#TLoUBarterFic

[myckicade]

Title: Barter

Series: The Last of Us

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: It's been a number of years since you first made your home in Jackson. Your house is a cozy little two-story, with beautiful flowers, an herb garden, and a small flock of ducks roaming the yard. The old barn-turned-garage beside the house serves as your veterinary clinic. You do your part around the settlement, helping, providing, and carving out a little bit of peace in a world determined to provide none.

When Ellie stops by your place, visibly distressed that her horse has gone off her food, you don't hesitate to get out to the stables. There, you encounter Joel, who offers to help with maintenance to your clinic, in exchange for your help with his daughter's horse. You aren't terribly concerned with the repayment, not when there is an ailing creature to tend to, but you strike the deal to ease Joel's mind.

As a woman who has been repaid in a variety of forms - vegetables, eggs, clothing - a trade of services really isn't all that bad. Joel is a nice enough guy, helpful and respectful, and he does good work. Over time, one trade leads to another, and another, leaving you in each other's company more often than you'd originally bargained for. There's nothing between you, beyond a growing friendship. He's a handsome man, and a fine catch, but more hasn't really crossed your mind. But small towns talk, even the good ones, and talk could easily change everything.

A/N: The amount of research I did on this, just to make it half-believable, is truly startling. Heh. I promise, no one will be growing mango fruit in the middle of a Wyoming winter. Some details will be from personal experience.

Also, please note that this will be far more plot-heavy than smut-filled. I wrote romance novels for years, and… I need plot. Heh.

Finally, please remember that this is the only chapter that will appear in the main series tag. Please follow #TloUBarterFic or #TLoU Barter Fic for future chapters.

Tag List: @stevetonycupcakes

Chapter One: Bramble of Ida

March 24th, 2024

A bitter morning wind whips down the street as you all but stagger back toward your house. There is very little noise happening around you, other than the creaking of tree branches, and the soft crunches of snow beneath your boots. The rest of the town is still asleep, save for those on patrol, and the group on rotation to feed and tend the livestock. How you envy anyone still with head pressed to pillow.

Grief, what a night. Tugging off one glove, you rub at the back of your aching neck with your bare fingers. It does little to relieve tension, but you lie to yourself, all the same. For a moment. All too soon, the frigid air invades up the sleeve of your jacket, sinking into your newly-exposed skin until you are left shivering. With a quiet curse, you put your hand back in your glove, and continue toward home. Fucking winter. It’s a beautiful season to watch, but a real bitch to have to contend with, in person. At the very least, it’s almost over. A few more weeks, and signs of spring will begin to turn up.

Just… a few more weeks.

The sun is just beginning to peek through the trees as you pass the Monroe house. It’s a lovely little place, two-story, painted a soft blue. There’s a basketball hoop mounted above the garage door, patio furniture under a tarp on the front lawn, and… You pause, and chuckle. The chickens from the Patterson place, next door, have once again invaded Wendy Monroe’s snow-covered garden space. The gate has swung open, the latch likely giving out with the cold, and the chickens look to be enjoying a few minutes of pre-discovery peace in pecking through the snow at whatever remains of last year’s plants. Wendy’s a good sport, and doesn’t usually mind the squawk-happy little visitors, but it’s far too cold for them to be out of their coop, unsupervised.

With a heavy sigh, you consider that thought a second time, and a third. The temperatures have dipped over the last few hours. Judging from the thermometer you’d seen in the hog pen, there had been a loss of nearly eighteen degrees during your six-hour visit. It certainly doesn’t feel any warmer now, and in another hour those birds will be in serious trouble. With that in mind, you make a sharp pivot to the right, and trespass onto the Monroe property.

“All right, ladies,” you call, as quietly as will get their attention. No reason to risk waking the occupants of either household. If someone of your profession can’t handle something this simple, they ought to run you out of town. “Time to get your fluffy little butts back home!” The chickens pay you little to no mind at all, until you approach the open garden gate. Five sets of startled eyes are suddenly staring you down, leaving you in a smirk. Adorable creatures, chickens. Sassy, snippy, and full of surprises. You really should raise some of your own.

Scratch that, so to speak. You hardly need to invite the chance of being outsmarted by a flock of birds. What was that thought, again, about being run out of town?

You fight back a chuckle, and change tactics. “Come on,” you urge, waving your hands in the air, just enough to get the chickens moving. Sure enough, the Queen Bee of the flock lets out an irritated sound and flutters her way back out of the gate. It takes a moment before the rest of the girls follow behind her. Not one of them is pointing in the direction of home, but they’ve left you with enough room to lock the gate.

Well, scratch that. You manage to get it closed, but that lock is definitely frozen.

