#here's hoping i write a lot in the new year!

[rainbows-caught-on-film]

Actually....yes.

I lost like six years of my life because a traumatic event sent my already dissociated ass right out of my own body, and only my alters fronted for that ENTIRE time period.

And then all of the sudden, I was living again. And I had no idea who I was; how had I changed? Had I changed? I couldn't even tell what basic likes and dislikes were mine, what my opinions on stuff or thoughts on religion were, anything. I actually have some posts somewhere alluding to this.

I wished there was a guide on how to become myself and couldn't find one; but now I can give everyone else one, instead.

Alright, step one is understanding what a "real person" is.

You need to know what makes someone a person in order to develop a feeling of actually being one. Think about what you say when describing the kind of person someone is, and write those CATEGORIES down. Examples can be:

Likes/Dislikes

Hobbies

Principles (core beliefs)

Hopes

Fears

Goals

Political affiliation

Favorite things

Now, this is important;

I'M NOT EXPECTING YOU TO KNOW WHAT THESE ARE FOR YOU RIGHT NOW.

I personally couldn't name a single like or dislike in the beginning, or even a hobby, and those are some of the "easiest" options. A lot of people I asked for advice when I said I had no sense of self just told me "well what are your hobbies?", so I understand that people generally expect you to just know this shit off the dome, but I'm not expecting or wanting that.

The reason we are writing these down isn't because we will know what these are, it's because we're going to make a checklist and run EXPERIMENTS to FIND those things, and these categories will influence what checkboxes we come up with.

Our goal with these general ideas is to figure out what our answers in those categories are- it's just a way to focus our efforts into what'll make us feel most "whole" and like a person again.

Now, step two: time to make it "specific, measurable, and actionable"

That "specific, measurable, and actionable" slogan is advice people give for basically any vague goal, and it works here too. You need to break goals down into specific plans, and be able to take an action towards your goal, and be able to know when it's complete so you can feel/see the progress your making and so you know when to switch tasks. "know what my likes or dislikes are" is a vague goal. But:

"Try a new food every day and write down my thoughts"

"Watch five YouTube videos on new things and test how I react"

"list three likes and dislikes" (then up the number as you go until satisfied)

Are all specific actions you can take, and easily be able to tell when you've completed them.

Basically anything you can think of can be boiled down to specific things you can check off as you goal, but most "self discovery" things will require:

Step 2.5: Explore

Go to a store and try on lots of different styles of clothing, even if you can't afford to buy anything. Listen to as many music genres as you can. Watch movies and podcasts and TV shows in as much variety as you can. Talk to lots of different people, and experiment with different amounts of social interaction on different days.

You are collecting information about yourself by being an active, attentive scholar in how your brain and body respond to different things. The more stimuli you give yourself, the more data you have to work with. People respond differently to different situations, and the more angles you see yourself in, the better you'll understand yourself.

Think of it like you're a scientist, studying an animal and running tests (see, there's a reason I phrased this whole thing as "running tests" earlier!!). You want to learn as much about this creature as possible, and you're poking and prodding it in all sorts of ways to see what makes it tick.

You're going to study yourself like a zooologist encountering a "you" creature for the first time; because really, that's what's happening. When you go from having no sense of identity or self to being a "real person", you're discovering yourself and meeting yourself for the first time.

Let's use an example, talking about this journey in terms of experiments.

The Jenneca creature- that's me!- has constantly picked up many tasks and busy work, even WHILE doing the self-study, and I've lost sleep or put of dinner in pursuit of a goal. I avoid doing nothing for long periods of time, or leaving something unfinished. This data leads to the conclusion that this creature is highly goal oriented and driven, and I'll stop at nothing to do what I decide I want to do, even when that backfires. I respond well to Mac and Cheese in food testing, and not well to Mustard. I've shown a positive reaction to various kinds of music, starting with 2000s and 2010s pop hits and then also having a spike of endorphins with emo music (both Midwest emo and pop punk), scene music, rap, musical theatere, and artists like Regina Spektor and Mindy Gledhill (what IS that genre even called, anyway?). Negative reactions to music are rare and usually confined to specific individual songs, so there is either insufficient data for music dislikes, or I'm just very adaptive.

Step Three: Activate Annoying Toddler "why?" Mode

Question EVERYTHING, because it can lead you to way bigger discoveries; and maybe even help your mental health in general.

I realized I was getting really uncomfortable and anxious whenever a sex related song came on, even if it was an artist I liked or even a song I was nostalgic for. I decided to ask WHY and really sit with that feeling. It wasn't disgust, I realized, but fear. A nauseating dread. I thought long and hard about why I was feeling this way, what thoughts were linked to this reaction- and eventually I realized that it wasn't asexuality like it seemed like at first glance, but a truama response: I have sexual trauma from a young age, and now sex being generally around me makes me anxious and uncomfortable. But I know that it isn't directed at me, and also that even if someone DID like me it wouldn't be an attack, so I asked WHY again, and discovered I had deep rooted internalized misogyny about being born in a female body. Somewhere along the way I had absorbed the idea that my body meant I was "for" sex, the same way scissors and knives are "for" cutting; that I was a tool to be used and that my biology was a cage trapping me in that role forever. Sexual interest or even mentions of sex, then, became a trigger of cosmic dread about fate/being locked into a role as an object, and a feeling of being un-personed.

YIKES.

But now that I knew the problem, I could FIX IT. And I started trauma journaling and researching, making logical arguments against every doubtful thought and belief that I caught festering so I could tear them down and rip those hurtful ideas out of my heart.

In the end, I knew myself better for it; WAY better. And I also finally was able to break one of the chains my childhood trauma had placed on me.

Look for roots in your data. When you notice you respond a certain way to something, ask why. Even if you don't find some serious issues that need fixing or something, you could still learn even MORE information:

"I don't like Mustard" when I apply "why" to it, becomes "it hurts my mouth with how sour/bitter/spicy (? What IS that flavor) it is", which becomes "I'm really sensitive to flavours, and strong sour, bitter or spicy foods feel like they hurt because of my sensory issues." So now instead of having the knowledge:

I don't like Mustard

I have the knowledge:

I don't like mustard

I have sensory issues with taste

Really spicy food is probably not going to be my thing

Really sour food is probably ALSO not going to be my thing

Very Bitter food? Probably not gonna be my thing.

My response to sensory issues is the same one I have for actual pain

Repeat all these steps, tracking your progress as you go, and paying attention. Eventually, as you keep at it, you'll feel like a person again.

has anyone figured out how to be a real person yet

[lilactwilights]

a heathen clung to piety (a priest!gojo x reader fic)

series masterlist

summary: everything about satoru gojo is pristine. from his charming looks, to his unblemished family name and his exemplary priesthood. because of that, attraction is nothing more than fuel for what you assume is a one-sided fantasy, a carefully kept secret you are content to keep deep within. but when you end up in his bed, the vows he broke end up cracking the surface of his immaculate facade and bringing forward the painful memories and the cruel truth of a tragedy all too familiar.

or, you find out the angel named Satoru Gojo may have fallen a long time ago, and that you might end up falling with him too.

chapter summary: with satoru’s return, a new arrival at the city and winter prevailing, you are forced to confront all you have been trying to run away from.

word count: 10k

Hello there! ฅ≽(•⩊ •マ≼Thank you for your interest in reading! This was in my drafts for some time and in my mind for considerably longer. I have thought about Gojo a lot. And Priest Satoru Gojo spawned after playing with his canon counterpart like a Barbie, witnessing the talent of fandom creators and exploring a bit of my catholic memories. Let it be known that, funny enough, I have never experienced attraction towards a real-life priest and I don't think that day will come. Nonetheless, there's something about Gojo that has made his lil priest self my favorite plaything and that´s why I promised myself that, if I ever posted a fic again, I wanted him to do the honors. Excited to say that the day has finally come.I won't say much more here other than be mindful of the tags here, I will be updating them accordingly and letting you know if there is any specific thing you should keep an eye out for in the upcoming chapters.English is not my first language and I'm more than a bit rusty so it's a bit nerve-wrecking to put this out there /ᐠ ╥ ˕ ╥マ. Regardless, I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it ♡ (Might edit this chapter a bit in the near future)I'm new to tumblr so I apologize if the formatting looks a bit wonky, I´m still working on it, this is a reupload so if you have seen this before, yeah it was me :p

You don’t like winter.

It brings cold and sickness and painful memories with it. For you, the best part of it are the droplets of melting ice announcing its imminent departure and the first sightings of green peeking through the remnants of snow. Trees are still skinny and mostly naked, branches trembling at the wind, bending under the weight of the last snowfall but, between the leisure movement of a heavy cloud and the other, the sun has started to reach out with its lukewarm rays. 

As you stand on the platform, you claim the only spot touched by the sun, though it does little to alleviate the stubborn reminder of a winter you would chase away if you could. The wind remains almost freezing cold, it makes you shiver and shut your eyes tight every time it slaps you in the face, every hit of air chafing your skin. 

You mourn the scarf you left hanging at the rack back home. You were already two streets away when you realized you had forgotten it and you were quick to dismiss it in favor of catching the train on time. 

Now you are here, with no scarf, a freezing frame and a train running late, because, of course, only Satoru Gojo would manage to be late even by train. 

In fact, if a person could be blamed for making a train run late, it would probably be Gojo, somehow. Last time you took a train together, a few months back, you almost missed it because of him. He doesn’t have anyone to nag at him this time, so you can only hope he boarded on time, like he always seems to barely do.

This town needs an actual train station, you think, as you nuzzle further into your winter coat. There’s a little lobby next to the platform that is “closed for remodeling” because the administration had to choose the worst time of the year to modernize the cozy little lounge.  The platform you are currently shivering on was renewed by the Gojo Family almost two years ago, upon the arrival of their heir. The outline and build of the little ticket booth attached to the side of the station is reminiscent of the village props you saw at The Nutcracker the winter before. It’s too fancy for such a little spot outside of a small town like yours, too opulent for a place that’s not used as much anymore, but it’s a nice view you appreciate. However, all the cutesy and intricate carving does next to nothing to shield you from the cold. You heard the Mayor refused the Gojos’ offer to donate a proper train station and you can’t help but resent him too. After all, his pride is costing you your body temperature.

You nuzzle further into your clothes, pressing yourself against the column at another hit of wind. When you first arrived, the nice lady at the booth had offered you a place inside while you waited, but the space was already cramped enough with just one person in it, so you had to politely decline. It might have been a good decision considering she is currently nursing a cigar and likely emitting more fumes than the train you are waiting for. Right now, you can barely see her silhouette through the window with all the smoke condensed into the little booth. You have the itch to tap on the glass to see if she hasn’t passed out. Maybe if she is still conscious you can walk back your decision and ask for a little place in there with only your nice perfume and healthy lungs to pay the price. 

As you take a hesitant step towards the impromptu smokehouse, your attention is caught by a distant whistle, the telltale sound of a locomotive approaching. You perk up, waddling further into the platform to take a look as the sound of the machine gets louder. Indeed, the outline of the wine red train greets you between smog and frosty wind and you sigh, retreating once more to your waiting place.  

“About time,” you huff. 

Satoru left two weeks ago for a series of meetings with some higher ups from the Church. He called you every other day, mostly to nag or entertain himself. 

You don’t ask too much about what goes in there nor does he go into detail, he only ever talks about them to complain. Sometimes you think he has caught on to how much you truly dislike most of them and you are the only person he can sincerely unload his grievances with. 

As expected, only Satoru is getting off in this station. Your eyes meet through the window as he stands in the door waiting for it to open. His eyes widen for a second but crinkle immediately after as he smiles, all perfect teeth, mouthing something you can’t quite understand. You wave at him with a smile, cheeks feeling suddenly warm despite the cold. 

You point at your wrist while you lift a brow but it’s hard to keep the stern expression when the uncomfortable fluttering in your stomach makes you nauseous. 

You step back as the doors open and stand there, changing your weight from one foot to the other as he gets off, sturdy suitcase in hand. He doesn’t even take two steps into the platform before he leaves his luggage on the floor, gaze fixed on you. Someone that appears to be a young train worker, judging by the uniform, is trailing behind him with a bunch of boxes that Satoru ends up maneuvering in one hand after he places the suitcase on the floor.

Before the young boy can say something else, Satoru shoves one of the little boxes in his hands with a loud thank you. The boy blinks and bows his head awkwardly, a low expression of confused gratefulness escaping his lips as he retreats. You lift a brow at the display, your own confusion tampering with your smile but Satoru, as always, just returns it wholeheartedly, balancing the boxes on top of his luggage.

“I asked if you missed me,” he says in lieu of a greeting as he straightens up, bright blue eyes regarding you from above. 

The color in his gaze somewhat softens thanks to all the white and the gray around. That’s probably how the blue of the seas in the frozen lands far away look like. He is all pale colors, a striking contrast to his black jacket and dark blue scarf and his pink lips. He rarely flushes, but there’s a pleasant blush in his chiseled cheeks from the warmth that hasn’t died down under the harsh wind. He speaks again. And you see the way his lips curl. They look soft and plump as they dance and mold to the words that your cottoned ears can’t quite catch: “…missed”

“I asked if you missed me”

“Huh?” is your elaborate reply.

Satoru’s grin evolves into a chuckle. It’s a pleasant sound that you indeed have missed . Other days, when he directs that sound towards you, you find the sound irritating enough to pretend it doesn’t cave a pit in your stomach. Not today. 

Today he extends his arms, his wide form taking up the space with his broad back and his long limbs. You don’t think twice before sinking into him. You have missed him too much for your own good, you resolve, as he squeezes you so tight it steals a breathless huff of a laugh from you. 

“Get off…”

Satoru chuckles too, a rumbling sound vibrating against your smothered cheek. His hands don’t go lower than your back, but the feeling of his fingers pressed against you through your clothes projects all over your body.

“Not before you answer,” he adds, against your temple. 

“What?”

“If you miss me”

You gulp. It’s only the two of you between the cold and the fog on the platform. “I didn’t hear you say that at all.”

“But I did,” he retorts, leaning back just enough so your eyes meet, “And you still haven’t answered.” 

He smells like warmth and caramel. He probably ate sweets onboard and the smell of it swirls along his fresh cologne. Not unpleasant, but sure overwhelming when it’s paired with those intense eyes looking at you. 

“So?”

“I didn’t,” you answer. Way too quickly, way before your heart and your brain realize you are lying and make you stutter as punishment. 

Satoru smiles lazily, letting you go with a languid movement that has his fingertips sliding off your waist. He tugs at one of the strands of hair hanging at the side of your face instead. 

“That’s a shame,” he laments, sighing, puncturing each word with a twirl of his fingers, the start of a shit-eating grin on his lips. “Because I did”

“It’s been two weeks,” you huff, gently pushing his hand away in a lighthearted gesture. You don’t mind his touch at all. Or, you didn't mind it. You are now bothered by the appalling urges born in your core and traveling to your every limp. 

“And? That’s more than enough to me,” he switches the grip of his hand to grasp at yours and give it a squeeze. “Believe it or not, I prefer your pretty face over the nagging of our dear church authorities” 

“I’m touched,” you deadpan, a little smile tugging at the corner of your lips despite yourself. 

Satoru hums. “I am too, considering I wasn’t expecting a welcome back committee”

Your lips part, brows furrowing. “Didn’t you say you wanted me to come!?”

“That was before I realized our lovely weather could turn you into an icicle,” he says, eyes scanning you intently. He takes a few steps forward and places both his hands in your cheeks. You feel yourself stiff. “Although the flush of your face is rather pleasant to look at, there’s no reason for you to stand here and freeze for little ole’ me”

Your frozen hands try to peel away his wrists on instinct. Satoru is touchy, probably more touchy than a priest should be, but he is also more nonchalant than the average gentleman is so you can’t say you aren’t used to it. 

It’s the mortifying somersault your stomach does and the warmth that bleeds from your chest to your lower belly like molten what you are not used to. He is not even touching you directly, the fabric of his gloves is less soft than his hands, but it’s warm and kind in comparison to the wind. Nonetheless, the sole implication of him touching you so casually is enough to make you short of breath. 

For a few seconds that stretch incredibly long, Satoru rubs your cheeks intently, as if trying to coax the warmth of your blood to bleed into your skin. There’s something in his eyes as a slow, cheeky curve takes place on his lips. You forget the flustered feeling for a moment, but your body stays locked on it, a prickling sensation climbing up your neck as you frown up at him, tugging at his wrists. 

“Father?” 

Satoru’s well trained to react the exact opposite way to your flustered, hurried flurry. As you jump, he waltzes back in calculated steps, casually sliding his hands down to your shoulders, squeezing them only slightly before taking his hands off you for good. By the time his hands are by his sides, yours are still fidgeting about, tugging at your winter coat. 

You turn your face towards the familiar voice and force down the lingering feeling of self-consciousness, sketching a smile that lacks the blinding brightness of the dishonest one Satoru offers to the clueless newcomer. 

“Ah, Ijichi, you are finally here!” he announces, eyes crinkling. The cherry on top is, of course, the thunderous clap that accompanies his words. “I started to think you had forgotten about me”

You have known him for almost two years, so you can catch it. The way his smile curves and hardens before it stretches all the way. He seems slightly bothered about something you can only theorize about.

“N-not at all!” Kyotaka bows his head, face a bit flushed because of the cold or because his eyes are also trained in Satoru’s micro-expressions. “Welcome back, Father” 

You think you have imagined it, though, because Satoru’s expression is back to his relaxed, jovial façade. Or maybe it never really changed. You try not to stare too long or think about his face too hard lately. 

“C’mon Ijichi!” he protests, “I’m not wearing the habit right now! We can be a bit flexible” 

Ijichi is not deterred, sharing a look with you as a resigned, little smile grazes his lips. He is one of the very few people that has fallen victim to Satoru’s overly familiarity and, just like most, he is not playing along. That always makes you consider if you should also be more mindful of the difference in your positions, but Satoru’s arm casually slinging around your shoulders chases any further reflection away.

Ijichi is abruptly intercepted by one of Satoru’s arms as well when he steps closer to retrieve some of the boxes laying over Gojo’s luggage and you can see the way his shoulders fall in a reluctant acceptance. His glasses are crooked now by the unexpected motion but he makes no effort in shrugging Gojo as the latter pats his back energetically. You share a look once more.

“I-ji-chi! Guess who was freezing on this platform, waiting for me?” Satoru asks, squeezing his hold on you as he rhythmically pats Ijichi’s frame. “Certainly not you!”

At that, Ijichi’s resigned face tenses back to his default expression, a mix of mortification and surprise in his widened eyes. 

“I a-apologize, I wasn’t aware you were coming here as well! I would have offered you a lift!” 

“Oh, see? You are so formal with me but you call her by her name!”

You both ignore Satoru as you shrug his arm off your shoulders, offering Ijichi an appeasing smile, lifting a hand in a dismissive gesture. 

“Don’t worry about it, I didn’t know you were picking him up either,” you reply earnestly, brushing your hair out of your face as you start to walk, “I think it’s his fault”

As Kyotaka takes the boxes Satoru brought with him, he regards you with a look that seems suspiciously close to a silent agreement. Once again, both of you ignore Gojo’s whines, moving along the platform until he desists on his protests and easily falls into step with you, suitcase in tow. 

“I’m glad Ijichi and you have found friendship, but I don’t appreciate you bonding over disregarding me” is what he says,  with a suffering sigh that evolves into a little smile when you eye him up. 

“I’m sure making everything about you is a sin” you comment lightheartedly and Satoru rolls his eyes. “For your information, Kyotaka and I have been friends for a while and agreeing on your obnoxiousness is not the reason our friendship begun”

“But your blatant animosity is what makes it thrive,” Satoru points out, with an accusing finger. “It’s the same thing with Sister Uta–”

“Is your nagging my reward for picking you up at the train station?” you inquire. “I should have stayed warm and cozy at home”

“You waited for me. If we want to get technical, my dear sister, Ijichi is the one picking me up.”

He watches the beginning of an indignant protest in your face, to which he walks back his teasing statement and raises a calming hand. “Both of which I deeply appreciate,” he adds, and there’s a softness in his honest smile that mellows you down enough, until he pokes at you once more. “A good Christian doesn’t expect anything in return for a good deed, anyway” he chirps. “God shall provide” 

“Good thing I’m not a Christian then,” you retort and Satoru huffs a laugh, shutting it too quickly in favor of shaking his head in disapproval. “So you shall provide”

“I’m not but God’s humble messenger,” Satoru bows his head, eyes glinting as he regards you “So consider the souvenir I brought God’s way of acknowledging your selfless act”

He is serious, but there’s an amused tilt to his gentle smile that warms and softens you up enough to forget about the banter and grin earnestly.

After a silent look that lingers enough for the prickling feeling in your face to make a comeback, you simply turn your face to the front. By your peripheral vision, you notice Satoru’s gaze linger just a few seconds more before he follows your lead.   You both keep walking side by side, arms brushing at every swing. Your throat closes up and you focus on ahead. 

Ijichi is a fast-walker by nature, you have learned, and you saw him hurry his step as Satoru reached your side with long strides a few moments ago. If Satoru wanted, he could outpace you and Ijichi with ease, but he has decided to linger beside you and you soon realize there’s a reason beyond any friendly banter or the announcement of any souvenir. 

You step over a branch peeking through the melting snow on the ground and that’s when he speaks.

“The snow is finally melting” he whispers, “I’m relieved” 

There’s a sympathetic inflexion on his voice that’s not lost to you. The same off-handed tone present on his words these last two weeks through calls and letters. You lean against him almost on instinct, shoulder surprisingly at ease as it bumps against his arm. “Me too”

On a personal level, being friends with Satoru means a lot of things and has plenty of implications you don’t want to get at most of the time. You were both relieved and saddened by his absence during the last snow storms of this winter which tells you enough about the dichotomy that persists in your relationship. It’s easier to dwell on it during this season, which is why you occupy yourself like a maniac during it, which is why you cling to any semblance of sun or warmth amidst the cold. 

The car ride is silent enough, the soft sound of the wheels scraping against the road lulling you as you lean against the window, eyes chasing any rays peeking through the clouds, even if you have to narrow your eyes at the unexpected force of a sun recovering its strength. 

“Hey,” Satoru’s voice is soft, a callback to the time and space you are in right now, tugging you away from cruel memories. 

He offers you his hand, without a glove. Long and pretty and pale. Warm as you press your hand over it.  “The other one too”

That’s when you notice he took both his gloves off and, as he envelops your hands with his, your thoughts linger on how warm and soft and soothing his skin is. 

When he rubs his palms over your cold, trembling fingers, he triggers a scorching heat in your hands and your arms and your whole being. “Your hands are freezing,” he says, none the wiser to your melting insides. “I noticed earlier, you weren’t wearing gloves, or a scarf” 

There’s more than a hint of disapproval in his tone. For real this time. Not like the one he uses to half-heartedly scold your thinly-veiled anti-church sentiments. 

“I-I forgot”

Does he know your mouth feels dry and cottoned? Can he notice the way your breath catches in his throat at his proximity, or the way your heart skips at every motion of his thumbs over the back of your hands? 

“You shouldn’t have walked there with this weather” Satoru whispers, and there’s something in his eyes that goes beyond the earnest care you have grown acquainted with. “You are not even properly clothed for it,” he hums, there’s a bit of the teasing back that gets lost on the deep look in his eyes. 

You don’t even know what to make of it. 

It’s like that one time, over a year ago. 

Just like his voice grabbed you away from the claws of the cruel, painful past, his eyes push you back into that void, except in a kinder, warmer part of it. 

The train ride to the next city and the memory of the gorgeous display on stage. 

It’s a nice memory. 

Nevermind the mortifying discoveries about yourself that trip uncovered. 

Absolutely not. Because it is the beautiful memory of your first ever trip to a professional ballet production, a long-time dream, the one guilty of the fluttering sensation in your stomach.

Not the memory of the seating booth in the train back home feeling strangely suffocating, or his hands over your skin, trying to cool away a fever you couldn’t get rid of. A fever and itch that has been chasing you ever since you sat way too close in the same room, the same bed.

That’s not it. 

It’s the pretty parts, the softer parts you should focus on because it is a nice memory, one that is not tainted by the origins of the crude ruminations that keep you awake at night to this day. Not at all. 

“I wanted to,” you say with a shrug. “To go there, I mean.”

To wait for you. To see you again.

Satoru hums, blowing hot air into your fingertips. Your whole being rattles. 

“You should have waited for me at the church, then” he whispers. His lips are inches away from your hands, you almost want to stretch your fingers, just to try–

“I don’t like to go there when it’s empty,” you respond, voice steadier than your beating heart. 

