Chapter Text
I’ m most dangerous when I’m hungry. I’m most hungry
when I’m hurting. Seems like I’m always hurting. Nothing
but teeth. Nothing but the same words calling out to me
in my sleep. Grief asking its ghosts not to leave. Please.
It’s not up to me when I get to stop crying. Or hurting.
Or holding memories in my mouth, gentle as bees
I promised not to eat, but oh, the hurt is so sweet.
- Saeed Jones, from “Date Night,” Alive at the End of the World
Loneliness and being alone were two things you’d always thought to be one and the same — a pair sitting side by side on the spectrum of human suffering. Now, at the end of the world, you knew differently. You’d gotten in bed with both. A kind of intimacy that made your bones ache.
After Beth, your sister, you’d been alone – out beyond the protection of the community you now called your own in Jackson – where you’d carved a little place for yourself. Then, you’d been so entrenched in your grief and shock, that you’d not been lucid enough to really feel loneliness at all. You were alone, but were too far gone to feel the specific melancholy of loneliness. It was all a vicious, almost unthinking, clawing for survival. That creature out beyond the walls was you, and sometimes you liked to pretend and tell yourself you left her out there, but in moments of stark honesty, when you let go of the lies you comforted yourself with, you don’t feel very sure.
Looking back, it’s almost a surprise that it never occurred to you, in those delirious days, in the aftermath of watching Beth get ripped to pieces by infected, to ever think to follow her in death. You think you’d just been too numb and shocked at the time to even consider the tidy solution a bullet to the head would’ve provided you. You can’t even tell if you regret the lack of foresight at that time or not. You suppose now, looking around yourself, at the somewhat full life you’ve settled yourself into, you’re grateful.
But in Jackson, in Jackson you’d found loneliness. Despite being surrounded by a community that wanted to help you from the first moment, to care for you. Most especially because, in the light of this new life, you remembered everything about the aftermath of your sister’s death – with vivid clarity. The details were glaringly bright in your mind, and the peace and fullness of this new life you’d been afforded made those memories hurt all the worse.
Your father had been a physician, a surgeon, before the outbreak, and early on he’d decided it was essential to pass on what he could. That he needed a protege. You fit the necessity nicely. You’d had a mind that absorbed knowledge at a rate that wasn’t necessarily useful in a world like the one you’d now found yourselves in, but he’d made good use of it, made a tool of you in the manner of an extension of himself. He’d started early trying to train you as best he could, given the circumstances. You’d had a fairly peaceful childhood up until you were eighteen living in the San Francisco QZ, given his position, and at around twelve years old he’d started a demanding study regimen. He was determined to make you into the closest semblance of a doctor he could through his own personal means of teaching. You’d always been well suited to a life of taking orders, doing what you were told, being who you were told to be. At the end of the world it was easier, you’d found, to do and be what you were told to – it came easily to you, and after all, your father knew best. You liked the security of being able to follow a set of directions without the anxiety of conjecture or uncertainty. A clearly laid out path was a safe path, and you found comfort in that. So you’d learned what he’d told you to learn. He said it was necessary, and so it became a necessity to you. Practiced what he’d told you to practice. And eventually, become what he wanted you to become. After your mother and father were killed in a raid shortly after your eighteenth birthday, it was just you and Beth, and you’d taken on your studies and training yourself. It wasn’t as efficient, especially after the QZ had fallen and you were forced to leave, could have been more thorough, but you felt well versed in the knowledge you’d gained thus far. Secure in the fact that you had the ability to help people as best you could with what you knew. It gave you purpose and allowed you to follow that path that’d been laid out for you. Provided some sort of comforting reminder of your father, your childhood, as well. The two of you had wandered for several years up until the time of her death.