The Patterson’s coop, an old garden shed that has long since been converted and insulated, is only a few yards away. Getting them there, though, will be a task of near-Herculean proportions… For one who doesn’t know where the Pattersons keep the chicken feed. Lucky for you, you’ve been in to check on the ladies more than once, and have firsthand knowledge of their setup. Blessedly, the snow isn’t terribly deep, and you make it over to the coop and back within seconds. Holding up your hands, you shake the cupful of feed you snagged. Once again, five sets of very interested eyes are turned toward you.

“That’s more like it,” you murmur, grinning. “Now, come on.” You take a couple of slow steps backward and shake the cup again. It takes only a few seconds for the chickens to come rushing toward you. You pick up your pace, shaking the food every few steps, so as not to lose their attention. As you move closer, a chorus of clucks rises from inside the coop. Apparently, you’ve caused quite a stir. The clucks come closer, louder and louder, and you glance over your shoulder to see that the remaining three chickens in the flock have wandered out to meet you.

Evidently, the garden lock isn’t the only fastening on the fritz.

Rounding to the front of the coop, careful not to step on any of the new partygoers, your assumption is proven correct. The swing door to the coop is wide open, the straw inside blown all about, some spilling out on the ramp. The wind may have rattled the door open, loose as the lock looks from where you stand. You make a mental note to stop by and see Alan, this afternoon, to advise him to put something a little stronger on there.

For now, you lure the chickens back into the coop, spreading a little bit of feed across the inside edges of the enclosure. No use in throwing it in, just to make a mess for the Pattersons to have to worry about. The girls skitter their way inside, and, as soon as the last feathered behind is out of the way, you swing the door closed, removing your gloves to properly fasten the latch. Reaching into your pocket, you retrieve a leftover bit of jute twine, which you slip into the latch hole, loop around the lock fastening, and tie off into a sturdy, but easily removed knot. Once you are satisfied that the knot is in place, you give the door handle a little tug. There. That isn’t going anywhere.

“Night, girls,” you call, softly, as you replace the food cup into the appropriate bin. Pulling your gloves back on, you start back for the road, and back toward home. Once you’ve had some sleep, you’ll make sure to venture back out, and stop in to let both homeowners know it was you that came onto their respective properties. If you had any paper with you, you’d leave notes to explain, but calling back in a few hours will have to do.

Your house was already in your view before you noticed the chickens, just half a dozen places down the road. You’ve been looking forward to your bed since you last left it, the morning before. You need a shower first, and something to eat, both of which run you the risk of just falling asleep, standing up. Oh, well. A simple enough cost, exhaustion, for so rich a reward as you’d seen delivered, overnight. Miracles, even in this world, still manage to exist, every here and there.

Unfortunately, so do curses, another of which you swallow back as you spot someone standing on your front porch. Blowing out a puff of air, you make your way up the driveway, mentally preparing yourself for what you are about to hear. Anyone calling at such an ungodly hour as this surely has an emergency that needs seeing to. Funny, that’s the same thing you told yourself just ahead of midnight, the night before, as you’d flicked on one light after another, on your way to open the front door.

Yeah. So much for sleep.

The individual at your door – a man, from the looks of things – has his back to you as he raises his fist to knock. He’s certainly a solid looking gentleman, in jeans, a work jacket, and what looks to be a black hat. Quite frankly, it could be anybody, but most folks in town would be beating down your door and calling out your name to get your attention. You’re not used to this calm, polite knocking. Well, not before sunrise.

“Hey, there,” you call, as you approach the three steps at the side of your porch. Your visitor doesn’t turn around, instead knocking a second time. Odd. Shaking it off, you try again, a little bit louder. “Can I help you?” The man finally turns your way, clearly a bit off guard. It makes you feel bad to have startled him, enough that you find enough energy to put on a welcoming smile. “Sorry. I’m sure you weren’t expecting to be snuck up on.”

“Are you (y/n)?” he asks, with absolutely no preamble. You raise an eyebrow in response, smile failing you, considerably. The man’s features are a bit difficult to make out in the shadows, leaving you no clues as to the nature of his visit. Leave it to you to forget to turn on the porch light when you’d left the house.

“I am,” you reply, taking each step up at a slow, measured pace. He steps to the side to face you, now bringing his face into the light. Pleasant surprise, it’s a handsome one. A little rough, a little grey, but handsome, and distantly – suspiciously – familiar. Still, there’s no need to assume, right? “How can I help you, Mister…?”

The man makes a peculiar face, then rolls his eyes. “Sh-I’m sorry. My name is Joel.” He offers you a gloved hand. “Joel Miller.”

Ah. So, your second assumption of the morning has been proven correct. Your smile recovers, a bit, as you come close enough to return the handshake. Solid grip on him, you note, even if short-lived. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Miller.” He nods once, politely, but doesn’t say anything in response. “What can I do for you?”