“It’s never empty,” he replies, thumbs massaging up to your fingertips, squeezing them for barely a second. “It’s the house of God, he is always there” 

He isn’t. And you aren’t either. What’s the point? But you don’t say that, you don’t say anything more. You almost feel like you don’t need to, because Satoru smiles at you then, and it’s almost sad.

You feel you might be privy to what most people in town are not. Your friendship with Satoru didn’t blossom out of shared faith or thrived because of your trust in him as a recipient of God. Quite the contrary.  It was born despite your reservations and your disagreements. As such, you are allowed to see beyond the charming, quick-witted, perfect priest image he projects for all believers to see. For you, he is equally if not more charming and wiser when he is “just Satoru” but you won’t ever tell him that out loud.

Instead, you let your shared secrets and time together speak for you. He knows a lot about you. You know a lot about him. Or so you think. 

Satoru has always given you the impression of false openness. He makes people, you included, feel as if he is sharing a lot, but most of the time, it’s just superficial lore or inconsequential sentiments.

You don't usually pressure him to share anything beyond what he usually does, but there’s a trust that has been nurtured during your time together that has given you both a space to share what you both know is no common knowledge. He doesn’t need to tell you “I have never told this to anyone” but you have learned to recognize when it’s the case. You know when it’s something he wouldn’t share with the world. 

It is often, though, that you get the impression that these secret things have been shared before with someone else out there. There’s something about his speech, the careful distant expression on his face that betrays a sense of dejavu or melancholy that disappears as soon as it appears, between a blink and another. He has travelled the world and he has confessed his sins often. It could be any person out there, a priest or God himself. 

Who knows? You don’t push. You never do. After all, there is a whole story you haven’t shared with him. And you don’t think you will soon. He has the right to have his secrets too, and despite the big chunk of your life that remains hidden close to your chest, you bet he has way more secrets than you do. 

You wear your heart in your sleeve, he doesn’t. You could be fooled by his easy smile and his running mouth, though, like everyone else. 

And you are. 

It seems rather meaningless, but in retrospect, this little thing that Satoru willingly withholds from you unravels the whole mess and tells you more about all the things he doesn’t tell you. 

At some point, it becomes public knowledge that a newly ordained priest will come to your little town. The people are concerned their angel darling of a Father is being moved away. But it doesn’t seem to be the case, as one particular Sunday, Satoru addresses the whispers and concerns from the altar with good humor. 

That’s how you find out, like everyone else. 

Kento Nanami, a priest from the same college as Satoru, will become part of the little community. 

When you question Satoru about it later, ignoring his who-know-what attempt at explaining checkers to you, he sighs, shoulders falling. It is so different from the usual flair he would answer you with, he seems almost defeated for a second, the flames of the chimney of his office flickering all over his face, raising his high cheekbones further. 

“We used to be together in the seminary,” he finally says.

Satoru doesn’t talk much about the seminary. It’s one of the things he pretends he enjoys being open about except all he has ever told you has to do with the multiple headaches he induced on everyone around him. 

“But,” you say, leaning forward in your seat. You try to ignore the way Satoru’s foot brushes against yours as he shifts and stretches his legs under the table. “The people say he is newly ordained”

“Ah, our lovely town is as adept in gossiping as it is in their daily praying,” Satoru comments, propping his chin over his hand with a lazy tilt of the head, a shaper one on his lips . “He is.”

You don’t need to do the math for that one. It doesn’t add up.

“But if he was with you–”

“He left,” Gojo cuts you off with a bit of a bored, resigned expression. “Then he came back.” 

He is not even hiding his unwillingness to share any details. The tense smile is the same he uses when he wants to cut a conversation short. It’s the first time he has used it with you.

And it’s the first time you decide to press, as well. 

“Why did he leave?”

Satoru takes a few seconds to respond, eyes focusing on the dancing flames in the chimney, gaze concerningly distant. For a moment, you think he might tell you it’s none of your business. Strictly speaking, he would be right. 

“Some people aren’t made for it,” he whispers, in the most monotone voice you have ever heard from him. It brings a chill down your spine, suddenly feeling an infinite wall rise between you. You feel you might reach out to touch him and you won’t be able to snatch him away from whatever place he is sinking into now.

But, as it always happens, the wall crumbles as soon as it builds. And Satoru, seemingly sensing your unease, seems to snap out of whatever haze the flames have induced on him.

He smiles, again, eyes flickering towards you. 

“But don’t worry,” he says, even if you are less worried about priest Nanami’s abilities than you are about the all-seeing eyes that look right through you. “Nanamin is. That’s why he came back.”

Kento Nanami sure seems like the kind of guy made to be a priest. He is sober, proper, humble. Kind and polite at the welcoming party your good-spirited town throws for him. He seems genuinely taken aback by the warm reception, but earnest in his shy appreciation. You study every interaction from afar, just like you did back when Satoru first came to town. 

Satoru had been charming, talkative, and full of initiative in every interaction. He had had the hard task of living up to the expectation the priest before him, a beloved local, had risen in forty years of service. Satoru was young. Maybe a bit too young, people had first observed with wariness. But it was that, along with his good-natured humor, his refreshing speech and his impeccable looks, that ended up making him the darling of the town in no time. 

Nanami’s regal presence is impeccable as well, in a different way. There’s nothing out of place, not a hair, not a button, not even a blink, as if everything is carefully crafted with little to no effort. And while he doesn’t seem to have the social energy Satoru has delighted everyone with these past years, he appeals to the community all the same with that mix of youth and firmness reminiscent of a soldier. He looks older than Satoru.  There’s something in their interactions that suggests something you can’t quite put your finger on. Satoru is cheery, as always. Friendly and familiar with his arm thrown over the other priest’s shoulders, with his animated voice raising over the bustle of the party but something in Nanami’s shoulders remains tense in a way they weren’t in any other interaction. 

It’s so weird once you see it. 

It could be simple shyness at Satoru’s familiarity, but he doesn’t seem shy or flustered. You don’t even know if, judging by his stern expression, he is even capable of it. 

It’s seems there’s a world they are part of you are not privy to. That’s probably the case. Priesthood and seminary life it’s not something you ever can or want to fully comprehend.

But, despite whatever weird energy surrounding them, they make for a nice picture, standing side by side, overlooking the party and the towners from the first landing of the stairs leading up to the church. The single photographer from the local paper thinks the exact same, snapping a shot with little warning. It captures Satoru leaning towards Nanami, a smile frozen midway as the flash explodes in their faces. 

Nanami is tall, but looking at them like this, you can truly put into perspective how tall Satoru truly is, his shoulder some inches above the other man’s. 

No matter, you have to lean your head back to look at the two of them properly. 

Kento or “Nanamin” is polite enough to stay quiet through Satoru’s enthusiastic introduction but it’s soon clear to you that he is barely tolerating the other’s incessant, loud chatter right into his ear. He still smiles, bows his head at you, as he introduces himself as if Satoru hadn’t done it for him over three times already. There’s a distant echo in your head that bothers you and there’s a weird feeling in your chest as you catch Nanami’s eyes looking at you as if he is trying to decipher a puzzle himself. 

“Sorry if I overstep but, have we met?” he finally asks.

Satoru finally pauses beside you, only then paying attention to the fact that Nanami is not listening to his vibrant spiel, but he doesn’t seem baffled, face dropping to a rather curious, questioning glance more for Nanami than for yourself. Your smile doesn’t waver, tensing just the slightest bit as the echo in your head raises its volume. 

“I don’t think so, no” you say. 

Just like you did almost two years ago, when Satoru first came to the church, you leave the party early and find yourself pulled towards the limit of the woods at the outskirts. Once you step onto the only proper road leading to the next town, your eyes focus on the giant oak tree that stands at the top of the one little hill overseeing your step.  The path is painful yet soothing in its familiarity, your heels digging in the dirt and light layer of snow enveloping the steep as you balance your weight and propel forward. 

As you make your way to the top, the big, old oak greets you with a rustle of leaves. The leaves persevere during winter, for a reason you would like to think you know. 

You feel your face warm with the effort and you can see your breath escape in little puffs of hot air that evaporate into the frosted wind as you walk towards the wide, rough trunk, and press your cheek against it.

You lean on the trunk and focus on the sounds coming from within, the endless shifting of it akin to breathing. Even if you wanted to hug it, you wouldn’t be able to. The immensity of it makes it impossible.  It’s ironically cruel. You can’t hug him again and you can’t hug the one breathing thing that reminds you of him either. 

“I’m sorry I haven’t visited,” you  say, closing your eyes. You can almost pulsing with life against your face. One of your hands curls over the trunk. “I missed you today.”

At this time of the year, you are forced to confront plenty of things. You thought you had survived this winter without having to think, but there’s a sweet and painful song of melancholy in the air that follows you through these events. 

It makes you think again about how you would have forgiven him, if he came to town like Satoru did. Like Nanami did. You would have forgiven him. Even if he was clad in priest robes and stood over the altar with the pride of a soldier of God. You would have forgiven him even with the sting of all the broken childish promises. 

“It would have been okay, at the end,” it's the only other thing you say out loud. 

It’s a sad and embarrassing thought, that you don’t have to say much. Wherever he is now, he knows what he didn’t know before. And everyone knows too. Everyone that loves you and loves him knows. That the pain has subsided and dulled but lingers like a chronic nightmare that sharpens every so often. 

That you spent years mad at him and now you can only be mad at yourself. You have matured and you see things in a different light now, left to wonder if you , rather than him, could have done anything in another way. 

It’s sad and embarrassing when Satoru meets you at the entrance road to the main street, concern or pity barely veiled as he heaves, cheeks rosy, his rebellious white hair slightly dancing at the tune of the frosty wind, all that betraying the hurried steps he took upon realizing your absence. 

You offer him a little smile, finally having cried what you had to cry these past days, your head doesn’t feel as heavy with dark thoughts anymore. You can leave your penances with the oak tree.

“Did my mother ask you to come look for me?” you ask, not thinking twice before hooking your arm with the one he is offering you.

Satoru stares at you intently, head tilted as you both turn back towards the main square in a dance you don’t have to rehearse anymore. It feels natural, walking with him like this. 

“More like I offered,” he replies, eyes finally focusing ahead. “Watching her pace around pale with worry, I had to ask what was her cause of concern”

You feel a pinch of guilt.

“She—”

Satoru spares you from having to offer an excuse or apology.

“She knew where you were, but she was worried you would stay there until dark so I told her it would be better for me to bring you back.”

You sigh, head leaning against his arm, gaze focused on the thin mantle of snowflakes in the ground. 

“I didn’t need to stay for long.”

“That’s a good thing.” You don’t know if you imagine it, but you can feel Satoru speak against the crown of your head.  “It’s still pretty cold out here.”

You answer with a hum, hiding your face into his arm, even his jacket is impregnated with his cologne. Moments like this are met with such intense yearning everything else you feel along with it melts into a pool of sweet resignation.  

“You know you can talk to me,” he says, stopping on his tracks. You inhale a bit more of his perfume and the winter air before looking up at him. 

You know he can probably see the red trails and rims that expose your silent, lonely tears from earlier but you don’t mind. He looks into your eyes, brows furrowing just a bit, before he shifts his body to face you as well. The snow crunches slightly under his boots. 

“What?” you ask. 

He raises his hand and reaches for your face. Your eyes flutter in anticipation of his touch and that’s when you feel the phantom pressure of his fingertips against your heavy eyelashes. There’s a sole huff of air that resembles a laugh escaping from his lips, in tandem with the sigh that escapes yours and his soft smile and sad gaze is all you see as you open your eyes.

“There’s frost in your eyelashes,” he whispers, his thumb barely grazing the apple of your cheek, probably following the abandoned path a tear left behind. 

Your breath hitches and a surge of adrenaline makes you turn your face to the side, just in time for Satoru to caress your cupid bow and the curve of your upper lip. Your eyes flutter close. It’s only for half a millisecond and his hand retreats as if you were burning him, curling on itself in the air, hovering over your face. Not a sound comes from him. 

“I know,” you breathe out.

“Hm?” 

“I know I can talk to you,” you clarify, blinking up at him with a soft tilt of your head and in your lips. 

He doesn’t escape your gaze, and you can see yourself reflected on his darkened, tempestuous blue eyes.

“But you won’t,” he says. 

“Not about this,” you reply honestly. 

“But we are–”

You cut him off, before you can hope, protest or rejoice on whatever epithet escapes his lips.

“I know,” you unhook your arm from his, pressing a hand over his forearm. “But you don’t tell me every single thing about you either,” you squeeze slightly and you can feel his muscles clench under the pressure. “Do you?”

After seconds that feel like minutes stretching, he presses his hand over yours and squeezes in a thousand unspoken words.

“No.”

“And that’s okay.”

After all, there are things you don’t want him to know about, even if a part of you thinks he does already. 

A part of you wants to believe he understands.

But how could he? 

Someone like him can’t never lose, not anything nor anyone.

Your mother forgives your brief disappearance and requires you to run a few errands to pay back any concern you may have caused, mostly to soothe any lingering guilt from your part. It’s always like this between you both, the silent agreements and the subtle conversations. 

You can talk about pain freely but you are candid enough about it for her not to worry about you letting it eat away at you in silence. 

“Did the visit help?” she asks, hands busy and eyes fixed on you, as you wait patiently, leaning against the kitchen counter. 

“Hm,” you nod, a faint smile. “It had been a while, I think that’s what I needed” 

“I know you usually like to go up there alone,” she starts, “but please try not to linger too close to sunset, the air gets colder and the path is too dark for my peace of mind”

“You know I don’t like to walk in the snow at night.”

Your mother’s eyes trail away from you. “Right.”

“I’m okay,” you say, voice not wavering. 

“I know you are,” she replies, looking back at you with love and concern mingling in her pupils. Your throat would close up at the sight on worse days. 

Today, though, you smile at her with veiled gratitude and a hint of apology as she hands you a knitted bag, heavy with homemade goods.

“You know,” you point out, weighing it in your hands with a pensive pout in your lips. “I think you spoil that man way too much.” 

“Those are for Father Nanami as well,” your mother protests, lifting her brow at you, affronted. “And ‘that man’ is our priest” 

“It’s just Satoru,” you said. A slip up that you paid mind to a little too late. 

“Precisely because it’s Father Satoru,” your mother replies, casual, as swift as her hands rearranging the last few envelopes. Her brief yet disapproving sideways glance is the only other indication that she has taken note of your disrespectful nonchalance. “He is a friend.”

“It doesn’t matter,” was the answer that made its way to your tongue. It didn’t come out of your lips though, it was too much of a lie. 

“He should be thankful we prepared him anything at all.” 

The piercing glare your mother throws your way is enough to seal your lips shut and make you swallow your complaint. You smile innocently, fluttering your eyelashes. 

“Last time that look worked on me was when you were nine years old” 

You don’t receive yet another earful regarding your lack of respect towards the so-called angel of the town, though, so you are thankful. Your mother is aware of the particular familiarity between Satoru and you and while you both have talked about the level of casualness you are okay with, she insists you follow the proper etiquette with a man of God. 

“Smile when you deliver this,” she reminds you, planting an obnoxious kiss on your cheek. “We made such an effort putting this together,” your mother comments, eyes much softer than her admonishing voice. The ghost of a smile in her lips suggests a tease that you decide to ignore pointedly, your cheeks flaring. “Presentation is everything.” 

You roll your eyes, making your way to the door, “Right...” you drawl. 

“Don’t forget your scarf”

You hum in response, stopping at the foyer and grabbing it from the rack next to the door. As you tie it around your neck, a thought makes you pause.

“Mom?”

She peeks into the foyer. “Yes?”

You grab the door handle, eyeing her just briefly before twisting the knob. 

“Did you tell Satoru?”

As you open the door, the cold wind blows into the warmth of the house. Your hair waves with it. 

“About the tree?”

It’s always like this between you both, the silent connection and the subtle communication. 

“About why I go there,” you say. 

Your mother is quick to answer both with words and with a firm shake of her head.

You almost regret asking when you see the sorrowful lines that map her face.

“Of course not, it’s not my place to tell.”

You nod, smiling a bit. “Okay.”

As you step out, her voice reaches your ears. “But–“

You look over your shoulder. She looks sheepish, hands dancing on her lap. “Don’t you think it would help? Talking about it with him ? He is your friend and he is closer to God.”

You let out a soft laugh, not unkind. “I think it would be the most awkward conversation to have.”

Whenever you walk towards the parish, you think of Satoru. At the beginning, it was out of curiosity and wariness, as you imagined and played around with the endless possibilities of the mystery of his personality. Now, it is unbearable. The sense of anticipation that used to precede your meetings has mixed in with a yearning, an itch that you can barely scratch and which nature makes your stomach twist. 

You are aware there’s an inherent wickedness permeating your feelings now, that most of your thoughts linger close to the line of impropriety and don’t reciprocate Satoru’s unconditional respect for you. 

Because, even if he is unconventional in more ways than one, especially in comparison to the strict mold a catholic priest is expected to fit in, there’s nothing about him that suggests a questionable morality.  Even with the way he is always getting close, shimming in your head and personal space, talking your ear off about everything and nothing and making jokes that walk and tether the line of strict propriety. And even with your proximity and the familiarity that allows him to touch you freely, there’s a delicate balance and respectful boundaries in your relationship. 

His hands never wander or linger beyond the socially acceptable, invisible limits society has mapped a woman’s body with. The looks he gives you, while filled with open interest and regard, are void of a dark, twisted intention you have seen other men possess. 

You are the one that avoids looking at him too much or staring at his eyes for too long, fearing the kind of expression you will see reflected on his all-seeing eyes. You are the one terrified about the possibility of him reading the hidden thoughts swirling in the depths of your brain. 

The innocence of your friendship has mixed in with a dark pull that makes you crave Satoru’s proximity in a way you shouldn’t dare to entertain. It’s a cruel irony. Even beyond all the key reasons why your fascination should remain concealed behind platonic affections. 

It’s wrong. 

For the first time in the entire winter, you feel grateful when a whip of harsh, cold air hits your body. It’s heaven’s warning. A way to tell you to focus on the goosebumps instead of whatever black holes your mind is spiraling into.

You walk up the last steps leading to the entrance of the parish feeling nauseous, fighting and locking away the last thoughts. You inhale deeply before walking through the open doors, your nose filled instantly with the sweet smell of incense as the muscle memory takes over and you sign the cross over your upper body.  It’s true when they say the church is truly never empty, and not because of the hypothetical presence of a higher being, but because it’s always open. During the day hours, there are always a few believers praying or waiting for a confession, head down, silently holding a conversation with either God or themselves. 

Your eyes scan the few people scattered in the pews and you are not surprised to realize you are familiar with the back of the heads of half your neighbors. You walk to one side, moving along the rows of pews and nodding politely to those that are alerted by the movement in their peripheral.  Nonetheless, as you get closer to the partly hidden hallway that leads to Satoru’s office and the sacristy, a smaller frame catches your attention. He is sitting right at the edge of the pew closest to the hallway leading to the offices. You walk closer and look over the scrawny shoulder, making sure he is not praying. 

“Yuuji?” you whisper.

The boy raises his head, turning his gaze away from the missal on his lap. You smile down at the way his slightly bewildered expression morphs into a wide grin. 

“Miss—!” he whispers back. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask, ruffling his hair. 

He gestures for you to get closer. When you do, he leans forward. 

“I’m here to tell Father Gojo something” 

You raise a brow, leaning back just enough to admire the anticipation in his expression.

“Father Gojo said I could be an altar boy next Sunday if Grandpa agreed,” he chirps.

You resist the urge to raise both eyebrows. You would think Yuuji is too young to be an altar boy, and you know Satoru does too, having denied his multiple, enthusiastic and incessant requests. Nonetheless, you also know Wasuke is spending more time at the hospital lately and that might be enough reason for him and Satoru to reconsider. Yuuji seems excited enough though. He thinks Satoru is the coolest guy around and has been trailing after him like a baby duck for a while. 

“Let me guess,” you lean down with a conspiratorial whisper. “He said yes”

“Yes!” 

Yuuji’s outburst bounces off the old rock walls but he doesn’t seem to mind it. You notice some people looking in your direction, raising their heads from their silent prayer with varying degrees of bewilderment. You shrug at them, an apologetic grimace, before turning back to Yuuji. 

“Oh my” you huff out a laugh, keeping your voice at whisper-level. “Congrats on the promotion!” 

Yuuji almost bounces off the pew but his voice is lower this time. “Thank you.”

“What’s your salary?”

“I-I don’t think I have one,” he perks up, intrigued. 

“You should ask for one” 

“Oh,” the boy doesn’t even question you, but furrows his brows a bit after a moment. “It shouldn’t be money, though”

You nod, mimicking his serious expression. “Of course.”

Yuuji’s legs swing over the edge of the pew as he looks at the bright colored windows.

“Movies” he suggests, doe eyes looking for your approval. 

You bite back a smile but click your tongue and reign in your expression for the sake of the serious aura around him. 

“He already lends them to you,” you tap your chin before your expression brightens. “I will help you negotiate weekly cinema tickets and all-you-can-eat ice cream” 

Yuuji’s eyes are bright and wide as a gasp escapes his lips. “You would?”

“Uh-huh,” you wink, straightening back to your height. “I’m sure Father Satoru will honor this deal”

Yuuji beams up at you, body almost bouncing off the pew. You giggle, ruffling his hair before fishing some baked goods from your knitted bag.

“For you and Gramps”

“Thank you!” He promptly opens the envelope with enthusiasm and eyes at them. He sniffs unapologetically, “They smell so good! Did you make them?”

“My mom and I did,” you confirm, gently pressing your hand over his so he closes the paper. “They are better hot, so don’t open until you eat them”

“I will go eat them now!” he declares, clutching into them as if you would change your mind and snatch them away. “Outside,” he adds. 

You laugh, propping a hand over your hip. “Wait, don’t you want to come to see Father Satoru?"

Yuuji is already sliding off the bench. “He told me to wait a few minutes, he is busy having a grown up talk with Father Nanamin!”

“Nana—“ you trail off. “Isn’t it Nanami?”

The young boy shrugs, already munching on a cookie despite his earlier promise. “Father Gojo calls him Nanamin and Father Nanamin says it was okay if I called him that. He doesn’t seem to like when Father Gojo does, though”

“I see.” 

“You are a grown-up, so you can talk to them now,” Yuuji instructs sagely, pointing towards the hallway.  

You salute, “Understood, boss”

Yuuji waves at you before skipping out the church. You observe his bouncing frame until it disappears beyond the entrance and you shake your head fondly, before turning around. As you pass the side of the altar, your gaze lingers in the Virgin Mary figure, the flickering flames of the candles at her feet dancing along her body. The candle you lit up many years ago should be right there.

With that last thought, you look forward and slide into the hallway. 

At this point, you are familiar with every single corner of this place. Satoru gave you a personalized tour last year, almost scandalized at the thought of you not being familiar with the parish you had grown up in. So, w ith time, you found yourself feeling comfortable enough to explore around on your own, mostly to pass the time while Satoru is attending his priestly duties.

You have grown familiar with every nook and cranny of Satoru’s office as well and you know you can waltz right into it when the door is left ajar. Which is always.

Well, almost. 

Strangely enough, you are greeted with the side of a closed door. You frown a bit, eyes fixed on the engraved name at the door. Satoru Gojo. You raise your hand to knock, fearing to walk into a serious conversation you shouldn’t overheard.  Something makes you hesitate, though. Probably the hushed whispers traveling through the door. 

You stand there, even if you know you shouldn’t. 

“…it’s been almost seven years.”

“Didn’t know there’s a rule that says I should stop caring after–”

It takes you a few seconds to realize but what you assumed was a casual conversation sounds way more heated than that. You can’t always quite tell what’s being said, but there are moments the whispers evolve into louder 

“….I’m just saying, a long time has passed, maybe you should let it go.”

“You want me to forget it!?”

“I’m not saying you should forget it, but God knows moving on is the best thing we can do. I did–”

“Jesus Christ,” Satoru huffs, “don’t you dare lecture me about moving on, you are here .”

You are so baffled by the fact that Satoru’s voice has the capacity to reach that level of defensive hostility that you don’t quite register how long the silence stretches after his last retort.

“I thought you had matured,” Nanami finally says and the casual coldness in his voice sends a shiver down your spine. “But you are the same impulsive, hot-headed, imprudent kid from all those years ago. Be mindful of your role.”

“Yeah, well, what the hell do you think I have been doing?” Satoru’s voice raises further, a sardonic tone permeating every word. “I’m so close to–”

“You have plenty of people depending on you,” Nanami cuts you off. “If you care about them, you will move cautiously.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence after that. You shift the weight from one foot to another, raising your hand to knock. 

“And [Name]–“ Nanami starts.

And you startle. 

Nonetheless, Satoru clicks his tongue. You can hear him pacing around in the room. Or it might be Nanami. 