When you found Jackson after Beth, after days and days of wandering, of savage fear and a desperate clawing to just stay alive, just make it a little further, it was like coming upon paradise. An Eden safer and more cherished than anything before in all history. Connie, their resident doctor, who they were so lucky and grateful to have, had taken you under his wing. Connie and his nurturing comfort. Doing everything he could to build on the knowledge your father had instilled in you over the years. All the knowledge and practice he was so desperate to pass on to you. To build on your foundation. Doctors were few and far between, hard to find and even harder to keep, and Connie was old. Now well into his seventies, he was tired. His mind and body, nowhere near as agile as they’d once been. Your arrival in the community had been seen as a benediction, once he’d found out what your father had started in you. It was difficult to build a comprehensive curriculum, to find the right means of practical training in a world like this, but the two of you had managed fairly well. A deal had been struck with the leaders of the community to provide donated cadavers when they became available, if the families so allowed, if they had families. This allowed the two of you to practice hands on general surgical techniques he felt were essential for you to know. He’d tried, so far, to build a curriculum that was generally comprehensive – general surgery, obstetrics and gynecology, and internal medicine. In your spare time you read everything he’d ever found on botany and herbology. Everything else you supplemented with a collection of texts and scientific literature he’d been collecting since the outbreak, and had guarded and cared for fiercely . He saw his collection of medical texts as the key to the preservation and furthering of knowledge, and you agreed with him. After losing your father you couldn’t have asked for a more caring or dedicated mentor.
But not only was his caring practical, for he’d brought you back to life with his patience. He’d lead you out of that hazy numbness you’d lost yourself in after Beth. Something you’d have stayed lost in the rest of your life if not for his guidance, the loss of her so devastating it was something molecular. The feeling left you so tired, almost emaciated in your grief – the only instinct was survival, no thought for perpetuation or preservation. And then, of course there was Ellie and Dina, Tommy and Maria. All who’d done their best to welcome you into the embrace of their friendship. You were grateful for them in ways you couldn’t ever put into words.
And yet, and yet, despite all this good; a caring community, a giving teacher, loyal friendships, things you now knew you’d die to keep and protect, you were lonely. An aching kind of desperate loneliness, it’d blanketed you with a film of numbness that you hadn’t even really noticed, until one night you’d gotten home to the lovely warm house that’d been assigned to you, a place you’d been able to make a home, to realize, you had no one that was only yours. No one waiting for you. No more sister, no parents, no blood. No one to give yourself to. No one you’d always belong to, no matter what.
You’d felt a level of desperation in that moment worse than many of your worst moments in this horrible thing the world you knew had come to be.
But then there was him.
Joel.
Joel who was cold and stern and who had, at first, seemed so wholly disinterested in your existence you’d never thought there was any way he’d ever even think of looking at you as more than the girl he went to for stitches every now and then. As anything more than the person who patched up his never ending litany of scrapes and bruises. But who, at first sight, you’d seemed to take in and then never again look away from. Who you’d felt you’d known, recognized, at first glance. It was everything about him, really. His countenance – the air about him, slightly threatening, but in a way that told you you’d always be protected, safe,cared for if held in the circle of his embrace. And then his physicality – his face, his body, his smell. The feel of his skin beneath yours when you were closing or covering his wounds. The broad, thick planes of him, his long legs and tall frame that towered over your own. The man could overtake you if he chose to. You’d look at him and couldn’t help but think how hard he’d fuck. And you thought about that often. What it’d be like to cradle the heavy weight of him between your thighs, inside of you. What his skin would feel, taste like beneath your tongue. How you’d map the smattering of sun freckles on his chest and shoulders. And his eyes, deep and dark, and you knew they saw everything. That they were ever aware of what was going on around him. Wondered at what they’d feel like roving the hills and swells of your naked body – just for him. That he could probably see the yearning coming off of you like heat waves off the hot pavement.
Joel who seemed to care fiercely about Ellie, who he saw as his daughter from the little you’d been able to garner from her and others about their connection, and not much else. He’d come to you on more than one occasion after Ellie’d been into the clinic for attention demanding an update on her condition, asking if there was something wrong. Ensuring she was alright, that she’d remain alright. And being completely taken aback and offended when you’d refused to disclose patient information. There was a rift between them, so it seemed, not that anyone had been brave enough to talk about it aloud. The unspoken elephant in Jackson was the current ongoing estrangement between the two. Something that, without knowing him beyond being his doctor, you could see hurt him worse than anything you could’ve ever treated him for. And there was Tommy, his brother, and his wife Maria – who it was also obvious he appreciated and cared for.
