Declaration of Independence, blinking out the window like a daydreaming college kid who still believed she’d make it here. It was about Maya somewhere back home, waiting, safe, growing up in a place that hadn’t been paved over by fear.

It was about them.

So, why not... breathe life into that other reality?

Joel shifted slightly, his hand drifting to his pocket—more out of habit than thought. His fingers closed around the small thing he’d stashed there weeks ago, careful not to draw attention to it.

Rolled it between his fingers sometimes, in replacement for the brass button that Maya had bestowed on him—in quiet moments, when no one was looking. Like maybe if he kept turning it long enough, the edges would smooth out, the crack in the band would seal, and time would forget whatever broke it.

It wasn’t much to look at. Just a beat-up old ring he’d pocketed back in Vegas, half-buried in dust beneath a shattered display case. The stone was gone. The band was thin and cracked, barely holding together. Still, he’d kept it. Couldn’t say why at first. Just felt right in his hand—small, broken, stubborn. Reminded him of someone.

Lately, he’d been thinking about what he might do with it. How he could fix it, in his own way. Maybe shave a sliver of intricate wood into the place where the diamond used to be. Not anything fancy, maybe a flower. She liked sunflowers. Just something honest. Pine, maybe—she always smelled like pine sometimes. Or walnut, strong and durable, like him. Something alive, something that wouldn’t shine too bright, but would still catch the amalgam of Leela.

He didn’t know if he’d ever give it to her. Or when. Or if she’d even want it.

Hell, he didn’t even know what he’d say.

But he carried it with hope anyway.

That was the strange part. It wasn’t really the ring that mattered—it was the idea. That someday, there might be room for something like that between them. Not as some big gesture. Not to fix anything. Just to say: this is still yours if you want it. Just to prove he still believed in what could come next.

Maybe sometimes love looked like a broken ring in a calloused hand, waiting for a world soft enough to give it back.

The sharp things—the grief, the anger, the failure—they were still there, rooted deep under his skin like old thorns. They always would be. But for once, Joel could see something else threading through it. A quieter kind of ache. Not the pain of losing, but the ache of wanting.

He wanted the kind of life that didn’t just survive the world’s ending—but stubbornly, stupidly, beautifully outlived it.

He wanted her, and Ellie, and Maya, and every goddamn scraped-together piece of a future he never thought he'd deserve.

And in this dead place, in the flicker of failing light and old dreams burned onto curling paper, Joel believed—just a little—that maybe this had all been for something. After all, maybe they hadn't come all this way just to bury what was lost. Perhaps they were here to carry it forward.

Maybe they were the ones meant to build what came next.

His throat felt tight, but he welcomed it. A man could learn to carry that feeling. He should carry it. Get used to it. All these good things he was doing.

He slipped the ring back into his pocket, careful, like it might bruise. Gave the pocket a small, reassuring pat.

He glanced at Leela, at the way she leaned into the light like a plant aching for the sun, and felt that wild, wordless thing rise again inside him.

Ours, he thought. Not just hers. Not just his.

Ours.

The ocean resembled a busted mirror.

Not glittering or big or blue. Just slabs of grey and darker grey, churning slow under the breadth of a sky that didn’t give a damn. The wind came off the water in lazy fits, carrying salt and rot and the memory of heat that had long since packed up and gone.

Wind tugged at what was left of the boardwalk nearby, a few slats still clinging on like they didn’t know how to fall properly. Rusted carnival lights hung in strips. Booths were gutted. A souvenir shack had collapsed into itself, hurling faded postcards and cracked plastic mugs across the ground. He saw a cracked one half-buried in the dune: I Survived Santa Monica Pier. Bit fucking ironic.

The sea had taken it all back. The joy. The noise. The crowds. It felt biblical, in a way. Like the tide was the big guy's long exhale.

Joel stood at the edge of it all—boots half-buried in wet sand, stepping over a tangled snarl of sea-bleached fishing net fibres, arms crossed against the cold that kept slipping under his jacket. The pier beyond was a half-collapsed skeleton, stripped bare, its spine curling out into the surf with broken ribs of wood jutting upward. Boats still rocked gently in the distance—untouched, paint peeling, sails long since devoured by saline winds, hulls soft with barnacles and time. No lights. No squalling. Not even of birds.

Funny. He used to think that if they ever made it to the coast, something would change. That maybe it’d feel like the end of the road—or the start of something. No, this was just another place the world forgot.

Ellie was already out near the waterline, her boots discarded in a heap beside a tide pool. She’d rolled up her jeans and waded ankle-deep into the cold muck, laughing as she scratched her name into the sand with a busted piece of driftwood. She looked so small like that. Innocent. Her shoulders loose, grin so secretive. He didn't get to see that often.

He watched her kneel, tongue poking slightly out in concentration, and for a moment—just a flicker—it wasn’t Ellie crouched in the sand.

It was Sarah.

Not imagined, not hoped. Saw. Not older, not younger—just as she was the day he lost her.

Kneeling beside her, seaweed looped over her wrist like bracelets, giggling about how it was going to get washed away but doing it anyway. He could see her—clearer than anything. Her head of sunlit curls, tossed by the wind. Making a heart out of the seaweed. Lining the letters with broken shells. Elbowing Ellie with that half-teasing grin she used to have, the one that always said, Do not mess this up for me, Dad.

He clenched his jaw. Swallowed hard. Blinked until the double image snapped apart again, rattled the thought loose from his head, and it was just Ellie again, whistling tunelessly, digging up dead coral to decorate her crude scrawl in the sand.

Goddamn, was this what it was going to be now?

Visions. Ghosts. Fantasies of another life. Wishing, wanting. His mind folding over itself. Losing the thread.

Or was it just the many extremities of grief? The accumulation of too many years? Or was this the beginning of something slower and crueller? Alzheimer’s or some shit. Some fucking cordyceps variation they didn’t have a name for yet. Maybe he’d start forgetting the way back to Jackson. Maybe he already had.

He rubbed a hand across his face, dragging grit from his cheek. The salt clung to his stubble, and the ocean made his eyes sting even when the wind didn’t hit them.

A little ways off, Leela sat cross-legged on the sand, her back to the surf, little haphazard strands from her long braid slapping at her cheeks. A neat little pile of small seashells sat beside her, most of them dull with age and wear—but one, a tiny conch, recently vacated by some poor creature that hadn’t made it. It was still freshly pink inside, gleaming, faintly iridescent.

She had a needle gripped between her fingers, her brow furrowed as she carefully worked it through the shell’s spire. Every movement was methodical, like she wasn’t thinking about what she was doing, like it was all buried muscle memory. When she threaded the bit of twine through and tied a knot, she held the shell up between two fingers, inspecting, squinting at it like it was some precious thing instead of beach trash.

“For Maya,” she said quietly, flashing him a smile—small, lopsided, but real.

Joel let out a soft grunt of recognition. Awful lot of jewellery to be taking back to Jackson.

“Cute.”

He remembered that story—the one he hadn’t meant to overhear, but things stuck. Something about her old life, before Jackson, before her parents, before a child of her own. How she used to make little shell necklaces just like that one and sell them to dumb tourists along the coast back in her hometown. Overpriced junk, she’d said. That weird, lonely kind of pride people have when they remember who they used to be.

Maybe this was her way of passing it on. A sliver of childhood she could carve off and give to Maya. A small thing that said I was here. I was whole once.

He took a step closer, boots sinking into the sand, hands in his jacket pockets. “Still remember how to rip folks off, huh?”

She glanced up at him, just barely. “Who says this one’s not priceless?”

Joel smirked. “Better be. Our baby girl’s got high standards.”

That got a laugh. A real one—small, scratchy, but it cracked the stillness in a way nothing else had all day. Leela shook her head, still smiling, eyes on the necklace, watching the shell sway from its string.

A beat passed. Wind was threading through the bare bones of the city. Maybe this place had once been paradise. Joel didn’t know. All he saw now was wreckage. Absence. A ghost town choking on salt.

Behind them, far away, Ellie whooped, triumphant. “I told you, little bastard! Joel, look, that’s a motherfucking crab!”

Joel glanced over. She was crouched in the wet sand, a long stick in one hand, something small and wriggling and furious in the other. Her sleeves were shoved to her elbows, knees soaked through, hair wild in the wind. She grinned like she was twelve again. Like the world hadn’t burned down.

Another shriek from Ellie. “Holy shit—there’s more of them! A whole Jackson community!”

“Well, don’t just play with ’em. Grab a few. Might be good eatin’.”

Ellie wrinkled her nose, poking one with the tip of her stick. “Eat this? Dude, it’s got, like—claws. And it’s hard as shit.”

“That’s how you know it’s good,” Joel called back, deadpan. “Hard shell means there’s somethin’ sweet inside.”

Ellie gave him a look. “Oh, hear, hear—Wordsworth over here.”

Joel chuckled, shaking his head. “Just get a few, kiddo. We’ll see what we can do.”

“Fine,” she muttered. “But if it kills me, I’m haunting your lying ass.”

Then she dropped the crab anyway, watched it scuttle sideways into the surf with all the drama of a jail break, and burst out laughing—real, unguarded. Her laugh rippled across the beach like it didn’t know how rare it was. Like it didn’t think it was a goddamn miracle.

Joel turned back to Leela. His voice dropped, not meaning to get soft but unable to help it.

“So, is this what you pictured?”

He didn’t say the beach. He didn’t mean California. Didn’t mean the long road behind them—full of blood and breath and quiet, feral hope. Didn’t even mean the life they’d clawed together with broken fingernails and dogged luck.

Leela didn’t answer right away. She just looked out toward the horizon, the sharp line where grey sea met grey skies. Where the world used to open up into possibility, into summer vacations and shipping routes and postcards with skipping dolphins. Now it looked more like an ending. A sentence with no period.

Then she shook her head, just once. “Not even close.”

But she was still holding the shell in her hand. Still tying another knot in the twine. Still smiling, just barely. And somehow, that answer—quiet, and unfinished—was more honest than anything else she could’ve said.

Joel sat down beside her, his knees cracking like firewood. The cold bled through the seat of his jeans, but he didn’t flinch. Just sat. Facing the water.

Leela didn’t.

She was turned slightly away, angled toward the sand, toward the ground, like she’d taken some quiet oath never to look at the sea again. As if it had taken something and she wouldn’t give it the satisfaction of her eyes.

Joel laid his hand over hers, careful.

She stilled.

His palm was unpolished against hers, but he could still feel the tiny shape of the shell necklace beneath it. Warm from her skin. Light as a breath.

“Joel.”

Before she could ask him to get the fuck off her, he said, “Look, I just—”

“What do you think Maya’s going to be when she grows up?”

Leela’s voice was soft, half-swallowed by the sea wind. Not wistful, not dreamy. Just plain and curious, like she was asking about the tide.

Joel didn’t answer right away. His eyes slid back on the water—on the slow, thick roll of it, the lazy collapse of each wave as it dragged itself onto the sand. This landed hard—not because it was tragic, but because it was so normal.

And yet that question hung there. He rubbed his jaw in deep thought. That wasn’t a question people dared to ask anymore, not seriously.

Honey, what do you want to be when you grow up?

He'd asked Sarah that plenty of times. And her answer had been no-bullshit: a rockstar. He used to joke to her about it, how maybe she'd take her old man backstage one day and sign T-shirts with her primped face on it.

The world was too fucked-up now, no rulebook to follow. See, back in the old world, kids had answers ready. Doctor. Firefighter. Astronaut. Singer. Shit like that. You dreamed, you planned. You had options. Only now, the world didn’t want anything from its kids but survival. To grow up at all was a feat. To grow up and become something? That felt like a pipe dream.

Joel breathed out through his nose. He shifted in the sand, elbows on his knees, shoulders hunched against the wind.

“I dunno,” he said finally. “Ain’t somethin’ I let myself think about too much. We used to imagine the future. Now we’re just glad to get through the day.”

Leela said nothing. Just waited, steady, patient, the way she always did when she knew he wasn’t finished.

A bitter little smile curled the corner of his mouth. “Baby girl’d probably be a scavenger. Some real slick trader. Hustler like her mama used to be.”

Leela huffed softly.

“Maybe a sharpshooter,” Joel added. “Takes after Ellie. Bossy as hell.”

That made her laugh again—just a little. Joel felt it in his chest like the thinnest crack of sun through stormcloud.

He kept talking, quieter now. “Could be she ends up one of those quiet ones. People listen when she speaks. Not ‘cause she’s loud—but ‘cause she means her shit. Maybe that makes her a leader. Or a target.”

He hated that last part. But it was true.

The truth was—he didn’t really care what Maya became. He just wanted her to have the space to choose between gentleness and survival. To live long, safe, and full enough to even ask that question. And he hated the world for making him think all this shit.

“And maybe she’s just alive long enough for it to matter,” he finished. “It’s enough for me.”

Leela’s fingers paused at the shell’s knot.

Joel looked over at her, and she still wasn’t looking at the sea. Her face was turned away a little, but her eyes were distant—thinking hard, probably thinking too much.

“Does it scare you?” he asked.

She blinked slowly. “What does?”

“The future,” he stated. “What she might become.”

Leela was quiet for a long time. She pulled the twine taut, tied another knot. Maybe the third one in the same place.

Then she nodded, but it wasn’t sharp. As if something she’d carried for years, only just now saying out loud.

“I just can’t have Maya become like me, Joel,” she said.

Joel didn’t say anything because he knew what she meant. And she was fucking right.

Not just Leela's impossible intellect that she carried like a blade. Not Joel's desiccating anger. Not the endless spinning logic or the obsessive calculations that had driven her across the country in a haze of grief and purpose. Not the math or the memory or the way she could see ten steps ahead while the rest of them were still tripping over the first one.

No—she meant the burden. The self-blame. The detachment. The constant need to understand everything instead of just feeling it. The survival that looked like a function but was really just a retreat.