“Don’t even bring her up,” the former hisses, in a fiery protest. “Don’t even start. We are friends”

“It’s not that, Satoru, she’s—”

“I’m done with—”

You can barely register the sudden movement, a surge of warmth and a woody, earthy aroma hitting you right in the face. Your eyes focus on the wall of Satoru’s office. Opposite of you, there’s an ample bookshelf of the same expensive yet old wood of the desk. There are no windows and the lights are out which makes the flames cast shadows and dancing figures all over the room and on Nanami’s surprised face as he leans against the desk.  “—this.”

You take a stumbling step back when your eyes meet as if the force of it was enough to make you lose balance. Only then, when your eyes run away from his, you find yourself face to face with Satoru Gojo, still with his hand on the knob, the most baffled expression you have ever seen on him. “You—”

“I–” your mouth feels dry, your heartbeats ringing in your ears. “I was just…” 

“Not now.”

Whatever fluster, shame or guilt you might have begun to feel instantly evaporates into a cloud of pure befuddlement. Satoru’s face is not a display of perplexity anymore but rather an inexpressive, almost dismissive mask. It’s so foreign it makes you take a step back. 

“H–huh?” you let out. “I was just—”

“[Name], I apologize,” he mutters in a tone that doesn’t suggest a hint of regret, “but the confessional opens at ten, so not now.” 

“I just wanted—”

“[Name]…” there’s a hint of a plea this time, as he tilts his head to the side and avoids your gaze, as if he is trying to repel you.

Nanami frowns, stepping closer. “Gojo—”

The cloud of bafflement dissipates to expose a mix of indignation and humiliation. It’s the fact that he has never spoken to you like this. Ever. Not until today. You feel yourself ruffle and warm up under his gaze, a glare settling on your eyes. 

He opens his mouth again and you clutch the strap of your knitted bag, feeling defensive. 

“Gojo,” Nanami speaks, pressing a hand over his shoulder. 

Satoru bites his inner cheek but doesn’t say anything else. He shrugs Nanami off after a few seconds, though. You can only observe, trying to wrap your head around what you are seeing and hearing and what you thought you would see and hear and how you imagined your day would go. 

You retrace every step in your head as you physically walk back, affronted. Before you can even say anything, though. Before you can defend yourself or protest, something catches your eye.

You wish you had never seen it.

Nanami is wearing a black cassock, just like Satoru is. The clerical collar is pristine and there’s a cross hanging off his neck. It catches the light of the flames in the chimney.

At the left, an ornate badge is proudly fixed against his chest. It’s a beautiful one, the fanciest kind of needlework. And a very familiar one. You have spent hours staring at the embroidery, the design, at the way the crimson and the plum and the gold thread harmonize in an intricate embrace. 

All of a sudden, you feel bile rise up your throat.

“[Name]–”

You don’t care if Satoru's tone is kinder this time. The sight surely isn’t. 

We recovered a locket, a badge and a cross. The ring is missing.

The words ring in your ears, the voice all too clear after all these years, hands without a body handing you a box too light.

We recovered a locket, a badge and a cross. The ring is missing.

Your hand tugs at the fine chain around your neck, your hand molding around the little case in an anxious grip. Your hand is sweaty and your thumb traces over the curves and lines of the initials engraved on the locket in a silent callback.

“H–hey…”

You turn around without looking back. Your steps are swift, desperate. The hallway seems to stretch on and on and the rest of the church closes in on you as you focus on the light of the outside world ahead. Your hurried steps echo off the walls, the beginning of a sob held back by your tight-sealed lips.  You might have heard your name but you don’t mind, you want to keep running until you can finally breathe. Until the light outside erases every memory of the cold winter. 

In reality, you run until you physically tire out. Until you are heaving, leaning on your knees, droplets falling from your face and into the snow. They could be tears or sweat, you don’t know. 

We recovered a locket, a badge and a cross. The ring is missing.

You might want to retch out of the sickening voice replaying in your head over and over again or because you have moved forward like a mad-woman. Either way, you inhale and exhale as frantically as you have run until the need for oxygen subsides and you don’t have a choice but to kneel down. Your hands and knees are partly buried in the snow. 

You hate winter.

It brings cold and sickness and painful memories with it. For you, the worst part of it is the phantom hold that clings and suffocates you like a constricting vine.  Trees are still skinny and mostly naked, branches trembling at the wind, bending under the weight of the last snowfall. 

All but one. 

Your head rises. It’s easy to see it from the bottom of the hill. 

Between the leisure movement of a heavy cloud and the other, the sun has started to reach out with its lukewarm rays and, right at the top, the giant oak tree stands proud and imposing. Its monstrous shadow seems to stretch impossibly long, all the way down the hill where it reaches you and envelopes you like a mantle. 

“You have finally come back to haunt me” 

hi again ฅ^>⩊<^ ฅ i want to thank you for reading all the way to here. You absolutely rock and I'm profoundly flattered. this post is crazy to me because despite my long time in fandom trenches, this is the first time I post a self insert / OC fic aaaaand a fic on tumblr. Kudos to Satoru Gojo and my catholic upbringing for mingling in my brain! Anyway, you probably have more questions than answers and for that I apologize. I feel this introduction is a bit more confusing than anything but that's exactly what I wanted to go after. Hopefully it gives you an idea of the messy state of things. There’s a whole menu of mildly fucked up stuff here and I'm so excited for you to browse it in the upcoming chapters.Anyways! Any doubts you have feel free to drop in the comments or in an ask, I will be more than happy to answer if it's nothing to spoilery :v If you don’t have any questions yet, don’t worry i'm looking forward to read your thoughts and comments or constructive criticism about the chapter as well! Thank you so much for taking the time to give this lil work a chance! Til next time my beloveds ♡ Have a good day/night!

©️ lilactwilights | no repost allowed | likes, comments and reblogs are deeply appreciated!

©️ divider by strangergraphics

[atlabeth]

bittersweet - joel miller

summary: you stumble into joel's life and he has no intentions of keeping you there. too bad you're just as stubborn as he is.

a/n: did someone order a whole novella of plot mixed with occasional banter ending with no relationship in sight but a new bond that will inevitably grow to be more? no? here it is anyways!

set before joel gets to boston but he's already been separated from tommy but who tf cares about canon tbh we're just having fun here. i started this when the show first began and as usual, abandoned it and as usual, came back with a fervor 2 years later. hope you all enjoy! i barely proofread this bc ive already read it so many times while writing and i physically cannot do it one more time rn so please let me know if there are any glaring mistakes

wc: 20k (officially my longest one shot! congrats joel)

warning(s): fem!reader (she is southern); decent age gap (joel is 40 and r is 27), half and half on fluff and angst canon typical violence, some directed at reader; a lot of cursing; a lot of gun violence throughout most of the fic; numerous gunshot wounds; threats of sexual violence against reader but nothing ever happens! joel kills a lot of people (and is kinda mean for the first half of this); inaccurate medical stuff!! i did my research but am prob wrong on some stuff so pls dont flame me

both gifs bc i imagined both of them while writing and bc theyre both so hot jfc

You wish you weren’t so accustomed to waking up to gunshots. 

You dart up from your bed immediately, the sound rattling around your brain as your weary mind tries to make sense of the situation. You have your pistol in your hand before you even fully realize it, your instincts honed even in your grogginess.

Screams accompany the gunfire and you push against the grimaces trying to fight their way to the surface. This isn’t the first time the compound you’ve stayed in has been taken over by force, but it’s the first time you’ve been this unprepared, and the first time you haven’t been on the ground floor for easy evacuation. No one is in your room trying to kill you—not yet, at least—and you have to take that blessing while you’ve got it. 

You throw on your jacket and shove your feet into your boots, thankful you tucked your laces in months ago. You can handle the minor discomfort in exchange for the advantage. You throw what you can into your backpack, ensure your knife is secured in its sheath, and edge towards the door. 

Normally, you share a room with Devon, but she went on a supply run alongside a few others a couple days ago—you regret not taking her offer to come along on account of your many patients, but you can’t waste what could become a very short life on regrets. 

You open the door and peer out, trying to gauge your chances. The gunshots are getting closer and the screams are louder. If you weren’t on the top floor, you would have considered the window. But you have to get to the infirmary first, and you don’t really feel like breaking your legs. 

Soon as there’s an opening, you run. Your most recent area of refuge is a run down high school, and you know it well after your months here. You practically throw yourself down a hallway to hide from a group of men coming up the stairs, and your heart threatens to beat out your chest. 

Their rifles and shotguns are much bigger than the little handgun that you’ve carried state to state. You have to press your body against the wall to stop it from shaking, and grip your pistol so tight you feel the ridged handle indent into your palm. 

“Go room by room!” one man at the front shouts. “Leave no survivors!” 

Your only hope is to get out before they find you. The infirmary is in the old nurse’s office on the first floor—if they’re already up here gunning down the last of the compound, then you have little doubt that your patients are already dead. There’s no point in joining them out of some false sense of heroism. 

There were no heroes anymore. 

You back up slowly, making sure you stay flush against the wall while you keep an eye on the hallway. You think about slipping into the classroom you’re next to, but you decide against it. You can’t afford to get trapped. 

You continue to stealth your way down the hallways, keeping your head on a swivel as you try and think through all your escape routes. 

There’s another staircase on the other side of the top floor, but that might be too out in the open. A couple of stairwells are tucked behind unassuming doors, but that would leave you even more trapped if things went south. And of course, you can always throw yourself out a window and hope you don’t break your legs. 

More gunshots, more screams—you hear the thumps of bodies falling to the floor and you have to steel yourself. It doesn’t matter that these people were your friends or acquaintances or anything close to it. They’re dead now, and you refuse to join them. 

You turn the corner and immediately retract—a trio of armed men are going classroom by classroom, and you hardly stand a chance against one. Once you retrace your steps, you poke your head around the corner only to be greeted with the sight of more bandits. You press yourself against the wall, heart racing. 

You’re stuck in this hallway, dead if they see you. Might as well make things a little worse and at least get yourself some cover if you’re trapped either way. 

The ceiling is crumbling above you, has been falling apart for a few months. You pick up a piece of tile, take a deep breath, and throw it as hard as you can. Two of the trio go to check it out, and the third is focused on them to watch their backs. You dart out of your hallway and run as quick and quiet as you can, and you make it to the alcove leading into a classroom. 

Twin classrooms actually, connected by a door in the middle, so you’re not completely stuck. You breathe out a sigh of relief, but it’s immediately short-lived when you hear the pump of a shotgun.

You whirl around to see the empty shell fall to the ground, your hands already flying up on instinct. You’re staring down the barrel of the gun, held by a man standing in the doorway between the two classrooms. He doesn’t look particularly nice, but he hasn’t shot you immediately, so you should learn to count your blessings.  

“I’m a doctor!” you proclaim, your heart threatening to pound out of your chest at this point. You’ve learned it’s the best thing to lead with. “Don’t shoot, I—” you suck in air as fast as you can, but all this running with your life on the line is wearing on you— “I’m a doctor.” 

Again, he doesn’t instantly kill you. He keeps his gun trained on you and takes a few steps closer, and you’re making much more eye contact with the barrel than him. 

“A doctor?” he repeats skeptically. “You look a little young for that.” 

“I was a surgical resident before the outbreak,” you lie. “I just have a young face.” 

He lowers the gun just slightly, so it’s not aimed at your head anymore. “You’re a surgeon?”

“Yes,” you nod repeatedly. “They said to leave no survivors, but I— I can help any of your wounded. As much as you need, just— just please don’t kill me.”

The man stares at you and you tense every muscle in your body to not shift under his scrutiny. Eventually, he fully lowers his gun. 

“Thank you,” you breathe. You feel like you could collapse from the relief, but it doesn’t last long as he moves in. Soon as he’s close enough, he slams your hand against the wall and your gun falls out of your limp grasp. 

Your heart rate spikes as you flatten yourself against the wall in an effort to put space between the two of you, but it’s fruitless. 

“If you’re fuckin’ lying,” he mutters, his hot breath hitting your face as his grip on your wrist tightens painfully, “you’ll end up like the rest of your people.” 

“I’m not lying,” you enunciate stiffly, staring him right in the eye. 

The man holds your gaze for another moment before he nods, seemingly satisfied. He lets go of you to pick up your gun from the ground and tuck it in his holster, and you stumble forward when he pushes you with the barrel.

“Get movin’, little lady,” he says. “I’ve got an awfully itchy trigger finger.” 

You fight the urge to talk back. You’ve avoided getting shot for this long, and you don’t really fancy getting a shotgun to the face in such close quarters. You keep your hands up and start walking, hoping by pure will you can stop them from shaking. 

You walk out of the classroom and through the hallways, and you’re able to catch glimpses of dead bodies as you go. You recognize far too many of them—those with their features still intact, at least.

These people welcomed you into their community with open arms, treated you like family even though they’d only known you for a few months. You knew anyone like that didn’t last very long, but you tried to ignore it. 

You couldn’t think about that now, though. That was how the world worked—how it had worked for a long time now. 

You stumble your way down the stairs and finally make it to the lobby. Even more bodies litter the first floor—you see Eleanor, the woman who brought you back here when she could have left you for dead; Delilah, who you worked with in the infirmary; Cade, who flirted with you too much for his own good but always managed to make you laugh—

Your focus is jarred from thoughts of your comrades survival to those of your own as the man pushes you hard with the barrel of his gun. You just barely manage to catch yourself with your hands as you fall to your knees. You look up to see yourself in the middle of a group of bloodstained bandits, and you clench your hands into fists to keep them from shaking. 

“What part of ‘no survivors’ do you not understand, Jake?” one of them says. “We don’t need another mouth to feed because you want a plaything.” 

Your skin crawls at the thought, but he just shakes his head with a grumble. “I’m not like Marshall. Didn’t kill her ‘cause she says she’s a doctor. She can get Becca and Joel back on their feet,” he looks pointedly at a woman, “can make sure Nadine’s still in working order.” 

“How do you know she’s not lying?” the woman counters, and she squats down to look you in the eye. You meet her inquisitive gaze, refusing to look away—she breaks first, at least, and stands back up. “Could be tryin’ to save her own ass.” 

“I’m not lying,” you grind out. “Wouldn’t do me any good to get shot at your camp instead of here, would it?” 

“Watch your mouth,” she says, but she backs off anyways. 

“Check her for weapons and tie her up,” another one says. “We’ll take her back once we’ve picked this place clean.” 

Again, you swallow the words you want to say. You bite your tongue when you’re wrestled from the ground and searched for weapons. You don’t fight back as your hands are tied together behind your back, you don’t fight back when Jake prods you with his gun even as he follows you to the infirmary to get your medical bag, you don’t fight back against anything. 

You’re a captive of the people that slaughtered your friends, only alive because of the overexaggerated skills you’ve used like a shield since the outbreak started. Your continued survival depends on helping people you might not even be able to save, and you doubt this group will want to listen to your medical explanations. 

But you are alive. And that’s all you care about. 

(You’re not breaking the one damn promise that still matters.)

-

It’s not a very fun ride back. 

These people travel by horse and they don’t want you running off, so you have to sit in front of Jake, the man who spared your life who seems to be some kind of leader. He makes idle comments to pass the time, and it’s not as bad as it could be, but you dislike him anyway. He did help murder your whole community. 

Sunrise comes around just as you make it to camp—you have to fight to stay awake on the ride, and when you jump down, you’re reminded that this slaughter happened in the middle of the night. 

It doesn’t matter how tired you are, though, because your work starts almost immediately. You think about asking Jake for coffee as he leads you to your first patient, but you don’t think he would take too kindly to it. 

He mentioned Becca when he was pleading your case, and she ends up being your first stop. She’s got a nasty gash on her leg that she got from hopping a barbed wire fence and it’s kept her off her feet since it happened. 

You clean it out as best you can and stitch it up with what these people have on hand, which happens to be a needle and thread. At this point, you think you’ve done more stitches this way than the normal way. To her credit, she bears it well—better than Jake, who grumbles every time you ask him for the materials you need. It’s like he doesn’t even want you to help, which doesn’t really make sense when he’s standing there with his gun like he’s ready to shoot you at any moment. 

Next is Nadine, and you’re accompanied by the woman who accused you of lying. They must be close, because she doesn’t leave her side during your entire checkup. Nadine has a broken arm that you can tell she hasn’t been resting properly, but at least there’s no swelling. They’ve already done a makeshift sling for her, so you just do a par for the course checkup then refashion her sling to be more effective. None of them appreciate you telling her she needs to rest, but you figured that would be the case. This doesn’t seem to be the happiest bunch of people. 

Finally, you’re hauled off to your last patient, Joel. You’re exhausted from your sleepless night and walking on glass with every passing second, but he’s the last one. He can’t be too difficult to deal with. 

You reach the final room and Jake pounds on the door. 

“Joel!” he calls. “You decent?” 

“Do you know what time it is?” a gruff voice responds, and you hold back a sigh. Is everyone here difficult? 

Jake opens the door anyway and gestures for you to walk in. You do, and you see a man laying down in bed atop the sheets. His eyes are closed but he doesn’t even look peaceful—just annoyed. 

You purse your lips. Everyone here is difficult. 

“We got ourselves a doctor,” Jake says. “So stop complainin’ and let her look at you.” 

“I don’t need a doctor,” he says. 

“You got shot two days ago,” he retorts. “Only reason no one’s looked at it more is because no one thought you would make it through the night.” 

“I’m fine.” He sits up with a groan characteristic of someone who is not fine, and he levels his gaze at you. “You’re wasting your time.” 

“I’ve got nothing but time,” you say. “I don’t think he’s gonna let me leave until I look you over, so…” 

Joel scoffs. “Don’t tell me you went and kidnapped a doctor.” 

“We got lucky at the school,” Jake says. 

He rolls his eyes. “I told you, I’m fine.” 

You glance at your captor. “I don’t think we’re getting anywhere.” 

“You better get somewhere,” Jake says. 

“I might make better leeway without you standing over me,” you say. 

He frowns. “You’re a prisoner. Can’t trust you alone.” 

“I’ve gotten through the past two patients just fine.” 

“I don’t need you jumpin’ out the window and running the first chance you get,” Jake says. 

“Look,” you say, a muscle working in your jaw, “do you want your man to get through this or not? Because if you do, I need to work in silence, and it doesn’t seem like the two of you are very good at it together.” 

He doesn’t budge, and you let out a loose breath. “You can wait outside, and if I do anything suspicious, feel free to shoot me. But at least give me the room.” 

The approval of your own murder seems to satisfy him, however temporary, because after staring at you for another moment, he grunts. He goes over to the door, then lifts his gun and looks at you. “Remember, I’ve got an itchy trigger finger.” 

He leaves the room to let the threat sit in the air, and you close your eyes and sigh deeply. You don’t know when, but you know you have to get out of here eventually. 

“And just who the hell are you?” 

You open your eyes to see Joel staring right at you, very unimpressed. He looks to be in his 40s, the greying in his scruffy hair and beard giving it away—if that didn’t do it, the hardened weariness in his eyes would. 

Men like him tend to be the worst patients, at least in your limited experience. Something tells you Joel won’t be any different. 

“A doctor,” you say. “What’s wrong with you?”

“You don’t look like a doctor,” he says. 

You already hate this guy. “Sorry. I lost my white coat and stethoscope when people started eating each other.”

“I mean you look too young.”

“Well, you look too old to still be this annoying,” you retort. “Now tell me what’s wrong with you so we get over this quicker. ” 

Joel grumbles and rolls his eyes, but he eventually answers you. “Got shot a couple days back.”

“There an exit wound?” you ask. 

He nods. 

“How much does it hurt?” 

“Like hell.” 

You narrow your eyes at him. “You this short with all your doctors?” 

He grunts, and you sigh as you kneel down next to him. “Alright. Show me.” 

Joel stares at you for a moment before relenting. He shrugs off his jacket then pulls up the bottom of his shirt, revealing a shoddily bandaged wound on his lower chest. 

You raise your eyebrows. “Who patched you up? And when?” 

“Does it matter?” he asks. 

“Yes, actually. Helps me know the likelihood of infection, and if there is one, how fucked you are.” 

“Why do you need to know who did it?” 

“Because it’s pretty shitty handiwork,” you say. 

“Kept me alive,” Joel says. “Far as I’m concerned, that means it’s pretty good.” 

You roll your eyes. “You tell yourself that when you’re dying of sepsis.” 

“Not everyone has your luxuries, doc,” he responds dryly. 

“I’d say you certainly have some luxuries,” you say. “Looks like this missed your major organs, for one. You’re extremely lucky.”  

 He huffs a mirthless laugh. “Wouldn’t really classify myself as lucky.” 

“You should,” you say, glancing back up at him. “Takes an awful lot of it to get by these days.” 

Joel remains silent. You sigh again and take it as your sign to start working. 

You gingerly peel back the bandages, and to Joel’s credit, he only grimaces the smallest bit. 

“No infection,” you murmur. “That’s good.”

“Guess it was patched up pretty well then,” he says. 

You glance up at him. “You dressed it yourself, didn’t you?”

Joel shrugs. “Maybe.” 

“You seem pretty normal for someone who got shot a few days ago,” you say. 

“‘Cause it’s not the first time,” he says. “You tellin’ me you haven’t been shot?” 

You shake your head. “Stabbed, sliced, scratched, bit, but never shot.” 

His eyebrows rise. “You’ve been bit?” 

“By people, not infected.” You chuckle. “The one thing I’ve managed to avoid, at least.” 

He makes some noise of acknowledgement. “Things get crazy in that hospital of yours?” 

You smile wryly. “Nothin’ crazier than I see out here everyday. And nothing worse than Outbreak Day.” 

Joel goes quiet at that. You don’t know why you continue on as you clean out his wound, why you’re talking so much when you went through the last two patients in relative silence. Maybe it’s because Jake isn’t standing over your shoulder. 

“I worked in a hospital in the middle of Boston,” you explain. “The city practically imploded when it all started—felt like we were the epicenter of it all. Patients turned their nurses, folks in the waiting room killed their families, and all the infected that managed to escape went on a rampage in the city.” You shake your head with a sigh. “Sometimes I still don’t know how I made it out alive.” 

You feel Joel’s gaze on you for a long time after. You can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes, so you busy yourself with dressing both sides of his wound now that you’ve cleaned it out. Eventually, though, he speaks. 

“Boston’s a long way from Kansas,” he says. “How’d you end up here?” 

You shake your head again as you finish taping the last piece of gauze across his exit wound. “Can’t reveal all my secrets day one.” 

“Bold to think I care that much,” he says. 

You frown. “You were the one that asked.” 

He opens his mouth to say something, but he’s interrupted when the door opens. Both of you look over to see Jake, looking unapologetic. 

“I got bored,” he says, answering your unspoken question. “Can’t take this long to bandage someone up.” 

You set down your nearly depleted roll of gauze. “I just finished, actually.” 

“He gonna live?” Jake asks. 

“Bullet went straight through and missed any vital organs or arteries, so he really avoided the worst of it,” you explain. “I cleaned it the best I could and covered it with gauze—I think it would do more harm than good to stitch it up. He should be okay, but someone should really monitor him for the next few days to make sure it stays that way. And if you have antibiotics, send ‘em his way. Better to be safe than sorry when it comes to infection.” 

“Good,” he nods. “I think we have a couple—I’ll get ‘em to you.” 

“Good,” you echo. “Then I think we’re done here.” 

You stand up from the bed, thinking you’re finally in the clear, when he pulls out a pair of handcuffs. You’re about to question it when he opens them and clips one side around the radiator next to the door, then looks at you. 

“We got one last order of business,” Jake says, and it clicks in your head. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you say incredulously. 

“You said it yourself,” he says. “Someone’s gotta keep an eye on him. Might as well be the one that treated him.” 

“This is ridiculous,” you spit. “I did what you asked, and you treat me like— like a goddamn animal?” 

“You’re a prisoner,” he says, like he has to remind you. “I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you. You’ll run off the second you can.” 

You grind your teeth together. “Can’t even put me in a cell like a dignified prisoner?” 

“If Joel dies, it’s your head,” he says. “You should thank me. This gives you the best chance possible.” 

You want to fight it, but you can’t. Not when he could put a bullet in your head with that shotgun he seems very fond of.

So you clench your jaw, swallow your pride, and let him handcuff you to a radiator that looks like it’s a decade older than you. This motel they’ve hitched up in really has all the luxuries. 

“What if I do start dyin’ in the middle of the night,” Joel says dryly. “She can’t exactly work her magic with one hand.” 

“I’m sure she can do plenty magic with one hand,” Jake chuckles, and your skin crawls as he looks you over. You clench your jaw so hard you think your teeth might crack. 

“Real clever, jackass,” Joel intones.

Jake rolls his eyes. “Just walk your sorry ass across the room if you have to.”

“You really thought this out,” he says. 