He was cordial and helpful and always willing to be a good neighbor to those in the community. But he was set apart. A man estranged in a way you could see was self imposed. You could recognize it for what it was, the same shroud of loneliness that blanketed you. And what was it they said about the experience of loneliness? It creates a vicious cycle that only further perpetuates itself the more alone you become. You start to reek of it the longer you enshroud yourself in it. Contagion spreads. But then one day, you’d seemed to distract him from maintaining that self imposed exile long enough to entice him into looking at you, even if for a second, really looking at you.
It was like this: he’d never looked at you. Until he did. And then it was like fire, like a natural disaster or disease, like cordyceps. Uncontrollable, and as hard as you both tried, or didn’t try, it could not be put away once it had been set upon. You’d circled and circled each other – blood in the water – him in reluctant silence, you almost desperately, until you’d come together in a clash of limbs and tongues and teeth, and then he was shoving you onto your desk in the small space of your examining room and then shoving, hard and savage into your cunt, and that was it. You’d given him as much as he was willing to take, and if he’d wanted to take more, you’d have given it willingly and gladly. It was not a question of how much you were willing to do, or how much of yourself you could part with. If in that instant he’d asked you to open your vein to him and let him drink you think you might have invited him to gorge himself. The way he’d moved in your cunt that day, hand wrapped around the column of your throat as he drew a thin helpless sound out of you – like he owned it already, like he’d always owned it, and it’d just taken him a second to come and claim what’d always rightfully been his. The way he’d brought his fist down, hard, on the desk beside you as he emptied himself inside your pulsing walls, growling the start of your name between clenched teeth before it turned into a guttural wordless snarl. You knew there was a part of him angry at you in that instant. Furious at how fucking good it felt to take him inside you, to finally give in, to ravage and take and fuck the way both of you had wanted to for so long.
You’d wanted him with a kind of anguish that frightened you for the fervor of it. Something you’d never experienced. There’d been others before, well, one other, but that now seemed laughably pale and tepid compared to this. A blight of inconsequential nothingness in your past, that had in no way prepared you for what you’d come to experience with Joel. This was something to cause terror if examined too closely. But he’d peered at you one afternoon, opened his arms to you and invited you in, and how were you ever supposed to resist sinking your teeth into his flesh? Ripping out a piece of him all for yourself.
He’d promised that’d be the only time. That it could only ever happen that once. You’d both taken the lie for what it was. You knew this couldn’t be stopped once it had been started.
You’d always been a girl willing, glad, to do as you were told. To abide by the space allocated to you, to take what you’d been given with gratitude and accept your limitations. But loneliness makes monsters of even the best of us sometimes. And in a world now filled with monsters, it was easy to assimilate into one if given the opportunity, to let greed render you into what it may.
Joel watches your wonder at the sight of the little bird through the window, and he considers his own monstrousness. Your naked form is draped over his bed, tangled in his sheets, the loveliest thing he’s ever laid eyes on. The soft afternoon sunlight swirling along the planes of your skin, warm and buttery, and he accepts that he’s been deformed by his own brutality and violence. That he’s done a lot of truly heinous things in this life, but taking a little bird like you for himself, is perhaps the worst. The sparrow flits away and your eyes follow it– up, up, up. There’s a soft gleam in them, and his heart and gut twist at the sight of you moved by the sparrow. It’s been months of this, of the two of you tangled together. He hopes he never sees an end in sight, but at the same time, feels it pull at him. A vicious self sabotaging need to bring his fist down on this tenuous house of cards you’ve built together. Watch it smash into pieces.
There’d been times where he’d look at an infected, right before killing it, and felt an understanding so poignant.
That is what I have become.
He never needed to have been bitten to lose himself. To have been overtaken by something beyond his control. The viciousness of life had done it for him. Infected him all the same.