The way Joel disconnected. The guilt that never left. The way he didn’t flinch at corpses anymore because somewhere along the way, his empathy had learned to ration itself. The way he lived in his head because that was the only place he could guarantee no one would hurt him.

And because of all the ways they taught themselves to cope—none of them were life. They were pauses. Contractions. Damage control.

She sighed. “I thought I wanted that. I did. But after everything back there…”

She nodded toward the road that led back to the university. Toward where she'd left her hopes and regrets. A whole piece of her past.

“I realised that…” She tapped her temple, fingers light, like she was knocking on the side of something hollow. “She doesn’t need this.”

He didn’t press or fill the space like he normally would with some muttered acknowledgement, because this wasn’t a moment for patch jobs.

“This saved me,” she murmured. “The logic. The focus. It’s how I kept going after—after what happened. If I could just understand enough… if I could predict things, calculate the worst-case scenario, I could keep her safe.”

Her voice tightened. Just a bit. Joel heard it.

“She deserves more than that.”

Joel’s throat was dry. He swallowed hard, barely managing. “And now?”

Leela let out a long breath. Not weary. Just… stripped bare.

“Now I just want her to scream,” Leela said. “To run fast. To fall hard. To be loud, and wrong, and stupid—and free. I want her to feel so much that she doesn’t know where to put it. I want her to hit back, punch hard, when someone corners her. Not stand there frozen, plotting some clever escape like that’s gonna save her.”

Joel’s eyes flicked toward her.

She wasn’t looking at him. Still had her gaze fixed on the necklace in her lap, the shell swinging gently as she tied and re-tied the same knot like it was muscle memory. Like if she stopped moving, she’d splinter.

And goddamn.

That’s when it landed. What she was really saying.

He’d seen people go quiet in the worst moments of their lives—seen them freeze, let it happen, disappear behind their own eyes. Not because they were weak, but because someone, somewhere, had taught them that silence was safer than screaming. That survival meant outthinking, not resisting. That pain was something to calculate your way around.

Leela had been that sort of survivor.

“I couldn’t even save myself,” she said, bitter, flat, after a beat.

The fuck kind of thing was that to say? Making it seem like it just made sense?

Joel’s fingers tightened gently around hers, unable to unclench his jaw. “That ain’t your fault,” he reassured to an extent, teeth gritting. “You sayin’ that like it was your choice.”

She said nothing. But the silence was answer enough. And Joel couldn’t sit with that.

“I don’t give a damn what you think you didn’t do,” he muttered, heat rising in his throat like bile. “Someone took... somethin’. They did that. You think being smart, or planning a way out—fuckin’ hell—none of that would’ve mattered.”

She shook her head once. Not in argument—just acknowledgement. “No. But it still happened. And I did nothing.”

Then, finally, she looked at him.

There was no shame in her eyes. Just a brutal clarity. The kind that only came from staring something dead in the face for years and deciding to live anyway.

“I know what I am, Joel. I know what it took to survive. I know what it turned me into. And I don’t want that for her.”

Joel didn’t speak right away. There was nothing to fix. Nothing to deny. He understood her too well for that. She wasn’t afraid Maya wouldn’t make it.

She was afraid Maya would—by becoming someone like her.

“Baby, she’s gonna carry us,” he said, a promise in his voice. “But she ain’t gonna be us.”

Then he reached out, covered her hand with his—rough skin on hers, grounding her.

“She’s got us, Leela,” he added, more quietly.

And he meant every word. He knew what it was to survive through retreat. To mistake numbness for control. To wear grief like armour and call it strength.

Leela didn’t flinch. But she didn’t smile either. Her face softened—like she wanted to believe him, that she was someone worth having.

“I hope so,” she said.

They sat there a while longer, the tide crawling up toward their boots whilst Ellie shouted at them about a jellyfish. Joel felt the sting in his joints when the winds picked up, faster, saltier, sharper.

He looked down at the shell again, their hands twined around it. Small. Pink. Still shining faintly inside. Something you’d pick up on a beach day with a little girl who didn’t know the world yet.

They couldn’t offer Maya that clean world they had lived in. But they could hand her a few pieces worth carrying. And she’d figure out what to build.

For one brief moment, he let himself believe his baby girl would have the chance to answer that question one day—for real.

What do you want to be when you grow up, Maya?

The fire had sunk lower to the forest floor, just embers now, red, pulsing like a heartbeat under ash. Shadows lean long against the trees. Night smells like salt and old leaves, smoke in cloth, and distant sea. Boots scuffed quietly on dirt. The silence that only came late, when everyone else was asleep, or pretending to be.

“Can’t sleep either?”

“No.”

“You okay?”

“Just thinking.”

“Night too loud? I've got headphones.”

A pause. Then: “Thanks... I'm missing home.”

“Oh. Me, too..”

“Hm. It's the longest I've been away from it.”

Another pause. “Yeah?”

“I keep wondering if I’d feel different if I got back. Things just magically change.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Fabric creaks. One of them tugs their sleeves down.

“Still mad at him?”

Pause.

“…He just left. You saw how bad it got.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“And he didn’t tell me a word about the Fireflies. Or Caltech.”

“He thought he was protecting you. You know how he is.”

“That’s the problem.”

Another pause. “He said nothing. Just packed up and left. Like I’d only get in the way.”

“I know.”

“You think I meant it?”

“You sounded like you did.”

“I think I did, too. Then. I was just... so angry.”

“But now?”

A defeated sigh. “I don’t know.”

A beat.

“Maya watches the world like he does, too. I noticed.”

“She does that because she learns from him. You can’t raise a kid halfway in, halfway out. You can’t teach them to trust and then disappear when it counts.”

“Yeah, but—” Someone exhales sharply. Tosses a pebble into the fire pit. It hisses. “He came back, didn’t he?”

“Only because we followed him.”

“He came back because he’s never gonna stop coming back. That’s the whole point of him.”

Silence. A reckoning in the dark.

“You know what he told me once?”

“What?”

“He said—he didn’t think people like us got second chances. That we ruin too much. And still, every time he looks at Maya, it’s like he believes she’s the one thing he didn’t fuck up.”

Silence.

“He loves her more than he knows how to say. But he shows it. In everything. That’s the closest someone like him gets to a promise.”

“…he still left.”

“I didn't say he's good at it. He's a goddamn dick. And he was wrong.”

The voice is calm, blunt. Not trying to win. Just telling it as it was.

“But so were you. Saying you’d take her. Like she’s a thing you can lift out of him.”

Quiet again. Then: “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know.”

“I just—she’s all I have. Everything good in me went to her. I had to follow him, and I have to keep her safe. Where do I win?”

“Jesus, she is safe.”

“No, I mean... he’ll break her heart someday, I know it.”

“Fuck no. Never Joel.”

“Hmph. You sound sure.”

“He didn’t break me. And the world gave him every reason to.”

Silence again. A longer moment, this time.

“Maya asks about you when you’re not there, right? She misses you. She asks for you. But when Joel’s gone? She watches the door. She won't leave it. That’s the difference.”

A breath.

“You take her away, and you’ll still have her. But she’ll never stop watching that door.”

Then the fire popped. A shift of posture. The brush of hair against cloth.

“He didn’t get to do all that before, you know. The whole marriage and two-parent household thing. Not with…”

Another breath.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Mm-hm.”

“And you’re still thinking about kicking his ass out.”

A creaking silence.

“I’m not good at staying.”

“Me neither.”

“Then why do you?”

A small sound. Could be a laugh or a sigh. “Because he’s good at making me think I can. I’ve seen what that man does when he loves someone.”

“Doesn’t that scare you?”

“No.”

A beat. “It really should.”

“I guess that’s the difference. I'm not scared of him. Not like you are.”

“I'm not scared of Joel.”

“Bite me.”

“It’s more about what he’d give up. For us. For her. What it would turn him into.”

“A dead man.”

No response. But from the dark—

“You think you’re protecting him?”

“I think I’m trying to keep us all breathing.”

“Well. That’s one stupid way to live.”

A rustle. Someone folding their arms. “Do you hate me?”

“What?”

“For saying all this. For thinking it.”

“Of course not. If anything, it makes you more real to me.”

“…But?”

“But if you take her from him—really take her—it’ll kill him.”

“I’m not trying to hurt him.”

The silence after that settles deeper. One of them pokes at the embers with a stick, ash dancing up like fireflies.

Then, softer: “I know. That’s why it would.”

As if into the mouth of some ancient beast, the Jackson gates shut behind them with a final clank, steel locking steel, rusting, slow, a reluctant welcome, and for a second, it sounded like a cell door closing.

Joel walked under the shadow of it and didn’t say a word.

The sun hung low on the horizon, flooding the snow-melted streets of Jackson with a weary saffron. Familiar smells maundered through the air—woodsmoke, cattle, hay, pine needles thawing on the wind. There was boisterous laughter somewhere. Hammers. And it all felt just close enough to touch, but not quite real. Like something playing behind a looking glass.

He was back.

Somehow, again, he was still standing. Luck—or stubbornness, someone up there still not ready to let him rest—was still with him. He’d gone to California half-dead and half-stupid, and still made it out. And more than that—they had come for him. Ellie. Leela. They’d followed. Chosen to come after him.

Because he was worth saving. Because someone out there still cared if he lived or died.

That part stuck like a splinter in his chest.

He barely had time to register the weight of it before Tommy was on him, hauling him into a rib-crushing hug, laughing through a wet voice.

“Goddamn, you tough bastard. You just don’t die, huh?”

“Too much to live for, baby brother.”

Joel didn’t hug back. Not at first. Then he did—hands slow, uncooperative, gripping Tommy’s shoulders like he had to feel the bones to believe this was real.

Joel pulled back from Tommy’s grip like he’d just come up for air.

The noise of Jackson started to creep back in—the call of someone on a ladder, boots on pavement, a dog yapping in the distance. All the moving pieces of life.

He turned to his brother, voice low. “Maya?”

Tommy smiled, but it was tight around the edges.

“She’s doin’ just fine,” he said. “Caught the sniffles crying her eyes out, but she’s fine.”

Joel stiffened. “She sick?”

“I said she’s fine, Joel,” Tommy said, firmer this time. “She… she just missed her daddy, is all.”

Joel looked away.

Of course she did. And he hadn’t been there. Not for her fever. Not for the nights she cried herself hoarse. Not for the mornings when she didn’t understand why he hadn’t come back. He’d walked out with nothing but a note and the ghost of an apology, like that would hold up in a house full of silence.

They passed through the main square, Joel’s boots heavy on the stone. It all looked the same; that was what struck him most. The tedium. The cruel, gutting way the world carried on like nothing had changed. Like he hadn’t nearly drowned. Like Ellie hadn’t pulled him back from the brink. Like Leela hadn’t followed him into hell and back.

Like Maya hadn’t cried herself sick.

Then, they turned the corner. And there it was.

The big, white house.

For a moment, Joel took it in. How much he missed this place.

Its porch was half-shadowed, steps dusted with snow. The gate creaked in the wind. He used to hear it from the bedroom. Used to fix it every two weeks, he could never find the right hinges. Used to—

He swallowed.

It used to be a shape in the distance. Something he’d catch through the branches of the old oak tree on mornings, sitting like a clean dream against the sky. Back then, it was just a house. Then it was her house. Then his. A home that was anchored in history and laughter, and Leela’s quiet hum as she flipped a page in her notebook. Full of Maya’s shrieks, toy horses skittering across the floor, her squeaky boots thumping against the wood.

Now, it just looked... tall. Unreachable. Like he’d have to climb back up the whole goddamn mountain to get inside again.

He had left something whole and returned to find it grown in his absence, evolved without him—carved deeper, tighter, stronger. Or maybe that was just him. His fear of losing.

Tommy called out, “Maria’s up ahead—she brought baby girl down the block to get some fresh air. Cranky all goddamn morning. She won't listen to anyone unless it's me.”

“Why's that?”

He sighed. “Guess I remind her of her old man.”

Jesus Christ, this was going to hurt like a bitch.

Joel’s head lifted.

And then he saw her.

A small figure on the porch.

Standing just like she used to, on the top step—like she always did when she waited for him after patrol. One mittened hand resting on the railing, the other clutching that old stuffed horse, ears chewed and fur matted from love.

She was watching the path. Waiting. Lips trembling like her whole world had been breaking every hour they were gone.

His feet wouldn’t move.

Her curls were a little softer now, matted, darker. Her coat was buttoned crooked, boots mismatched, nose splotchy from a recovering fever and maybe something else—like she knew something was coming. Some part of her did.

He took a half-step forward and stopped himself.

Then—

“Mama!”

The word left her like a crack splitting open. Her eyes widened. Her whole body leaned forward as if pulled. Arms out. Little hands grabbing at the air.

“Mama, mama—ha—come—Mama—”

It was the kind of sound only babies could make. Too raw to fake, too loud for their size.

And she teetered on the step, wailing.

Not to him. Not even a glance.

Just attempting to barrel forward to her mother, stubby legs churning, the toy horse flopping from her hand.

Joel felt it like a bullet.

Every effort she took—away from him, toward Leela—landed heavy in his gut. It was instinct. Pure. Unforgiving. She had learned that when someone disappears, you hold tighter to the one who doesn’t. The one who stayed.

Joel barely noticed Leela rush past him, knees bending, a ghost trying to reassemble a body—and didn’t even register the blur of movement until she was halfway to the porch, arms already outstretched. Her eyes were wet but unshed, her mouth twitching like she was keeping herself stitched shut by force.

Maya crashed into her, as if her mother made her real.

“Mama, Mama…”

No trembling. No collapse.

And the sound she made then—Joel had never heard it before. Not from her. Not from any baby. It was half-relief, half-fury, all heartbreak. Like something in her had cracked wide open from the waiting.

He staggered, stopped walking altogether.

Leela lifted her, spreading kisses on her cheeks, nose and hair, rocking her like she was trying to put every second of the last few days back inside her arms. Maya’s sobs were hiccuping now, her face buried in Leela’s neck, her whole body trembling.