 “Don’t make me regret makin’ her save your life,” Jake says, and he turns his attention back to you. “Don’t do—“

“Anything stupid,” you interrupt despite yourself. “Yeah, I know.”

You feel the pain before you even really see him pull the gun out, the glint of metal the only hint to the searing fire in your cheek. You fall to the ground, hissing as your free hand darts up to nurse the wound rather than try to catch yourself. The pain smarts both on your knees and your cheek, blood already spurting from the cut he opened up. Your vision swims in front of you. 

“Watch your mouth, bitch,” he growls. “Remember why you’re here.” 

You just grit your teeth as he holsters his pistol—no, your pistol, the bastard—riding through the wave of dizziness. You want to remind him you won’t be of much use if you’re fucking dead, but you don’t feel like earning yourself another badge of his approval. So you just nod in submissive acknowledgement, and he looks at Joel. 

“Keep her in check, will you? I don’t feel like dealing with more of this bullshit in the morning.” 

“Sure,” Joel says. 

That seems to satisfy him, because Jake only gives you another dirty look before he leaves and kicks the door shut behind him. 

Your eyes begin watering against your will, lesser pain than you’ve experienced in the past somehow managing to bring you down. You bite down hard on the inside of your lip as you shift to sit against the wall, hoping a different source of pain will force the blood trickling down your cheek into the background. 

You can’t cry over something like this. Not in front of a man like Joel. 

“I know you’re looking,” you say bitterly. “If you want to call me an idiot, just do it.” 

“You’re an idiot,” he says. You don’t really know what you expect. 

“It’s one hell of a group you’re running with.” You pull your hand away from your cheek, grimacing at the concerning amount of blood coating your fingers. Between this and the dull pain in your knees, you’re going to bruise something fierce. 

Nothing like getting pistol whipped with your own gun by one of the hunters that slaughtered your community like sheep to make you feel at home. 

“They’re the same as everyone else,” he says. “Don’t know how you’re still surprised after all these years.” 

Your thoughts go back to the first group you had to leave. The first time you were forced to be terribly, horribly, woefully selfish, when you lost the only thing that mattered. You wonder if he thinks about you as much as you think about him. 

Screams echo in your mind. You shut them out. 

“...I’m not,” you say. “Just acknowledging.” 

As silence consumes the air between you, you can’t help but pull your legs closer to yourself in an effort to be as small as possible. You’re intimately aware that you’re at Joel’s mercy, and you can only hope he’s not that sort of man. Jake’s comments don’t bring you much solace. 

He must notice how tense you are, because he sighs and shakes his head. “Relax. Ain’t gonna hurt you.” 

“Sorry if I don’t believe that,” you mutter. 

Joel scoffs. “Don’t matter what you believe or not.” 

“Well, I believe that I’m royally fucked,” you spit. “I’ve been here for five hours and I’m already bleedin’ and stuck in a room with you. Doesn’t fare well for my future.”

“How’d you even end up here?” Joel asks. “We ain’t exactly bringing in new folks.”

You huff. “You weren’t too far off with them kidnapping a doctor.”

He doesn’t seem fazed, and you think that should concern you. “What, they just wander into a hospital and pick you up?”

“They wandered into a high school and murdered my whole community,” you correct. “I’m only here because I pleaded my case before they could shoot me.”

“...Wound does feel better,” he says. “Least you kinda know what you’re doing.” 

You glance away. “Bandaged more GSWs these past few years than I ever did in med school. I’m used to it by now.”

There’s another knock on the door and your whole body tenses. Joel calls out that it’s unlocked, and you’ve never been so grateful to see the woman from before. Nadine’s sister, you remember— Rachel. She breathed over your shoulder the entire time you fixed up her sister’s sling. 

“You better?” she asks. 

He nods. “Back on my feet, at least.” 

“Good,” she says. She seems to notice you, bleeding and deflated and restrained, and looks back at Joel unfazed. “What’s the deal here?” 

“Jake did it,” he says. “Wants to keep her in check.” 

“Long as it means she’s not a problem, I couldn’t care less,” she admits. “But you gotta get your ass in gear, Joel. Community meeting in the lobby.” 

“Y’all woke me up at four in the morning,” Joel complains. “Can’t let an old man sleep day after he gets shot?” 

“You said it yourself; you’re back on your feet,” she says. “Better see you in five.” 

She leaves and closes the door behind her, not even passing a second look at you. You felt less alone when you were moping your way through Missouri. 

Joel heaves a sigh and stands up. He grabs his jacket from the bed and slips it back on, buttoning it up in the middle. You watch him go through the motions because you have nothing else to do, but you notice the roughness of his hands. 

“You gonna do anything about those torn calluses?” you ask. 

He glances at you with a frown. “Why’re you lookin’?” 

“Got nothing else to do,” you say. “You don’t cover those up, they could lead to infection.” 

“Sounds like everything can lead to infection,” he mocks. 

“Kinda does,” you say. “‘Specially in this world.” 

Joel huffs a laugh and he pulls a couple bandaids out of your medical bag, still sitting on his bed. “That good enough for you?” 

“Don’t do it for me,” you say. “Do it for yourself.” 

He grumbles as he tucks them into his pocket, and you continue to watch him as he gets ready. Ties up his boots, shoves knives into sheaths on each leg, fixes the watch on his wrist—

“Quit starin’ at me,” he mumbles. 

“I told you,” you say. “Nothin’ else to do.” 

“Look at the wall,” Joel says as he slings a rifle over his shoulder. “More interesting than me.” 

“The wall doesn’t have your overwhelming charm,” you say. 

He scoffs. “Can’t believe I’m stuck with you.” 

You shrug. “Can always kill me yourself and be done with it.” 

“Who’ll save me when I crash in the middle of the night?” he mocks. 

“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” you say. “You patched yourself up, after all.”

Joel exhales a little harder than usual out of your nose, and you figure that’s what passes as a laugh around him. You take a strange amount of pride in it. 

You think he’s about to leave, but instead he picks up your medical bag and slides it over to you. 

“Patch yourself up for a change,” he says. “Don’t want you bleedin’ all over this expensive flooring while I’m gone.” 

That gets the slightest laugh out of you as you pick it up. “Thanks.” 

Joel grunts in acknowledgement, and he moves over to the door. You start unzipping the bag but have to pause, the sight of your blood all over your hand making you grimace. You’ve gotten some on your jeans unwittingly, and you can’t help but sigh. Sure, they’re already covered in dust and grime and blood from other people, but you didn’t want to add yours to the mix. Especially on your favorite pair of jeans. 

Maybe you’d be able to scrounge a bottle of hydrogen peroxide up sometime. It’s the least this world could give you. 

You look up to see Joel standing in the door frame, looking at you instead of leaving. 

“You’re gonna be late,” you say. “Then we’ll both be on Jake’s shit list.” 

Joel blinks. He looks like he wants to say something, but he just nods. 

“See you ‘round,” he says. 

“Not like I can go anywhere,” you say wryly. 

You go back to rummaging through your bag, trying to find the gauze you haphazardly shoved back in. Joel’s still looking at you, and his gaze burns your skin. You hope if you ignore him, he’ll leave. 

He does. He shuts the door behind him when he leaves, quieter and gentler than you expect. 

You stare at your hands, one bloodstained and the other cuffed. You’ve taken care of your calluses better than Joel, at least. 

The thought is warmer than it should be. 

Makes you realize how cold the room feels.

-

Joel doesn’t come back for a while. Half the day, you think. 

It’s difficult to keep track of time in here. With the door closed and the window shutters down, what little light streams through doesn’t give you much of an idea of the hour. 

You also don’t really have much to do, which makes the time pass even slower. 

You clean your cheek out the best you can and tape it shut with some small butterfly bandages. You hope that’ll make it heal quicker, or at least keep it protected from the elements. You can’t let it get infected after all you’ve spouted to Joel. 

It still smarts, but you try your best to ignore it. Jake did a number on you, and with your own pistol at that. 

He might have spared your life, but you’re killing him before you escape this place. 

You try to sleep, but it doesn’t really work. You’re exhausted, plain and simple, but you think your body will have to give out for you to get some rest at this point. The position you’re stuck in is too damn uncomfortable for your brain to shut off, and every time you get close, you just see the bodies of your friends, see the same nightmares you’ve relived for a year and a half. 

So instead, you decide to test your boundaries. 

You’re handcuffed to one of the middle pipes, which goes all the way down to the ground and about a third of the way up the wall. You use your finger to measure and figure out you have around five inches of leeway with the chain. Not enough to do much of anything with, but still something. 

Once you’re done with that, you just… look around. There isn’t much else to do, but this is Joel’s room. You were a psych minor before the world ended—maybe it’ll give you some insight into him, give you something to use. You’re not above manipulation if it means you can get someone on your side. 

But frustratingly, there’s almost nothing. It’s not like you expect him to have a whole decorated room in the apocalypse, but he’s really giving you nothing here. 

An open pack of bullets sits on his bedside table. His sheets are still a mess from his rude awakening because he didn’t bother to make his bed before he left. The extra unused pillows lay scattered on the ground, 

So you can’t analyze him using his barebones room—you have nothing but time, so you think back to how he looked before he left and go from there. 

Joel’s beard and facial hair were both relatively under control, so he’s someone who cares a decent amount about cleanliness and hygiene. He carries two knives and a rifle outwardly, but you wouldn’t be surprised if he had a handgun hiding somewhere or more weapons in his bag. He speaks with a Southern accent—stronger than yours, but you lost some of it while you were studying in Boston. 

You used to not mind. People seemed to respect you more without it, seemed to take you more seriously, and that was all you wanted in med school. Now, it just feels like another part of yourself that you’ve lost. Like you can’t even call yourself an Okie anymore. 

He looks to be in his forties, but you don’t remember a wedding ring. Whether he’s been a life-long bachelor or loved and lost and just chooses not to wear it, you don’t know. From what you’ve seen, all hardened survivor-like, it’s hard to imagine him with a wife and kids and a white picket fence life. 

But what do you know? Anyone who’s still alive at this point has to have a hardened heart. There’s no other way to survive. There’s a reason you’re fucking handcuffed to a radiator. 

Maybe before this all started, Joel was kinder. Softer. Maybe he did have a wife and kids, and he loved them more than anything. Maybe he actually smiled. 

You shake your head. No use thinking of the past, and certainly no use judging him. You’ve changed too. Everyone has. And if he has a family that he lost, then you’ve got more in common than you think. 

Maybe you can use that. 

Joel is covered in blood when he eventually comes back into the room. He gives you half a glance before he pulls his pack and rifle off and sets them on the bed. 

“Can’t believe you’re still here,” he says. 

“Can’t exactly leave,” you respond. “How’re you all bloody after a meeting?”

“Went huntin’ after,” he says. “Things move quick here.” 

“Well, how’d that go?”   

“We ain’t gonna starve, so as good as it could be.” Joel passes another glance at you, this time a little longer. “Your cheek looks better.” 

“Feels like shit,” you say. “How’s your chest?” 

“Feels like shit,” he echoes. “But I’ll live.” 

“None of that blood is yours, is it?” 

“No.” He points his finger at you. “And you’re not doin’ another checkup, doc, so don’t even think about it.” 

You smile sweetly and hold up your shackled wrist. “Couldn’t even if I wanted to.” 

Joel huffs. “Still can’t believe Jake did this. Like he’s tryin’ to punish me, sticking you with me.” 

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I feel like they’re punishing me by sticking you with me too.” 

“You can’t be stuck with me,” Joel says. “This is my room. You’re the intruder.”

“I’m real threatening, huh?” you mock. “So much so that I gotta be restrained.” 

“Threatening, no. Annoying, yes.” 

“You’re too kind,” you drawl. You watch him unpack some more, then you purse your lips. “Y’know, you really shouldn’t have gone hunting when you got shot a couple days ago.” 

“Was only half a mile out.” Joel scoffs. “There you go provin’ my point.” 

You hum. “Guess you really are stuck with me, then.”

“Lucky me,” he mutters. 

-

Joel is in and out for the rest of the day, and even when he’s in you don’t really talk. When he comes back for the night he at least brings some stale bread and a small ration of meat for you—you and your growling stomach are appreciative, but it makes you feel like a prisoner even more than the handcuffs. 

What’s worse is how annoyed he seems about it all. Like this was your choice—like you not only chose to throw in with these people, but you chose to stick yourself with him. You think about telling Joel that, but you decide against it. 

Just because he said he wouldn’t hurt you doesn’t mean he won’t go back on his word. People tend to not really care about their word these days. 

You try to make small talk, but he doesn’t give. Eventually, when he settles in for the night, you decide to try as well. 

It’s even more uncomfortable than when you tried earlier. You lay down on the ground, you lean against the radiator, you settle against the wall— it doesn’t matter what position you try because they all cause some part of your body to start hurting within minutes. 

You thought it would be easier, considering how many nights you’ve spent sleeping on hardwood floors and cold dirt, but it’s not. Blame it on your privilege from the bed in your previous compound or the unsettling nature of being stuck in a stranger’s room or the endless nightmares that follow you wherever you go—it doesn’t really matter. 

A few pathetic hours of tossing and turning pass, and Joel ends up throwing a pillow and a blanket in your direction. When you thank him, he just grunts in response and goes back to sleep. 

It makes it a little easier. Makes you feel a bit better about your forced company, at least. 

Jake comes by in the morning to send Joel on his way for whatever task he has to do that day and pick you up. He unlocks your cuffs and takes you on the world’s shortest version of rounds. You look at Becca’s leg wound (no infection), ensure Nadine is resting her arm (she is), and by the time it’s Joel’s turn, he’s already out and about. 

Turns out him lounging in bed was an oddity caused by being shot the day before, because you and Jake find him in the parking lot with a couple others getting ready to go out on a supply run.

“You know, you really should be resting,” you say as you walk up to him. 

Joel scoffs when he sees you approaching and puts the last bullet into his rifle’s magazine. He’s got his sleeves rolled up, allowing you to see the slight ripple of his forearm muscles as he pushes the bolt back into place. 

“I’m fine,” he says. “Certainly don’t need you followin’ me around.” 

He grimaces a little when he stands up, and though he hides it well, you see his arm move for just a millisecond as he fights an instinct to press against his wound. 

“Clearly,” you respond dryly. “Look, I know what I’m talking about.” 

“You look like you learned medicine from watching Sesame Street.” 

You scowl. “I know more than you ever will. Just like how I know that if you ain’t careful, you’re gonna ruin all my hard work.” 

“I’m not gonna run a marathon, so stop bothering me, will ya?” 

“I’m your doctor,” you say. “This isn’t bothering.” 

“You’re not a doctor,” he says. “And you’re certainly not mine.”

“I am one, and certainly the closest thing you’ve got to one,” you huff. “You’re not dead, are you?” 

He rolls his eyes. “Just keep your mouth shut. It’ll do you a lot more good around here than whatever the hell you’re doing.”

“If you just let me do my check up, I would be gone already,” you insist. “Instead, you’ve gotta be a stubborn asshole.” 

Joel looks behind you at Jake. “You put her up to this?” 

He shrugs. “None of us really want you to drop dead out there, I ‘spose.” 

He groans and shakes his head—you’d think you were asking him to shoot his mother the way he’s protesting. But eventually, he sits back down and does a flourish with his hand. 

“Make it quick,” he tells you. 

“I’ll do it well,” you retort. “Pull your shirt up.” 

Joel does, revealing the bottom half of his chest once again, and there’s a whistle behind you. You see Joel shoot an absolutely scathing look out of your peripherals, and you do your best to ignore it all. 

The gauze is bloody, but it isn’t soaked through. You remove the dressings and redo them, glancing up on occasion to make sure you’re not hurting him. He doesn’t grimace or wince, but when he tenses every time your fingers brush against his bare skin. 

“Sorry,” you murmur. “I should’ve asked if I could touch you.” 

“I don’t care,” he says, but you feel him shift anyways. 

The rest of it goes by pretty quickly, since you did all the important work yesterday. Once you’re done, you zip your medical bag up and nod. 

“You’re good to go,” you say. “Just keep it clean to avoid infection. And don’t get shot again.” 

He snorts. “Don’t plan on it.” 

Joel walks off to rejoin the other hunters, and you watch him go until Jake clears his throat behind you. 

“Time for you to start payin’ your keep, little lady,” he says. 

You hum. “So I don’t just get to stay handcuffed to a radiator all day?” 

He pushes you with the barrel of his gun to get you moving, and you stumble into a walk. “I hope you’re better at maintenance than you are at jokes.” 

You just sigh and bite your tongue. He sucks, but he’s not actively threatening you. Might be the least you can ask for, at this point. 

-

Your keep, it turns out, is doing miscellaneous chores. 

You do laundry. You clean rooms. You help reinforce the wall. Bits and ends of a lot of different odd jobs, but you honestly don’t mind. It’s better than sitting in Joel’s room, shackled to a radiator and going stir-crazy. 

The one bad thing about leveraging your skills is that it makes you useful, and therefore, important. These people can’t risk you running out on them when there’s new injuries to deal with every day, so you’re constantly being watched. 

Random survivors that run off are just freeing up space and food. Random doctors that run off are risking lives. 

Jake tries to make conversation, and it’s painful, but you go along with it. You swear your cheek hurts every time you look at him—he doesn’t even apologize for it, even though he’s there in the background the entire day. You want to ask him if he has any other job than to stand around you and threaten you into submission with a shotgun, but you decide to keep your mouth shut. 

Night is falling by the time you finish things up, and you sit on a milk crate in the parking lot with another stale piece of bread and half a can of beans as your dinner. Not the most glamorous, but enough to fill you up. 

You’re beginning to think it’ll be an uneventful night when you hear yelling. 

“Open the fucking gate, now!” It’s Joel’s voice, angry and frantic. “We’ve got wounded!” 

You jump into action before you even really know what you’re doing and run to the wall, following two other men that were eating their own dinner in the parking lot. Jake is on your heels as the three of you push the dumpster working as the world’s worst gate out of the way. 

“The fuck happened?” Jake yells. 

“The fuck you think happened?” another one responds. “Runners and hunters and—”

“And Paul’s fuckin’ bleeding out,” a woman continues, out of breath as she runs in. 

You look up to see Joel bringing him over in a fireman’s carry, and you meet each other’s eyes. You let out a deep breath and nod, then pull your jacket off and lay it on the ground. You snap your fingers at another one of the supply runners. “Gimme your jacket.” 

He frowns and looks at Joel, and he narrows his eyes. “You fuckin’ deaf? Do what she says.” 

He does, thankfully, and you put it down next to yours. “Put him down, Joel.” 

Joel shifts him off his back slowly then squats down to get him on his feet. Paul’s knees buckle and Joel catches him, then lowers him to the ground. 

“Go get my medical bag,” you say. “It’s in your room.” 

He nods and runs off, and you look down at your patient. The top half of his shirt is completely soaked with blood, but you see it’s coming from his arm. You put as much pressure on the wound as you can, ignoring his groan of pain. At least that means he’s still alive. Unconscious, but alive. 

You look at another one of the supply runners. “What the hell happened to him?” 

“One o’ the hunters shot ‘em in the arm,” he says. 

“And where the hell is Daniel?” Jake suddenly says. “And Lee?” 

“What the hell do you think?” the woman spits. “They got bullets in the head before we even knew what was happening— runners had us distracted.” 

“And you thought it was smart to lead ‘em right back here?” Jake asks incredulously. 

“We already lost two,” she grits. “I wasn’t gonna lose a third.” 

“God fucking damn it!” he yells, and he points at the men that helped you open the gate. “Close the damn wall off, get your damn guns, and shoot on fucking sight! You hear me?” 

They nod and get to work, and Jake runs off just as Joel gets back. He has your bag in his hand and you look up at him. 

“Get down here,” you say. “I need your help.”

He nods and kneels down beside you, setting your bag next to you. 

“Put pressure on the wound,” you say. “I’m trying to stop the bleeding, but I think the bullet hit his ulnar artery. That’s why it’s gushin’ like hell.” 

Again, Joel does what you ask without questioning you. You’re thankful that everyone is listening to you when you need it—you only hope he survives this so they give you a little more leeway in the future. 

You rifle through your bag until you get your water and gauze. You push Joel’s hands out of the way and you hastily clean the wound, just enough to ensure any dirt and debris is gone. You start packing the bullet hole with gauze, again ignoring his groans as you push it in deep. You do the same to the exit wound so you don’t have to get your ungloved fingers all the way in his arm—thank god, because dealing with bullet fragments is a headache you don’t think you can handle right now. 

You see Jake run past with a number of people behind him. You recognize some of them from the raid on your commune, and it makes you realize your patient wasn’t one of them. 

They all have their guns drawn out of an abundance of caution, and you think it’s a bit ridiculous, but you keep your focus where it’s supposed to be. You get Joel to apply pressure again while you check Paul’s pulse, two fingers on his neck then his wrist. It’s weak, but it’s there, and right now that’s all you need. 

You’re just about to let yourself take it down a notch when a bullet whizzes right past your ear and buries itself into the pavement. 

Your scream gets stuck in your throat, and your hand flies up to your ear on instinct. You can’t even tell if you’re bleeding because there’s already so much on you. Guess it wasn’t ridiculous. 

Joel instantly shoots up from your side, bloodied hands already pulling his rifle off his back. He’s fired before you know what’s happening, and you lunge back over to put pressure on the wound again.  

A firefight erupts immediately. Jake and another woman are yelling orders, and you can’t see whoever is shooting at you all but your only thought is that of your patient. 

You watch Joel take another shot, and then he looks over his shoulder at you. 

“Get out of here!” he yells, fire burning in his eyes. You don’t need to be told twice. 

You slip your arms underneath Paul’s shoulders and stand up, then you pull him up as much as you can. You start dragging him, a mixture of adrenaline and pure willpower getting you through it. You get to the infirmary, thankful you stopped by there earlier when Jake was putting you through the gauntlet of odd jobs, and you get him onto a bed. 

You check his pulse once more—still there at a similar strength. His wound isn’t actively gushing blood anymore, and he’s regained some color in his face. Since it’s not worse, you collapse into a chair next to the bed. 

Gunshots ring out in rapid succession, and each one makes you wince. You would join to help, but you don’t have your fucking gun. At least if Jake gets shot, you’ll be able to get it back. 

You don’t think you have any friends here. But god, you really hope Joel makes it out unscathed. 

-

You don’t get to relax for very long. Three more wounded get brought in over the course of twenty minutes, each facing death in different ways. When the second is carried in, you force the escort to run out and get your medical bag, then stay with you so you can delegate. You only have two hands and you can't do every goddamn thing at once. 

One man dies almost immediately. He took a couple bullets to the chest and one hit an artery. He bleeds out before you can even start trying to pack one of his wounds. You can’t even take a moment of silence for him because your second patient starts crashing. 

It all blends together, honestly. Reminds you of the times you were with the code team for a shift, when everything was a life or death situation and everything could go wrong at once. But there’s only so much you can do in a motel room without any hospital equipment. 

You tie a tourniquet with pieces of your shirt and a stick from outside. You pack wounds once more. You drag chairs and pillows around to elevate limbs. You put pressure on the wounds until they stop bleeding. You get blood on every damn thing you touch because you haven’t been able to find latex gloves anywhere for the past two years. 

There’s only so much you can do when you have so little. 

Eventually, though, it settles down. The gunshots stop, the bleeding stops, and the pulses get stronger. Everyone that was alive stays alive over the next few hours, coming in and out of consciousness. It’s still quiet, though, because most of them immediately fall back asleep. Getting shot takes a lot out of you. 

Your assistant leaves after the first hour when you assure him you can handle the rest. You wish the sinks worked so you could get all this fucking blood off your hands, but you wipe off what you can and deal with the rest. Your shirt’s already covered in it. 

Maybe you’ll convince Jake to let you go on a supply run so you can stop by a lake or something. You don’t want to waste what little water you have on cleanliness, but you make a point not to touch your face more than you have to. The last thing you need is to get an infection because you got blood in your eye or something—you think that would be the stupidest way for you to die. 

You’re rifling through the barebones medicine cabinet, trying to see what would help in case of an emergency, when you hear approaching footsteps. You turn around to see Joel, and you can’t help but smile. 

“Joel,” you say, relief rampant in your voice, “you made it.” 

“So did you,” he says. He doesn’t sound half as glad as you do, but you’ve learned over the past two days that he doesn’t tend to show emotions other than anger. “How are they?” 

“One’s dead, three are alive,” you say with a gesture. “Dunno their names besides Paul, so I guess you can spread the word.” 

Joel nods as he looks at each of them. Again, he hides his emotions well—if he feels a particular way about any of them, he doesn’t show it. Eventually, he looks back at you.

“How are you?” His eyes trail up and down your body. “Any of that blood yours?” 