He was better now. He could acknowledge that. Ellie, and all that came with her, had served as a balm to his ragged edges. Jackson and its people. Having Tommy back, and the family he’d built with Maria. But he wasn’t naive. He’d known his day would be up eventually. His reckoning with Ellie would come, and it had. Nothing stayed buried forever, and eventually she’d discovered what he’d done. To keep her alive, to keep her for himself.
Perhaps his greatest sin was always trying to keep the women he loved. Always a failure.
Sarah, Ellie. You.
And now here he found himself again, on that same field in the middle of the night, surrounded by the end of the world, and clutching his whole life in the circle of his arms. Failing. Losing again and again.
Ellie had always been his reflection. A more hopeful, innocent mirror to all his cynicism and violence. But the same, nonetheless.
But you. You were his opposite in every big way that mattered.
Good and soft and honest. Strong.
And yet, there could be violence within you, when you so desired it. You’d let him have a peek of it on occasion.
Like the sun that burned his eyes from their sockets.
Violent, but necessary for survival.
You’d dedicated yourself to saving lives and healing, for Christ’s sake. All Joel’d ever done was destroy and kill. Even what he and Ellie had was on the precipice of death now.
And despite all of this. Despite everything he’d done to push you away. To hurt Ellie, no matter his intentions, he wanted. Savagely.
He wanted Ellie to understand why he’d done what he’d done. To forgive him. And even if she couldn't agree, then to just accept it. To set it away and let things be between them. To let it go .
What a selfish fucking thought, Joel Miller.
But he couldn’t help it; the goddamn world was over. Couldn't they just accept the bad things they’d done, or not done, and put it all away. And yet, at the same time, he could not hold it against her. Not even fault her. Because he knew her– he’d always known that the road would always inevitably lead them here. And still, he’d made the choices he’d made. In a way, he knew he deserved her ire. And so he bore it. Accepted it. Waited. But then– something new. You had come.
And he wanted you.
With a violence he’d never felt in a life filled with little other than violence. He could sanctify you with the fervor of his wanting. If he wondered at your own desires, he’d ask if there wasn't ever something you’d wanted so bad it pushed you into the depths of selfishness. A selfishness that bordered on cruelty to the outside world, but you just could not help yourself. You just had to reach out and take. He wanted to be that thing for you, that thing that turned you cruel and selfish.
And maybe that’s what this was, him taking you for himself; cruelty– like taking Ellie’s choices from her. But he couldn’t have helped it. He’d tried. God, he’d railed against this vicious want. But after the first time he’d touched you, tasted you, hell, the first time he’d fucking looked at you; all sense of choice had been taken from him.
All that was left after that was what would happen. What was inevitable. The thread that connected them was deep and dark and red. Not to be ignored.
The two circumstances were one in the same. And he couldn’t help but compare the present destruction of him and Ellie to what would become an inevitability between the two of you if he tried to be with you in any real way. Things always ended in one place for him.
And he’d ripped out so much of himself to cure the pain of Sarah’s loss, he now felt he had nothing left to offer, and what little he did, had gone to Ellie. The feeling of inadequacy was suffocating. Of missing some essential part of himself. He didn’t know if he was capable anymore, of that, of giving himself to someone new.
But he was afraid.
“C’mere, Birdie.” You crawl into his lap.
“Birdie?” A sweet, shy laugh. There was something about you, so akin to that sparrow. So small and fragile, but with the enviable ability to fly away if necessary. Within yourself, within your heart. There was a space within you he found unreachable to him. And he hated it and envied it all at the same time. Raged at himself for even wanting it in the first place. Knew that it only existed as a form of self preservation, of protection, against him. And the sound of your voice – lilting like the song of that sparrow – it fucking haunted him, it haunted him, it haunted him. Maybe he was a little like that bird, as well. Hollow.
Sometimes he just wanted you to hate him. To yell and scream and gnash your teeth and fucking demand something from him. Demand he let go of his cowardice and hesitations and fear. But he knew that very well of self preservation also allowed you to intellectualize his actions, parse together his motives and follow the thread to his root. Understand him in a way he shied away from.
