#All That Remains | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

daryltwdixon · 2 days ago

Text

Literally makes my day reading people’s reactions hehehe

Summary: After a moment of revelations with Ellie and Maria, you retreat to the quiet of upstairs, where Joel brings you something that reminds him of you

a/n: AHHHHH

After a warm shower upstairs, you step out of the bathroom, steam rising and billowing into the room as you tie the robe tightly around your waist. Ellie sits on the edge of the bed, already changed into a fresh set of clothes—new jeans and a long sleeve. The coat Maria left still sits nearby, but with the warmth inside the house, there’s little need for it.

You move to the bed, squeezing the last drops of water from your hair into a smaller towel as you approach.

“What’s all this?” you ask, eyeing the neatly folded clothes Maria left for you. Beside them, you notice a small, unopened contraption. You inspect it and discover a rubber funnel-like device, small enough to fit in your hand. Ellie giggles from her spot on the bed, flipping through a comic book. Her hair is still damp, dripping onto her new clothes.

You narrow your eyes at the small user guide that came with the contraption. Diva Cup.

And then it clicks. You start giggling, feeling heat rise in your face. Ellie joins you, her laughter filling the room.

There’s also a note on the bed. "I’m across the street.”

“Okay, okay,” you hiccup through your laughter, “Let me get my shit together and we’ll head over.”

“Can’t we just—” Ellie starts, a slight frown creasing her brow as she leans back against the headboard.

“We’re guests. We have to be good,” you say, and she rolls her eyes, gazing out the window.

You pause, watching her for a beat. “You sure you’re okay?” The question hangs in the air, heavy in the silence that follows.

“Yeah…” Ellie trails off, her eyes still on the comic book, distant.

Not wanting to press, you tell her you’ll get dressed in the bathroom, and soon enough, both of you are heading out the door.

At Maria’s, the house is quiet. You let yourselves in, taking in the cozy furniture and the comfort of the space. The warmth is a welcome reprieve from the chill of the outdoors. It reminds you more and more of home, of the life you lived with your dad. You can hardly believe you managed to survive for months without the simple comforts of electricity, warm meals, and clean clothes.

You both stop in front of the fireplace, drawn to the small chalkboard sign hanging above it.

Kevin 04/03/2000—09/29/2003 Sarah 07/20/1989—09/26/2003

“That’s the day…” you whisper, pointing to the date beneath the girl’s name. “That’s the day the world went to shit.”

“You remember it?” Ellie asks softly, her voice serious.

“It was my fifth birthday,” you reply, eyes still fixed on the names on the chalkboard. Half-melted candles sit in front of the names, their faint glow long gone. You wonder how many nights Maria and Tommy must have spent lighting those candles for their children, thinking of them.

A soft voice breaks the silence. “Hey.”

You turn to see Maria smiling at both of you. You greet her with a quiet, “Hello.”

“I just traded for some better coats,” she says, holding up two jackets in her arms. They look warm, thick, and winter-ready. “Go ahead and try them on.”

You walk over to her, grabbing the black one while Ellie takes the purple.

“Thank you,” you say, lifting it over your shoulders.

“It’s, uh…” Ellie says, eyeing her jacket. “Super fuckin’ purple.”

Maria smiles. “It’s eggplant,” she teases, wiping off the jacket and making sure it fits. “Shoes fit, too? Did you get the thing I left for you?”

“Yeah,” you nod.

“Weirdest gift ever,” Ellie mutters, turning it over in her hands.

“But useful,” Maria finishes. “Come on, let me get my scissors for that mane of yours.”

“Wait, wait–” Ellie protests.

“Just a trim! The ends!” Maria calls over her shoulder as she heads toward the other room.

Soon enough, you’re sitting down in front of Maria, who combs through your hair, snipping the tangles with every few strokes.

“So…” Ellie says, leaning forward, “Was this your job, or something, back then?”

Maria chuckles softly. “No, I was an Assistant District Attorney out of Omaha, Nebraska.”

“Sounds fancy,” you comment.

“I put bad guys in jail,” Maria replies. “But I always liked doing hair. Maybe it was a mom thing.” Her voice softens, and she glances at the memorial you’d been looking at. “I saw you looking at the memorial Tommy made.”

You look back at the names again, your stomach tightening. You nod quietly.

“I’m really sorry about your kids,” you murmur.

“It’s okay,” Maria replies, voice soft. “And… just Kevin. Sarah was Joel’s daughter.”