“Thankfully, no,” you say. “The worst is over. I found some antibiotics, so hopefully we’ll be able to avoid any infections. Barring those or any freak changes, the rest should make it.” 

“Good,” he says. 

“Any of that blood yours?” you ask, inclining your head. He already has a fair amount of dried blood on his jacket—comes with the territory of being Joel, you think—but there’s some fresh. 

“No,” Joel says. “We got most of the hunters, but some ran off. Couple of us went after ‘em to finish the job.” 

“Did you?”

“Yes,” he says. “Tracked ‘em to their camp and did what we had to do.” 

You nod. Seems these people are pretty good at taking out other communes, Joel especially. 

He probably wasn’t in the group that killed your people because of his gunshot. Had he been healthy, you bet he would have slaughtered them like all the rest. 

But he didn’t. And he’s shown you more kindness in his own way than anyone else here has.  

You realize hypotheticals don’t really matter to you as long as the bullet ends up in someone else’s head. You don’t really know what that says about you. 

So you look back up at Joel and ask, “We safe for the night?” 

“Yes.” 

You nod again. “Okay.” 

And that’s that. 

-

You spend the next few days in the infirmary watching over your patients. Jake is in and out, mostly checking in during the day to ask about the injured and make sure you’re not about to run away. When he stays, he lets his shotgun rest against the wall rather than keeping it pointed at you. Maybe he trusts you more—you think it’s more likely he assumes you won’t run because you have critical patients.

He’s right. You don’t know them, and you only know Paul’s name, but you feel like you have to save them—have to save him. 

Maybe it’s because this guy wasn’t part of the group that killed yours, maybe it’s because you think he’s your age, maybe it’s because he looks shockingly similar to Connor. But you feel a strange amount of obligation to this man to save his life. 

Even if you were in here alone, you don’t think you would run. Guess the Hippocratic Oath stays with you even after the world has ended. 

On the third night, Joel comes in. He has a bottle of water, your rations, and your jacket. 

“You left it in the parking lot,” he says when he hands it to you. “I picked it up when we got back from the hunt.” 

“...Thanks,” you say. You’ve been in these bloodstained clothes for way too long, but you don’t really have any changes. You were ripped out of your community as a prisoner, after all. 

You pull your shirt off and slip into your flannel. Even though some of the blood soaked through to your skin, you already feel better. You’re doing up the buttons when you realize Joel has turned his head, making a point not to look at you. 

“Uh, sorry,” you say. “I didn’t really think you’d care.”

“Figure at least one person here should respect your privacy,” Joel says. 

You chuckle. It’s oddly touching from someone like him. 

“Thanks.” 

You hang your shirt on the back of your chair. It kinda is your only top, so you can’t just go throwing it away. You’ll get it clean eventually. 

“The number’s down,” Joel says, looking at the beds. “Maya’s good?”

“I guess.” You still don’t know their names. “Bleedin’ stopped, and she was talking up a storm. Sutured her wound, gave her some pain meds, and sent her on her way.” 

“Good. How’re the rest doing?”

“Okay,” you say. “I’m mostly just waiting until they’re consistently awake and making sure the wounds don’t get infected.”

“You talk an awful lot ‘bout infections.”

You shrug. “Out here, they’re usually a death sentence.”

“Noted,” he says wryly. 

The two of you stand there for a while. The silence is awkward, but but you prefer that over the heaviness of the first night. 

“Just make sure you get some sleep,” he finally says. “You won’t be much good if you’re fallin’ asleep when we need you.”

You chuckle. “Noted.”

Joel nods again and walks off. You sit back down in your uncomfortable chair, ready for another night of anxiety, when he stops in the doorframe and speaks up.

“I’m sorry ‘bout how you ended up here,” he says carefully, as if he’s unsure of his words. “But it’s probably a good thing someone like you is at this motel.”

You smile. You think this is the first time you’ve heard him be this genuine.

“Thanks, Joel,” you say. “You’re a stubborn jackass, but you don’t make for a bad roommate.”

That gets the smallest laugh out of him. “Night, doc.”

“Night, Joel,” you say softly. 

-

Things change after that week. 

Joel looks at you differently. Everyone does, honestly—no one thinks you’re lying anymore, thinks you’re some naive twenty-something. You can hold your own, and you’re not someone to mess with. 

But not everything changes. 

(“Are you fucking kidding me?” you protest when Jake takes you back into Joel’s room. “I save three of your men and you still don’t trust me?”

“I trust you to save my men, not stay put,” he says. Since you don’t offer your hand, he just grabs your arm, pulls you forward, and locks the cuff around your wrist. “And you’re more important than ever now, little lady.”

You lunge at him, but you come up just short when Jake steps out of your range. He tuts and shakes his head at you. 

“No need for that,” he says. “I’d hate to ruin that pretty face all over again.”

“This really necessary?” Joel asks, a hard edge to his voice. 

Jake shrugs. “Way you’ve been spendin’ time with her, figure you’d jump at the chance to have her to yourself. Just don’t break her.” 

Joel clenches his jaw as Jake leaves, letting out a growl when the door shuts.  

“Un-fuckin-believable,” you mutter. Now you’re sure you’re going to put a bullet in his head before you get out of here. 

“Took the words outta my mouth,” he grumbles. 

“You wanna shoot him for me?” you ask. 

Joel shakes his head as he sits back down on his bed. “Not yet.”

You blink. “Not yet?”

He grunts. “Ain’t talking about this with you.”

So you don’t. You don’t say much because he doesn’t say much—after your conversation with Joel in the infirmary, you’re not too keen on annoying him.)

You’re good enough to save lives but still can’t be trusted on your own. Maybe it’s actually a smart move, because you spend every spare moment thinking about ways to escape and ways to put Jake six feet under. 

You also can’t stop thinking about Joel’s words: not yet. 

You might have found an ally in the most unexpected place.

Another week passes with more of the same.

You check on your patients who have all survived their wounds. They’re out of commission for another week at least, but they’re alive. You finally have a conversation with Paul and he’s so much like your brother you want to cry.

You do the chores asked and now expected of you, and though you mainly keep to yourself, you find a friend in a woman named Trish when you spend a few afternoons together sewing up holes in clothes.  

Though you’re still not trusted alone and you don’t have your own room or the freedom to move around at night, you’re no longer expected to spend every moment inside the walls. You end up doing weekly supply runs with Joel and you don’t hate it as much as you thought you would.

They never let you take the horses out, and you still don’t get a fucking gun. Apparently, you’re still a flight risk. 

They’re not wrong, but you wish they would fall for it. It would be so easy to run with a horse.

So instead you’re given a knife, and you and Joel have to set out on foot each time. Always you and Joel, because apparently you can’t get away from each other. Maybe they think he’ll kill you if you do try to run. Maybe they can see you’re starting to warm up to him. 

You don’t know, and you don’t particularly care. Joel has made it clear he won’t hurt you if you don’t try to hurt him, so you feel safe hunting with him. Besides, he’s a killer shot and you’re great with a knife, so you make a good team either way. He even gives you his revolver to use on the road sometimes, though you always have to return it before you’re back at the motel. 

But if Joel is looking at you differently because of a newfound respect, you’re looking at him differently because of newfound feelings. 

He’s handsome, anyone can see that—gruff and grizzled and muscled from the life of a survivor. He has sharp, dark eyes that narrow at everything, so much so that you bet his crows feet are from years of distrust rather than years of laughter.

You never really paid attention to it at the beginning because you were terrified you were going to die. Anything you tried to figure out about him or his life was in the name of survival, was about pinning him down in order to manipulate him. 

Joel is angry and impatient and mean, and he's probably killed a hundred different people in a hundred different ways in the name of survival—but since that night he visited you in the infirmary, you swear he’s softened around you. 

Quite frankly, it’s ridiculous. He’s at least fifteen years your elder, this is the apocalypse, and you’re still in a camp full of enemies. You have no time to be making heart eyes at Joel.

So you don’t make heart eyes. Instead, you just stare at him like you normally do and tell him he’s crazy when he questions you about it. 

But god, it isn’t easy. You spend more time with Joel than anyone else—you guess he’s your Jake-appointed chaperone now—and the second time you go out on a supply run with him, you run across a lake. 

You convince him to stay for a bit so you can wash off, finally cracking when you swear to him you still have lingering blood on your hands from your night running the camp ER. You strip down to your undergarments with little care and dive in, and when you catch Joel looking you up and down in what he thinks is a covert way, you think your heart might burst. 

It’s been a while since you’ve done… well, anything sex-wise. You doubt you will ever get there with Joel, mostly because you’re going to take these feelings to your early grave, but you’re allowing yourself to be delusional when absolutely everything else in your life sucks.

After all the shit you’ve been through, you think you deserve it. 

You end up having to cut your luxury excursion short when you hear the distinct croaking of stalkers. Joel grumbles the whole time you’re getting dressed, saying you’re gonna be the death of him and this was stupid and he regrets ever saying yes to you, but he puts himself in front of you every time he thinks he sees one. 

It’s the little things. 

Two weeks later, on your fourth supply run, things go a little differently. 

Everything close by has been picked clean either by Joel’s group or people traveling through the area, so Jake and Marcos, the group leaders, decide that you’re going to go out farther than usual in order to get more supplies. Even though you go out every week, and other people hunt when they can, but it’s not enough. 

You’re fine with it and Joel grudgingly agrees to it, so after getting some extra rations and water just in case, you set out on your way. 

You find an abandoned convenience store when you’re walking down the side of a road that still has some water, meds, and cigarettes behind a couple toppled over shelves. It’s better than nothing.

When you venture into the woods you find a house. Joel insists on going first in case anyone’s inside—he checks the bedroom and the kitchen and says they’re clear. When he’s going up the stairs with his gun drawn, you a few paces after him on the bottom step, you get grabbed from behind. 

Your scream of surprise gets Joel’s attention immediately, and there’s a knife to your throat before you even know what’s happening. Joel has his gun trained on the head of whoever’s got you just as fast. 

“Let her go,” he says. 

“Not everyday I get a couple bargin’ into my house,” your captor says smoothly. He has one of your arms in an iron grip, and your other hand is an open palm to convince him you’re not a threat. “She’s too pretty for you, don’t you think?” 

“Joel—”

“Let her go,” he growls. 

“Y’all were gonna steal from me,” the man says. “Don’t see how we can walk out of here all friendly-like.” 

He presses the blade into your throat just enough to draw a thin line of blood, and you clench your jaw so hard you think your teeth might crack. Joel meets your eyes, and they actually have something in them you haven’t seen before—fear.

“What d’you want?” Joel asks. 

“I think you know what I want,” he says. His grip on you tightens and something inside of you snaps. 

You stomp on his foot as hard as you can. He grunts, the action shocking him more than it hurts, but his grip loosens and that’s all you need. You move faster than him as you rip your knife from your belt and reel it backwards to stab him in the gut. You grab his wrist and wrench it to the side, giving you the space to turn away from him and kick him in the chest. He falls to the ground, you pull Joel’s revolver out, and you shoot him in the head. 

Your breaths are coming out as pants by now, your heart threatening to beat out of your chest as you stare at his dead body. Pools of blood are already forming behind his head and gut, and you feel nothing but red-hot rage. 

You’re so fucking sick of men thinking they can take whatever they want, thinking they have a right to whatever they want. You’re honestly glad this happened. It meant you got to put a bullet in his head. 

Joel says your name and you realize it’s the third time. You can barely hear him over the ringing in your ears. 

“You’re bleeding.” 

“I feel fine,” you say. This isn’t the first person you’ve killed, you want to tell him, far from it. This isn’t the first time you’ve killed to save your life, you want to tell him. 

For some reason, the words don’t form. 

“He tried to slit your throat,” he says. “You’re not fine.”

“Still standing, ain’t I?” 

He says your name again, a bit stronger this time. “You’re bleeding. You need to sit down.” 

“I’m—”

“If you say you’re fine again, I’ll throw you over my shoulder and get you out of here myself.” 

You huff. “Now you know how I felt that first night.” 

Joel shakes his head. “Always gotta be right, don’t you?” 

“You know me,” you say faintly. 

You do sit down, eventually, if only because Joel looks like he would absolutely make good on his promise. You sit on the third step and he goes one below you, and you pull your medical bag out of your pack. 

“I can clean it out,” you say as you rifle through it for your gauze. “Your hands are probably dirty.” 

“Y’know, I’m not a complete idiot,” Joel says. “Remember when you said my bandaging was good?” 

“I said it was passable,” you correct. 

“‘Good enough to keep you alive’, I recall.”

“And you think I want good enough?” 

You finally get to your gauze—you swear, it falls to the bottom every time—when Joel puts his hand on your wrist. It’s gentler than you expect, even with the calluses. 

“Let me do it,” he insists. “Need to feel fuckin’ useful somehow.” 

You stare at him, hoping your pupils aren’t dilated or something else just as stupid to reveal that your heart is beating out of your chest. 

“That’s what this is about?” you whisper. 

Joel clenches his jaw and glances away. “He could have killed you and I just stood there.” 

“You didn’t have a clear shot,” you say. 

“I should have made one,” he says. “Out here, we’re a team. Partners. You don’t let your partner get grabbed.” 

“We had no idea he was here.” 

“I should have known,” Joel says roughly. “I shoulda known and I shoulda stopped him and you wouldn’t have had to kill him.” 

You cover his hand with yours before you can doubt yourself, and Joel looks back at you, surprised. He doesn’t pull away. 

“It was a mistake, and we got out of it,” you say. “If we’re partners, then you can’t put all the weight on your shoulders and none on mine. I held my own, didn’t I?” 

Joel doesn’t respond, and you sigh. 

“If they keep sendin’ us out on these things, then you’ll save my ass so many more times,” you continue. “And I’ll save yours, and we’ll joke about it when we get back to that shitty motel and Jake locks me to the radiator for the hundredth time.” 

“So it don’t matter that I pulled more weight this time,” you say. “Because it’s a whole lotta push and pull—you just can’t pull away from me because of this.” 

“Clever,” he says wryly. “You sure you’re not a writer?” 

You manage a smile. “Not even close. Are we good?” 

Joel pauses for a moment, his gaze falling down to your hand on his. He clears his throat and pulls away, then holds his hand out. You huff a laugh and give him the gauze. 

“We’re good,” he nods. 

You sit together in silence as Joel cleans the blood off your neck, only interrupted by your occasional wince. He’s surprisingly gentle with you in a way that you never would have expected, never touching you more than he has to. Your skin burns wherever he does, and it takes everything in you to keep your breathing steady. You don’t want him to know, and you don’t want to mess up his work. 

Joel finishes soon enough, and after a quick investigation in a broken bathroom mirror, you approve. You take what’s left from the house in supplies and then you get out. It takes a little longer because Joel refuses to leave your side—”what if a clicker bursts in through that broken window? You’d be dead like that.”—but you don’t argue. You think it’s sweet, actually, but you don’t tell him that. 

When Joel insists on heading back early, you don’t fight him. When you insist you want to keep his knife back at the motel, even if it has to be a secret, he doesn’t fight you. 

You don’t talk much on the walk back, but things are different. The air is lighter between you two. Joel doesn’t frown at everything. He actually manages to joke around with you. 

Things are different. 

You’re finding out that you don’t really mind. 

-

You go even farther on your next supply run. The area isn’t as scarce as it could be, but Marcos insists on stocking up before summer, when it’s too hot to constantly venture out like this with little water. 

Things are going pretty well, all things considered. You run into a decent amount of clickers over the miles that you’re able to take down with you distracting and Joel stabbing each time. You don’t run into any people, though Joel keeps his head on a swivel.

Eventually, though, it starts to rain. Clear skies shine above you, but you still get drenched within a couple miserable minutes. 

“Where the hell did this come from?” you complain. 

Joel takes a cloth out of his pocket and wipes down his gun. “They not teach the water cycle in schools?” 

“You know that’s not what I meant.” You scowl at the sky. “Was ‘sposed to be clear skies all day.” 

“We’ll just call it short,” he says. “Go back to the motel.” 

“We’re five miles out,” you say. The rain starts coming down harder and you curse. “We’re not making it back without getting soaked.” 

“You can’t handle a little water?” Joel asks. 

“I’m already miserable enough being around you,” you say. “Don’t need to add trench foot to the equation.” 

He shakes his head with a huff. “Fine. I remember a cave a while back— you have another mile in you?” 

“As a matter of fact, I did cross country in high school,” you say. “Also walked a whole lot when I was getting away from the coast.” 

“Always gotta one up me, huh?” 

You smile. “Always.” 

It ends up being a little more than two miles, but you and Joel make quick work of it. Soon enough, after you’ve checked for any infected, you’re sitting in a little grotto waiting out the rain.

You’ve both taken your top layers off to let them dry, alongside your boots and socks. It feels a bit strange, a bit too familiar, to be doing all this with Joel—but like you said, you’re not too fond of trench foot, so you deal with it. 

You sit near the opening of the cave, entranced by the downpour. The tension in your shoulders has slowly dissipated as you’ve watched the storm. There’s something calming about the sight, the sound— the way the world feels once it’s over. 

“You shouldn’t be so close to the outside,” Joel says. Miraculously, the tension comes back. 

“It’s fine,” you say. 

“Ain’t so fine when everyone can see you,” he says. “Ain’t so fine when a passing hunter doesn’t like how you look and puts a bullet between your eyes.” 

You sigh as you adjust your position to look over at him. He’s taken to sharpening a stick with one of his knives. “You always this positive?” 

“I’m realistic,” he says. “How do you think I’ve survived so long?” 

“Well, I’ve survived too,” you say. “And I’m not half the miserable bastard you are.”  

“You’re half my age,” Joel says. “Give it time.” 

You shake your head with a huff. “Got a bright future ahead of me, then.” 

“I’m alive,” he says. “That’s as bright as it can be these days.” 

“That’s so sad,” you murmur, your gaze turning back to the rainfall. 

You hear him stop with his knife. “What’d you say?” 

You know he heard you. Probably just trying to give you a chance to take it back, but you don’t care. “I said it’s sad.” 

“Don’t see how it can be sad,” Joel says. “Survivin’s all anyone wants out here.” 

“Maybe on a base level, but I—” you pause and shake your head again, trying to collect your thoughts. “I got a life I’m trying to build. Things I’m chasin’— things that make this all worth it.” 

“Like I said, you’re half my age.” The joking lilt he’s had fades, and you know you’ve struck a nerve. “Everything you’re trying to get, I’ve already lost.” 

“Joel,” you attempt, but he shakes his head. 

“I built a life and I lost it,” he says. “I’ve trusted people and I’ve paid for it. So don’t act like I’m doin’ all this for no reason.” 

“Then tell me,” you say, bolstered by his tone. “Tell me what you’ve gone through, what justifies this, so we can move past this— this barrier you’ve put between us, and actually get to know each other.” 

“I don’t have to tell you shit,” he grumbles. 

“Fine,” you say. “Then I’ll go.” 

By this point, you’ve shifted your position completely to face him. Joel still won’t look at you, but he’s gone back to sharpening that damn stick. 

“I’m not actually a doctor.” 

Sure enough, that gets his attention. He stops so abruptly that you think he might slice his fingertip off. He doesn’t, but he looks at you incredulously. 

“What?” 

“I’m not a doctor,” you repeat. “Or a surgeon, really.” 

He frowns. “Then how do you know how to do all this shit?” 

“I was studying to be one,” you say. “But I still had a pretty long way to go.” 

Joel glares at you. “How long?”

“I was in my third year of med school when the outbreak started,” you say. “Got to be MS1 for all of two months before everything went to shit.” 

“You didn’t even graduate?” he marvels. 

You shrug. “I passed my boards. Well, Step 1, at least. The world ended before I got to the others—”

“Oh my god,” he mutters. 

“I was still a student doctor,” you assert. “I know plenty—” 

“Not enough,” he interrupts. 

“Enough to keep my patients and myself alive,” you remark. “And more than enough to stitch up your sorry ass.” You gesture at him. “How’s that gunshot feel?” 

Joel just scoffs and shakes his head. He doesn’t look mad, like you thought he would be—just looks shocked, surprised, annoyed. Maybe angry just for the hell of it. 

“Why are you tellin’ me the truth now?” he asks. “No one else is around. I could kill you right now for bein’ a liar—tell the group clickers got to you.” 

“A liar with medical experience is better than nothing,” you say. “From what I’ve seen over the years, folks aren’t too keen on killing people like me. ‘Specially after I saved their people.”

“Besides,” you incline your head, “I don’t think you have the guts. Not after last week.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Joel says. “I’ve killed plenty of people less annoying than you.”

“Well, I don’t go down without a fight,” you say. “And I’m very good at stayin’ awake. So if you decide to go for it, you can’t take the easy way out.” 

He scoffs, but you notice it doesn’t have the malice you’d expect behind it. 

You should be wary. You’re alone together in the middle of nowhere, miles from your group—and they wouldn’t save you if it came down to it. For God’s sake, Joel has a knife in his hand. He could take you down easily enough if he wanted to. Weren’t you terrified of that when you were first stuck in his room a few months ago? 

But you’re not. You can’t deny that you like him anymore, and that could be clouding your judgment, but you’re not scared of him. Not since that night in the infirmary. 

You go back to watching the rain, making a point to have your back to Joel as you do. Maybe as a sign of trust, maybe to show you’re not scared of him—you don’t really know. But nothing happens. He doesn’t stab you in the back, literally or figuratively. 

And eventually, he speaks up.

“I’m from Texas.” 

You laugh wryly. “I tell you I’ve been lyin’ to everyone this whole time and you tell me you’re a Texan.” 

“It’s somethin’,” he says. “Ain’t that what you wanted?” 

You turn around and raise your eyebrows. “Where in Texas?” 

“Grew up in Arlington,” he says. “Was in Austin ‘fore everything went to shit.”

You nod. “That makes sense. The accent and the attitude and everything else.” 

Joel snorts. “‘Everything else’?” 

“The way you carry yourself,” you say. “How stubborn you are. Classic ‘Don’t mess with Texas’. You ever have a bumper sticker like that?” 

That gets an actual laugh out of him. A genuine laugh, a genuine smile. “Hell no. I didn’t need to showboat like that. Sarah woulda never—” 

He stops suddenly, his smile fading just as quickly as it appeared. You feel the moment slipping out of your grasp quicker than you can run after it, and you feel a little desperate. 

“Who’s Sarah?” 

Joel shakes his head. “No one you need to know about.”

Just like that, the moment is gone and the barrier is back up. You try to hide the disappointment you feel. When Joel’s not being a jackass, you really enjoy talking with him. 

“...Okay,” you say. You’ve already pushed him once. You don’t want to push him again on something that brings out that sort of reaction. 

Joel goes back to sharpening the stick. It’s half the size it was before, but he doesn’t let that stop him. He’s got a couple to keep him busy. 

You go back to watching the rain. The downpour continues, and eventually, you hear the crackling of thunder in the distance. 

“Great,” you murmur. 

“You see any flashes?” Joel asks. 

“No lightning,” you say. “Least it ain’t close.” 

“That means we can still get out of here tonight.” 

You shake your head. “No way I’m doin’ seven miles in a thunderstorm.” 

“We went five miles out,” Joel reminds you. 

“And then went two miles off course to get here,” you say. “It’s already getting dark, and these woods have infected. You really wanna go through all that just to get back to that shitty motel?” 

“They got food there,” he says. “We have nothing.” 

“We’ll be fine for a night,” you say. “It’s not like we’re in danger of freezing. We can sleep in shifts so nothing can sneak up on us. We’re tucked away pretty well, anyways.” 

Joel stares at you for a good, long second. You can tell he wants to fight—he always want to fight, you’ve learned—but eventually he lets out a sigh and makes a flippant gesture. 

“Fine,” he concedes. “But we’re leavin’ at first light, rain or not.” 

“Fine,” you echo. 

You’re able to relax a little after that, knowing Joel’s not going to make you hike back to camp in these conditions. 

The rain doesn’t ease up, but as night falls, your anxiety gets the best of you and you end up sitting against the wall, across from Joel. You have a sad little dinner together, the usual of stale bread and meat from whatever animal was hunted that week. 

Soon enough, it’s pitch black outside and you only have the rain and the crickets for company. Better than rain and clickers, you suppose. 

You wish you had a book, or a ball of yarn and some needles, or literally anything to give you something to do other than stare at a cave wall. Joel isn’t much of a talker, even now. 

“I’m from Oklahoma, you know.” You decide to fill in the blanks, unable to take the silence much longer even with the rainstorm. “So we’re two southerners in a pod.” 

“Knew you had some kinda accent,” Joel says. “Just couldn’t place it.” 

“It faded while I was in Boston for med school,” you explain. “I wanted to get out as soon as possible.” 

“How’s it feel, being back in the middle o’ nowhere after spending all your time in the city?” 