She pulled Maya in like she meant to disappear with her. Pressed her face into her curls, kissed the top of her head and closed her eyes like that was where all the warmth lived now, shushed her with slow, circular bounces, murmuring nonsense in that gentle, rhythmic tone only mothers had.

“It’s okay, Maya. Shh, Mama’s here now. Mama’s here.”

While Joel stood frozen on the road.

He didn’t know when his hand had clenched into a fist or when his breath had left him.

He didn’t feel anger. Not at Leela. Not even to himself. It was something deeper. Older. Like watching a life he’d dreamed of grow old without him. A desolation.

And Maya—was still crying. Still hiccupping. Her fists balled into Leela’s coat. She hadn’t even looked at him. Or maybe she had, but didn’t know what she was looking for.

He wanted to step closer. Just one more step. Reach out. Soothe her. Say something. But his feet might as well have been nailed to the frozen earth.

He had nothing in his hands. Not even the strength to say her name.

Ellie moved up beside Leela, brushing Maya’s curls back from her sticky, tear-wet face. She said something. Leela nodded. And they all began to walk up the porch steps together.

Joel didn’t follow. Not yet.

He just watched.

Watched how tightly Leela held their daughter. Watched Ellie glance back at him once, her face unreadable, before she jogged past him and followed Maria and Tommy down the road, and away.

Watched his whole life move ahead of him, step by step, without turning around.

Leela’s arms were tight around Maya’s little body, the baby’s sobs quieter now but still hiccupping against her mother’s shoulder.

All he knew was that he’d left all of this behind with nothing but a note and a mission and the idea that maybe, just maybe, he could do something that mattered. Maybe he could fix something.

He eventually trailed behind them like a ghost.

They reached the porch. Leela didn’t pause. Just hitched Maya higher on her hip, the little girl whimpering against her shoulder, and stepped inside.

Maya twisted as they crossed the threshold, her arms flailing, her cries rising in volume. A shrill pleading screech.

“Da-da! Come, come!”

“Maya,” Leela tried to shush.

“No, no! Da-da, pease!”

Her voice punched through him, sharp and high and raw.

“Da-da-da-da—...”

The door closed with a soft, final click. Over.

Somewhere inside, the baby girl's cries still carried over in fresh pricks at his pummeled heart.

Joel stood there, one foot still planted on the step below, like a man halfway to salvation and halfway to hell. He hadn’t moved. His hand—useless at his side—twitched, searching for something it had forgotten how to reach.

The latch echoed louder than any gunshot he’d heard these past weeks.

He stared at the wood grain of the door, the same one he'd walked through a hundred times before, and now couldn’t seem to approach. A stupid part of him still thought maybe it’d open again. That she’d come back, that she’d say—something. Let him hold Maya just once.

But the house stayed still.

So Joel sat. Dropped like a felled thing onto the top step, legs spreading, elbows propped on his knees, fingers pressed to his lips. Because where else did he have to go?

He stared at the dirt packed under the railings, at the porch slats he’d helped mend last summer. He wasn’t sure he had the right to look at any of this anymore.

It hurt to breathe. Not from the bruised ribs or the deep-healing wound in his side. The knowing. The understanding that he’d done this. The rot. The shame. The guilt. The want to fight Leela, argue, and bash against the door.

And when he rubbed a hand over his face, he felt it—wet.

Tears. Real fucking ones.

He stared down at the shine on his fingertips like it was a new language he didn’t speak.

Crying. Goddamn. So he was still capable of that.

After all this time. After the blood. After the fear. After the killing.

It wasn’t the pain of the trip. Not the near-drowning, not the way his ribs still clicked when he breathed too deep. Not even the damage done to Leela’s precious math notebook, still folded at the bottom of his pack like a prayer he couldn’t read.

It was this silence that used to be his favourite harmony. This porch. This big white house across the street, standing like a lighthouse in the middle of the Wyoming snow.

His big, white house.

Or maybe it never had been his. Maybe he’d only been borrowing this life. A thief in someone else’s dream.

In this big dream, he might not be welcome anymore. He’d left thinking he could prove something. That there was still good he could do. That it mattered if he bled for it. That the sacrifice would mean some shit when he brought it back.

Only now—he was just a man sitting on the porch, hands empty, spine bent like a penitent.

He was still the loser. Always had been, hadn't he? A man who couldn't hold onto what mattered, even when it was pressed into his hands. Slipping through his callused fingers, sand in an hourglass.

“Da-da.”

A tiny voice. Raw. Exhausted from crying.

He blinked. Looked down.

Two tiny fists rested against his knee, barely covering them.

She stood there—his baby girl—in her yellow footie pyjamas, curls plastered to her forehead with sweat and tears, her cheeks flushed and snotty, a fist now halfway to her mouth. A warrior, somehow. She looked like she'd marched out here on stubbornness alone.

“Up, up, Da-da,” she said, her voice barely more than a breath, lips rounded to an 'O'.

He didn’t move. His hands stayed clenched on his knees, like he wasn’t sure if they were still allowed to touch her.

He just looked at her—like he was seeing a miracle and wasn’t sure he deserved to touch it. This small miracle with her tangled hair and her crooked little mouth, trying to be brave. Her big brown eyes stared straight through him, full of a deep, solemn thing children shouldn’t carry but sometimes did.

Maya wobbled slightly, off balance, still reaching. Her coat sleeve bunched at the elbow, her fingers finding a fold of his jacket and tugging. It wasn’t strong. It wasn’t a demand. Just a little pull. A tiny act of faith.

“Pease, da-da.”

That was it.

That was all it took.

He broke. Open like a thundercloud. A dam giving way after too many winters.

No big sound. No shudder. Just a quiet, helpless noise from the back of his throat, a beam giving out in a storm, as he leaned forward, reached for her with hands that shook, that had pulled triggers and choked men and now dared to try and lift someone so little and innocent. Someone still his.

He drew her in like she was the only warmth left in the world.

She wrapped her arms around him, little boots stomping onto his ribs, one arm locked around his neck, her fingers fisting the collar of his shirt, and burrowed in like she’d never left him. Like there’d been no time apart. Like he hadn’t abandoned her.

She just clung. The way babies always do. She didn’t care about the mess. Her dainty love hadn’t learned conditions yet.

His throat narrowed, his chest hitched once, sharp—then again, then again. He dropped his face into the crook of her neck and let it come, loosening that lock in him that had been latched since Sarah died. The kind of crying that doesn’t make sound, that just happens. Tears soaking into the fabric of her coat, into her hair, into his beard. He breathed her in like it might fix something, might make him whole.

“I got you, baby girl,” he sniffed.

She smelled like cinnamon. Like sleep. Like their kitchen in the mornings when Leela was fresh from her shower, Maya would toddle in and reach for a bite of breakfast with both hands.

She smelled like everything he’d fought for. Everything he might’ve lost.

Maya leaned back slowly, the softest untangling of her arms, her tiny body still half-draped over his chest. She blinked at him, her brows drawn close in a look far too serious for her little face. Her mouth tugged slightly downward, curious and concerned all at once.

Joel tried to smile for her. Tried to smooth his face. “I'm okay, it's okay.”

But she saw it anyway. The tears, still clinging to his lashes, streaked into his beard.

She stared, her little hand floating uncertainly in the air between them, fingers flexing like she knew there was something she was supposed to do but wasn’t quite sure how.

Then—clumsily, earnestly—she reached up and touched him, just one little hand against his cheek.

Joel looked from her eyes to her palm.

So small, it barely registered, but he felt the gentle tap, the warm pressure. He felt her try to wipe it—like she’d seen done before—dragging her palm across his stubble, awkward, too hard, leaving a streak of baby drool behind.

She sniffed. Then tried again, this time gentler. The way her mama would do it.

“Mm-mm, no,” she told him.

And then—her other hand went to his hair.

A soft, patting motion. Adorable, pure toddler comfort. No finesse, no words.

She looked at him like she was waiting for him to stop crying. Like she believed he could. That he should. Because Mama always did, when she wiped Maya’s tears. Because after the tears came warm arms. And sometimes applesauce.

Joel let out a sound that wasn’t a laugh, wasn’t a sob—just breath. Cracked, quiet. “You takin' care of me?”

His hand cupped the back of her head. His forehead rested against hers, their noses nearly touching. Her fingers were still in his hair.

“Da-da, no, no,” she resonated.

Joel’s heart clenched again—but differently this time. More like remembering what it was for. Beating for her. Alive for this.

He kissed her temple, the warmth of her skin soaking through his bones.

For a moment, the world held still.

No howling wind. No boots on snow. No years of silence pressing down between now and what he’d lost. Just this: the tiny weight of her heart against his chest. Her trust, folded into his jacket like a brass button or her mama's ring in his pocket.

The floorboard behind him creaked.

Joel didn’t lift his head. He felt her before he saw her. The air changed when Leela entered a space—like some internal pressure recalibrated. Softer, but tighter. She didn’t take up more room than she needed, never had. But somehow, her presence always rearranged it.

She stepped to the railing beside him and leaned, arms resting along the wood. The porch light behind her cast a low, golden ring along her dark, frizzed-out hair on her shoulders. The fire inside flickered behind the curtains.

She said nothing at first. Just looked at him. Looked at them.

Like she was trying to map it out—this man, this child, this picture she couldn’t quite trust yet, this picture that didn’t match the one she’d carried around for too long—of absence, of damage, of a man who left too much behind.

Joel didn’t look at her straight on. His eyes stayed on the horizon past the railing, that dim stretch of pine and powder blue, mountains against the dusk that bled into dark. He could feel her gaze, though. The questions in it. The ache. The absence they were both pretending didn’t sit between them like a third body.

“Joel,” she murmured, the first ripple on still water.

He swallowed. His arms tightened almost instinctively around Maya, who shifted with a faint hum, fist tucked against her mouth once more.

“Just let me hold her for a bit,” he said. It came out low, like an apology, or a prayer through gritted teeth.

A breath passed. Then, quietly—

“You can hold her as long as you want.”

He finally looked at her. Her face was turned to the dark, but he could see the fine edge of exhaustion there. Not the kind that came from no sleep—but from too many nights spent enduring what no one saw.

Her voice was softer when she added, “Do you want to shower first?”

Joel blinked, the words hitting him sideways. What a normal fucking thing to say. So regular.

His mind fumbled with it—like she'd offered him a cup of coffee in a warzone. Like there hadn’t been a canyon gaping between them only days ago, carved out by silence and anger and too many things said too late.

The absurdity of it almost made him laugh. Almost. But the sound got stuck somewhere in his throat, tangled with something older and harder.

The wind stirred again, tugging at the hem of her sweater. She didn’t smooth it down. Just let it flutter around her thighs like she didn’t feel the cold.

“Leela,” he said, low, worn, like gravel under tired boots.

She didn’t look at him. Didn’t speak right away. Just leaned a little further into the porch railing, her fingers curled loose around the wood. Shoulders rising. Falling.

Quieter this time—less like she believed it, more like she needed to—“Come inside, Joel.”

Not an invitation. Not a plea. Just something said because it had to be. Like muscle memory. Like faith said out loud.

“You don’t belong anywhere else.” A beat. Then, “And it’s cold outside.”

Joel looked down at the little girl in his arms. Maya’s cheek was pressed to his chest, her lips parted, her breath warm through his shirt. Her small hand clung to the collar of his jacket like she thought he might still disappear if she let go.

He felt it again—his daughter. His reminder. His consequence.

She came to me, he thought. She still comes to me.

Even now. After everything.

He shifted his weight and rose, careful not to jostle Maya. His knees ached. That old pain in his spine flared, but he barely felt it. She was heavier than he remembered. That, too, was a gift.

Across from him, Leela didn’t move. She didn’t offer him a hand. Didn’t clear the way. But she didn’t block it, either.

The door behind her stayed open.

Oh, here they were again.

Same porch. Same house. Same damn man, more or less.

But different. He wasn’t pounding on the door this time. Wasn’t driven half-mad by a baby that wouldn’t stop crying. He wasn’t walking in blind and bitter and ready to do a good thing just to silence a bad one.

Now he carried that baby in his arms. His baby. His girl.

And Leela—she was the one with the door now. Not just the one behind him. The one she kept closed for years, locked and latched and bolted from the inside, because too many people had barged through without asking.

Joel stepped forward.

Not past her. Not through her. To her.

The space between them was close. Intimate. He stopped just short of touching her, close enough to feel her breath ghosting warm in the cold.

She turned her head, finally. Just enough to see him.

Their eyes met. A half-second. A heartbeat.

There was no forgiveness in that look. Only recognition. And maybe—God help them both—want. A bit of love. Still there, under the rubble and the ruin.

He didn’t say, Thank you. Couldn’t. Didn’t think they’d be enough if he did. And she didn’t say, Welcome home.

When he stepped through the door beside her, the warmth met him like a memory.

As he crossed the threshold, this time he came to carry it all. To be part of it.

Maya stirred in his arms, murmuring something soft and wordless. Her thumb found her mouth again. Her head dropped against his shoulder like she knew this place of hers. Like her little body remembered what his mind kept trying to forget.

Joel blinked hard, the air in his lungs thick.

It was the same spot he’d once stood when he almost didn’t come back. When he’d looked at Leela in that doorway and thought about forgetting this ever happened.

Now she stood just behind him. A quiet key turning in an old, rusted lock.

And he thought: This is how it happens. Not with a grand gesture. Not with a reckoning or a flood of apologies. Not with big dreams of another life coming crashing down.

But like this.

A door not closed in anger. A man not barging in. A home not yet reclaimed, but not lost either.

Step by step. Word by word. Warmth bleeding slowly into cold skin.

Not a finish line or a full repair.

A place to start again.