He existed in different spectrums of himself. Different shades of a past that all coalesced into this man he was now trying to be and remain. Which was, perhaps, the hardest part of it all. To maintain that semblance of a good man he was fighting his hardest to be. A good father. A good brother. Helpful to his community and neighbors. Open to the world. It was fucking hard. Falling into old habits, letting the past crest up like a wave and drown him, that was the easy route. Staying on the straight path was the true test. And he knew– he knew how much he had to hold on to now, and all the responsibility that came with that. To cultivate and maintain his relationships, his friendships. He was appreciated, respected in this place he’d made a home. He’d lived a long time without respect from anyone, the world – or himself. He wanted to hold on to that.
But he was also aware that there was something missing. Something he still wanted, and before he’d met you, he’d been unsure of what that was. But the feel of a woman beneath him, around him– someone to know him as a man, and not a father or a brother or a friend– yes, that was definitely missed. And then, not just any woman, but you, you, you. Your appearance in his world had changed things for him. A burst of blinding light, an inferno creeping in his veins, without preamble or warning – the intensity of it almost unendurable for its sudden unexpectedness. It was empirically impossible for one to turn away from a change of that magnitude.
He thought of Tess sometimes. Her easy companionship. Her friendship. It was simple being with someone who never expected anything from you except to not get yourself killed. To stick to what was expected of you and not fuck up too badly you couldn’t keep your end of the bargain. But then… that wasn’t necessarily the truth of what they’d had either. Something still difficult for him to confess, even after all these years. And anyways, he was too old for that now. Shied away from getting into something like that again. A small curl of self consciousness making the appeal of it unsavory now. And this, between the two of you, he couldn’t codify it. Didn’t know what to make of it. Knew what he wanted of himself, of you. Knew what he would like to be able to give you and to take from you as well. Saying it out loud, confessing that, following through on it, was harder though.
Birdie, Birdie, Birdie
You reach up to scratch gently through the underside of his chin. The soft, thick bristles catching beneath your nails. Just one more inevitable thing in a world full of inevitabilities.
Sarah. Cordyceps. Ellie. Taking you for himself. His unwillingness to accept a thing, never made it any less true. Stubborn ass that he was, still after all this time, he could not kick the bad habit.
You settle your plush bottom into his lap and weave your arms around his neck, his hands coming up to curve around the bend of your elbows, pull you in tighter, as if he could stitch you to his very skin with the intensity of his wanting.
“You’re like a little bird,” he nuzzles the soft space behind your ear, sucks on the edge of your jaw, breathes you in. “My Birdie.” The soft sound you make goes straight to his hard cock and you spread your legs wider across his lap, grind yourself down onto him.
You bask in his attention, mind hazy and floating. You’re drunk on his touch, his scent, the sound of his voice, and you feel like you need to give him something. Give him some more tangible piece of yourself. Something you wish he could put in his pocket, tuck in his memory, carry with him always like a small, smooth stone, the weight of it knocking gently against his thigh as he moved about the world. You slink down the bed, settle yourself between his strong legs.
His middle is soft and thick, and you press a kiss to the swell beneath his belly button, further down to nuzzle into the soft thatch of hair around his cock. You breathe in the heady musk of him, and he’s restless, verging on aggressive beneath you — his control held on by the grace of a snapping thread. You take him in hand, show him you’re merciful, and give the hard thick length of him a slow tug. His size is obscene, held in your small hand, you can barely get your fingers around his girth; it makes you cunt clench and weep jealously. You gaze up at him, and the look in his eyes is feral, teeth bared in a gleaming snarl at you. You often think that he unmoors you, but in this moment, you have the power to unmake him.
You press small kisses to his thigh, the jut of his hip bone, nuzzle your nose at the soft skin there. And then finally, you offer him your tongue, tap the broad, dark red head of him once, twice, and then soft little kitten licks, across the crown, down his shaft. Not yet ready to give him the reprieve of your hot suctioning mouth. You lift yourself up on your arms to hang your head over his erection then, letting salvia pool on your tongue you let it dribble down in a long obscene thread onto his waiting cock, slide down. “Fuck — fuck, fuck,” he growls then, savage: “Fucking swallow it or come up here, and give me that cunt. No more teasing, Birdie.”