Your stomach drops, a tight knot forming deep in your chest. The weight of Maria’s words presses down on you, suffocating. You didn’t expect it to hit this hard. The idea of Joel’s daughter—Sarah, her name now etched in your mind like a brand—was something you never imagined he’d kept locked away, hidden behind his walls of silence. It made sense now, why he was the way he was, why he could be so hard, so distant, why he didn’t let people in. The pain, the rawness of losing someone you loved so completely—how could anyone recover from that?

Your throat tightens, and the moisture in your eyes wells up before you can stop it. You blink rapidly, feeling the sting of unshed tears, but you refuse to let them fall. You can’t. Not here, not now, not in front of Maria, who clearly didn’t mean to stir all this up. She couldn’t know.

“Oh,” Maria says, noticing the silence. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, it’s okay,” Ellie answers for you, her eyes watching you carefully.

Joel had a daughter, and he never said a word about it. You imagine, though, that losing anyone is hard enough. You never spoke about your mom after the outbreak, and your dad never brought her up, so you followed his lead. But Joel… his daughter, of all people. Dying on outbreak day. It’s devastating.

“It kinda explains him a little,” Ellie says, her voice thoughtful.

You nod, wiping your eyes and forcing a chuckle. “Definitely explains him.”

Maria shifts, standing in front of you, leaning on the back of a chair beside Ellie. “Look,” she begins, “I’m not gonna ask what you’re doing with him—”

“Good,” Ellie interrupts, her tone sharp.

“But there are clearly things you don’t know about Joel.”

“Like he used to kill people?” you say suddenly, your blood heating under your skin. “We know.”

You’ve been quiet since you arrived—polite, respectful, not once stepping out of line—but this? This is where you draw the line. You won’t let anyone question Joel's morals, not after everything he’s done for you and Ellie.

Maria’s hands resume their work on your hair, brushing through it. “So he doesn’t do that anymore? Killing people?”

“Doesn’t kill innocent ones,” Ellie shoots back, her eyes narrowing. “Besides, how do you think we made it this far? By singing show tunes and hugging it out with everyone we met?”

You cough out a laugh at that. Taking lives was never easy, but it was a necessity. It wasn’t something you wanted to do. It wasn’t something you ever did until Joel came into your life. But that wasn’t his fault. Some people were out for blood, and the only way to survive was to fight back. You’d never regret what you’d done to protect yourself and those you care about, and you sure as hell wouldn’t start questioning Joel’s actions.

“Girls,” Maria says, standing up and placing her hands on her hips. “There’s a whole lot you’re not telling me. And that’s okay. Good, even. Just…be careful who you put your faith in.” she pauses, turning, “Now, grab your coats. We’re going to the movies.”

You hesitate, then speak softly, “I’d really like to stay here, if that’s okay. It’s just… it’s a lot of people.”

Maria nods, understanding. “That’s fine. But Ellie is coming.” As Ellie opens her mouth to argue, you shoot her a look. Be nice. Be polite.

It’s a couple of hours later when you hear the heavy, familiar footsteps coming up the stairs. You’re settled in the largest bedroom upstairs, sitting cross-legged on the bed with a book in your hands, trying to keep your mind occupied. You know who it is before he even opens the door—the unmistakable sound of heavy boots on the steps, the familiar grunt he makes when his joints protest the climb. It’s a rhythm you’ve gotten used to over the past few months.

The door creaks open, and there he is: Joel Miller, freshly cleaned, newly clothed, but with that same familiar scowl etched deep into his face. His dark eyes meet yours for a moment, then flick to the floor as he closes the door behind him. There’s something in his hands—he’s holding it behind his back, his posture slightly awkward. You don’t know why, but the way he’s standing makes your pulse quicken just a little.

“Hey,” you greet softly, trying to mask the unease bubbling up inside of you.

He gives you a small, almost hesitant nod, and then, in that way he has of doing things without really making a fuss about it, he reveals what’s in his hands. Your breath catches in your throat as you take in the sight. It’s a bow. A bow that looks carefully made, with white wood, smooth and carved beautifully, the string taut and waiting. It’s familiar and foreign at the same time.

“Found somethin’ for ya,” he says, his voice low, a touch unsure but steady.

You swallow, unsure of how to react, before you rise from the bed. Your legs feel unsteady as you walk toward him. The smell of soap and musk is faint but noticeable as you get closer, and there’s a brief moment where you can feel the heat of his body, the closeness, that makes you pause for just a second.