One last time.

taglist 🫶: @darknight3904 , @guiltyasdave , @letsgobarbs , @helskemes , @jodiswiftle , @tinawantstobeadoll , @bergamote-catsandbooks , @cheekychaos28 , @randofantfic , @justagalwhowrites , @emerald-evans , @amyispxnk , @corazondebeskar-reads , @wildemaven , @tuquoquebrute , @elli3williams , @bluemusickid , @bumblepony , @legoemma , @chantelle-mh , @heartlessvirgo , @possiblyafangirl , @pedropascalsbbg , @oolongreads -> @kaseynsfws , @prose-before-hoes , @kateg88 , @laliceee , @escaping-reality8 , @mystickittytaco , @penvisions , @elliaze , @eviispunk , @lola-lola-lola , @peepawispunk , @sarahhxx03 , @julielightwood , @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi , @arten1234 , @jhiddles03 , @everinlove , @nobodycanknoww , @ashleyfilm , @rainbowcosmicchaos , @i-howl-like-a-wolf-at-the-moon , @orcasoul , @nunya7394 , @noisynightmarepoetry , @picketniffler , @ameagrice , @mojaveghst , @dinomecanico , @guelyury , @staytrueblue , @queenb-42069 , @suzysface , @btskzfav , @ali-in-w0nderland , @ashhlsstuff , @devotedlypaleluminary , @sagexsenorita , @serenadingtigers , @yourgirlcin , @henrywintersgun , @jadagirl15 , @misshoneypaper , @lunnaisjustvibing , @enchantingchildkitten , @senhoritamayblog , @isla-finke-blog , @millercontracting , @tinawantstobeadoll , @funerals-with-cake , @txlady37 , @inasunlitroom , @clya4 , @callmebyyournick-name , @axshadows , @littlemissoblivious } - thank you!! awwwww we're like a little family <3

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91 notes · View notes

terzosboyfriend · 2 days ago

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Y'know what, fuck it. This is my tumblr account so I can say what I want. You are welcome to disagree with me, I don't care, but just know you will get blocked if you start threatening or harassing me.

I don't think the Jutty allegations are real.

Now that I have stated that, let me elaborate. When the allegations came out, I was absolutely neutral, I didn't know which end to believe. But then I kept piecing more and more things together, and I can confidently say im 90% on jutty's side.

No, none of us really know exactly what happened, but I don't think he did it. Firstly, the person who came out about it used a throwaway account, meaning they didn't have a profile picture, had a user that couldn't be traced back to them, anything.

That doesn't specifically mean they were lying, though, but they then decided to "post a selfie" that they supposedly took with Jutty as "proof" of his SA. In the picture, his hand was on their mid to upper back, which yeah okay, maybe it was just proof that they were actually at this show. WRONG. Someone literally came out about a week after it was posted and showed proof being like "uhh that's me, not them. And Jutty didn't do shit to me."

That is really what made me jump into believing that Jutty didn't actually do it. And sure, there's still the like grooming/creep accusations toward Jutty, but those literally showed nothing. I'm sorry to say it, but him being overly friendly/very lightly flirting with an ADULT doesn't really say much other than he doesn't understand the professionalism needed to interact with fans online. He didn't actually do or say anything specifically wrong.

"B-B-But, he told them to bring a fake ID to go to a 21+ show!!" They were still an adult, and he was obviously joking in the context. And don't any of you dare to say that you have NEVER joked about getting a fake ID. I have joked many times about getting one.

I honestly think that after the SA allegations were proven false, you all let it die down for a couple months only to not only bring it back, but also start to harass and send threats to Jutty, his friends/family, Ghost, and anyone who may have shown the tiniest amount of support for the man.

Some of you have even gone as far as to call Jutty a rapist, and you're acting like he was caught in 4k doing it. The allegations were grabbing a 15 year old's ass.

I'm sorry, but the way people are acting, I have become very convinced that all of this hate and harassment toward him has really just become a race thing. The number of people white washing their versions of Swiss is actually horrific, like do y'all think the second you don't like someone and they have even the slightest bits of allegations proven false or not on them, then racism isn't okay?

Nah I'm sorry, but you are 100% welcome to believe the accuser if you'd really want to, but if you are someone who was actively spamming, threatening, or harassing Jutty, Ghost, or anyone else on the matter. Then there's the door. 👉🚪

That is all, back to my regularly scheduled shit. I was tired of only giving a half truth in my posts(claiming to be neutral) so I didn't get yelled at or threatened(I still did).

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slimybeth69 · 20 hours ago

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Hungry Man

Chapter 3- I Know The End 6.7k

Chapter Summary- Close my eyes, fantasize Three clicks and I'm home When I get back I'll lay around Then I'll get up and lay back down Romanticize a quiet life There's no place like my room

warnings/tags: dark&sneaky!Joel/crazy&unhinged!reader, DDDNE (this chapter may be hard to read for some- please be mindful of the content you consume), dubious ethics, Joel being protective, slightly mean!Joel if you squint but mostly gentle!Joel, reader goes through it again in this chapter (get used to it, sorry) brief mentions of blood.

a/n: hi. I hope you like this chapter :)

The house is so quiet compared to the mall. There was always something making sound– animals or insects, the structure itself shifting and settling after years of decomposing. There wasn’t a completely silent night in the last eight months and now Joel doesn’t know how to fall asleep anymore.

Even with you fast asleep beside him, he can’t seem to calm his racing mind.

How’re you gonna keep her safe?

Joel looks down at you, watching your eyes move behind the lids while you sleep. Your breathing is slow and steady. He wonders if instead of your usual nightmares that maybe tonight you’re dreaming good things.

While he’s lost in thought, you make a soft, sleepy sighing sound and wiggle your body closer to him, snuggling against him as tightly as you can. Joel wipes a stray eyelash off your cheek carefully, and then ghosts his index finger across your forehead.

You sigh again, but don’t wake up.

Why doesn’t he hate you? You took from him– took his time. Took the precious, unpromised time he had with Ellie and JJ, with Tommy and his nephew Ben.

He should hate you for that. Should hate you for the way you treated him– kept him tied up and chained like a dog. He mindlessly rubs at his neck while the thoughts race– while his feelings swirl around like a tornado inside him.

You don’t hate her though– you understand her.

He does. He understands you more than he would like to admit. He’s had so much time to think about the things he’s done, and the kind of man he is– and he understands why you did what you did.

Joel has done things he wouldn’t have normally done for the sake of caring about someone. The hospital plays in his head over, and over again. The night he lost Sarah.

He thinks about the person he helped shape Ellie into– and he wonders if it’s a good thing. Joel thinks about the things Ellie did with Tommy after the attack. Joel wonders where she would have ended up without him around. What kind of person she might have turned out to be if he hadn’t ever agreed to take her to Salt Lake.

She’d be dead– no doubt about that.

Ellie had been a kid– she is just barely not a kid anymore in his eyes.

You’re grown– set in your ways and clearly traumatized. Joel wonders if he’s doing the right thing by bringing you here.

He wrinkles his nose at the scent of you– he hadn’t noticed it much before with everything going on, all the emotions. Now that everything is settled, and he has a little time to think, let things register, the smell of his brother and his brother's house and the soap his family uses wafts through his nostrils and it makes him angry.

Joel wants you to smell like you.

No, you want her to smell like you.

Something wicked grows inside Joel because that voice inside him is right; he does want you to smell like him. He wants everyone who comes close to you to recognize you as his because you are– he meant what he said and he hopes you know that.

There is too much thinking happening. Too much noise inside his head and too much silence around him for his body and mind to relax. He wants to get up and go look for something to drink, something to settle the storm and ease him into rest.

He knows that if he leaves and you wake up to an empty bed, all hell is going to break loose, so he stays next to you and lets you sleep. Lets you get your much needed rest because he knows that you’re capable of going an ungodly amount of time without sleep. It used to scare him how long you would be awake before crashing out for eighteen to twenty hours at a time.

This next week is for you– getting you used to being in a house and a schedule. Getting you used to being around people. Then he’s going to get you working– he’s already thought about how you’ll like working in the barn. You like animals, seem to be good with them and know more about them than he does– and there is a whole building full of them.

Silently, he boasts about how smart he is for thinking about it. He isn’t going to stick you in the kitchen where he knows you’ll be miserable. And he isn’t going to get you on patrol duty until he knows you won’t run away.

She’s gonna try.

Yeah, you will try. You’re scared now– won’t admit it– but you’re scared. The second you get an ounce of courage– which you will– you’ll try and take off. Joel will come look for you, and he will find you– and you will not like how he makes sure you don’t run off again.

He might never let you leave. He hasn’t really decided yet, but he’s thinking about it.

Joel settles down beside you again, and this time you stir, sleep clinging to your panicked voice as you ask where he’s going. He nuzzles his nose into the side of your face and splays one of his hands across your stomach, resting it there innocently. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he reassures with his lips pressing softly against the corner of your mouth.

You hum quietly with your eyes still closed and place your hand on top of Joel’s and hold him there– lightly encourage him to keep touching you. “Good,” you yawn quietly and melt back into the bed.

With his eyes closed, he thinks maybe getting you acclimated won’t be as hard as he thought it was going to be. You’re here in his bed, sleeping like you have no worries in the world while he sits up awake, fearful and anxious of the future.

----

“Mister!”

Joel’s eyes shoot open, heart already racing because he can hear the fear in your voice. He doesn’t have time to ask you what’s wrong when a loud, heavy pounding on the front door makes you flinch.

Joel sighs loudly. He shouldn’t be annoyed at people coming to visit, but it feels like it’s too early in the morning for company. The thudding doesn’t cease, and Joel looks at you regretfully, “Gotta go see who–”

Your hand darts to his, gripping it tightly. “Please don’t let’em take me,” you plead with him, eyes wet with tears before he has time to ease your worry. “I’ll be good! I promise! I’ll be g-good, just don’t make me go with’em.”

The bangning on the front door wont stop– that paired with the sound of your begging and the fact that Joel only three, maybe fours of sleep is making his head spin.

Joel shakes your hand off of his and climbs out of the bed, waving your worries away with a flick of his wrist as he heads to his dresser. “No one's gonna take you,” he has much less patience for all of this today than he did yesterday.

You’re out of bed, following close behind to the dresser with your fingers worrying at the hem of his t-shirt. “Like I ain’t heard that before,” you tug desperately at the fabric as he pulls on a pair of jeans.

Joel swats your hand away, the annoyance seeping in while the front door nearly gets knocked off its hinges downstairs. “Would you cut it out,” Joel swats at your hand once again and tucks his shirt into his jeans.

“Who is knockin’ like that this early!?” You exclaim, holding your right hand towards the bedroom door. “Someone who sounds like they want somethin’!”

Joel shakes his head at you and combs his fingers through his hair to look somewhat presentable. “You comin’ down like that or do you wanna get dressed?” He looks you up and down, still wearing all of his boxers and t-shirt from last night.

Your eyes go wider than Joel thought possible and now he has to hold back a smirk. “Comin’ down!?”

“Could stay here…’n wait for me–” Joel reaches out to run his index finger between your slit, to tease you for a moment through his boxers, but you’re pushing his hand away, closing the distance between you and grasping at his shirt again in desperation.

“Joel!” The muffled, female voice coming from out front sounds angry. “I know you’re in there! Open the fucking door!”

Your head whips around and you look at the door that leads out into the hallway. “Who is that?” You ask, the fear replaced with new piqued curiosity. “That don’t sound like Maria– who is that lady?” You turn to look at him again, brows pinched together tight.

Joel can’t hide the smirk, he can barely hold back the chuckle you force out of him. “‘Cause it ain’t Maria,” he gently grabs you by the scruff of your neck and places a chaste kiss to your forehead.

“Who is that woman tryin’ to barge in here so early in the–”

Joel grips the back of your neck a little tighter and you scowl up at him but go silent. “Sounds like y’might be a little jealous–”

With your right hand, you ball your fist into Joel’s shirt and pull yourself closer to him. “Don’t like other ladies knockin’ on your door like that,” you growl at him, the fear from your voice and plastered all over your face is gone.

There she is.

Joel snorts softly to himself, shaking his head from side to side. “You’re somethin’ else,” he massages the side of your neck with his index finger and thumb gently. You soften slightly against him and he kisses your forehead again and lingers. “Go shower– you smell like my brother's house,” he grumbles against your skin.

“Who is–”

“It’s just Ellie,” Joel lets his hand slide down your spine and over the curve of your ass. “No one you need t’be jealous of,” he teases as he palms and squeezes your ass playfully.

You look him up and down suspiciously, eyebrows still furrowed, lips in a tight line, “You sayin’ there are ones I should be jealous of?”

Joel laughs and gives your ass a good smack, pushing past you gently. “Take a shower ‘n you can come down after. There is stuff for you in the dresser,” he points to his dresser and then leaves the room to attend to the constant knocking downstairs.

----

“The fuck have you been?” Ellie pushes the door open before Joel can even greet her. “Been knocking for almost ten minutes.”

“I’m fully aware how long you been makin’ that racket,” Joel shuts the door behind her as she barges into the house like she still lives here. “S’nice to see you too, I guess.” Joel scoffs softly and shakes his head.

He hadn’t expected a welcome back party, Joel hadn’t even received one smile since he’s been back. Not from Tommy– he never expected one from Maria– and now Ellie.

“What the fuck do you expect me to say, Joel?” Ellie’s headed into the kitchen and Joel follows close behind. “Been gone for eight months and then you come back and don’t even bother coming to see me?”

Joel grabs the glass jar of coffee beans he put in the cupboard after Tommy left last night. “Got in pretty late– didn’t wanna wake you and Dina and J.J.”

Joel goes about making coffee while Ellie softens, changing her tone quickly. “You okay? Look like you been through some shit.”

Joel nods his head, staying quiet. He’s listening for the shower upstairs but he doesn’t hear it. Doesn’t hear any noise and he wonders what you’re doing.

“Thought you were done gettin’ yourself into shit,” Ellie chuckles but Joel doesn’t really hear her. He’s too busy thinking about how there is a pistol tucked into the pocket of a jacket he has hanging up in his closet. He wonders if you’re looking for something like that to use on him. Come down here blasting– taking everyone in the room out so you and Puddin’ can make your great escape.