You bend back down to tongue the slit and he hisses, snaps his teeth together; he’s harder than a fucking rock. You start to jack him slow and tight in long pulls, from the very base, up, up to twist your fist around the weeping head, pressing soft kisses to the tops of his thighs. And then finally, finally you wrap your puckered mouth around him and start to suck, hollowing your cheeks and laving your tongue all around the thick girth. It’s sloppy and so wet, your saliva dribbling down to slide over his balls and into his hair. Messy little girl. He grips the back of your head, fingers fisting in your hair. You look up at him in permission, and he starts to fuck your mouth in earnest. The muscles in your throat tightening around his head with every thrust. “Shit, shit, that’s good.” He lets his head fall back, and you take in the strong column of his throat. You can feel your pussy leaking onto the sheets beneath you at the sight of him and you squirm, rubbing your thighs together to relieve some of the ache. He’s so fucking hot. And you want him so badly, always.
He feels your desperate squirming between his thighs, “Play with that little cunt, baby. I know it hurts.” You moan in response, suck him deeper, swallow around him as you slide your hand under your belly, down between your thighs and play with the wet mess there. You cup yourself and start to rock your hips, you know he’s watching your movements, the rise of your ass, letting the heel of your hand grind against your throbbing clit and then slide down to your entrance, dip your middle finger in to penetrate you there, gentle and shallow. You pick up the pace of your grinding, everything is so slick and wet, and your mouth opens on a shallow gasp, his throbbing length slipping out of your mouth and falling wet and heavy onto his belly. The two of you watch each other as you fuck your hand slowly, and then he’s rolling you over with the strength of his thighs, quick as a viper, as he manhandles you to his liking. He’s sliding on top of you, and then he’s got you on all fours, face pressed down into the pillows and ass up, up in the air, pulling on your hips and spreading you wide for his eyes to feast on. You feel his big hands grip your ass cheeks and pull you apart, your pussy wet and aching, you’re sure he can see your hole clench desperately. He bends to give your flesh a sharp, painful nip and you keen in response, his tongue soothing over it after.
“Please, Joel – please.”
“What do you need, baby? Hmm?” he croons. “You need my cock to fuck this little pussy?”
“Please–” you cry, a mess of tears and spit covering your face.
He runs a gentle knuckle over your soaked, puffy lips. “So red… so needy… Say it, wanna hear it.” He gives you his thumb, catching just over the edge of your opening, your mewl is high and whining.
“Please, please, please–”
“Tell me, Birdie.”
Hitching breath, he pulls out his thumb, swipes over your clit, just barely. “Please, fuck my pussy.”
And then his hand is gone and he’s giving you the whole unrelenting length of him in one quick thrust, and he’s fucking huge and harder than stone. Pressing up against your cervix until it hurts and holding there, and you want more, more, more. It feels so fucking good and you’re so wet – dripping down your thighs, you can feel it pooling in the crevices behind your knees, mingling with the collected sweat there. It’s lewd. Your walls clamp down on him, tight as a fist, and he lets out a snarl: “Don’t move.” A shudder wracks through him and you can feel him throbbing inside you, holding him heavy and hard in the deepest part of your cunt. You mewl, high and desperate, “Don’t move, don’t make a sound—” You can’t help the whimpers, he pulls them out of you forcibly.
“Fuck–” and then he’s ramming into you relentlessly, over and over, kissing your womb on each thrust, and you see stars behind your eyes. His hands hold you open to watch where he impales you. “Prettiest little pussy, fuckin’ perfect and tight, Birdie” he says through gritted teeth. He pulls out suddenly, bends to swipe a long wet lick from your clit to your asshole. Oh, he’s filthy. You can only moan in response, flushing red and hot from the crown of your head to the tips of your toes. Your breasts are heavy and aching, the tips furled into tight points. And then he’s fucking back into you. “Gonna fuck it full of my come, baby. You want that? Want me to stuff you full, pretty girl?”