You chuckle and look over at him. “You’re not gonna believe it, but I grew up in the middle of nowhere. Born and raised on a cattle ranch in Beaver.”

“No shit,” Joel says incredulously, and he actually smiles. “No shit you’re a farm girl.” 

“Don’t act so surprised!” you exclaim. “I’ve more than held my own out here!” 

“Thought you were some big city hotshot doctor when I first met you,” he says, shaking his head. “Turns out you’re just a farm girl med student.” 

“Well, you’re just a jackass from Texas,” you retort. 

“And you’re a jackass from Oklahoma,” he says. “Guess we ain’t so different after all.” 

You laugh and look away, unable to bite back a smile of your own. “Whatever.” 

That lightness from your walk the past week returns, and you and Joel spend the next few hours just… talking. You do most of it, because getting Joel to talk about his past is like pulling teeth, but you don’t mind. 

You tell him stories from your childhood, what it was like growing up as a rancher’s daughter. How you spent your whole life trying to claw out your roots and how, now that it’s gone, it’s the only thing you want. What undergrad was like, what med school was like, how you spent just as many nights blacked out from alcohol as you did studying until your eyes bled. 

Joel contributes in smaller places, like telling you what he was like as a kid or relaying his own high school stories, because he didn’t go to college. Tells you about his work as a carpenter. You find it hard to imagine a younger Joel when it’s near impossible to look in his eyes and see something other than the world-weary, grizzled survivor he is now, but with his words you’re able to piece it together. It helps that his voice is so nice to listen to when he’s not yelling. 

You want to ask him about Sarah, but you don’t. Things are going so well that you’d be an idiot to ruin it. You hope he trusts you enough one day to tell you. 

In the middle of it all, you realize the way you’re thinking: into the future, long-term future, with Joel a part of it. Your plan from the start has been to bide your time until you can gather enough supplies to run, get your pistol back from Jake and use it to put a bullet in his head, then get the fuck out of here. 

But now you can’t stop thinking about Joel, and you realize you want to keep him in your life. You don’t want to stay here, but you don’t want to leave him. You don’t care if he doesn’t like you the way you do, you don’t care if he doesn’t even want to be your friend—you’re just tired of running from everything and defending yourself with lies. You’re tired of being alone. 

Eventually, you can’t fight your yawns anymore. Joel tells you he’ll take first watch and you can already tell he’ll refute any arguments. You put your jacket and shoes back on and make sure Joel’s revolver is in grabbing distance, then you lay down using your pack as a pillow. 

“Y’know, this is the first time we’re sleepin’ in the same room without a radiator.” 

Joel huffs. “Yeah. You get through the night without runnin’, maybe I can threaten Jake into getting you your own room.” 

“I dunno.” Your eyes are closed at this point, the mixture of Joel’s timbre at a softer volume and the downpour all around you almost lulling you to sleep. “I kinda like being in the same room as you.” You smile. “We can ditch the cuffs, though.” 

Joel is silent for a while. If your brain were sharper, if you weren’t nearly asleep, you might’ve had the sense to worry or be ashamed. You’re sure you’ll regret it in the morning. 

“Get some rest,” he finally says. “You need it.” 

“Night, Joel,” you murmur. “Wake me up in a couple hours or I’ll kill you.” 

He laughs quietly. “Night, doc.”  

-

You dream of your old life. Early mornings on the ranch. Fighting with your brother to get the better chores and swearing you’ll never talk to him again when he gets the ones you want, just to end up racing him to the boundaries of the farm and back to settle disputes as usual. Waking up in the middle of the night to make your favorite dessert for the two of you, homegrown strawberries with whipped cream. 

You dream of the day everything fell apart. Screaming in the hospital and your coworkers being killed and sights so brutal in the streets of Boston that you will never, ever forget them. Connor forces you to keep running through it all, tells you that you can’t stop to save anyone because you’ll die too, and he is not going to let you die. He swears he won’t leave you. 

You dream of the night you saw him for the last time. Having no choice but to break the one promise your mom forced you two to make before she died in your arms, and making another one that you refuse to break for anything. The last time you saw Connor, a night that you’ve relived a million times where you’ve failed to change the story each and every time. 

You wonder what he would think about the kind of person you’ve become. 

-

It’s light outside when you finally wake up. You expect your back to be killing you, but after sleeping against a wall, floor, and radiator for most of the past few months, this was actually kind of comfortable. 

You rub the grogginess out of your eyes and realize there are dried tears on your cheeks. You hope to god you didn’t actually cry in your sleep over some nightmares—you don’t need Joel to see something like that. 

When you sit up, you see Joel cleaning his rifle. 

“Mornin’, sunshine,” he says wryly. 

“Mornin’,” you say, interrupted by a yawn. You have to shield your eyes from the sun, and you’re about to ask him how he’s doing when it hits you. 

“Oh my god— what time is it?” 

Joel says nothing, just focuses on wiping out the barrel. 

You push his shoulder. “Why didn’t you wake me up, you jackass?” 

“You needed your sleep,” he says simply. 

“Like you don’t?” you retort. “You’re twice my age, old man. You need it more than I do.” 

“I’m fine,” he says. “I’ll sleep when we get back to the motel.” 

You scoff. “You’re unbelievable.” 

“And don’t you feel so much better?” 

You shake your head as you stand up and begin to gather your things. “First light, my ass.” 

Joel sighs. “Helpin’ you out is a thankless job.” 

Though you want to stay mad, it’s a champagne problem that you get over it pretty quickly. You feel more refreshed than you have since you ended up in this group, and considering you were sleeping on a cave floor with your backpack as a pillow, things aren’t really going to be better for you back in Joel’s room. 

You give him a grudging thank you right before you’re about to leave, and he accepts with a smugness that makes you regret it. 

You make casual small talk for the first mile, but things go in a different direction when Joel pops an unexpected question on you. 

“Who’s Connor?”

You trip over your own feet, and you know it’s wishful thinking to hope he didn’t see it. You regain your footing and keep walking, making a point to not look at him. 

“Where’s this coming from?” Your words might come out a little too aggressive, but you don’t really care right now. 

“You talked in your sleep half the night,” Joel says. “Kept muttering about some guy named Connor, how you didn’t wanna leave him.”

“It’s none of your business,” you say. 

“You don’t get to pull that shit with me after tryin’ to go all Twenty Questions last night,” he insists. “You told me ‘bout half your life anyways.” 

Just because you told him about inconsequential childhood and college things doesn’t mean you owe him actually important stuff. You can do what he did and just shut him down again, and every other time if he happens to ask again. 

But you were preaching all that shit about togetherness and getting to know each other and breaking down the barrier. Joel might be a hypocrite, but you have to be better than Joel. 

“...He’s my brother,” you finally say. The words feel heavier saying them to him for some reason. 

“He dead?” Joel asks. Leave it to him to be blunt. 

“No,” you say roughly, hastily. “No, I—” 

You swallow the lump in your throat and shake your head. “I don’t know. We lost each other a while ago, and I’ve been trying to find him ever since. So I guess I just really, really hope he’s not.” 

“When did you see him last?” 

“Two years ago,” you say. “We were in some commune in Ohio with a buncha hunters that tolerated us because I was a doctor and he was a good supply runner. One day, one of the leaders started accusin’ a bunch of people of stealing meds. Swore the supply was goin’ down—accused every person I’d treated the past few months of bein’ a junkie and stealing. Killed every single one of ‘em over the course of a week.” You shake your head as the memory comes back in full force. “Meds kept disappearing. Soon enough, no one was left to blame but me.” 

“Did you take ‘em?” Joel asks. 

“No,” you say. “I had no reason to. Still don’t know who did it. But Connor realized I was next on the chopping block and no amount of reasoning would bring him down from the edge, even if that meant killing his only doctor.” You bite the inside of your cheek to hold the tears back. “Connor and I fought like crazy that night, but eventually, he won. He gave me all his supplies and got me to leave in the middle of the night. I wanted him to come with me, but he said they would hunt me down. Said he had to stay cover my tracks. Told me to go back to Boston, find the QZ— he would meet me there.”

Joel is silent for a moment. When he speaks up, it’s his usual. 

“You’re pretty far from Boston.” 

“Roads I was tryin’ to take were completely overrun,” you say. “I had a car back then, in pretty decent shape—decided I would try and get back to the farm just to recuperate. Resupply, take a breather, just try to shit out before I had to get all the way to Massachusetts.” You shrug. “And I guess a part of me thought that Connor might have thought the same thing.” 

You huff. “Pretty clear I never fuckin’ made it there, though. I just gotta hope he had better luck than me, and that’s waiting for me there—not dead in a ditch in Ohio.” 

“He probably is,” he says.  

“Fuck you, Joel,” you snap. “That’s all you gotta say?”

“I’m bein’ honest—”

“Well, I don’t need your honesty,” you bite out. “We made a promise to each other. Far as I’m concerned, he ain’t dead ‘til I see his bones. I don’t care how stupid you think it is.” 

He doesn’t say anything for a while, but when he does, it’s about what you expect. 

“It is stupid.” 

“Joel—” 

“But it’s also admirable.” 

You glance at him. “You hit your head back there or something?” 

“No. Just think it’s rare to be able to keep up hope like that.” He shrugs. “One of the things I’ve admired ‘bout you for a while.” 

Again, you feel your cheeks heat—your whole body, honestly. You busy yourself with the path ahead of you while you try to remember the art of subtlety. 

“...Thanks,” you finally say. “But I think you’re lyin’. You thought it was stupid when we first met.” 

Joel snorts. “Things’ve changed since then. You’re way less annoying now—can’t hold that against me.” 

“I am the same level of annoying, thank you very much.” You smile at him. “You like me more now. Face it.” 

He just huffed and shook his head, though you could tell he was fighting a smile of his own. “Just shut up and keep walking.”

You do, for the most part. Your path is pretty straightforward, only having to take a few detours due to infected that you take out pretty easily together. You and Joel have really found a groove working with each other since you started going on these supply runs. 

Maybe that’s what gets you to speak up again. 

“You really think my brother’s dead?” 

Joel doesn’t respond immediately. He lifts a low-hanging branch so you can duck under it, and when you glance over at him, he looks conflicted. 

“Doesn’t matter what I think,” he says. “Only matters what you do.” 

“You say all the time that you’re older and wiser than me,” you say. “So give me some of that elder wisdom.” 

Joel frowns. “I’m only forty.” 

“Can’t be only forty when you’re constantly sayin’ I’m too young to know things,” you retort. “So tell me the truth. Do you really think he’s dead? That I’m wasting my time trekking across the country?” 

“...I don’t know,” he says. “Been eight years since all of this fell apart. Logically, neither of us should still be kicking, but we are.” 

“So you think he’s alive.” 

“I think people beat the odds all the time,” Joel says. “And if your brother’s got the same stubborn genes as you, then I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s beat ‘em too.” 

You nod a few times. Whatever Joel said wasn’t going to change your mind—you meant what you said, that you won’t believe Connor is dead until you see his lifeless body. But it feels like Joel is on your side, even if it’s just one foot over the line. 

Those words echo in your head again: not yet. 

You decide to test the boundaries. 

“I think so too. It’s why I’m putting up with all this,” you say. “This… group. Jake’s bullshit. So I can get out when it’s time and keep trying to find my brother.” 

This is bigger than the doctor thing, and you’ve just dropped it on a casual walk. You’re still considered a flight risk, hence Joel’s constant companionship and the radiator nights even after you’ve more than proven yourself. You don’t know how much Joel ever believed it, but this pretty much confirms that it’s true.

“Shouldn’t talk like that out in the open,” Joel says after a moment. 

“We’re in the middle of the woods,” you say. “Who—” 

“Anyone,” he interrupts. “Here or there. So whatever shit you’re planning, don’t tell me about it.” 

“Joel—” 

“I mean it,” he continues. “I don’t care if you get yourself killed. Just don’t get me pulled into it.” 

You walk the rest of the way in silence. 

-

Joel is barely around the next day, or the day after that. You earn your keep like normal, but it makes you nervous. You try to talk to him at night, but he doesn’t give. You shouldn’t have tested the boundaries. 

It’s not like you think he’s loyal to this group—you don’t think he’s loyal to anyone but himself—but he’s been with them for longer than he’s known you. Why would he choose you over them? It doesn’t matter if he got scared when you were grabbed, if he let you sleep a little extra. It’s probably just a glitch in his programming or whatever. 

One thing you should always remember about Joel is that he will always put himself above anyone else. You might have thought differently at some point, but it’s the truth. 

You just hope he finds it in himself not to turn you in. 

-

You barely sleep the next night, too paranoid about everything going wrong just because you decided to trust Joel with something other than watching your six. 

That means when gunshots start erupting, it’s less of a rude awakening and more of a reprieve from your pitiful attempt at sleep. 

You dart up so quickly you nearly slam your head against the radiator. You don’t like most of the people in this group, but at least they tolerate you—most of them respect you. You’re not too keen on pulling this stunt again with another group of hunters that could be even worse than this one. 

That is, assuming this is an attack by humans and not infected. People, you can bargain with. Runners and clickers, not so much. 

The thought makes you look over at Joel’s bed, surprised he’s not the one that woke you up. You quickly realize why.

He’s gone. 

His materials, his bag, his weapons—it’s all gone. What’s more surprising is that he’s actually made his bed for once. 

You don’t think he’s dead. But you also don’t think he’s coming back, so you’re officially on your own. 

A part of you hopes against it. But why would he leave without saying goodbye if he wasn’t leaving for good? 

You blink back tears. They shouldn’t even be falling. You’ve only known him for a few months and you spent half of those fighting him. But you liked him, damn it—sharp, jagged edges and all.

But it doesn’t matter. 

You’re so tired of being at the mercy of others, constantly begging for your life with white lies you can only hope are enough. You can’t sit here and cry. You have to get out of here. 

You pull your cuffed hand. It hurts, obviously, and you immediately switch tactics: pulling at the pipe you’re attached to. You grip it as tight as possible and pull, your feet pushing against the body of it for more power. 

This radiator doesn’t even work anymore. It’s old and rickety and it can’t be that sturdy, even if it’s made of metal. You’ve been stuck to this thing for your whole time here, and you are so fucking sick of it. 

You finally pull the pipe apart from the radiator with a yell, and you land on your back a few feet away from the force you used. You try to even out your breathing as you recover, and pull yourself back into a sitting position. The door suddenly slams open and you wield the pipe like a weapon, pushing away from the entrance on instinct. 

Instead of an intruder or a clicker, it’s fucking Joel. 

He stumbles inside, covered in blood with a hand pressed against his side and curses waterfalling from his lips. Your eyes widen as you continue to breathe heavily. He looks towards the radiator, then to you, but he doesn’t even seem surprised. 

“The hell are you doing?” he asks. 

“Trying to escape,” you respond breathlessly. “The hell are you doing?” 

“Comin’ back for you,” Joel says. Your face heats inexplicably. “But it looks like you already handled half the job.” 

He pulls something from his pocket and tosses it over to you. You loosen your iron grip on the pipe to catch it. 

It’s the damn key to your handcuffs. You can’t help but laugh. You wasted all that effort just for Joel to show up ten seconds later, your knight in bloody armor.  

“What’d you do?” you ask. 

“What needed to be done,” Joel responds. His voice is gruff from the pain, though he tries to hide it. You don’t understand why. There’s no point. “Now get yourself out of those things and let’s go.”

You blink and look up at him. You’ve been dreaming of getting out of this place from the moment you got here—of killing everyone that killed your people, of clawing your freedom back from those that stole it from you. You can’t believe Joel got to it first. 

“Why’d you do it?” You can’t help but ask. Far as you knew, he got along with these people. If not that, he at least survived with them. Didn’t care about the people they murdered. 

“Because I had to,” he says. “You just gonna stare at ‘em?” 

You want to ask more, but you have a feeling you won’t get anything out of him. Not now. So you push down on your thoughts of lost revenge to finally free yourself from those cuffs rather than relying on another. 

“You’ve got a minute to grab anything you need,” Joel says. You’re just starting to massage your raw wrist when he starts to walk off, hand pressed even harder against the wound he’s trying to hide.  

“Wait!” You shoot up, nearly tripping over your feet trying to follow him. It’s not hard to catch him when he’s doing more stumbling than walking. 

“There’s no time to wait,” he says. “Gunshots bring people and clickers, and I ain’t dealing with either.”

“You’re hurt,” you say, only proven correct by how easily you get in front of him. The growing patch of blood on his shirt, holding his weight on his uninjured side, his labored breathing—you don’t need to be a med student to see the obvious. “Was your murder spree interrupted?”

Joel scowls. You find it funny how he always seems to take offense to you caring about his health. “Don’t act like it tears you up inside. I did you a favor.”

“Yeah, I appreciate that,” you say wryly. “Now, can you chill out for a second and let me at least look at whatever they did to you?” 

“We don’t have—” 

“We do have time,” you interrupt. “I assume you killed everyone in here, so we don’t have them to worry about. It’ll be a second before any infected get here, but if it makes you feel better, the doors lock. And in my medical opinion—” 

“You’re not a doctor,” Joel bites out. 

“I’m the closest thing you’ve got to one,” you retort. “And I don’t think you’ll make it a mile before your adrenaline fades and you’re out of luck.” You cross your arms. “Without bandaging it, you’re practically begging for an infection. How’s sepsis sound to you, Joel?” 

He stares at you—glare is more appropriate, actually. “You and your fuckin’ infections.”

You stare back, refusing to move. “Not my fault you haven’t taken a shower since the outbreak started.”

Eventually, he groans in annoyance and walks back over to the bed, taking a seat that causes him to wince. 

“Can’t believe you just wanted to walk out of here,” you say as you grab your medical bag. 

“Save the preaching, get to stitching.” 

You laugh and shake your head. “Pull your shirt up.” 

He does, and you get to work, going through the same motions as the first time you met. 

“You get shot or stabbed this time?” 

“Stabbed,” he says. “You ever gonna wine and dine me, or you just gonna keep tellin’ me to strip?”

You smile. “You find some good wine out here and a kitchen that works, I’m more than happy to do it.” 

You feel his gaze on you as you continue to work, feel his muscles tense then relax every time your fingers brush his skin, and you like it. You like knowing that he killed all these people without a second thought and he still reacts this way to your touch. Maybe it’s sick—this sort of lightness does feel wrong after what he did—but the more you think about it, the more you don’t care. It’s not like there’s anyone still around to judge you. 

“Noted,” he says. 

You bite back your smile to keep it from growing. “Who did this to you?” 

“Don’t matter,” Joel says. “They’re dead now.” 

You sigh and shake your head. “How’d you do it, then? These people are capable—tore my community down like it was nothing. You’re just one man.” 

“Why d’you think I did it in the middle of the night?” Joel looks away. “Surprise is one hell of an element. They expected it from you, not from me. ‘Sides, it’s not the first time I’ve done this.” 

“Ah.” 

“Always known I would do it,” he continues. “Ever since I joined this group. They were just a means to an end—they were too reckless for their own good. Woulda gotten me killed sooner or later, and I ain’t lettin’ that happen.”

“Awful lotta time to make a murder plan,” you say. “Mine feels half-baked compared to yours.” 

Joel shrugs. “Guess that’s why I did it before you. Helps not being handcuffed to a radiator. 

You shake your head with a huff. “Worst way I’ve ever slept.” 

You continue on in silence for a good while. You don’t mind because it helps you focus, especially once you start sutures—you’re usually the one that starts the conversations anyways. But then—

“I have a brother too,” Joel suddenly speaks up. 

You smile wistfully. “Now you’re openin’ up.” 

He shakes his head. “Just answerin’ your question. Why I did this.” 

You frown. You continue suturing without faltering, but Joel must see your face because for once, he keeps going. 

“You weren’t gonna get outta here anytime soon,” Joel says. “Not with Jake up your ass, makin’ those kind of comments. You didn’t hear the way he talked about you with everyone else.” 

A chill runs up your spine. You fight to keep your hands steady. 

“There was only so much I could do to protect you the way things were here,” he says. “So I changed things.” 

He talks about it so simply. Slaughtering a whole camp of people is changing things. 

But he did it to save your life. Can you really cherry pick any of that? Especially when you thought about doing the same countless times over the months? 

“My brother and I fell apart,” Joel continues. “He didn’t like the shit I was doing to survive— said there was a line we had to draw, that there was more to life than just survivin’. I didn’t agree. So we went our separate ways.” 

Joel meets your eyes. “I ain’t gonna let that happen to you. Not when you’ve still got a chance.” 

You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek when you feel the pinpricks of incoming tears. 

He really did do this for you. To keep you alive—to keep you safe. 

When you fell asleep that night, you thought he was only a couple steps away from betraying you. 

Instead, he was your salvation.

-

After you stitch Joel up, give him some painkillers, and make sure he’s not going to die, you take your time going through the rest of the camp. There’s a surprising amount of materials around, especially that was being kept in individual rooms. It’s a little difficult seeing all the bodies, but not as hard as you thought it would be. 

When you get to Jake’s room, you take your pistol from his body and shoot him in the head with it. He’s already dead, but it still brings you some sort of satisfaction. You think Joel will chastise you for wasting bullets, but he doesn’t say a thing. 

You fit as much as you can into both of your packs and even more in your horses’ saddle packs. You pick the two that look to be the strongest and set the others free—they’ll stand a chance on their own rather than tied up here. 

It’s nearly morning by the time you’re done, and you stand next to Joel as you watch the sunrise. It might be the one thing you never get tired of—one of the few things that remind you of how beautiful the world used to be. 

Dawn is… oddly silent here. You grew up with frogs and cicadas and all sorts of barn animals making themselves heard into the night and early morning, but the apocalypse brings a strange sense of serenity. When it’s not being interrupted by infected or hunters, that is. 

“Feels wrong standing out here,” you murmur. “Knowin’ what you did.”

“I told you, it had to be done.” Joel shakes his head. “You wanted ‘em dead anyways.” 

“Doesn’t make it any easier,” you say. “Nothin’ does.”

“Maybe for you,” he says. 

You hum in acknowledgment. This isn’t something you want to fight over—not know. 

“Where’re you goin’ after this?” you ask. 

“No clue,” he murmurs. “I sorta… drift from place to place. Anywhere I can survive.”

“I understand,” you say. “Spent a lotta time like that.” 

You feel Joel’s gaze on you. “What about you? Where’re you off to?” 

“Boston,” you say. “It’s where Connor and I agreed to meet again. We heard about a QZ there, so figured it would be a safe place to meet after however long it takes to get there. Been tryin’ to get there for a while, but I’ve been thrown…” you chuckle, “majorly off course. Seems like a pipe dream now, but I’m still gonna try.” You glance over at him.  “Can you believe we’re stuck in Kansas?” 

“Got no idea how the hell I ended up here,” Joel says with a chuckle of his own. “Figure you would like it, though. Close enough to your panhandle.” 

“Close enough but farther than ever,” you say, and you smile wistfully. “I miss the farm.” 

“I miss Texas,” he admits. 

“Someday, we’ll get back,” you murmur. 

Joel hums in acknowledgement. He looks back at the sky, and a good ten seconds of silence pass between you before he speaks.

“I’ll get you to Boston.” 

Your eyes widen. For a moment, you’re not sure if you’ve heard him correctly. “What?”

Joel shrugs. “Didn’t save your life back there to leave you to die out here.”

“I can’t ask you to do that, Joel,” you say. “You— you barely know me.” 

“Actually, you talked my ear off enough that I know plenty,” he says. “‘Sides, I’m gonna need someone to keep an eye on this wound—rather have it be the devil I know.” 

You feel a certain warmth settle in your chest, alongside a growing smile on your lips. “You’re serious.” 

“As a heart attack,” he nods. 

You stare at Joel for a good, long while, and then you hug him. 

You can’t help it. You can feel his staggered heartbeat, his uneven breathing—the way he just… stands there, like it’s the last thing he expected. It makes you wonder how long it’s been since someone last hugged him, showed any kind of affection. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he says. It takes a second, but he hesitantly wraps an arm around you. He pats your back more than anything, but when you pull away, he’s fighting a smile. 

“I mean it, Joel.” You laugh, almost giddy. “It felt like a death mission on my own. But with you… seeing my brother again feels real.” 

“No sense in lettin’ someone else lose a brother when I can try and stop it,” he says. 

“You’ll find Tommy again,” you say. “I know—” 

“No,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “We made our choices. But you and Connor still got a chance.” 

You swallow the lump building in your throat and nod. No use arguing with him over one of the sorest subjects. “This means more than anything, Joel. I’m serious.” 

“Then let’s not waste it on being sentimental,” he says. “C’mon. We’re burning daylight.” 

You let out a breathy sort of laugh, full of relief, as you follow him over. Joel locks his fingers together to give you a step up onto your horse, and once you’re on, he gives you an amused look. 