“Joel?”

His train of thought is derailed, and so he turns to look at Ellie, “Sorry kiddo.” He’s greeted with a look of worry- like something bad could happen to him at any minute. Like he’s fragile and could break. He doesn’t like that. “I’m fine,” he sighs. “Just did a lot of walkin’ yesterday and didn’t get a lot of sleep.”

Ellie sighs loudly and leans back in the chair she had taken a seat in. “Shit, and I come over banging your door down first thing in the morning,” she’s shaking her head. “I’m sorry– Tommy came over this morning and told me that you were back–”

“What else did Tommy tell you?”

Joel’s bathroom is different from Maria’s. Less welcoming– more plain and sterile looking– but your soaps are here. The little bottles and bars of the things that make you clean and smell good. Some of them make you feel soft after you use them.

You’re warm from the inside and the tips of fingers tingle as you run them along the worn and water damaged label of one of the bottles. You notice that he brought his soap from the mall- the one you found for him shortly after he came to stay with you.

You don’t shower. You choose to stay in his clothes instead and inspect what he has for you in his dresser. You start at the bottom drawer, but it’s only his things. The next drawer is the same– only Mister’s clothes.

The next drawer, the one second from the top has significantly less clothes in it– but they’re yours. The ones you had at the mall, folded and tucked away neatly under the cash register in the mattress store– they’re here in Mister-man’s dresser, in a drawer just for you.

The tingles creep up your hands and wrists and into your forearms as you shut the drawer and turn around, taking in the bedroom that you slept in last night.

Felt good to sleep– it’s been a while.

Miss out on things when you sleep and you’re at risk– it’s dangerous.

It did feel good though. It felt good to sleep with a door between you and the outside world, and to have a roof over your head that didn’t have holes in it. There was something nice about being in a house again– but it still made you feel so uneasy, and your stomach was tied so tightly into a knot that it made you feel like you could be sick.

A pink snout peeks out from under Mister’s bed, and sniffs rapidly. Then a gray and white furry face follows and his beady little eyes stare up at you.

It shouldn’t be as dramatic as it is, but you drop to your knees with a thud and Puddin’ runs out from his hiding place and jumps into your lap.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” you press your face into his fur as his little scratchy nails dig into your shoulder and cheek. “Mister took real good care of you?”

The small marsupial doesn’t respond, he just continues trying to burrow into the neck of your shirt so he can curl up and go to sleep. You bring him into Mister-man’s bed and curl up with him under your shirt.

Safe. He’s downstairs with his daughter, probably making his horrible coffee. Nothing bad is going to happen.

He’s tellin’ her what you did– he’s gonna tell everyone what you did. They’re all gonna hate you. Gonna talk ‘bout you ‘n laugh at you. Judge you.

It’s been so long since you’ve had to worry about what anyone thought about you. You didn’t worry about doing things the normal way, or being normal, or anything other than what made you happy and feel good.

Last night you had no time to think about anything before sleep overcame you. There were no worries when Mister and his endless, perfect body heat kept you warm and comfortable.

Now you’re alone because he’s downstairs with his daughter. You think about how lucky Ellie is that she gets her dad and didn’t lose him. A different kind of jealousy pangs deep inside you. Another reason being alone was so easy was because you weren’t constantly reminded that everyone you had once known is dead. The one person from your past had turned on you, treated you like a tradeable form of currency that he could pass around to keep the people who fueled his addictions happy.

You miss your dad and your mom. You miss the home you knew and the room you had with your books and things in it. You miss life the way it used to be.

Wouldn’t have Mister-Joel though.

Meeting that liar is the worst thing that ever happened to you.

That’s not true. There had been worse things to happen to you– worse people like Christoper and Theo. The worst of them all had been Elias.

With every ounce of mental strength you have left, you pull yourself out of your head and settle back into Mister-man’s warm, safe bed. You press your face into his pillow and inhale deeply, taking in the intoxicating smell of his sleepy, musky scent.

The image of your clothes in his dresser flashes into your head again. Your face gets warm, and your insides feel like they’re vibrating.

He didn’t have to do that. He didn’t have to make space for you in his life like this. You wonder what the plan is, or if he even has a plan to begin with.

He just wanted you here. Just wanted you close to him.

He’s going to chew you up until there ain’t nothin’ left.

The voices go back and forth with each other for a while; you stay quiet and listen to them bicker about knowing what Mister wants. How they know best.

You think you might not know anything anymore. You had been so smart and so independent out in the woods because there had been no one else around to tell you that how you did things was wrong, or stupid, or that you could do it better this way or that way. Now– thinking about doing anything without Mister-man around makes you want to cry.

----

“S’just me,” he whispers into your ear as he slips into bed beside you. His voice calms you before you have time to panic. “Y’never showered,” he rubs his hand up and down your upper arm. “Still smell like Tommy and Maria’s house.”

“I found someone,” you yawn, lifting your shift a smidge to expose Puddin’, who makes his own sleepy sound, peers around the room with tired eyes, and then curls himself into a ball, wrapping his paws around his tail.

Joel groans quietly in displeasure, “Not in my bed– critters don’t sleep in my bed.” He doesn’t force Puddin’ out, or make you put him on the floor. He wraps his arm around you, careful of the opossum, and settles in, sighing contently.

You smirk, eyes still closed and sass him playfully. “Ya’ didn’t have a problem with it when it was my bed.”

Mister snorts softly against the side of your face and pulls you closer. “Shut up and go back t’sleep. We ain’t doin’ this again tomorrow.”

“Doin’ what?”

Bein’ free.

“Bein’ lazy,” Mister-man yawns tiredly. “We’re all gettin’ up early ‘n doin’ chores,” he very gently and playfully jostles the sleeping animal under your shirt. “You too.”

Puddin’ lets out a squeak, and shifts away from Mister to continue snoozing under the dark fabric.

The next time you wake up you’re cold, and alone. Even Puddin’ is gone.

The room looks different. It’s the same room but everything looks… gray and dull.

Maybe it isn’t the same room.

How terrible would it be if it had all been a dream? All of it– the mall, the Mister-man, Puddin’! What if none of it was real, and you’re back in the bad house, with the bad men who hurt you.

Hide.

The door in the corner of the room looks like it leads to a bathroom– it feels familiar. There is a lock on the door you can see from here, and there might be a small window that you should be able to squeeze out of if you try hard enough.

Smart girl.

Joel will be right back! He’s coming back! Don’t panic!

The dark voice is too late– the anxiety has set in and now you need to move, need to be somewhere where no one can get you, because Joel isn’t here. He’s probably not even real!

Your brain and body aren’t in sync yet, and your legs move swiftly, but nowhere near gracefully. You fall out of bed and land on your chest. Pain shoots through your shoulder and up your neck, down your spine. You whimper, and start to crawl towards the door only a few feet away.

There is a sound downstairs, a clattering, and then footsteps. Fast, heavy footsteps that you can follow by their thudding through the house until they’re racing up the stairs, possibly taking them two at a time.

Comin’ to get you. Gonna take everything from you.

It's as if you get to the bathroom at the same time the footsteps enter the bedroom. You slam the door shut, and turn the lock.

The door begins rattling violently in its frame. The voice on the other side sounds angry, but you can’t even make out what it’s saying over your own hysterics.

“Go away, go away, go away,” you sob softly, covering your ears with your hands despite the searing pain in your shoulder. “Please go away.”

The banging on the door doesn’t stop, it doesn’t soften or slow. It gets louder, and faster. More demanding. The door handle turns from left to right uselessly.

You close your eyes, and press your palms against your ears as hard as you can, trying to drown out the overwhelming loudness. This room is going to close in on you, the walls get closer and the space itself gets smaller and smaller.

Whoever is on the other side of the door is mad at you. The tone of their voice tells you that they’re angry but you still aren’t listening to what they’re saying.

“I’m sorry!” You wail loudly, hoping the person trying to get you can hear. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” You’re not sure why you’re apologizing, but you must have done something wrong for the person to be so upset.

The door stops rattling, and for a moment you think your apologies worked, the angry entity on the other side of the door must have gone away. For a moment, you think you can breathe.

Then there is one, loud thud against the door. The frame shifts slightly.

“No! No! No! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” You scream and shuffle backwards on the floor, jumping when your back touches the outside of the tub.

The person either kicks, or slams their shoulder into the door once again, and you can see the wooden door bow inwards towards you ever-so slightly.

This time the frame around the door splinters.

Wonder what they’re gonna do to you when they get in here.

You’re whimpering, praying, hoping that something will intervene, that something will save you. As you climb into the tub, trying to hide, wondering if the drain would open you up and swallow you whole if you wished hard enough– the wooden frame that keeps the door shut finally gives out as the person forces themselves into the bathroom, and pieces of wood go flying through the air.

You scream in terror, the debris landing in your hair, and on your back. You grip the shower curtain in your right hand and tear it down off the bar above you accidentally as you pull yourself further away from whoever is behind you.

The curtain falls down on top of you, cloaking you in darkness. This makes everything worse. The dark makes it all too familiar.

You try to rip the fabric off of you, try and get yourself free but now there is another set of hands on you, groping at you– touching you. Getting ready to take things from you and hurt you.

Gonna take all you got to offer, Sug.

You shriek loudly and kick out with your feet at your attacker. “Get off me!”

A strong, calloused hand wraps around the entirety of your ankle and squeezes. Skin on skin, you can feel how hot and alive the other person is, and it makes you want to implode on yourself.

“Pl-Plea–Please don’t,” you sob, already feeling defeated, already knowing what’s about to happen to you. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

The hand slides up your shin and thigh, under the shower curtain, closer to your core– but it bypasses it completely and continues traveling up your torso. Fingertips graze your chin, then your lips and before you can stop yourself, you open your mouth. The thick digits slide between your lips, and then across your tongue.

They start to pull away, but you bite down hard before they leave your mouth completely.

Good fuckin’ girl, Sug!

The person howls in pain and you try to push yourself backwards, away from the sound but there isn’t anywhere to go. You’re in the tub, in a giant bowl and your back is pressed against the side of it.

“Go away, go away, go away, go away,” You plug your ears with your index fingers, close your eyes.

Honey, it’s okay. It’s alright. You just forgot where you were. You’re safe.

It doesn’t matter. You’re nowhere, now.

It’s just light. It’s just white, and bright light surrounds you. It feels warm, it feels comfortable and safe, and it feels like home. It also feels entirely like nothing at all. There is a voice repeating the same phrase over and over. It’s a soft, sweet voice that reminds you of good and love. It reminds you of hugs, and sweet things, and the feeling of your chest being full.

You can’t make out the words, they’re all jumbled together, or sound like they’re being said backwards. It doesn’t matter, the voice is what feels good. The consolation of the voice alone is enough for some reason.

In your heart, the one that’s beating so fast in your chest it feels like it could explode or give out at any second, longs to tell the voice you miss it. You wish you could hear it more.

Then real light, not bright, warm, white light, but the soft yellow glow of the lightbulbs encompasses you, and someone tall and broad is standing above you.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” You shake your head, and hold your hands up to protect your face and neck. “I’m sorry!”

You need to breathe, honey.

Don’t. Pass out. It’ll make it easier.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you can’t stop. You want to, you want to stop and take a breath, gather your thoughts– but why think when bad things are about to happen?

There is a sputtering, wet sound from above you and then you are being soaked with ice cold water.

You gasp loudly– a long, deep breath in– and your lungs expand and your head stops spinning. Water gets in your mouth and you spit it out. It’s washing over your face and down your neck and chest. It’s already seeping into your clothes.

A large mass is in front of you, and then kneeling– pinning your legs between theirs. A hand, calloused and strong, grabs your face, pinching your cheeks together.

“Jesus-fuckin’-Christ, look’it me!” It’s Mister-man’s voice, it’s his hand on your face, it’s his knees on either side of yours.

You open your eyes, and he’s glaring at you, his brows stitched together angrily. All you can do is whimper.

“What th’fuck is wrong with you!?” He releases your face, but mashes his fingers against your lips and then holds them up for you to see. “Fuckin’ bit me!”

They’re red, stained with blood. His middle and ring finger are bleeding. Now you can taste the metallic tang of it still lingering on your tongue.

“I- I d-didn’t mean to,” your eyes flash between his bloody fingers, and angry eyes. “I didn’t mean t’bite you. I really didn’t,” you can feel your sinuses starting to tingle, and your eyes burn. “I jus’ woke up all alone and– and it looked different,” you try to explain, but the words don’t make sense, not even to you. “I got scared.”

Mister’s face softens and his shoulders slump forward slightly, but he doesn’t say anything. This time, when he reaches for your lips, he wipes them gently, cleaning off any blood that still remains. “Didn’t think you’d wake up ‘fore I got back,” he murmurs softly.

The water cascades through his hair, soaking it and matting it to his forehead. There is a steady stream dripping off the tip of his nose, and his clothes are completely wet now, too. You pulse at the sight of him, wet and hovering over you this way. You feel guilty for hurting him, for biting him so hard he bled.

“Where did ya’ go?” You ask mindlessly, not even really thinking before the words come out. Your brain feels like mush, like it’s been chewed up and spit out and then stepped on.

Joel turns at the waist, and adjusts the knob for the water, and then turns back to face you. “Was gonna go get us somethin’ to eat,” he explains cooly.

Now the water is warm and getting hotter, and feels good on your skin. “You was gonna leave me here all alone?” You whisper in disbelief, mouthing hanging open slightly.

Mister-man helps you undress silently, and discards all your wet clothes outside of the tub; then follows suit. He stands behind you, pressing himself against you so you can feel the slight swell of his belly against your back. His hands snake around your midsection, and pull you close to him.

“Ain’t got nothin’ to be scared of here, babydoll.” He whispers into your ear. “S’only scary up here,” he punctuates the last word with a gentle kiss to your temple. “Gotta stay outta there.”