“Yes– please, please. I need it–” His hand slides up the length of your back to curve over your shoulder, pulling you back onto his impaling cock harder. His balls slap sharp and wet against your clit, and then you’re coming around him, something so deep and sensitive inside being rutted against unrelentingly. Your cunt pulls tight, almost painful, a hot little furl around him, milking his own orgasm out of him. He groans deep in his chest, torso folding over your back pressing you deeper into the mattress, and you can feel the heavy throb and jerk of his cock spitting inside of you. The fist in your hair jerks your head to the side and he swallows your pleas, tongue licking deep into your mouth. “Good– good girl,” kisses the tip of your nose, your brow.
“Little bird… s’soft” he whispers later. “ Who’s gunna look after these fragile wings that dream so big and want to fly so high?” The tips of his fingers ghost up and down the length of your spine, over the fine wings of your shoulder blades. His skin is rough, his trigger finger thickly calloused, and each pass makes you shiver.
“Can’t you?”
“Don’t think so,” he mouths at the tender nook behind your ear, along your hairline, “Ain’t got it in me. Not gentle enough, don’t think.” But how could that be true when no one in all your life, in all the world, had ever touched you as softly as he was now?
“My Birdie,” he murmurs, and he’s still semi hard inside of your sore, stretched out cunt. Leaking out of you. Messy. The both of you had stopped being careful a while ago. Stopped caring, really. And you know it’s an unspoken point of resentment in him, the fact that he can’t control himself. That he feels an instinct to fill you and mark you. To make you his in the most primal way he can. The fact that he can’t pull away from you, in this most precarious of moments, despite all the other ways he can, it chafes . The both of you look away from it, like so many other things between you – turn your faces away. Unwilling to stop, and do the right thing. Unwilling to consider the possible consequences.
Sometimes you wonder if the thought of those consequences appeal to him. Appeal as a form of subjugation. If that were to happen then he’d be forced to stop forcing himself to push you away. He’d be able to keep you the way you know he really wants to.
It is a delirious and precarious situation, the business of believing in something that’s constantly denied to you.
You wrap your hand around his thick wrist and bring it to your nose, breathe him in deep, press a kiss to the tender skin over the blue hued spidering of his veins. His heady scent of soap and sweat and musk, all mingled with your own scent on his skin. It makes you clench tight around him and he groans deep and wanton in his chest, grinds his hips further into you from behind.
“You know what I think you’re missing?” he murmurs into the sensitive shell of your ear– your messy hair moved by his breath. “Besides more of my cum–” He laughs – and oh, he thinks he’s so damn funny– another thrust, sharper now. Regaining strength. He grasps the inside of your thigh and pulls you open, hooks your leg back and over his hip. Moaning low, you say, “What’s that?” You wind your hand up and back to clutch his hair while he starts to fuck you slow and deep. You want all your conversations for the rest of time to be just like this, whispered into each other’s ears always.
His other hand slides down your belly, to slot his fingers over the place where he fits inside you, feeling the tight stretch of it. He cups you there and anchors you to roll your hips more deeply on to his hardening erection, the mound of his palm grinding into your oversensitized clit. This sort of stamina’s not normal for an old man, you want to tease. But then he says: “Some selfishness,” a little bit like a question. A little bit like an admonishment too. And you pause, he’s serious and it makes you afraid that it’s also posed like a warning, just for a second. “Be selfish, Birdie. Be selfish for me, just a little bit.” For me, he says, and it appeases you, comforts you. You think you may agree.
“Who says I’m not already?”
Notes:
Thank you for reading. xx
netherfeildren.tumblr.com
twt: @netherfeildpark
Chapter 2: Although a monster [Joel] could be charming in company
Summary:
Joel gets a little stupid and a little jealous.
Notes:
I wanted to mention that that I've altered the timeline a smidge to benefit my own whims. So the Joel we find here is about 50-51 and our reader is in her mid to late 20's (age gap 🤓) Everything else in the timeline is the same up until Joel and Ellie return to Jackson.