“You do know how to ride a horse, farm girl?” 

“Please,” you huff. “I grew up around ‘em. Probably know better than you.” 

“Let’s not get crazy now.” 

Joel gets on his horse and you ride up closer to him so you can look him in the eye. 

“So we’re goin’ to Boston,” you say. “Any idea how the hell we get from here to there?” 

He pulls a rolled-up paper out of his pack and flattens it out. “Just so happens our benevolent leader Jake had a map. It ain’t the best, but it’ll give us a path to follow.” 

You nod a few times, your resolve steadily growing. “We can actually do this.” 

“‘Course we can,” Joel says. “Didn’t do all this just to fail.” 

“Some actual optimism,” you marvel. “I can’t believe it.” 

He shrugs. “Balance is important.” 

“And a joke, too,” you say. “If the world hadn’t already ended, I would think it was right now.” 

“Alright.” Joel huffs and shakes his head. “Let’s get goin’ before I regret bringing you with me.” 

You don’t try to bite back your smile this time. 

You stir your horses into action as you begin to ride, Joel in front of you to lead but little distance between you. 

You knew you would get out of this place somehow, but you thought you’d slip out in the middle of the night alone, running for your life with no idea of where to go next. You’d run into a group of people, barter your skills in return for your survival, and so on and so forth until you somehow made it to Boston. A pipe dream indeed. 

Instead, you’ve got a horse, a pack full of supplies, a plan, and Joel. 

You’ve got Joel, and you feel like you can breathe for the first time in months.  

[vaaaaaiolet]

um ok tldr i had a very strange long overdue crashout and am checking myself into the hiatus ward until further notice LMAO

so if that's all you're here for I LOVE YOU!! and goodbye <3

so for the rest of you nosy people (MY PEOPLE!!), here's your james charles apology video.

i don't like being negative on this blog. unfortunately a bunch of goals and commitments need my attention right now (have been for the last 5 months actually) and i'm diverting my energy to writing instead, except writing's not really making me happy either? i feel obligated to write (entirely my fault, literally no one is pushing me) and it makes me indifferent towards a hobby i really loved at one point. also it's been like. three years of writing for one character from one franchise if you count before i started posting. that's 52,460 words about ONE WHITE MAN!! i've tried dismissing and denying the feeling by pushing myself through wips but i'm straight up burnt out.

fanfic etiquette also sucks ass rn and while i've been lucky to be spared from the brunt of it, it's pretty discouraging to write for empty likes and no feedback. times change and people switch fandoms. right now i'm spending too much time daydreaming behind a screen, gambling on reader response, missing out on life experiences people my age are getting. i'm not happy with the way i've let fandom related worries seep into my real life. maybe i'm just shit at handling my priorities. i want to stop writing about the world and start living in it.

this really isn't that serious i'm just a dramatic bitch LMFAO there are lots of insanely brilliant, talented authors on here + ao3 waiting for you to read their work!! in the meantime, i can't wait to become a reader again. medicine is one of my biggest passions. i haven't been devoting time to it like i have my writing hobby and i'm feeling unfulfilled in that regard too.

thank you from the bottom of my heart to every single one of you i've met on here. i've only ever had the sweetest readers. i can't ever repay you for your kind words, but i hope you know each one made me scream and jump and happy cry. some of you have been here from the very start and i don't know what i did to make you stay, but it means the world to me. new faces and old timers alike, i love you.

and i wouldn't be who i am without my mutuals. you guys have broken my heart and stitched it up again with your prose, and i can't thank you enough for the hours of laughter we've had while separated by our screens. i look up to every one of you. more than the rush of writing, i'll miss this warm corner we made together on the internet most. let's get coffee if you're ever in town?

HOO BOY OKAY so that's everything that's been on my mind for the last few months. literally nobody cares and the world keeps spinning. i'll be logging out right after i post this otherwise i'd stay forever (and continue burning myself out to nobody's benefit). i still hope i cross paths with y'all again real soon :)

stay healthy, drink water, i love you <3

[npookie0]

Hi hi feel free to ignore this ask since it's kinda boring but I was wondering if you could write headcanons of the Lis with a reader that DESPISES summer like the heat and all the bugs that come out they absolutely hate it and thank you for all ur hardwork on ur fics I absolutely love them !!

Heat Hater

I'm so glad that someone wants to read headcanons about me <3 / j

Killer Chat Love Interests x mc who hates summer

Emo Olympics :

He very likely hates it too, he can't wear most of his sick sick emo clothes and black clothes + sun are not like us, they're not a great couple

My man doesn't really give a fuck about bug but since you hate them so much he will buy a restock of bug spray because the one he owns is half empty and five years old

Ronin takes a water for you everywhere and gets your ice cream whenever you get out

"Awh? Can't take a lil heat? Yeah, same here, let's get outta here before we end up like boiled eggs." He probably has a fan in his room and that fan is the main attraction in his room for the two of you when summer is around

She Bites :

She gets you on the bugs, especially mosquitoes, she has to be super careful so they don't bite her, spray for insects is her best friend and she uses it on you too 'just in case'

A hot woman is not afraid of some heat!! Also what's the difference between five hundred studio lights and the sun? Both are bad for her and both make the places she's in unbearably hot. Luckily because of that Angel has ways to make the high temperatures more bearable

Sunscreen is your new best friend now too. "Listen you my not care about the UV light during the winter, but now you HAVE to use this, okay baby? Great."

"It's too warm? I know love, we can go back to my place, I have AC so we won't die of overheating there."

Whimsy Pal :

No magical ways on dealing with the hit, you both suffer and hate it, the trailer's floor is surprisingly cold and you two occupy it like your life depends on it.

Ice cream for breakfast, lunch and dinner, because keeping cold is important.

You two just run away from the bugs and fight them in their trailer if they intrude

"I hate it too honey trust! But we'll survive... somehow..." You mostly get out at night because it's not that bad anymore

Rich Guy :

V has a whole pool in that house I can bet and if not then he just takes you to a pool very often so you can a) spend some active time b) not die in heat (if you don't like pools then i'm sorry but i like them <3)

Sunscreen, sprays for insects, sun glasses (good quality ones) and clothes that won't make you suffocate in the weather. He has it all prepared, when did he do all that? No one knows, but at least you'll survive the heat without needing to worry about it

The heat doesn't bother him as much ("as a vigilante i need to be able to survive every weather condition" ahh) but he is always ready to change plans if the weather is too much for you

"Remember to hydrate, it may be hard, but if you really want the heat to be less troublesome then drink a lot." You've never drank more water and cold drinks in your entire life

They're a little silly, I hope that it's not too silly !!

meow meow

bai bai

love ya

nate <3

[sparkanonymous]

Cole & Geo meeting for the first time

Stargazing

Couch nap

Discovering Cole’s rock form

Making each other jewelry (or Bonzle presenting them both with jewelry she made for them)

Also the finders would have been really little right after the merge— so maybe Lostshipping taking care of lil toddler Spitz and Fritz

Thank you for the requests! :]

This one is a long one. I wanted to do all of the requests and didn't want to make separate posts for each one, so here's all of them in one post!

Cole and Geo meeting for the first time.

I'm actually writing and posting a fic on AO3 and FFN about them. I've only posted 2 chapters, and I'm slowly working on the third one, but I have a concept of them meeting, even if it's sloppy. This is technically how they meet, but they don't introduce themselves until halfway through the second chapter... I think, where Cole wakes up being held hostage in the kitchen.

Basically, while looking for his friends after being thrown into a foreign land, Cole sees the Hoarder and goes that way in case his friends are being attacked. He sees someone around that area, attacks the Hoarder, and is quickly knocked out by garbage falling onto him, which causes a split in his head. Geo was the person he had seen, and he quickly took the ninja back to the Rookery to take care of his injuries, even if he didn't quite know how to do all that.

Here's the fic if anyone's curious.

●●●

Cole and Geo taking care of the boys.

I headcanon that Fritz and Spitz are 4-5 years old by the time Cole joins the Finders. When the boys were found by Geo, they were around 2-3, so they've been with him for a couple of years. I don't have any set backgrounds for them, but they're banished to the Land of Lost Things at the same time and find each other before Geo does. I believe Spitz is the more excitable of the two, more silly, while Fritz is more shy, more careful. Fritz was able to speak more clearly when Geo and him meet and is able to introduce himself. Spitz copied his name, not able to remember his own before he found himself here.

(I'm actually really happy with how Spitz came out here. I don't know how to draw animals, nevermind snakes, so him looking kind of cute here is a relief.)

●●●

Making jewelry with Bonzle.

I think I messed this request up, purely because you had asked for them to be making each other jewelry. But I think that this is nice either way. I'll fix it up a bit more before lining.

(Bonzle came out a lot better than I was expecting, being that I don't draw skeletons very often at all. And she actually looks like Bonzle and not Sans lol)

●●●

Discovering Cole's rock form.

Okay, this one is more... complicated, I think. In my head, they found Cole's rock form by a sudden wave of emotion, being Geo's heat of the moment kiss. Before this, Cole hadn't been able to control the earth very much at all, barely able to feel the power in his gut. He's only able to feel the pain of the earth. But when Geo kisses him and accidentally uses his own element during this, he's suddenly overwhelmed with the feeling of the earth. (This also leads to the misunderstanding in canon, where Geo feels as if he's only wanted because of the misconstrued theory Cole runs with.)

●●●

Couch cuddle.

●●●

Stargazing.

This one happens after they're able to get to Ninjago, and there's some semblance of peace. Geo hasn't seen the stars in so long, barely even remembers them, so he gets very excited when he sees them and starts pointing out the few constellations he can remember. Cole's too distracted, looking at the brightest star of them all. At this point, Cole's gotten Geo some new clothes, they're just very similar to his old ones because Geo had really liked his look.

I hope you liked all of these! They will all be lined at a later date!

Kofi

[scribbledghost]

Hello again! It’s 🤍 anon.

I loved what you did with the emotionally reserved ask and so I raise another for you.

How would the vessels(all) respond/react to a chronic pain/illness reader? My joints have been giving me grief lately and I can just imagine III being a space heater wrapped around reader, but I’d love to see what you do with it.

Maybe you could add in different reactions to different flare ups? Just spitballing ideas since writing is hard rn.

Many thanks!

-🤍Anon

Note: Hello my dear 🤍! I don't know that I did very well with the different types of flare ups, but I did focus more on chronic pain. I can sympathize with your joints giving you grief (though mine is less "chronic illness" and more "I've developed a condition called 'I'm-now-over-thirty-years-old-itis'"), so hopefully this can bring you some enjoyment!

I think they panic at first when they notice you're in pain. Even if you're just arriving at the manor for the first time, they all sort of rush you, thinking you're seriously injured and in need of help. It doesn't particularly ease their minds when you explain that it's just... normal for you, but they allow you to proceed as usual.

Once things progress and you stick around and begin relationships with the vessels, they still get antsy when they can sense your pain levels rising. They'll seek you out almost immediately if they're not already around, doing what they can to (hopefully) make you feel a little better. Even if there's not much they can do to help you physically, they figure they can at least maybe help you mentally.

Vessel will pretty much take over for you. He wants to provide, after all, so anything you need, he's on it. He'll bring you whatever you ask for, he'll do anything you want. If you're bedbound, he's right there with you so you won't feel like you're alone. If you need quiet, he's making sure the others keep the noise level to a minimum. He'll help you do anything to try and ease your discomfort or pain, should you ask him to. I can see him doing little things too, like trying to siphon off some of your mental pain to himself if he can. There's unfortunately little he can do for physical pain, but he can hopefully make it a bit more bearable emotionally.

II will be a steady presence. I can also see him doing a lot of research on whichever condition you have, and maybe even bringing new home remedy ideas for you to try in hopes they have some sort of positive effect. Of course, he's always there with various compresses, ointments, or other go-to's that you know work at least a little bit. If you need to be on a certain diet, he's pretty much developing a menu for you to make sure you eat. He also wants you to talk to him about how you're feeling and how you've usually dealt with it in the past. There's only so much books can tell him, after all, and he wants to hear from you about your experiences.

III will be your space heater/weighted blanket. He's like a cocoon, wrapping you up in his long limbs and pulling you close. If you want the pressure, he's more than happy to squeeze you tight like a boa constrictor, sort of like bundling you up in fabric like a little burrito. He also likes to try and make you laugh, so he's telling you goofy jokes or making little shadow puppets on the wall. Anything to get you to smile. In the event you need something more gentle and quiet, he's pulling you close and purring. He read somewhere that purring usually makes people feel better, so he hopes it works here too.

IV will absolutely refuse to let you move a muscle when he's around. If you need anything, he's telling you to stay put while he gets it for you. If you need to go anywhere, he's carrying you (superhuman strength, remember?). He'll hold ice packs or warm compresses to wherever you need him to, carefully timing it so he can alternate accordingly. He's also more than happy to provide cuddles. While he can't quite wrap around you as much as III can, he's still curled up with you in hopes the extra affection can make you feel a bit better. Like III, he'll also start purring quietly, though in IV's case it's more of a subconscious act because he's comfortable.

[lemotmo]

I totally agree with everything you said about the finale. I may be called delusional, stupid, etc. - I don’t care, but all of the Buddie interactions this episode were solid (at least to me). Sure, it’s not a lot, BUT: If it was Tommy who saved Buck and Buck was sending all those loaded looks his way people would lose their minds and start saying that it must mean they’re getting together. But since it’s Buddie people are dooming and saying that these kind of looks are not enough (to me? they are enough right now and the best we could get in this kind of episode). They could’ve finished this season so much worse in regards of Buddie, they could’ve ended up with another random love interests, but no, they’re still single. They showed Buck LOOKING for an apartment, there’s nothing that suggests that he moved out. And don’t even get me started on the loaded conversation he had with the realtor. Some may say “oh, but all his stuff is gone”. So? He could’ve put it in a storage somewhere to make Eddie’s move easier. I get being disappointed and I get all the negativity because everything is so fresh now but so many people already jumped to so many conclusions when literally nothing is set in stone. We have a full season ahead of us, where Eddie is actually present in LA and the show is still not over. I know fans are tired of this back and forth between Buck and Eddie but I’ve been here since 2019, the ending to this season is not that catastrophic in regards to Buddie as some make it seem. If we will be in the same place next year, then I will consider closing but I’m willing to give them one more chance. I’m not gonna lie, the setup they had this season for Buddie seemed perfect and I’ll still be a little sad that Bobby’s death shook everything up, but the writers (the good ones, I’m not looking at you, Kristen) and Ryliver gave us so much stuff to actually believe that sooner or later we will get them together that I can’t find it in myself to give up just yet.

(Pro tip: if anyone needs some cheering up - just watch OS and RG reading thirst tweets, works like a charm)

Anyway, sorry if this was too long, have a nice hiatus. 😊

Glad to see some positivity in my inbox. Thank you!

I've also been here since the beginning and I fully agree that we've had worse season finales in the past. Season 6 and 7 come to mind immediately.

We did have a lot more build up this season, but that hasn't disappeared. That will still be there when season 9 begins. Let's hope they'll use that knowledge wisely this time.

With Bobby gone, Bathena is gone as well. This show will need a new romance to focus on. Madney and Henren are established couples, that leaves Buck and Eddie. From what I've seen in the upfronts, I'm cautiously optimistic about what is about to come for season 9.

And YES! That thirst tweet video is like liquid gold. It is soooo shiny! 🤗

Thank you! I'm sure I'll enjoy this hiatus. I might write some fanfic and focus on a few other shows I've neglected for a while. I need some rest and a break from the stress this fandom brings along sometimes when the seasons are airing.

You have a great hiatus as well.

[bewitchingbloom]

same ghosts in a new home

I've been trying to find some writing prompts to turn to when I want to write but don't know what, and when these prompts passed by my dash earlier I knew I found the list to pull from. I used a random number generator to pick which prompt to write. Up first we have:

same ghosts in a new home (961 words)

Fandom: Pathfinder Wrath of the Righteous

Rating: T for implied sexual activity (nothing graphic)

Ship: The Commander/Daeran/Woljif

Other notes: Second Person POV

In some of the books you’d read in the past, you’d run into descriptions of the lingering effects of an argument. You’d always dismissed them as poetic hogwash. But now, as you stand in the middle of the sitting room of our new home, you could swear there was an echo, the last vestiges of heated words and raised voices falling back through time to haunt you. 

Truthfully, you're not sure what you said to set Woljif off, or why I was upset with your refusal to apologize. We knew what you were like by now, and you thought you were being nice. Though, if you're being honest with yourself, you know how your words can land more like poisoned barbs than playful jabs. This fight might not be entirely your fault, but you're not completely innocent in it either. 

With a sigh, you turn towards the liquor cabinet, situated right next to the stairway you once sat in waiting for us to join you in. You remember the soft words and the heated embraces, reminders that your melancholy was as ephemeral as it was unfounded. Even now, the memory brings a small smile to your lips. “You will never pale into insignificance.” “You're stuck with us, Your Excellency.” 

To the hells with it. Abandoning your original trajectory, you turn towards the door. Judging by the light filtering in through the window, you have a couple hours yet before the sun goes down. Perhaps you have a plan, perhaps you just want some fresh air. Either way, you’re out of the house before you even realize it. 

****

Now, as for you, Woljif, you had stormed out of the house into the backyard. It was still mostly an overgrown ruin, a choking tangle of weeds and debris that I intend to one day transform into a garden bursting with life. The only thing of note was the small part of the Sellen River that flowed through it, a sliver of pure, bubbling water that you once spent an evening frolicking in with Daeran and I. The memories are pleasant, and the guilt that pervades you at their arrival is entirely unwelcome. 

With an aggravated sigh, you pull one of your daggers out of its holster. Even now it’s a habit to make sure you’re armed. Maybe there will come a day when you don’t feel the need, and when it comes, that’s how you’ll know you’ve truly lost your edge. With a frown, you toss the knife at a nearby stump. It sticks with a loud thud, not unlike the sound the door made when you slammed it come out here. 

Your edge…that’s what this about. Just two years ago you were still running with the Family and scrabbling to get by day to day. Now, here you are, married to two of the most prestigious people in the country and the beginnings of a home to call your own. This is something you should be happy about, and you are! But there is a part of you that feels like you’re betraying everything you’d ever known, stabbing the boy you once were in the back for the first shred of kindness and love that had been shown to you. 

You pull the dagger free, all the anger in your veins dying as the blade comes loose from the wood. Daeran didn’t mean anything by it, but the quip had been phrased just right, careless in the way only someone who’d never faced such hardship could be. Now you know that the wounds of your past still stung.

Taking a deep breath, you flop onto the stump, staring out into the sunlit water. Just a few more minutes, then you’ll be ready to go back inside. Whether it’ll be to make amends or fan the flames again, you’re not sure. But judging by the loose grip you have on your dagger, you are so much more tired of holding grudges than you realized. 

****

At least, I want to believe these are the thoughts that ran through both of your heads. Earlier, when Daeran’s comment landed poorly and led to the most explosive fight I’d seen you two have since the Crusade, I’d felt perfectly useless. All of us still carry the ghosts of our past, and we’d spent so long trying to bury mine that I’d forgotten that you two still had yours to deal with. Words cannot describe how inadequate I felt as a partner in that moment.

Now, the three of us are lying on the floor of the living room, my shortcomings only still plaguing my own mind. You two had made up hours ago, and we carried on our evening in the way newlyweds are wont to do. But as you two drifted off to sleep, I found myself lying awake, haunted by my own, brand new ghost - the one borne of fear that one day I’d lose both of you. I’d been so wrapped up in the tangible ways that could happen, I didn’t realize all the other ways it could happen. 

The two of you lie on either side of me, your hands clasped below my breasts as your breathing evens out. The floor is far from comfortable, and the throw pillows from the couch aren’t much better, but just being here with you two…it doesn’t make it more comfortable, but there’s no other place I’d rather be. The crackling fire wants to lull me to sleep, and I know I should rouse you two before morning comes and the housemaid finds the three of us lying here naked. But for the moment, I am just savoring this moment, and thinking of ways we can help our ghosts to play nicely together in our new home.

[iamamythologicalcreature]

2024 Round-Up and Review

2024, aka The Year I Discovered I Love Drawing Baz With Long Hair.

But also.

Honestly?

(Yeah, I'm going to be honest. Yeah, it's going to be a long post. Buuuut it's my blog, so here we go!)

This past year was rough. Really rough. In many ways as difficult as 2020, and in some ways, even harder than that. I lost my specialized medical care after 2023, and my health tanked in 2024. Medication changes, chronic illness/pain, and the hardest thing of all was... this idea I seemed to have that if I could just fake it enough, I could make it. Like I could deny my disability into non-existence. Pretend it away.

Instead, I ended up pushing myself past the breaking point, with the worst possible timing ever.

And THEN (when I desperately needed to stop and rest), I packed up my life and moved across a continent. (I hadn't moved since college. So I thought I'd move and it'd be done. That was wrong. Ahem. I'm still moving in...)

But the GOOD that happened last year came in the form of friendship. That's not just a line. My friends were my lifeline. To those friends who stuck it out with me even when things were far from easy, thank you. You are the most incredible people I know, and your friendship has given me reasons and opportunities to feel joy and hope where I might not otherwise have done.

Okay. So. The ROUND-UP is... *drum roll*... Under the cut!

At first I was a bit bummed to see I'd only finished 9 pieces of art during the entire year. But since I am being honest... I know I did my best, and so clearly the best I could do last year was nine pieces of art. So many of those pieces were attached to amazing projects, though! I got to do several collaborations with some truly amazing human beings, and I also got to run my very first fest for the fandom! So I'm calling it good.

Now, finally, the art links:

(I won't be including works in progress on this list, as I still hope to finish them at some point XD)

January: Oh my God, January. I didn't finish anything in January, but I worked on a lot.

February:

Tis better to give than to receive - This was my contribution to Erotic Grope Fest, and it was my first time doing anything NSFW. It's pretty tame, all things considered, but I think it still fit the mission. Also ended up posting a high-res version of this on AO3. Because. I mean. Come on. XD

March:

Three lost boys (found) - I started out as a beta reader for @mooncello's inspired take on Neverland, but by the time I received chapter 2 I was very nearly begging to be able to illustrate it. I'd had this particular image in my mind after reading the matching scene in chapter one, but had tried to suppress the inspiration. Silly me. I'm so glad I gave in. This is a favorite of mine.

April:

Keeping Neverland - (Technically posted on Tumblr in May, but on AO3 in April, so...) Illustrating @mooncello's writing again, and this one was a challenge! But one I wholeheartedly embraced. I wanted to echo Baz's journey as an artist with my illustrations, so where I used pencil sketching for the chapter one illustration, I went for a finished charcoal drawing, here. Digital charcoal, it turns out, can be just as difficult as the real deal. Slightly less messy, though. (I'm very proud of this finished piece.) Also where I continued my exploration of Baz's long hair. XD

May:

A rough sketch for a rough night - It feels a little off to be posting this sketch in my art round-up, considering the emotional inspiration, but truth be told I ended up liking this sketch quite a lot. I also learned a couple things, from both the events of that night (not my finest moment) and the drawing of the sketch (hey putting my feelings into art is a good idea). So I think ultimately this little sketch deserves to be included on this list.

June:

Teenage Dream - I posted this on Tumblr in June, for my birthday, but I actually did the art at the beginning of the year for the Valentine's Day exchange on the Carry On server. I rarely finish anything to this degree, and am immensely proud of it. That said, I ended up using it for so many things last year, I'd be okay to not look at it again for awhile. (I called it "Teenage Dream" because it made me think of a daydream Baz might have had as a teenager - now made real with Simon by his side. Cause I'm a sucker for their romance >.> )

Illustration from The Eternal Life of Baz Pitch - So I'm not sure how I got lucky enough to earn a special preview of @monbons's story, but I knew I couldn't read it in pieces. So she let me read the whole thing. It was very cool. I read it all at once I think? And when I was done I crashed Monica's DMs to yell at her about it. But then I drew this picture. (While I was chatting with her, even, and casually asking her about cherry blossoms so I could draw them the way she imagined them. It was very fun.) Now we're friends. XD (Check out the fic - now posted in entirety!)

July: Uh. Migraines. Just migraines. I had to pull back from the fandom a lot, and stopped participating in a lot of online activities. Boo.

August: Sketched concepts for CORB, and packed.

September: I moved over 4000 miles.

October: Everything I worked on in October ended up debuting in...

November:

Carry On Through the Ages! Okay, as stressed and sick as I was, I have no regrets about taking on COTTA. It was AMAZING. So much wonderful content! It was SO GOOD to contribute to the fandom, and to do that with history geeking? Dream come true. I also dipped into my previous area of expertise (picture manipulation) and did some cursed paintings to promote it. Mona Baz, Stormchaser Gothic, Mademoiselle Wellbelove, and Iconic Icon Simon.