He’s right.

You lean back against him, try and relax your tense body. “I dunno how,” you sigh, and with that confession it feels like weight has been taken off of you. Like Mister-man is lifting you off of your feet, but he isn’t. He’s still just holding you, swaying you discreetly; it’s so soothing. You are small in his arms, he makes you feel tiny and fragile even though that isn’t always the case– you love it.

Mister lets out a low hum from deep in his chest, “Have ya’ ever tried?”

The honest answer is no, you’ve never really tried. These things don’t normally happen, you don’t normally get stuck in your head like this. That’s not what you tell Mister though. “It’s hard. Just get caught up in it all– sometimes so fast I don’t even know it’s happenin’.”

Mister nods like he understands, and sighs. “S’long as I’m around, you’re safe. Remember what we talked ‘bout in the woods?”

“But you weren’t around,” you snap at him, frustrated with his useless words. “You weren’t here.”

“I was just downstairs,” he explains gently as he starts to work his fingers into your hair. The faint smell of your soap wafts through the air, and it makes things seem less scary. Just a little. He scratches at your scalp with his nails and doesn’t miss a spot.

“Feels good,” you moan softly, leaning against him again for support while he massages all your fears and worries away.

He turns you around slowly so you’re facing him. “I ain’t always gonna be right by your side,” he whispers, and keeps his index finger under your chin, shielding your eyes with his other hand while the water washes the shampoo away. “But if I’m breathin’...” he pauses to make sure you’re listening. “You’re safe. Promise you that.”

You wrinkle your nose at his words. “How’re you gon’ keep me safe if you aren’t right here?” You hold your right hand out at your side.

Joel raises one eyebrow as he continues to rinse the soap out of your hair. “Same way you did,” he shrugs his shoulders. He’s satisfied that all the shampoo is gone, and he reaches for the bar of his soap sitting on the side of the tub.

You watch, expecting him to start washing himself, but instead he drags the soap across your skin, washing away all the sweat and sleep from the last several hours. It smells unmistakably like Mister. You’re perplexed, studying the lines in his face as he concentrates on making sure he doesn’t miss an inch of you.

“I have my own,” you motion to your other bottles and containers of soaps and shampoos.

Joel glances in their direction and shrugs, sliding the bar of soap along your lower stomach, and then down between your legs. He’s thorough, but gentle. His touch is innocent, moving from your core, down your thighs. He kneels in front of you, washing your shins and calves, then finally your feet. He holds your ankle, lifting each one a couple of inches, cleaning the soles and between your toes.

When he goes to stand, he’s slow, and winces, sucking air between his teeth harshly.

“You hurtin’?” You reach for him with your right arm, and let him use you to stand up fully.

Joel grimaces the entire way to his feet, and begins to wash himself with the same bar of soap, ignoring your question completely. “I know gettin’ used to this place ain’t gonna be easy for you,” he starts to explain again.

For some reason, what says embarasses you. You want to crawl inside your own skin and hide from the rest of his words.

Mister-man doesn’t seem to notice as you pull your chin into your chest, and stare at the bottom of the tub, watching the suds and water race down the drain. “M’ gonna help ya’ as much as I can, but we can’t be together every second of every day– we weren’t together like that at the mall.”

You roll your eyes, thankful that he can’t see. “Wasn’t no one else ‘round at the mall,” you grumble quietly.

Joel snatches your chin in his hand and tilts your head to look up at him. “What’d you say?” He growls, eyes narrowed directly onto yours.

The muscles in your jaw tense, and you tear your chin from between his fingers. “I said there wasn’t no one else around at the mall.”

Mister snorts, and shakes his head from side to side. He smirks as he goes back to washing under his arms, and then his shoulders and chest. “Think I’d let someone do something to you?”

“How are you gonna stop’em if you ain’t around, huh?”

Joel leans in so his face is only an inch from yours. “Ain’t nobody even gonna try,” he’s still smirking. “Wanna know how I know?”

You don’t respond, you just continue to stare at him.

“‘Cause everyone here knows that I’d hunt’em down and fucking kill them if they did,” he continues, just barely a whisper. “You forget what I did for you in the mall?” He adds, pressing a quick kiss to your lips before he stands upright.

Part of you had forgotten in the tangled mess that was coming to Jackson. You don’t really remember what he had said– not exactly.

Little scenes from the trip to Jackson play over and over again in your head, being shocked to the point of tears, Mister-man having to put the choke collar back on you when you wouldn’t stop trying to run.

Finally, once you had exhausted yourself to the point of falling over, Joel told you the truth. Told you that it was a larger settlement, and that you would be expected to work, and have to talk to people.

You do remember him whispering in your ear when he slipped his cock into you out in the woods, “Nobody’s gonna hurt my crazy lil puppy. Ain’t that right, baby?”

You sobbed into his neck, “I ain’t crazy.” Clinging to him like you could be sucked into the center of the earth. You remember your clothes and hair being soaked, and clinging to your skin with a fresh layer of still wet mud; Mister’s hands were dirty with it when he tried to wipe your tears away.

You remember that it suddenly sounded like thunder, and the ground was vibrating under your back. You remember the snorting of horses, and the authoritarian voice that shouted at Mister-man to get off of you.

You remember that he didn’t get off of you, he actually thrust a couple more times until someone pulled and cocked a gun. Only then did he leave you with a sickeningly wet squelch, keeping you pinned underneath him while he situated himself back into his jeans.

You don't remember much else after that, really, not until you got to Maria's house.

Mister-man rinses his body and then reaches around you to shut the water off, and then he carefully dries you. He tuts quietly when he reaches your shoulder, bruised and swollen, but doesn’t say anything.

Mister wraps the towel around you, and then wraps one around his waist and guides you into his bedroom. He goes into your one drawer, barely half-filled with your things, and picks out a shirt. He pulls it over your head, and is smirking down at you when you reemerge.

“You up for a walk to the mess hall?” He asks, wiping a stray drop of water that is running down the side of your face.

You blink up at him, wrinkling your nose slightly.

He cups your face and rubs his thumb across your cheek, “S’where we can get somethin’ to eat.”

As if on cue, your stomach lets out a deep, loud rumbling sound. You are hungry– possibly starving. You can’t remember the last time you had anything besides a handful of raspberries and crackers. It’s been a while since you sat down and ate with Mister.

He helps you into a pair of jeans, and then puts a clean pair of socks on for you, and helps you into one of his long-sleeve flannels. He rolls up the sleeves so they don’t overhang your hands.

“Are there gonna be other people there?” You try to sound nonchalant, like you don’t care if other people were there. Inside, your heart feels like it isn’t moving at all, and your mouth is fuzzy and dry.

Mister-man is tucking his shirt into his jeans when he looks at you, one eyebrow raised slightly. “Does it matter?” He sees right through you, and shakes his head as he zips and buttons his jeans.

You shrug and sit down on the edge of his bed. “I was just askin’,” you mumble under your breath.

He doesn’t hear, or chooses to ignore you as he finishes getting dressed. He walks back into the bathroom, and when he returns, his hair is combed back, away from his face. Mister-man’s face looks endlessly tired, like it’s been etched into his being.

He stands in front of you with his hands on his hips, furrowing his brow at you. “What’s the matter? Y’still worried ‘bout them?” He tips head towards the door.

You shrug again, looking everywhere but his eyes as he takes a step closer. It doesn’t matter how hard you try to avoid it, he pinches your chin between his thumb and forefinger and makes you look up at him. You force a closed lip smile at him, and shake your head from side to side. “Nah…” You blink up at him, the small, strained grin still on your face. “I know you’ll take care of me.”

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#joel miller x reader #fanfic #pedro pascal characters #joel miller #fic: girl dinner #longer reads #dddne #mentally unwell reader #Joel being the most perfect man ever #gentle!joel #mean!joel #< if you squint #I'm so bad at tags #sorry

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boopiemadz · 20 hours ago

Text

♫ Taylor Swift|Travis Martinez ♫

A/N:

Not sure if this concept makes any sense but whatever, I just wanted to attribute lyrics to songs that reminded me of Travis/ Travis in a relationship with reader. Also I have some stuff in my inbox im slowly working through (yellowjackets x cm) but I love getting asks or just general questions or statements in my inbox!

---

"But I'm a fire and I'll keep your brittle heart warm..." -Peace

Travis makes sure your always warm, especially in those long winter months. Anytime he sees you show any signs of a chill he will sacrifice his own warmth by giving you his outer layers. You would always contest this trying to convince him you were fine, but it was no use, he clung to you at night to give you warmth, boiled you water to drink, and even woke up early to start the fire for you when you wake up so that you could 'defrost' right away.

"I want to wear his initial on a chain 'round my neck, Chain 'round my neck. Not because he owns me, But 'cause he really knows me" -Call it what you want

Its not much, but it was something. Travis didnt even know it was your birthday, not until Misty brought it up. He felt like such a bad boyfriend for not knowing, I mean sure, they werent in the best spot to focus on things like that, but he knew that it was so important to you that you made sure to keep time in your notebook to make sure you didnt miss it. So instead of going out to hunt he convinced Nat to go alone as he took the time to gather supplies and handcraft a necklace for you. He used some dried leaf stems to make the chain, gathered pebbles from the lake shore to make holes in and use them as beads, lastly for a pendant Travis placed the ring he brought with him on the trip as the centre of the necklace. Ever since he gave it to you, you never took it off. Even when the two of you had moments of uncertainty the marker of love stayed right infront of your heart.

"I lived like an island, punished you with silence, Went off like sirens, just crying. Why'd I have to break what I love so much? It’s on your face, don't walk away, I need to say. Hey, it's all me, in my head, I'm the one who burned us down, But it's not what I meant. I'm sorry that I hurt you..." -Afterglow

Travis was never one to be the first to speak. He will admit he was a dick, cold and cruel. Everything in him faught to keep his facade, to be the man his father had taught him to be. You were a safety net, he found himself slipping and not intentially revealing layers of himself he never knew existed. The more he grew close, the more he distanced himself. You never took it well, you tried to understand but you could only do so much pushing and fighting until you just had to accept it, accept that you werent important enough for him to be vulnerable. When he saw the face you made when you looked at him, the way you would avoid eye contact, he realized he screwed up. Everything in him wanted to fight, but in that moment he knew, love had won, and he could no longer be this person if it meant never loving you.

"So you were never a saint and I loved in shades of wrong. We learn to live with the pain, mosaic broken hearts. But this love is brave and wild!!" -State of grace

Neither of you were the perfect standout type. He never understood why you werent popular, he thought you were perfect, you shouldve been a saint, you were in his eyes. And obviously he knew he didnt know how to love, love was a word he had heard a minimal amount of times. Displaying love was never his strongsuit, but for some reason you made him want to try. Both broken, both full of pain and grief, yet in that came brightness in the glow of the gentle love that didnt heal, but patched the scars of pain.

"Uh-oh, I'm fallin' in love, Oh no, I'm fallin' in love again ,Oh, I'm fallin' in love. I thought the plane was goin' down how'd you turn it right around?" -Labyrinth

The day he realized he was in deep, he tried to swim back to shore. He didnt know what that fuzzy feeling felt, what that flutter was when you touched, how was he to know? But then he did find a word to describe it, love, what could he do but stand and stare. Then came the rush of fear, the running away, flood of regret that washed over him as he realized that if he loved you, and lost you, that would be way too much to handle, he would have nothing to live for. He couldnt be the man you deserved, he couldnt love you. Until you kissed him like you usually did, it was morning and you had come up to him and placed a soft kiss on his cheek. He had been trying to distance himself that week, but that simple moment of soft warmth gave him hope, how did you manage to turn this plane wreck (no pun intended) into a field of darkness with a shining light.

"Cause they got the cages, they got the boxes and guns. They are the hunters, we are the foxes and we run. Baby, I know places we won't be found, and they'll be chasing their tails tryin' to track us down. 'Cause I, I know places we can hide. I know places, I know places..." -I know places

Through the times you were his in secret, he would take you away to a secret spot in the woods. A hollowed out stump right next to a creek, thats where he would take you when the noise of the group got too loud. The others had their suspicions, they dug and chased down answers, but when you were alone, none of it mattered. Not the hunts, not the hunger, not the wilderness, just for a second the rituals and suffering faded away, even for just a second.

"Would it be enough if I could never give you peace?" -Peace

Was he enough, enough for you. Everything he was, was the opposite of what you deserved. You shouldve never been put in this situation, none of the pain was fair. All you deserved was peace. But thats something he couldnt offer, he didnt even have it himself. But in those long nights what mattered more to you then him giving you peace, was him being there, by your side as the sun went down curled up in his arms. He never promised healing, he couldnt give you anything, but what was enough was love.

---

^^^ look at my man 🤭🤭😍😍😍

#yellowjackets #travis martinez #yellowjackets fandom #travis martinez fanfic #fanfiction #travis martinez x reader #yellowjackets headcanons #travis headcanons #taylor swift #yellowjackets x taylor swift #please look at my account if you like this #inbox open for anything #i love my moots just want to shoutout #viral #trending #yellowjackets fan fic

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lethalovers · 20 hours ago

Note

Not sure if you take requests, but can you do one where reader was a teen mom with a very toxic bd and once she turned 19-20 she moved to Toronto for a new start, then she met Hamzah and they just start talking and on the first date has to give him “the teen mom” talk? Thank you!!

warnings : mentions of mental & physical abuse

enjoy !

first request + i hope this is up to your standards

moving to canada was a tough decision you made for the sake of the safety of you and your daughter. you left everything behind, but it didn't even matter to you as you knew this was what was right.

your ex, your daughters father, was possibly the worst man to walk the planet. he was abusive; both physically and mentally, he was toxic, manipulative, you name it. he always found a way to belittle your intelligence and make you feel so worthless. you knew, deep down, how he treated you was wrong, so, vowed to ensure you would never let your daughter go through this with you.

it took you a little over a year, but you managed to save up everything you had, and made, to move; you saved up enough money to get a small apartment, a plane ticket, literally everything you needed to get the fuck out of your home state and to canada.

the main purpose of the move was for the safety of you and your daughter. you told yourself, you'd never let a man get too close to you, out of fear that they would treat you the same way your ex treated you. you knew not all men were the same, but you felt it was better to be safe than sorry.

but, here you were sitting across from hamzah, the man that always came into the coffee shop you worked at 7 o'clock in the morning, daily, to get his iced coffee, drinking and getting to know each other. you both had talked briefly for a while, and then a month later, he asked you out. you were hesitant at first, but ultimately decided to.

from the beginning he was the sweetest, most charismatic person you had ever met. and you'd 100% be lying if you said you weren't having a good time, because deep down you were having a good time. but, you knew everything would change if you told him about your daughter, since not everyone reacts to the news in a positive way.