Joel’s eyes are on you, waiting, as you take the bow into your hands. You run your fingers over the smooth wood, tracing the shape of it. It’s different than yours, heavier, unfamiliar. But it’s a bow. And something about it feels so right. You’ve missed the one you lost in Kansas City, the one left behind in the truck when you were running for your life, when there was no time to grab it. It had been a simple, quiet tool to you, something familiar that helped keep you alive.

“It’s beautiful,” you whisper, still in awe, your fingers lingering on the curve. You look up at him then, your voice suddenly thick with emotion. “Thank you.”

His eyes soften as he watches you, his face unreadable. There’s something in his gaze that shifts, something behind his usual guarded exterior that you hadn’t noticed before. It’s like the weight of all the days you’ve spent together suddenly comes to the forefront.

And then, before you can stop yourself, you step forward, your hands moving up to wrap around him. You can’t fully explain what it is that makes you do it. Maybe it’s the vulnerability in his eyes, or the way he’s protected you for months on end, never once thinking of leaving you behind, even when he could’ve sent you off to fend for yourself back at the house. Maybe it’s the quiet understanding that just today you learned he lost his one and only daughter. Or maybe it’s the simplest, most unexpected reason: the fact that he thought of you. When he saw that bow, he knew how much you missed yours, how it had once been an extension of you, and he had the heart to bring it to you. As a gift.

Even now, you’re afraid to look into his eyes as you reach for him, afraid you’ll find rejection, assessment, or worse—nothing. So you avert your eyes from him and close the gap between you without hesitation, wrapping your arms around him. The warmth of his body against yours is familiar, comforting, like something you didn’t know you needed until it’s right here. Your hands instinctively find his neck, fingers curling gently against the rough fabric of his shirt. You pull him closer, and for a brief moment, the world seems to hold its breath.

To your surprise, he hardly flinches, and doesn’t even pull away. His hands, though, hover over you, unsure at first, but they come down gently to your lower back, pulling you into him with a tenderness that makes your heart constrict. You can feel his too, both of your hearts pounding against your rib cages. It suddenly occurs to you that maybe he’s just as nervous as you are.

You let yourself stay there for a long moment, in the comfort of his arms, and for the first time in a long while, you don't feel the weight of the world pressing in. The tension, the fear, all of it fades away as you feel his warmth surrounding you, steady and real. But even in this fleeting peace, you can’t ignore how every nerve in your body seems to hum, to come alive in a way that feels almost overwhelming. Every inch of you craves more—more of this closeness, more of him.

As the silence stretches on, you feel his arms settle more securely around you, pulling you in even closer, as if he finally is allowing himself to be close to you. His head dips into the side of your neck, and you can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, slow and steady. The quiet of the moment is broken only by the sound of his inhale, and you realize, for the first time, just how much you’ve missed this kind of tenderness. It’s as if, in his presence, you don’t have to worry about anything, not for a single second.

It feels so right, so good to be held like this. To have him, this person who has protected you with every ounce of his being, just hold you—no words, just the comfort of being together. You let yourself sink into it, letting go of all the tension that’s built up over days, weeks, months of constant survival.

But then, the moment shifts. When he pulls back just slightly, the warmth of his hands on your back moves, and you feel the shift in the air between you. His gaze lifts to meet yours, and you find yourself locking eyes with him, the intensity of his stare almost too much to bear. His chocolate brown eyes are searching you in a way you don’t quite understand.

His hand finds your cheek, thumb brushing away something wet—tears you didn’t even realize had fallen.

“What is it?” he whispers, his voice rough, strained. It’s the first time you’ve ever heard him speak with that kind of softness—like he’s afraid of the answer, afraid of what it might mean.

Sniffling, you shake your head, “I just…all this…” you sigh, looking up at him, unable to string together the right words, “You…”

His dark eyes still search yours, the silence stretching between you, heavy with unspoken words. You can hardly believe he hasn’t let you go. It’s as if he’s holding onto you as much as you’re holding onto him, both of you unsure if this is just a fleeting moment—or something more, something that might change everything between you forever.

Joel whispers your name, and that’s when you realize, with a sudden clarity, that the space between you is almost gone. His eyes have dropped to your lips, and your heart races in your chest. His thumb is still there, gently on your cheek, like he’s waiting, watching you for any sign that you might pull away. But you won’t. You can’t. You’d never pull away from him, never let him go now. Not when this moment feels like everything you’ve ever wanted.

It hits you then, deep in your chest, in your gut—you realize that this is it. This is everything. All the times you caught him looking at you with something more than just the need to protect you. All the times you found yourself looking for him in every room, in every corner, as if your heart knew where he was before your mind did. Even as a teenager, it was never like this. It was never so full of trust, so full of need, of longing. Of…love.