A Prophesied Rivalry - Another dream come true was collaborating with @monbons for COTTA! I loved talking ideas with her, and she was so supportive when I hit road blocks, too. I love Ancient Egyptian art, and this was as much a love letter to that ancient art style as it was to my beloved Snowbaz. (I did a ridiculous amount of research to do this piece.) (And now I have Egyptian Baz and Simon in my new apartment. Extreme Bonus.)

Snow on Ice Illustration - Getting paired with @leithillustration for CORB was like winning the creative collaboration lottery. Not only did they grasp my concept from the get-go, but they've taken it in a creative and exciting direction. Also, we've become good friends, which is the very best possible outcome for a collaboration. (You should check out their story if you haven't already!)

(Snow-kitty also got very sick at the end of November, which halted a lot of my progress on some WIPs. It was scary for a bit, but I am so happy to say he has fully recovered.)

December:

Snowflake Exchange presents More Than a Footnote - I kind of love that I started the year illustrating one of @mooncello's stories, and ended it with an illustration from another! I was so excited to pull Heath's name from the proverbial hat for the exchange. I'd wanted to draw something from More Than a Footnote since the first time Heath told me about it. I completely love Dev and Niall at this point, so I hope to play with them some more in the future! (BTW Heath I think you're one of my muses hope that's okay XD)

SO. Yeah, the year was often a hard one, but a lot of good happened in spite of all the bad. The good was even more valuable for daring to happen in the midst of so much blah. (And boy howdy, did I get a lot of material to learn from.)

In 2025, I think I'm going to focus more on accepting my limits. Like, I can still work on improving my health and functionality, but I really need to try and determine when I need to stop. That has its own learning curve, but I have to start somewhere! I'm also working on vision therapy, which I'm doing on my own since I can't afford the out-of-pocket expense. Still... So far, so good. Fingers crossed!

Creatively, I think 2025 will be the year where I get to work on projects I started in 2023 and 2024, and I find that quite exciting because those are ideas I genuinely loved. I also hope to bring some other ideas I've had for a very long time to life. (Finally.) I hope, hope, hope! And hey, if I get to do more collabs? That would be awesome, too. (Carry On Through the Ages will be returning, as well!)

Thank you to these lovely people for tagging me in on this round-up, and for remembering me despite my frequent absence!

@emeryhall, @rimeswithpurple, @prettygoododds, @artsyunderstudy, @noblecorgi, @alexalexinii, @best--dress, @j-nipper-95, @roomwithanopenfire, @you-remind-me-of-the-babe, @imagineacoolusername, @mooncello, @whatevertheweather, @thewholelemon, @youarenevertooold, @monbons

And to everyone who is still tagging me on wipsday posts, other things, commented, any of that! Thank you. It means a lot to me. Hello's and How-Do's and general well-wishes to:

@drowninginships, @aristocratic-otter, @that-disabled-princess, @leithillustration, @bookish-bogwitch, @theimpossibledemon, @fiend-for-culture, @bazzybelle, @ic3-que3n, @blackberrysummerblog, @run-for-chamo-miles, @shrekgogurt, @confused-bi-queer, @hushed-chorus, @cutestkilla, @skeedelvee, @carryonsimoncarryonbaz, @wellbelesbian, @facewithoutheart, @ileadacharmedlife,, @raenestee, @supercutedinosaurs, @fatalfangirl, @palimpsessed, @martsonmars, @brilla-brilla-estrellita, @theearlgreymage

And anyone else who actually read my extremely long post. XD

[scary-monsters]

▹broken boy | a diego brando character study | ch.1 | 2.7k ▹synopsis: Britain's beloved genius jockey. Swimming in money, trophies, lovers, recognition… and yet, he starves for more. With a shady past, dangerously unclear motives, and an explosive ego to boot, it's no wonder his inner circle consists of only himself and those that can benefit him. (Canon leaves out a lot. This fic begins with ten-year-old Diego and aims to fill in the gaps throughout the rest of his life while still remaining true to his core character.) [ read on ao3 instead ]

For young Diego Brando, the closest feeling to “home” is found at the stables. It’s in the creaking of old doors, the crunch of hay underneath his worn boots, the familiar snorts and whinnies that echo throughout the wooden fixtures as soon as he steps near. These days, he can tell them all apart. Diego knows the horses at this farm well enough that they might as well be his brothers and sisters. And, well… in a way, he supposes they’re the closest he’ll ever get to having any sort of family again.

It’s early on a Tuesday; Diego’s just barely beat the sunrise, already dressed in his work attire and headed for the very stables he finds such solace in. Maybe he’s a lucky boy, given that he’s had the opportunity to work with horses for the past five years in order to earn his keep around here. It’s a “dream job” of sorts, he supposes. At any rate, his interaction with the people on this farm tends to stay at a minimum. His job is quite simple: tend to the horses every single day. Feed them, groom them, clean their enclosures. This, of course, is bare bones, but Diego fancies himself an overachiever. He knows the horses by name, understands all their habits and quirks and what makes them tick, so taking each of them around the farm for regular exercise is easy (and enjoyable) work.

With a squeak, the stable doors open easily for him, the air fills his nose with the familiar and comfortable smell of hay. Diego can already hear at least one of his beloved companions stirring in an enclosure just to his left. Cursed with less than average height, he’s unable to clearly see, but he already knows it’s one of the dappled grays, an elderly mare named Tilly.

“Morning, girl,” Diego whispers, approaching the enclosure’s door and giving it a gentle pat. He makes a mental note to take her out for a ride later; it’s been a few days, but he tries to find balance between keeping Tilly active without overexerting her.

Diego’s first attempt at riding a horse was less than successful, of course. He’d just turned five, but his interest in horses had been clear since his infancy. Nervous as she was, Diego’s mother was never the type to discourage his desire to try something new, constantly instilling in him her pride in his drive and intelligence from such a young age. However, her instinct told her to deny him this one request. Her son was much too young, and she was fiercely protective.

Perhaps it was the rough conditions he’d been raised in, but Diego seemed to mature at a much faster pace than the other children on the farm. He’d had no choice, really. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, this came with impenetrable stubbornness. Diego respected his mother more than anyone else, but beyond that he wanted nothing more than to make her proud. And so, while she’d been distracted with her own work, he’d attempted to mount one of the more aggressive stallions.

As strong as his innate ability to connect with horses always has been, Diego’s first attempt had ended in him slipping off and tumbling to the ground, though thankfully with no critical injuries. His mother was fuming, scolding him and demanding he keep his distance from the animals for several days. Diego had been heartbroken, but beyond that he’d been embarrassed. The incident left him with a huge blow to his steadily blossoming confidence.

Nevertheless, this only made Diego’s drive much stronger. If there’s anything Diego unquestionably is, it’s persistent. Even more so these days, and it’s what his mother always encouraged him to be, anyway.

Diego gathers supplies from the corner of the stable; an old brush, a metal pick, a bucket, a few thick rope leads, and a rickety shovel. As he makes his way through the structure even more of his friends begin to stir, their heads popping up from behind stable doors and eyeing him expectantly. Diego leans on his shovel as his eyes dart from horse to horse, a grand total of seven in just this stable alone.

“Right then,” Diego states firmly, “we went from oldest to youngest yesterday, shall we switch it up today?”

Sensing no objections, Diego gives one strong nod and lugs his supplies over to the first enclosure on his right.

“Seems it’s your lucky day, Bolt.” The rusty metal latch of the stable door turns, another dappled gray waits inside, this one much younger than Tilly. In fact, he’s the youngest of several she’s birthed while living on this farm.

Diego approaches Bolt with as much gentleness as he does any of the other horses, yielding him the same trust he always receives. Beyond being in tune with horses and their quirks, he’s always had a knack for gaining their reliance almost immediately as well. Moments where he’s had to really prove himself to an animal have been few and far between, but it’s like his mother had said right before she’d passed: this is his innate talent.

With Bolt leashed securely to one of the wooden columns inside the structure, Diego sets to work cleaning up his living space. It’s not easy work, certainly not for a boy his age. Perhaps it’d be different if he were well fed and got regular, sufficient rest, but his living conditions on this farm have only gotten slightly better since his mother passed away four years ago.

Diego no longer sleeps on the barn floor, now he stays in the most run-down room of an inn just down the road from the farm. It’s dingy as it is, but his allowance will only grant him the lowest they have to offer. He continues to survive off daily portions of stew, but it’s not nearly enough to facilitate his growth at this rate. And, unfortunately, he’s always met with a tinge of humiliation when he has to stand in the very line where he’d seen his mother sacrifice her hands for him, only to make direct eye contact with the very same man who’d brought about the most traumatic moment of his life years ago.

The scrape of metal against the wooden floor breaks Diego out of his thoughts, almost like he’d instinctively pushed just a little harder. There’s no time for his mind to wander. The people of this farm will get what’s coming to them, eventually, someday. Diego has to believe it, it’s the one thing that keeps him waking up every single day.

Well, that and his horses. Diego lifts his eyes from the floor and glances over to Bolt, who’s watching him attentively and gently swishing his tail back and forth.

“Come now,” he tuts, chuckling softly to himself as he continues to shovel manure into a neat pile in the center of the enclosure. “Quite hard to do my job if you’re staring bullets through me.”

Bolt lightly shakes his head and snorts. He’s always had a bit more personality than some of the other horses, and Diego figures it may be thanks to his age. Bolt is only three, an age that causes the young boy to consider him something like a brother.

Diego leaves the stables for a moment to retrieve an old squeaky wheelbarrow from outside. He notices with contempt that some of the inhabitants of the small village are starting to go about their daily routines. Rage boils inside him for a moment, his hands clenching tightly against the handles.

Diego deeply inhales. Exhales. Reminds himself of his mother’s wise words.

Dignity. He cannot forget his dignity.

With that, he heads back inside, focusing on his daily tasks. The ache in his arms from shoveling manure and dirty hay is worthwhile in return for the pride he feels. And even though he must unfortunately traverse outside the safety of the stables to retrieve fresh water, he keeps his shoulders up, his head held high, ignoring the people around him.

Without question, Diego’s favorite part of his job is grooming the horses. Every single one of them remains calm under his touch, even as he scrapes at their hooves with a metal pick, albeit as gently as possible. By the time he’s reached the third stable, his hair sticks to his forehead with sweat. It’s not unusual for him to become fatigued partway through his day, but his focus remains on his companions. Before he knows it, he’s soared through caring for almost every horse inside the building.

Thankful that he’s saved his clear favorite for last, Diego eagerly unlatches Tilly’s enclosure and greets her with an encouraging click of his tongue. Hard of hearing at her old age, it takes her a moment to register his greeting, but as soon as she does she slowly rises to her feet.

“Hey, old girl,” Diego coos, extending his hand to carefully pet her muzzle, “fancy a ride this afternoon?”

Of course, as confident as he is in his ability to communicate with these animals, Diego can’t read their minds. But if he could, Tilly would easily be the most capable candidate. Maybe she doesn’t outwardly react, but Diego can sense she’s pleased with that suggestion. He won’t wear her out; he supposes a short walk around the village won’t be too strenuous.

Diego takes the most care with Tilly, offering her as much of his time as possible. Though he prefers not to dwell on it too much, he’s aware that she’s nearing the end of her life. Heart aching a bit at the thought, Diego chews at his lip as he brushes her beautifully spotted coat. A series of pats along her back act as an expression of his gratitude; if not for her, he’s unsure how he’d have gotten through his mother’s tragic passing.

Briefly overcome with emotion, he rests his cheek upon her side, closing his eyes for a moment. Diego isn’t sure how he’ll manage another round of loss, but at least in this instance it’ll be her time. Not like his mother. It wasn’t her time. She deserved to live a long, full life. It simply isn’t fair.

Diego’s eyes fly open and he proudly lifts his head once again.

Dignity. ---

Saddled up and fed, Tilly eagerly allows Diego to mount her. The young boy takes her reins in hand and steers her outside the stables. Balmy sunlight seems to almost restore her, causing her legs to move with a more lively energy. It has the same effect on Diego; his skin hungrily absorbs the bright rays, practically washing away the ache in his arms and legs. He feels at peace like this, astride his beloved horse, lifted above the people he passes by. It’s likely the closest he’ll ever feel to royalty.

Diego doesn’t stop for anyone. He ignores the eyes of the villagers; neighbors is a more accurate word, probably, but his resentment refuses to acknowledge them as such. None of them are worthy of nearing his beautiful steed, Tilly’s much too regal for their filthy hands. Stained with blood, the whole lot of them.

Spotting one of the farmhands just a few feet away, Diego makes a feeble attempt at steering Tilly in the opposite direction, but his fate’s been sealed. The man spots him, sneering in his direction and unfortunately approaching him.

“Brando,” he gruffly greets the boy, “you know that old thing should stay in the stables.”

Diego scoffs. The man may provide him with his work, but this doesn’t mean he deserves even a shred of his respect.

“Tilly has a name.” He lovingly brushes his hand along her neck. “Taking her for a stroll keeps her in shape. My job is to care for the horses, is it not?”

The farmhand narrows his eyes threateningly, but he doesn’t offer a rebuttal as far as Diego’s question. Of course he doesn’t; Diego’s one of the few who selflessly dedicates their time to caring for the animals.

“Her days are nearly up, boy. Wouldn’t it be more worthwhile to focus on the healthy horses?”

He’s undeserving of an answer, Diego decides. Lifting his head, he guides Tilly to turn around and head back for the stables. A short ride is all she can handle, sure, but he’s certain it’s been enough to lift her spirits. He won’t allow this sore excuse for a man to ruin that for her.

“How dare he speak to you like that,” Diego spits, gripping her reins even tighter, “I won’t stand for it. Mark my words, sweet girl.”

It’s a vague promise, but one that he intends to keep.

---

Diego awakens the following morning as he always does – sprawled out on a bedroll resting against the creaky wooden floor of a worn down inn. The sun has just started to peek over the horizon, and his eyes take a moment to adjust to the rays filtering through his small window. He sheds his too-small sleep clothes and clumsily changes into his dirty work attire, eager to start his day.

Ever since his encounter with that farmhand yesterday, he’s been filled with disdain. Diego decides he’ll spend extra time today doting on Tilly, he’ll make it clear to her that she’s worth just as much as any other horse on this farm. Maybe even more, given how much ridicule she’s been subject to.

As always, he’s up before many of the other residents. The silence makes the crunch of his shoes against gravel all the more audible, a welcome sound alongside the chirping of birds and whistling of a gentle breeze.

But something feels off. There’s a faint heaviness in the pit of his stomach, but he tries to quell the sensation. It’s simply the residual frustration from yesterday, he assures himself. As soon as he reaches the stables, he’s certain the comforting feeling of home will wash over him.

Diego approaches the small building, unlatches the old wooden door and steps inside. The sound of his companions reacting to his entrance causes a faint smile to grace his lips. He instinctively looks to his left, stepping towards Tilly’s enclosure and giving its entrance a gentle knock.

“Morning, old girl,” he greets her, just as he always does, but he’s met with silence.

The pit in his stomach grows heavier, larger. Diego curses his height and desperately presses his ear to the gate.

“Tilly?” He attempts to rouse her again.

The silence is deafening. With shaky hands he unlatches the gate and carefully swings it open.

Just as he feared, just as his instinct had told him, his beloved Tilly isn’t there. An empty stable, already tidied up and ready for another resident, is all that greets him.

For a moment, the quickly shrinking hopefulness within him insists that she must be out somewhere, that another farmhand has taken her for a stroll and graciously cleaned her living space. Given the sentiments he’d heard yesterday, he knows this realistically can’t be true. The memory of the farmhand's disgusting sneer and mocking tone echoes through Diego’s mind.

“Tilly,” Diego whispers, as if saying her name will bring her back to him.

It won’t. It can’t. Much in the same vein as his mother was taken from him, the people of this farm have once again spit on him, allowing someone dear to him to be wrongfully abandoned, tossed aside.

All he can do is fall to his knees, his hands grasping desperately at the hay underneath him. The warm sting of imminent tears begins in the corners of his eyes and as much as he’d like to fight it, he can’t. Stare fixed on the very spot that he’d seen Tilly just yesterday, his vision becomes blurry with moisture.

Diego wails, unrelenting. His body shakes with the force of his sobs, he pounds his fist against the wooden floor underneath him, aggressively rips at the too-clean hay surrounding him. It’s unfair, it wasn’t her time, and worst of all, he’d failed to protect her.

Inwardly, he apologizes to his mother, wherever her soul may have ended up. His grasp on dignity has faltered, his shame is immeasurable, and he childishly aches for her comforting embrace.

[campbyler]

ik part of it is that life and work just Be Like That sometimes, but every time i check back on your blog it seems yall are going through chronic ao3 author syndrome. sending love and good vibes your way i hope all three of you are doing ok and can catch a break soon!! (ik suni and thea yall are the ones writing the rest of it but sending love to andi as well)

also any tips on writing longer chapters without them sounding like they’re dragging on? i’m a (more casual) fic writer and my chapters always end up a little shorter than i usually hope they’d be

awake at 3am in a fit of jet lag and laughed aloud upon reading this bc you’re not wrong 😭 i feel like part of it is just timing, like thea’s work has a big busy season during the fall every year and her schedule also varies week by week and even day to day so i know some stretches are more difficult than others by default (rn she has been having to work from home on her weekend or after she clocks out which has been extra rough). my work tends to have bursts of insane work days every few weeks or so, and i just have a shitty daily commute on top of that and will sometimes get home like 12 hours after i left in the morning or something. so honestly there is a nonzero chance one of us is having a subpar time on any given workday i fear, and that schedule is pretty unpredictable given the nature of our very full time jobs. i also think it’s just statistically more likely that when we are active there is a reason for our Grievances to be brought up, either organically because we are coming out of a slump and are complaining about the Horrors or because someone checked in on us in a period of absence and we are giving a quick update, but either way, thank you so much for your wishesssss! thea will be getting a break soon (thank god) and i’m actually entering a bit of a busy stretch at work for the next week or so because we have a grant deadline to meet, which always means 10000 last minute experiments that i have to work into my schedule in the middle of the week and it’s really fun and lovely and great. woo hoo. 🙂

as for chapter lengths, i wish i had more solid advice but my problem is genuinely that i can’t for the life of me seem to trim them down 😭 i guess a part of it is largely how your chapters are structured — i only have a couple chaptered fics outside of acswy, but all of them are planned so that each chapter is quite meaty in terms of content or what i want each scene to accomplish. i will say that the singular thing that consistently drives up my word count is DIALOGUEEEEE!!! a blessing when i’m in a rut or have writers block and am trying to get something down on the page, a menace when im editing a scene transition i left to fill in for later and my wc is right at 29k and im sweating watching the number tick up. i find there’s absolutely nothing wrong with shorter chapters if it’s accomplishing what you hope for and i honestly am working really hard on trying to be more concise, but i do find dialogue to be a good way to slow down a scene that’s maybe rushing or is paced a little quicker than you intended. real conversations often stray off topic, people ramble or get sidetracked or get interrupted by things they’re doing — i love describing people talking while doing chores or eating or whatever because you can break up the dialogue with bits of action — and at least for me, it’s a lot easier to work in some narration or description in with dialogue than it is to just write a couple paragraphs of it straight up, which also sometimes feels a little more blunt and Quick than i intend it to be. one thing we both do a Lot is script out dialogue between characters and then go back in to fill in things like speech tags, action descriptions, inner monologues and thoughts, etc. literally just like:

character 1: ___ character 2: _______ 1, (note on how it’s meant to be said or what they’re thinking/intending to say to cue us in later): _____ 2: _____________ (small description of them moving around/something happening in the background to give a visual for describing later)

so on and so forth. it helps a lot either when we want to establish the setup of a dialogue heavy scene before we forget our inspiration, or we’re feeling a bit too blocked to be able to write more descriptively at the moment, etc etc. it’s a really natural way to focus on the flow of conversation without getting caught up in transitions and repetition of dialogue tags and stuff, and usually is the culprit for a scene taking way longer to finish than expected for me.

all that being said, the times i have actually felt like a chapter is paced too quickly is usually either when the dialogue exchange is too fast and feels like the conversation could be more fleshed out, or maybe likeeee a transition happens a little too immediately and it reads a little bit like one thing happening after the next after the next without much of a pause for expansion. if you’ve managed to get your point across in fewer words and your main concern is driving up the word count, i really wouldn’t worry about it! you could always have someone look at it with a fresh pair of eyes and ask for places they feel could use more explanation or detail (maybe describing a setting more vividly? or giving more insight to some of their thoughts at a certain point?) but genuinely — conciseness is a Skill, and seeing how i have once again accidentally answered an ask with one million words, i’ll actually just trade you some of my internal word vomit right now. here you go -> 🎁

[nichiperi]

happy birthday to meeee~ ヘ⁠(⁠￣⁠ω⁠￣⁠ヘ⁠)

[ssreeder]

Chapters: 18/? Fandom: Avatar: The Last Airbender Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar), Aang/Katara (Avatar), others to be tagged later - Relationship Characters: Sokka (Avatar), Zuko (Avatar), Aang (Avatar), Katara (Avatar), Toph Beifong, Jet (Avatar), Suki (Avatar), Kyoshi Warriors (Avatar), Iroh (Avatar), Jee (Avatar), Hakoda (Avatar), Bato (Avatar), A bunch of OCs, Long Feng, Joo Dee (Avatar), Azula (Avatar), Mai (Avatar), Ty Lee (Avatar), Ozai (Avatar), General Fong (Avatar) Additional Tags: Violence, Blood and Injury, War, Minor Character Death, Rape/Non-con Elements, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Attempted Sexual Assault, Major Character Injury, Amputation, Implied/Referenced Suicide, possible major character death, themes similar to the first two books, Sexism, Racism (like has already been written in first two books), dark themes, Human Trafficking, Slavery, Just a lot of dark war-like themes, there will be a battle, Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Injury Recovery, Healing, Underage Sex, Underage Drinking, Animal Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Warnings each chapter, Hopefully some healing for Zuko finally, no promises, but that’s the goal, Reunions, hopefully a happy ending, Sokka gets some healing too, Non-Consensual Drug Use Series: Part 3 of Leaving It All Behind Summary:

-This is the last book of the series LIAB, please go read the other two books before this, or you will be very confused-

Zuko has been taken by the Earth Kingdom army to who-knows-where, and Sokka is determined to get him back.

But he can’t do it alone.

With Suki and the Kyoshi Warriors by his side, Sokka is headed to Ba Sing Se to find Katara and Aang so they can go rescue his fire bender.

Things aren’t as easy as he had hoped. Corruption, lies, and unknown horrors await them inside the city’s walls. None of this is helping Sokka’s mental well-being.

Hakoda and his men face a problem of their own as Azula approaches with the intentions of making it rain fire.

Sokka and Zuko will both find themselves having to reintegrate back into a life they thought they left behind, with people they hardly remember. It isn’t easy for anyone, especially when they don’t recognize the person standing in front of them.

[hidey-writes]

wip wednesday

Gu Yiran is still thinking about the dinner when he and Zheng Bei get back to Zheng Bei’s apartment, as they’re going through their nighttime routines.

The group’s conversation had turned, expectedly, to everyone’s plans after the case closed. Lao Jiu’s official retirement would be at the end of the month, and after that he had traveling plans with his granddaughter. Ding Guozhu and Zhao Xiaoguang were both traveling back to their respective hometowns for a week, and had spent a good portion of dinner fretting over how to avoid telling their parents about the more unsavory aspects of this case. Zhang Xueyao would take her parents out on holiday, had already bought the tickets and booked their first hotel.

Zheng Bei, Gu Yiran noticed, hadn’t volunteered anything about his own plans.

But the dinner conversation had slid right past him and refocused on Gu Yiran’s post-case plans, once he was back in Huazhou. Zheng Bei had inserted himself into the conversation then, and said, “Gu-laoshi, maybe we’ll all come visit you in Huazhou after this case closes. Even if there isn’t work for us to do together, we can all just go there for fun, right?”

Gu Yiran couldn’t imagine what Zheng Bei might find attractive about Huazhou, what might be there that he wanted to visit. Compared to Zheng Bei, there was so much less Gu Yiran could offer as a host — he doesn’t have a ready set of loyal and familiar teammates, or the warmth and welcome of a bustling family home. But it was easier to play along, to agree, to believe, just for that moment, that any of them would still remember or want to visit after this case ended and the immediate bonds of intense collaborative work had faded. And so, Gu Yiran had merely said, “Of course I’d be glad to have you all,” and smiled, and carefully had not met Zheng Bei’s eyes.

a slightly longer snippet from draft 3.5 (-_-) of the beiran fic bc alas i think this section is going to die in this round of revisions and i quite like it!

[front-facing-pokemon]