"holy shit, it's 11," hamzah widened his eyes before turning his phone around to show you the time. "guess time really does fly when you're having a good time." he laughs.

"jeez, it is late." you smiled, mentally cursing yourself out for being so careless about the time you spent out. you looked around to see a loud group of people your age come in, feeling a pang of jealousy as you knew you couldn't be out, enjoying the evening this late like them.

"we should do this again," hamzah began, breaking you out of your trance. you turn your head to face hamzah, smiling faintly, feeling your face heat up. "i really enjoyed tonight y/n, and um, if you're interested, i'd like to take you out again. he awkwardly asked.

your smile dropped faster than it spread across your face. you knew you would have to tell him, and that's not what made you anxious, it was his response that did.

"i enjoyed tonight too, but i have to tell you something.." you said, mumbling the end. you became hyper-aware of yourself and your surrounding, you could feel your clothes on your body, the heat in the room, the loud voices felt extra loud to you, it was become too much to handle.

"what's up?" hamzah furrowed his eyebrows, confused why you were acting so nervous. "i truly don't know how to tell you, and i know this will change how you view me, and i'm prepared." you rambled, feeling your anxiety worsen.

"just tell me, trust me i won't be upset." he dryly chuckled, just to ease the tension that was building up ever so quickly.

"i'm a mother."

"oh- what?" he jerked his head back in surprise. his reaction made your heart lurch out of your chest. you knew he'd react like this, so full of confusion, maybe even disgust.

"i have a one year old baby girl, she means the absolute world to me, and um, her father was horrible y'know, so i moved us out to here to canada to keep us safe." you blurted out.

"woah," he cleared his throat, "i wasn't expecting that.. but why do you look so nervous to tell me?" he tilted his head in confusion, staring deep into your eyes.

"i didn't know how you'd react, not everyone is so fond of teen mothers." you pursed your lips into a tight line before looking away.

"did you think i was gonna be upset or something?" hamzah asked.

"i mean, yea," you began, looking back at him, admiring his face.

"y/n, i don't care.. uh wait, that sound's wrong. like i- dude how do i word this without sounding weird?.. i care about you, even though this is the first time we've actually hung out, but like, i care about you, and you having a kid isn't gonna change that i want to see you again." he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

"oh i uh, i thought this would have been a deal breaker or something." you licked your lips and scratched your eyebrow, attempting to hide how nervous you are.

"nah, trust me, i don't think you having a kid is as big of an issue as you might think. the real issue would be you rejecting to go out with me again.. if that makes sense," he laughed, "like i'd have to find a new coffee shop i'd be so embarrassed."

you smiled at his response, the anxiety settling as you realized how genuine he was being. "i wouldn't have rejected you hamzah." you playfully rolled your eyes.

"oh thank god, i was getting a little worried."

"how'd you think i felt when i had to tell you i was a mom?" you laughed.

"okay, true- wait does this mean you'll go out with me again?" he smirked as he crossed his arms.

"yes hamzah, i'll go out with you again."

"bet, should i find something kid friendly?" he asked before pulling out his phone and searching safari for some places to take both you and your daughter.

#🪽#hamzahthefantastic #slushy noobz #hamzah angst #hamzah fic #hamzah imagines #hamzah x reader #slushie #i love hamzah #🪽’s requests

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dameronspector · 1 day ago

Text

Philophobia (Part 6)

Pairing: Joaquin Torres x Stark!GN!Reader

Chapter Summary: You finally talk to Happy and ask him about the two people that you miss more than you want to admit. Sam and Bucky reluctantly take you to Berlin with them, Joaquin keeps you company again and you and Joaquin get closer.

Warnings: Mentions of Death and Depression/Depressive episodes, Mentions of Panic Attacks, Isolating, Bad coping mechanisms, Some cursing, FLUFF!!, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Slow burn(?), Yearning, A lil suggestive, Reader is stubborn, We slowly learn about readers past and their connection to #them, Reader’s Iron Suit/Superhero name is Midnight, Reader has some phobias, Found family, Reader is slowly becoming fonder of Joaquin, that’s it I think!

AN: ooooh I love this one a lot actually ☺️

After that…interesting conversation with Walker and Bucky, the four of you made your way back to the car. Sam and Bucky were in the front, Sam driving and Joaquin was sitting in the backseat with you. The car was silent, tense after Bucky’s announcement of wanting to get Zemo’s help. A phone ringing broke the silence. You brought your phone up to read Happy’s name on the screen. Thankfully since it was dark, nobody noticed the way you froze. Or at least, you thought so, because Joaquin’s full attention was on you.

You took a few calming breaths before picking up the call, praying that it wasn’t May this time.

“Kiddo?” It was Happy, thank god.

“Hey, Haps”, you sighed in relief.

“I’m so sorry for not telling you about May. It completely slipped my mind”, he replied, his voice heavy with guilt and apology.

You swallowed before answering, “It’s- it’s alright. How is she?”, you asked hesitantly.

“She’s alright, yeah. She started her own charity, I’m sure you know by now.”

“Yep. I do”, you still followed her on socials, not having the heart to completely sever the relationship. “And...how’s everything going with you two?”

"It's going good, great even. She said you cut the call when she picked it up?"

"Happy..", you sighed and bit the inside of your cheek.

"C'mon, (Name), it's been months. What's the harm in a simple phone call?", Happy tried to convince you. Ever since him and May started dating, he wanted you to get along with her, saying that your approval meant the world to him. But you were so happy for them. They were adorable together. Happy just wanted you to talk to her normally again.

"I..I don't know. Maybe some other day. How's...", you trailed off hesitantly, picking a random thread on your jeans.

"Peter?", Happy offered and you hummed.

"He's-you know how he gets. Took everything upon him. He's been looking more and more exhausted every day. Doesn't rest, says he needs to patrol. He's become paranoid, sorta", Happy sighed in concern.

Your eyebrows furrowed in concern. Peter would always blame himself for everything that went wrong and that's why you worried about him, even now. You knew he was just as bad as you were after your dad passed away. He was inconsolable, Rhodey told you so, and that he had to physically separate Peter from Tony's body. You were so out of it, that you didn't notice all of this happening right next to you. Ever since you found out about it, you've felt guilty and worried for Peter excessively.

"Happy, please, look after him", you whispered desperately into the speaker. Joaquin looked at you with his face twisted in confusion.

"Yeah, I will. Anyways, May has sent her well wishes and love to you", Happy changed the topic, knowing how much you stressed about Peter.

You smiled sadly. May was always like a second mom to you. "Tell her I said thanks."

Happy hummed. "Why did you call me, by the way?"

You sighed and shook your head, "Oh boy, I'll tell you all about that later. I'm...working right now."

"Okay...you better not be getting into any trouble. And, does Pepper know about this work?"

You paused. "Umm...I guess? Okay, Happy, I gotta go, Bye!"

"Wait-", and you abruptly cut the call, shutting your eyes in regret. He was going rat you out to Pepper and she was going to panic about you going on a mission in a completely different country and not just helping Sam with his tech. You quickly shot a text to Rhodey, explaining the situation to him and telling him to handle Pepper and Happy and thankfully, he said he will do it.

Joaquin observed you for a while, wondering about your relationship with this woman and this guy. He decided to shove it back into his mind and tried to clear the awkward tension in the car.

"Uh- where are we going now?", Joaquin looked between Sam and Bucky. Sam scoffed and looked out of the window before glancing at Bucky.

"We’re going to a prison in Germany, to talk to the most dangerous criminal in the whole world", he announced in a fake-happy tone.

Bucky licked his lips and turned to look outside the window, a sarcastic smile on his face. You looked at Joaquin and shook your head.

"We're also coming with you, right?", you asked curiously.

"No", both Sam and Bucky replied at the same time.

"You're kidding. I don't know about flyboy, but I'm coming with you two", You asked them heatedly. First, they make you leave your house, then they convince you to join them, then they make you face an idiot like Walker and now they're telling you to go home right when they want to meet up with Zemo? Like you're supposed to be normal about this?

Joaquin speaks up then, "Hold on, yo, I'm coming with you as well. Who's gonna fly you there?", he asked with an eyebrow raised.

"You're coming with us, Torres. They are not", Sam conceded. Now, you were positively angry.

"And why is that, Samuel? Weren't you the one who asked me to join you? You think I can't handle it?", you accused him, never backing down from a challenge.

Sam took a deep breath in, "It's not that, (Name)-" "Then what is it?", you questioned him.

"It's too...personal for you", Sam tried to reason. You let out a scoff.

"Personal? Just say that you're afraid of my reaction to when I come face to face with Zemo, because you two actually wanna work with him and I'll fuck up your mission, Sam", you spit out and folded your arms across your chest.

Sam shook his head and Bucky let out a sigh, "It's not that, kid, we just wanna protect you. It's been a long time since you did this."

Your mouth fell open in offense, "Just because I was depressed for the last few months, doesn't mean I'm useless, Barnes", you responded in a hurt tone, your eyes shining with tears.

Bucky's face flashed with realization and his eyes widened, he turned around with a pained look on his face, clearly not meaning to sound like that.

"Wait, no, I didn't-" "I'll stay with them, guys. It's okay. (Name), you're coming with us", Joaquin surprised the three of you with his response. You stared at him in shock. He gave you a tentative smile before turning to look at Sam through the rearview mirror, "That's okay, right, Sam?"

Sam pressed his lips into a thin line before hesitantly nodding his head. "But, no stupid business, no doing shit solo or disappearin’ without informing us. You're gonna follow whatever Bucky and I say, that clear?", Sam asked you and you nodded tersely.

"Thank you", you addressed Sam before turning to Bucky, "and I'm sorry, Buck. I know you didn’t mean it like that. I just…", you murmured lowly. Whenever someone would treat you were some fragile thing, it made you defensive. Because your brain would convince you that you were useless and that others thought the same. Depression and you were best friends, after all.

Bucky shook his head and patted your knee, "No, I'm sorry. I should’ve known better", he replied in a soft voice.

You gave him a weak smile and turned your attention back to Joaquin, "Thank you, Joaquin", you muttered softly. Joaquin looked at you with that beautiful smile stretching on his lips and patted your hand unknowingly.

Your hand was warm from where he had kept his on top. He took it away way too soon and you were left craving for his warmth, your hand tingling. You looked at his sharp side profile longingly before turning back to look outside the window, your chest heavy with something that you didn't want to name.

After a long flight to Berlin, the four of you finally landed and Sam and Bucky asked you to stay back at the hotel with Joaquin. They were going to the prison to meet up with Zemo and you understood the gravity of the situation so you chose to stay back.

After they left, you and Joaquin retreated to your respective rooms to freshen up. Once you had showered and finished changing into comfortable clothes, you walked out of the room and your attention went to Joaquin's room. The door to his room was ajar and you noticed the way his desk was already littered with his things- his laptop, headphones and a few pieces of paper. You could hear the shower running from the bathroom in the hallway and decided to approach his desk out of curiosity.

Your eyes first fell on a graphic on the screen, it was a design of a jet pack, the colors being green and beige, mainly. Then you looked at the papers laying on the desk- they were drawings of mechanical wings and a suit. Your raised your eyebrows, impressed at his drawing skills and at the fact that Joaquin Torres wanted to be the Falcon and he had already designed his own suit? How sweet, you thought. He really was, Sam's number 1 fan.

"Oh—Hi, (Name)."

You jumped at his voice and turned around and regretted it immediately because he was shirtless. Your mouth fell open and your face warmed up as you raked your eyes across his body. His curls were still damp and they sat atop his head in a perfect mess, he was wearing black shorts and oh my god, he was ripped. You knew his arms were muscular but he was always dressed in either his army uniform or jackets so you couldn't really tell. He was lean, his arms toned and his physique looked nothing less than an athlete's. You stared at him in shock and snapped out of your daze when he started walking towards you.

"Hi! Sorry, I—Ididn't mean to intrude, I saw the sketches and I just-", you stuttered and halted when he stood next to you, the scent of the vanilla body wash hitting your nose, his warmth practically beckoning you closer.

"Don't apologise, it's alright. You'd give me an honest review, at least", he murmured sheepishly, his cheeks reddening because he definitely noticed you checking him out. Joaquin wanted to scream and giggle at the same time.

"Yeah! Right-uh, these are pretty cool, actually. Didn't know you were an artist, as well", you replied nervously and let out a breathy laugh, focusing on the sketches in front of you. He finally moved away from you and you closed your eyes, letting out a sigh of relief when he came back wearing a tank top (which wasn't any better because you still wanted to bite his arms. Wait, what?)

Joaquin rubbed the back of his neck with his hand and chuckled, "Yeah...since I saw Sam for the first time on the TV, I started sketching him excessively. And it slowly became a hobby. Then I turned to graphic designing and digital art.”

You made an impressed face and picked up one of the papers, observing the details.

“You didn’t tell me you wanted to be the Falcon”, you teased him lightly.

He let out a sheepish chuckle and you noticed that his lower teeth were adorably crooked.

“I mean-is that bad? Flying makes me feel free. Can you imagine how invincible those wings must make Sam feel? He looks like- like an angel when he’s up there with those”, Joaquin replied, his voice taking on a dreamy and fond tone.