Joel Miller was very close to you now.

So close you could feel his breath against you, shallow and almost hesitant. He was moving slowly—agonizingly slow—and it took every ounce of willpower not to close the distance yourself. But you couldn’t. You needed him to show you that he felt this too, that it wasn’t just some fleeting crush, that this wasn’t just a momentary rush of emotions. After all this time, after seven years of separation, of waiting, of silently longing for him, you needed to know this was real.

Seven years of missing him. Seven years of dreaming about his broad shoulders, the scruff on his face, the way he moved and spoke. Now, you were here, living through the days side by side, finding comfort in each other in ways that had once seemed impossible. Protecting each other. Looking for each other. Sharing these small, fleeting moments that somehow felt like everything. This wasn’t just some passing thing. This was something both of you needed—something that, now that it was on the edge of being realized, felt so right, so complete, that there was no going back.

“Joel,” you whisper, your lips barely parting as he hovers inches away. The word feels like a plea, a desperate, silent begging for him to bridge the space between you. To finally take what’s been his for so long, what’s always been his, even when neither of you could admit it. There had never been anyone else, not in the way there had always been him. Not just because of your life in isolation, but because no one else could make you feel like this.

His hand that’s cupping your jaw moves then, sliding into the nape of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, gently pulling you closer as he leans in.

Joel’s lips are so, so soft.

It’s a slow kiss, like he’s taking his time, like he’s savoring the moment—every inch of it. The contrast of his rough stubble brushing against your skin feels jarring yet comforting, a sensation that sends shivers down your spine. Your heart races, painfully tight in your chest, and a rush of warmth floods through you, spreading like wildfire, lighting every nerve. For a second, you feel weightless, caught in the storm of it all, the world outside forgotten.

He’s so warm.

The heat of him, his arm tightening around your waist, pulling you closer, his hand still tangled in your hair, the solid press of his chest against yours—it’s all consuming. Waves of warmth flow from him, surrounding you, filling every part of you, inside and out. You can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against yours, a calming, grounding force.

Then his tongue brushes against your lower lip, hesitant, testing. It’s so gentle, so careful that it makes your heart skip a beat. You nearly jump out of your skin, the sensation unfamiliar, intense. But then, you feel his smile against your lips, soft and reassuring. You open for him instinctively, feeling his warmth deepen as he moves closer, his tongue sliding into your mouth, slow and deliberate.

You can tell how mindful he’s being, how aware he is of how new this all is for you. Your movements are unsure, tentative, but somehow, with him, it feels like the most natural thing in the world. And despite all the uncertainty, despite the unfamiliarity, it feels so right, so entirely... him.

You both pull away to catch your breath, the air between you thick with the weight of the moment. But as soon as his lips leave yours, you can't help it. You lean in again, just a quick, soft peck, wanting more, needing more. Your body is reacting to him in ways you’ve never known, something deep inside you pulling and longing for more of him.

When you pull back, you catch sight of his cheeks—there’s a pink tinge there, soft and almost vulnerable. His expression is still serious, brows furrowed, but there’s something else behind it now, something gentler.

“Not that scowl again,” you whisper with a teasing smile, your hand reaching up to smooth the wrinkle between his brows. It’s a small gesture, but you can't help it, a way of soothing him even as you try to lighten the tension.

Joel’s eyes soften, and the faintest trace of a smile pulls at the corner of his lips. But it’s fleeting, replaced by something unreadable. His hand moves to your wrist, brushing it gently with his thumb. He holds it there for a moment, as if weighing something heavy.

With a deep sigh, he drops his gaze, breaking eye contact, and his hand falls away from your wrist. “I can’t do this, kid,” he mutters, shaking his head as he pulls back, his body language closing off.

The first thing you feel is the coldness—the literal gap between you as he releases you from his embrace. Your hands fall back to your sides, and the warmth that once existed between you both is suddenly gone, replaced by an empty chill. It’s a feeling you’ve known too well—the sting of rejection. The emptiness of being left behind. The gnawing, familiar ache that creeps in when you realize you’re not good enough. Abandoned.

You try to breathe through it, but the weight of it threatens to choke you. “I get it,” you whisper, though you can barely hear your own words, “if you don't want this…don’t want me. I understand why.” You want to scream, to beg him to change his mind, but the lump in your throat keeps you silent. Instead, you take a step back, your heart pounding in your chest. You want to believe it’s not true, but you can already feel the walls closing in.