He wrings his hands together for a second, and glances to the side. “Ah, listen, I’m sorry to be stopping in so early,” he begins, voice as low and hushed as you figure he can make it. With a rich tone like that, it’s almost amusing. “Maria said you might be able to help me out. I was gonna’ wait ‘til later, but…” He trails off, somewhere between guilty and uncomfortable.

Meanwhile, your default setting of concerned is deepening. “One of your horses sick?” you ask, excusing yourself as you step around your visitor to open the front door. The sooner you can get to your stores, the sooner another living being might find some relief. Two, if you count the trouble Mr. Miller seems to be feeling.

“No,” he shoots back, almost instantly. You glance over your shoulder in surprise, to find Mr. Miller rubbing his neck in a self-conscious manner. It’s the perfect fit for the flustered look on his face. “No, uh… Sorry. No, it ain’t the horses. It’s, uh… My…” He sighs in frustration. “It’s Ellie. Have you met her?”

“Haven’t had the pleasure, yet.” The name certainly registers though, thanks to Tommy chatting away about his brother and niece, whenever the two of you cross paths. The man is terribly sweet and sentimental when the mood strikes. “What can I do for Ellie, then?” It might be the rising light playing tricks, but you could almost swear the man before you now is going a bit pink. Which, with men, can only mean one thing. Amused as you suddenly are, you keep a straight face. “Mr. Miller?”

“She…” He pauses, scratching a gloved index finger along his cheek. “You see, it’s her, uh… I mean, she’s got her… Erm…”

That tears it. You have to turn back toward the door, hiding both a grin and a silent cackle in your scarf. It’s so pitifully adorable, you almost don’t make it. “Follow me,” you instruct, trying like all hell to keep your voice good and steady as you open the front door and click on a light. You gesture for Mr. Miller to step inside your kitchen, which he does, removing his hat and closing the door behind himself. You peel off your gloves, then your jacket and hat, depositing all four items onto your countertop. “How much pain is she in?” you ask, opening the last cupboard before the window. From the corner of your eye, you see Mr. Miller fidgeting with his hat.

“Heat didn’t help, this time,” he explains, worry creeping into every syllable. Poor bastard. Not easy being the single father of a teenage girl. Mr. Miller is hardly the first dad to see you for this reason, and he likely will not be the last. “She’s a tough girl. Usually powers right through, but this time…” He fiddles with his hat again, and you look back to the cabinet, grabbing the first item you need as he continues to talk. “She’s in a bad way.”

You nod along as you get out everything you need. Once you have an assortment of tins in front of you, you begin taking pieces from the half-filled tins and mixing them into an empty one. Poor kid. Being a woman yourself, you get it. Especially now, when Advil and Tylenol are worth their weight in platinum. Which, to be fair, is completely useless nowadays, but that’s really beside the point.

A few moments pass in silence, save for the quiet clatter of your ingredients. “I’d say I was sorry to have woken you,” Mr. Miller says, eyes wandering over your kitchen, surely just for something to do. If you were any less focused on your task, you might feel a bit embarrassed at the cluttered state of your countertops. “But all the same, even though you were already up.”

Oh. You can’t help but let out a pitiful little laugh at that. “Truth be told, I haven’t been to bed, yet.”

“You haven’t?” he asks, teetering on startled. “You know what time it is, right?” There’s a bit of a smile playing on the man’s face, and you have to admit, he’s wearing it well.

“I’m aware,” you admit, placing the lid on the three-quarters full tin and giving it a gentle shake. You do your best not to tune in on the sound your actions are producing. The light tapping and swirling could easily lull you to sleep. “Had to help deliver some piglets.”

That perks Mr. Miller’s attention. “Sally or Marla?” he asks.

You give a little scoff. “Both, if you can believe it.” You move around the curve of the counter, still shaking away at the tin. “Marla went first. While I was helping her, Sally decided to catch the spirit, and had hers, too.”

That seems to amuse him for a second, before gravity settles in. “Everybody good?”

“Mostly.” You sigh. “Marla dropped one, then she dropped. The second one wouldn’t come out. But the first one was a distance away from her. Don’t know how long the baby was alone in the cold, but Amy Sid took the little guy in for the night. He’ll be fine,” you’re quick to reassure, at the distressed look on Mr. Miller’s face. It’s a feeling you understand, all too well. “I just want him somewhere warm, where he can be fed and watched. Sally’s babies are fine. She didn’t have as many, but she breezed right through it.”

Shit. You realize, all at once, that you’ve been rambling at a complete stranger like he’s your best buddy. Granted, he likely knows all the same things you do in this settlement, especially where the animals are concerned, but still. Fighting the embarrassed flush that you just know is coming, you stop shaking the tin in your hand and hold it out toward your guest.

“Good to hear,” Mr. Miller replies, accepting the tin and giving it a suspicious look. “Dare I ask?”