You raised your eyes to look at him and gave him a sweet yet pained smile, your chest constricting as you remembered the way Peter would talk about your dad.

“Yeah, he really does look amazing when he’s wearing the wings”, you agreed with Joaquin, your eyes welling up. You cleared your throat before asking Joaquin, “You told Sam about this?”

He pursed his lips, “Yeah…he’s testing me or somethin’. Says I’m not ready yet.”

He looked like a child who didn’t get his candy and you giggled at the look on his face. His eyebrows furrowed even further.

“Why is that funny…”, he grumbled.

“You remind me of someone, that’s all”, you admitted in between giggles.

Joaquin’s face relaxed, admiring your smile with a dopey look on his face and dared to ask, “Of who?”

Your giggles receded and a fond and nostalgic look passed your face, “His name is Peter. I think you’d get along well.”

“Peter…is he your friend or..”, Joaquin tried to ask casually, like it wouldn’t crush him if you said you were dating Peter.

Your face warmed and you sputtered, “He’s- yeah, I’m- I was friends with him.”

Joaquin tilted his head to the side like a confused puppy, “Was? You guys don’t talk anymore?”

You scoffed in sarcasm, “Something like that. I had an episode a few months ago so I cut everyone off.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, (Nickname)”, Joaquin expressed sadly, not realising that he called you by your nickname.

You let out a small chuckle, “It’s alright, Jay.”

The look on Joaquin’s face was comical. He looked like he was buffering, face completely blank and eyes wide. You soon realised what you said and your eyes widened as well, your face heating up.

“I- uh”, you coughed lightly to get rid of the awkwardness, “we should order lunch”, you murmured and walked out of the room, your eyes shutting in embarrassment.

Joaquin stood there, his brain short circuiting at the fact that you just gave him a nickname and he loved it. And he wanted to hear you say it all the time.

“Should I tweak the green a bit or this one’s fine?”

You hummed. “Make it a lil’ darker. And go for the silver, looks good with the green.”

“Why not beige? Ooh or gold?”

“Do you wanna look like a certain God of Mischief?”

Joaquin made a face. “Yeah, nope. Silver it is.”

You smiled and took a bite from your sandwich.

“Soo…can I ask you somethin’?”, Joaquin asked, distracted, while working on his laptop.

You swallowed the bite and shrugged, “Sure.”

“So like, you can totally tell me to shut up-”

“Spit it out, flyboy.”

"Well- I've been thinking about it since Walker called you Midnight at the police station...Why'd you stop going out as that?"

You paused and swallowed nervously. Joaquin was about to back pedal when you responded, "Didn't see the point in going out to do that after...dad. Thought I'd stay alive for him and the life he fought so hard to give us, at least", you scoffed in a self-deprecating way before continuing, "Jokes on me because I was dead inside anyways. Didn't leave my room for weeks, didn't eat properly or sleep...cut off contact from everyone...Couldn't look at the suit without breaking down because it was the same thing I was wearing when he took his last breath", you sniffled and fiddled with your sandwich.

Joaquin looked at you with empathy and frowned.

"It's been lying around in my lab since then. Haven't bothered to repair it because-", your voice quieted down, "because if I change anything, then...then dad's touch will be gone."

Joaquin has experienced grief, not the kind where someone dies but the kind you experience when someone leaves your life. He doesn't know what it's like to be to be alive when the person you love the most has died- has ceased to exist. Yet, he felt his eyes well with tears and his heart break into a million pieces for you. Here you were, experiencing insurmountable amount of grief ever since you were a child and yet, you chose to be kind to people. He wanted to wrap you in his arms and protect you from everyone but for now, he settled with his shaky hand gently squeezing yours in support. You paused at the touch, electricity shooting up your arm.

"I could never imagine how you feel like. But, I just want you to know that I'm here for you. And so are Sam, Bucky and your family. You mean so much to so many people, (Name). You should be a little easy on yourself, this is your first time living life as well", he consoled you in a sweet voice and went to retract his hand before squeezing it once more, but you slowly turned yours to grasp his hand and squeezed it back, your gaze fixed on them.

Joaquin was so sure he'd stopped breathing. He subtly pressed his hand to his chest to check if his heart was still beating. You then looked up and gave him a shy smile, which he reciprocated, and both of you looked away, your faces warming up.

"Thank you, Joaquin", you whispered before slowly retracting your hand and cradling it on your lap. Joaquin flexed his hand in front him before closing it in a loose fist and rubbing his chest, "Anytime, (Name)", he responded in a quiet voice.

You cleared your throat and made an attempt to clear the tense atmosphere, "Don't think that just because I've been out of service for 6 months, means that I won’t body you during sparring."

Joaquin scoffed lightly, "Oh yeah, I'm sure you will."

You snapped your head to look at him, "What?"

"You were trained by a black widow, an archer, a god, a super soldier, a-" "Okay! Okay!", you laughed and slapped his hands. He laughed gleefully.

"You're an idiot, Jay", you jested. Joaquin just smiled dreamily and responded, "Sure", with a shrug.

You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from giggling at him.

After you and Joaquin were finished with your lunch, Joaquin received a call from Sam saying that they were going to Madripoor with Zemo. You sucked in a breath at that name because you knew how bad things are in Madripoor. You had heard all about it from Steve and Natasha and had done your own research on it. Now that they were going to be accompanied by Zemo? There’s no way you’re going to let them go on this mission without any backup.

Joaquin was supposed to stay back because of his duties and before Sam could say anything you announced, "I'm coming with you two."

Joaquin snapped his head to look at you in worry and Sam immediately interjected, “No, you’re not. You’re gonna follow our instructions. Don’t be like that. That place is-” “Dangerous. I know, Sam. I know very well how bad things are in Madripoor. That’s why, I’m joining you guys. I can be of help. And, also, are you forgetting that the most wanted criminal in the world is with you guys?!", you argued.

Joaquin put a hand on your arm and tried to reason with you, "Hey, listen to Sam. Maybe there's-" "Joaquin, I know what I'm doing. Please", you cut him off in an agitated manner. Joaquin's face flashed with hurt before he straightened up and removed his hand from your arm. He stepped to the side to let you talk to Sam and tried to ignore the gnawing feeling in stomach.

"(Name)--look, we know Zemo is probably not the best person to be trusted-" "No shit" "-but he knows what he's doing. This is right in his bag", Sam tried to make you understand.

"Sam, I'm telling you, if you don't let me join you guys, I'm gonna reach there in any way. You know that", you replied seriously. Sam knew you were stubborn enough to be reckless and follow them across the world if you wanted to. Sam groaned loudly and you could just see the way he was pinching the bridge of nose between his fingers.

"Alright! Okay, you're coming. But you're staying with me and Bucky, at all times", he instructed in his soldier voice, as if you were his subordinate. You smirked in triumph, "Yes, sir."

Sam cut the call with a request to Joaquin to drop you off at this airport that was just a few miles away from the city and to make sure your gear was functioning and had trackers in them, incase something went wrong.

Ever since the call ended, Joaquin had become too quiet, not engaging in his usual chatter. He moved around the room silently, only speaking up if you asked him anything or if he wanted you to pass him something. It made you miss his idle talks so you finally broke and asked him, "Alright, what is it?"

"What is what?", he mumbled distractedly and focused on installing a tracker on your laptop.

"You've been way too quiet, flyboy. Thought you'd stopped breathing for a second", you chuckled. You saw his shoulders go up and down with the deep breath he took in, admiring the planes and muscles on his back.

"Don't worry about it", he replied shortly in a distant and clipped tone.

The smile wiped off your face so quick at his tone, you stood there staring at his back with a grimace. "Whoa, what happened there?"

He scoffed and went back to his room to retrieve some tools. You followed him, your steps rushed, "Dude, I asked you something. You're not going to ignore me like that", your tone offended.

He turned around abruptly and you stumbled against him, your chests almost touching. It would take a single step for you to reach his lips.

"Why are you going?", brown eyes stared intently at your face, trying to grasp your reaction, his jaw muscles twitching.

You furrowed your brows and looked up at him, almost losing your balance at how close he was and how you could see every single mole on his face from this angle. "What do you mean 'Why', Joaquin? They need help. I thought I made it very clear that I'd be going with them."

Joaquin scoffed in disbelief and folded his arms across his chest, his biceps straining, "You also said that you'd listen to them. You-- you basically blackmailed Sam that you'd follow them any way if they refuse!"

Your mouth fell open, "I'm not a child. Just because I said I'd listen to them, doesn't mean I'm gonna listen to how they're willingly going to enter the lion's den. I know Madripoor. It makes sense for me to join them-" "And what about you? If something happens to you there? You don't even have your suit, (Name)", Joaquin stressed.

You grimaced, "I can still fight without the suit, Torres. And why do you care so much?", questioning him sternly.

That shut him up real quick. He clenched his hands into tight fists and looked away from your narrowed eyes, clenching his jaw to stop himself from speaking further.

"Yeah. That's what I thought. If you don't wanna drop me, that's fine. I'll go alone", you announced with finality in your tone.

As you were about to call a cab, he spoke up again, "There's no need for that. Let's go", in a low tone and made his way out of the room to help carry your bags downstairs.

You watched him leave the room, your chest hurting with something that was dangerously inching closer to longing, once again. The way he was so close to you, the way your hands fit against each other, the way he worried about you, the way he was so curious of you and your life...it was too much. You didn't deserve it. The pressure against your chest and throat wouldn't go away, so you tried clearing your throat a few times and took a couple of deep breaths in, before heading out.

The cab ride was silent, Joaquin and you choosing to keep your distance. The tension was so thick, that you were sure even the driver was feeling it. You finally reached the port and saw a single private jet parked on it. Raising an eyebrow in curiosity, you approached it, knowing damn well it wasn't one of your dad's. The look of confusion on Joaquin's face was an indicator that he was just as confused. "What the hell..", he muttered before the two of you noticed three figures approach the jet.

"Oh my god", you mumbled in disbelief.

Zemo was wearing an expensive fur collared coat with expensive sunglasses and Sam and Bucky were following him closely. You stared at Zemo behind your glasses in shock. You always forgot that he was a Baron, a fucking royalty himself. He greeted the aged butler with the classic European kisses before turning to look at you.

"Ah. The little Stark. It is an honor to meet you again", Zemo extended his hand and greeted you politely. Your mouth fell open and you looked at Sam and Bucky in exasperation, Joaquin pressing himself closer to you in protection, Sam and Bucky lowered their gazes in embarrassment.

"Dude, seriously?", you asked him with a shocked chuckle leaving your mouth. Zemo looked at everyone with a confused and oblivious look on his face, “What happened?”, he asked in that thick accent of his.

“Zemo, just—get inside. We’ll join you”, Bucky told Zemo in a bored manner. After Zemo boarded the plane, you turned to address Sam and Bucky.

“Wow. Hopping on our favourite criminal’s private jet like we’re going on a lovely vacation! Amazing!”, you sassed them and clapped your hands together.

Bucky let out a sigh, “Look. We don’t have any other option. His whole shtick is that he hates super soldiers. He has all these…contacts that can get to the lowest level and help us find out about the flagsmashers. We gotta do this if we don’t want to get caught up by Walker.”

“And why didn’t you ask me for help? Steve and Natasha were the ones who told me everything about madripoor, you know. Trust me, I know how bad it is. You guys will need backup”, you told them convincingly, Joaquin shifting in discomfort next to you.

Sam looked at you before letting out a sigh, “Okay. But if anything goes bad you pull back immediately, got it?”, his brown eyes staring at you in concern.

“Yes, Sam. I promise”, you reassured him sincerely. Sam nodded.

“Joaquin, you gotta report back to base and keep a track of us alongside the others. I’ll keep you updated”, Sam instructed Joaquin and patted his shoulder before boarding the jet. Bucky lingered around and smirked at you before joining Sam inside. You rolled your eyes and turned to face Joaquin, removing your sunglasses at the same time.

“See you in a minute?”, you squinted your eyes and gave him a tentative smile.

Joaquin let out a breathy chuckle and nodded his head. The way the sun was hitting his smooth skin, the chilly wind making his cheeks turn rosy, his radiant smile directed at you— all of it made your heart soar with joy and you couldn’t resist stepping closer and hugging him.

Your arms went around his back, you were slightly on your tippy toes and you settled your chin on his shoulder. You felt his body freeze, afraid that you’d pushed his boundaries you tried to pull back but his arms came around your waist and he hugged you close to him, his head leaning against your temple—you could smell the clean scent of his shampoo. You closed your eyes and let out a sigh of content, him mirroring you and you felt yourself blush.

“Take care, Quino. And don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine”, you whispered against his ear.

Joaquin was sure he was going to faint. Not only were you hugging him willingly, but you had called him Quino—so softly, at that. He was so content to just stand here and feel your warm and soft body against him. He hugged you tighter and murmured close to your ear, “Please come back safely.”

You smiled and nodded against him before pulling back slowly, none of you wanting to separate from the other. You approached the stairs and waved at Joaquin for the last time, him waving back and giving you his best smile while watching you go in.

Joaquin’s chest felt hollow now that you were away from him and he wished he could go with you and give you as many hugs as you wanted. But he left with hope blooming in his heart, because you had finally started to open up to him.

As soon as you boarded, Sam and Bucky looked at you with a knowing look in their eyes, communicating that they had witnessed the entire scene with Joaquin and your face warmed up. You averted your gaze from them and chose to sit on the seat behind Sam, choosing to keep your distance from those two (+ Zemo) and decided to put on your headphones to listen to your playlist.

As the plane took off, you couldn’t help but feel a pang in your chest, hating the fact that you had to leave Joaquin behind and hating the fact that you craved his touch and presence more than you liked to admit.

Part 7

AN: i promised more Joaquin and reader content and u shall get it! Pls like and reblog! ☺️

taglist: @og-baby-ob14 @parkersjoy @littlemsramirez

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