Joel’s eyes flicker to you, a storm of conflicting emotions clouding his expression. His voice softens, low and almost tender. “Trust me, baby. I want it. I want you.” His hands come to his face, pushing back his hair in a heavy sigh, his words full with longing. “But I’m so damn screwed up. The things I’ve done…”

You step closer, your hand reaching for his chest, your voice steady despite the tightness of your throat, “You’re a good man, Joel,” you say, the sincerity in your words cutting through the tension. “Please. I’ve only ever wanted this with you. Ever since I’ve known you.”

Joel’s jaw tightens at the words. His gaze drifts away, the weight of his past hanging over him like a shadow. “What? When you nearly shot me with an arrow when I showed up at your door?” he chuckles darkly.

You shake your head quickly, a quiet urgency in your tone. “No, even before then,” you admit, stepping closer, your voice trembling with vulnerability.

His eyes soften again, but the hesitance lingers, like he's trying to convince himself of something. “Jesus, kid...” His words are barely above a whisper, his hand resting on yours as it sits on his chest.

“When are you going to stop calling me that?” you tease a little.

He doesn't answer at first, letting the silence stretch between you. Then, he takes a breath, meeting your eyes with resolve. “I don’t think this is a good idea,” you murmur. “There’s so many other men… boys your age.”

You can’t help the painful twist in your chest. “I’d rather be dead than have any of them,” you say, voice quiet but sure, your heart pounding. “I want you. I always have.”

Joel scoffs, almost a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Not sure which one of us is more sick in the head,” he mutters. “You for wanting some old man, or me for wanting a girl I’ve known since she was fifteen…”

The space between you is charged, but still, you move closer, gently closing the distance. “I’m not scared of you, Joel.”

The silence lingers between you, thick and heavy, pressing in from all sides. You can feel the weight of the distance he’s placed between you, the rejection still echoing in the pit of your stomach. Every inch of your body aches to bridge that gap, to make him see that you don’t care about his age, his past, his doubts. You’ve never wanted anyone else. It’s always been him.

And then, without warning, Joel reaches for your face again. His eyes, dark and stormy, lock onto yours, and for a moment, you think he might pull away once more. But his hand moves to your face, cupping it gently yet firmly, as if he’s pulling you into him with just that touch.

“I’m already goin’ to hell,” he mutters, his voice gravelly and deep, his gaze never leaving your lips. Before you can process what’s happening, his mouth crashes into yours again—fierce, desperate, hungry.

This kiss is different. It’s everything the last one wasn’t. There’s no hesitation now, no uncertainty—only need and heat. His lips claim yours with an urgency that steals your breath, and you can feel his hands tightening around you, pulling you closer. His fingers grip the back of your head as he deepens the kiss, urging you into him like there’s no turning back.

You don’t fight it. You respond with equal fervor, your arms wrapping around him, hands sinking into his shoulders as you press yourself as close as you can, desperate for the connection. Every inch of you aches for him, and the moment feels like it’s stretching into eternity.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only to breathe. His chest heaves against yours, and you can feel the rapid beat of his heart beneath your palms. His eyes lock onto yours, wild and intense, as if he’s memorizing every inch of you. His touch is still gentle, but there’s an edge to it, a possessiveness that lingers in the way his hands slide down to your waist, holding you close like you’re the one thing keeping him tethered to reality.

“I ain’t just this,” Joel whispers, his voice rough with emotion, each word weighted with a kind of raw sincerity you’ve never heard from him. “I want more. I want a life with you. Here.”

Your heart stutters in your chest as you search his eyes. There’s something there—vulnerable yet determined. You’ve never seen him like this before, so open, so unsure yet so certain at the same time. It makes your chest tighten with a mix of fear and hope, a sense of something deeper than you’ve allowed yourself to acknowledge before now.

“We can do whatever you want after we get Ellie to the Fireflies,” you say, your voice a little shaky, but the words come out with a lightness that contrasts the gravity of the moment. Your fingers idly play with his hair, grounding yourself in the simple act, but the truth of his words still rings in your mind, echoing with a promise you can barely begin to process.

Joel hesitates, the weight of the silence between you thick, but then he nods once, his lips brushing against your forehead in a soft, lingering kiss. His hands slide down your back again, urging you closer, and this time you don’t pull away. He keeps kissing you, like you’re the only thing, only person that’s ever mattered.

And for the first time in a long time, in this dangerous, unforgiving world, you feel like you’ve finally found something worth holding onto.

#all that remains

83 notes · View notes