“Oh!” you breathe, dialing back in. “Right. So, brew Ellie a cup of tea every few hours, so long as the cramps keep coming back. Just a small scoop of the stuff.” In your embarrassment, you’re speaking a mile a minute. Perhaps you ought to write it all down for him, just in case? “Depending upon the severity of her cramps, it might not take them away entirely, but it should ease them.” He carefully removes the lid and looks inside, apparently surprised at what he sees. “That should last her a while. But if it doesn’t help, come back and see me. It would be easier if she was here, right now, to get specifics, but…” You rock your head from side to side. “I understand.”

Mr. Miller leans in and gives the contents a sniff, recoiling, a bit, at the scent. “The hell is it?”

“Raspberry leaf, mostly,” you explain, again trying not to let your amusement show. “Chamomile, a bit of cinnamon. A couple of other things.” He glances up at you, blinking. “It won’t hurt her. I promise.”

Mr. Miller nods, after what you can only imagine is a moment of indecision. Trust her, don’t trust her? He closes the container, tucking it away in his pocket. “What do I owe you?” he asks, shifting on his feet. It’s a fine question, and one that you are more than used to hearing, but you shake your head, all the same. He frowns. “I’m serious.”

“I’m sure you are,” you reply. And, you really are. But… “But I’m too tired to come up with anything, and you’ve got a little girl that needs that stuff, as soon as you can get it to her.” You smile. “Worry about it another time.”

Mr. Miller looks ready to argue for half a second. “Okay,” he murmurs instead, replacing his hat atop his head. “Thank you for your help, (y/n).” He turns and opens the door.

You follow him over, one hand resting on the door as you see him out. “You’re welcome, Mr. Miller.”

He pauses and glances back with a faint smile. “Joel.”

“You’re welcome, Joel,” you correct, as he steps off the porch. “I hope Ellie feels better, soon.” He nods and continues on his way at a steady pace. Once the man is down the driveway and onto the street, you close the door. A quiet man, Joel Miller. Polite. Easy on the eyes. Probably be even easier, if you’d been able to keep them open while he was here. Ah, well. You can worry about that more in the morning.

Okay. At this rate, the afternoon.

Placing the covers back on the tins on your countertop, you stuff them back into the cupboard, and close the door. Forget food. Forget a shower. Hell, you don’t even have the energy to stop for a bathroom break. It will keep until… Until it can’t. With that thought in mind, you turn out the lights and drop onto the couch. Fuck it. You have to be up in a few hours, anyhow.

[myckicade]

Thank you thank you! I don't have anything specific just something in Jackson? Female reader and a slow burn if you can!

Good morning!

I mulled this over for a good deal of the night. Then, I set to writing. It will be a day or so before I can post the first installment (Tumblr only), but it's... Well. It's already a pretty healthy 4,500+ words. I would like to thank you, in a very sincere fashion, for sparking inspiration that saw me through a night of insomnia.

That said, if anyone would like to be added to the taglist, please comment here. I will be happy to add you when it is posted.

----------

Title: Barter

Summary: It's been a number of years since you first made your home in Jackson. Your house is a cozy little two-story, with beautiful flowers, an herb garden, and a small flock of ducks roaming the yard. The old barn-turned-garage beside the house serves as your veterinary clinic. You do your part around the settlement, helping, providing, and carving out a little bit of peace in a world determined to provide none.

When Ellie stops by your place, visibly distressed that her horse has gone off her food, you don't hesitate to get out to the stables. There, you encounter Joel, who offers to help with maintenance to your clinic, in exchange for your help with his daughter's horse. You aren't terribly concerned with the repayment, not when there is an ailing creature to tend to, but you strike the deal to ease Joel's mind.

As a woman who has been repaid in a variety of forms - vegetables, eggs, clothing - a trade of services really isn't all that bad. Joel is a nice enough guy, helpful and respectful, and he does good work. Over time, one trade leads to another, and another, leaving you in each other's company more often than you'd originally bargained for. There's nothing between you, beyond a growing friendship. He's a handsome man, and a fine catch, but more hasn't really crossed your mind. But small towns talk, even the good ones, and talk could easily change everything.

Coming Soon.

[myckicade]

Did I miss your Joelxreader post?

Good morning!

You absolutely did not. I wanted to have it posted on Sunday night, but I did myself a little injury on Saturday, and never got to finish it. As such, I have decided to move the posting day to Friday. Look for the first installment tomorrow night!

Also, this is the perfect time to make a note concerning this story:

Only the first chapter of Barter will be in the TLoU tags. For the rest of the series, please follow tags #TLoU Barter Fic, and/or #TLoUBarterFic.

Let me know if you would like to be tagged in updates. I will be happy to add you in.

Thank you! - Mycki