Another thing, I hella make shit up in this chapter. I talk about a surgical device, and there’s discussions of like mechanical/electrical engineering? which I know fuck all about. So if it reads as nonsense I sincerely apologize. There’s a fair bit of character/world building in this ch. so I hope you all can bear with me for a little bit. There is (of course) the gift of porn at the end, though >:)
Chapter title is from Anne Carson’s Autobiography of Red.
And that's it. Thank you for reading. I would kiss you with tongue for it if I could.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
What it looked like?
Like fucking the forest for once birdless, beastless.
Like measuring the distance between all that’s lost
and everything else that, even now, waved at
hard enough sometimes,
will sometimes wave back.
But it felt like swallowing the sea–
being forced to, ships and all.
Then a silence as vast as it was particular.
The like holding a mirror up to Apollo
and expecting his face there, when Apollo’s always been
faceless, obviously, being a god.
And the hand still holding the mirror up anyway.
And the face not showing.
- Carl Phillips , Star Map with Action Figures
“I mean, yeah, I’d fuckin’ like to think so. I’m not sure. She told me–”
“Ellie, you’re overthinking the hell out of it.”
“I am not,” she grumbles.
“You’re a dumbass,” you deadpan.
That riles her up. “Me?! You!”
“What’ve I done? It’s pretty obvious what’s happening here – Dina wants you to ask her out – you’re too chicken shit to step up.”
“Okay, genius. Y’don’t know what you’re talking about, first of all.” The sass on this girl, honestly. The two of you sit together at the picnic tables that’d been set out in the town center for the monthly barbecue. “You think you’re so damn smart. Well lemme just ask you this, what’s going on with Joel? You two’ve been weird as fuck lately.” That shuts you up quick.
“Don’t even start with that. The answer is nothing.”
She gives you that knowing look of hers, but let’s it go. Silently says: I know this hurts, so I won’t push. Out loud: “You started it, motherfucker.” You yank on her bangs, and she swats you away. “Maybe I should call you a fatherfucker instead,” she cackles.
“Oh my god, I actually hate you.” You try and swat her back, yank on her bangs again.
“What’re you two schemin’ about?” Joel’s voice comes from behind you.
“Speak’a the devil,” she says under her breath, starting to gather up her empty plate.“Nothing–” She shoots up, and brushes past, “Gotta go. We’ll talk later,” not even sparing him a glance. You look between the two of them wishing there was anything you could do to help them bridge this cold distance between them. She turns before walking off, gives you the finger behind his back.
“Ellie, hold on a sec,” you call after her, but she’s off.
“It’s fine,” Joel says. “Leave it.”
“I’m sorry,” shielding your eyes from the bright sun, you look up into his serious face.
He shakes his head. “Nothin’ for you to be sorry about. Ain’t got nothin’ to do with you.” And that stings. Off-handedly as it’s said, it stings that he thinks their rift doesn’t affect you, make you hurt for the two of them.
How could he ever think that after everything he’d told you about Sarah – a night that’d made you feel closer to him than ever before, while you two lay in bed, still damp and trembling – that you’d not worry about his relationship now with Ellie? Who you knew he loved like a daughter, even if he was incapable of saying it out loud. How could he think it had nothing to do with you now? After what he’d told you about himself in the aftermath of Sarah. That moment, his confession, could sustain you for a lifetime of this push and pull if necessary. With trust like that, what else mattered? Very little, you thought.
“You get everything done you needed to?” he threads his fingers through the hair at the nape of your neck, and bends to press a soft kiss to your temple.
You sigh, basking in this small tenderness he offers you after his casual hurt. “Yeah, we finished.” Sometimes you wonder if there’s something wrong with you, taking all this in stride. Luxuriating in his offerings of tenderness and vulnerability one second, swallowing the way he casually brushes you off another. Surely there must be something wrong with you. Especially because, when it comes down to it, you don’t really care as much as you think you should.
“How’d it go?” You’d had to debride some areas from Mr. Schwartz’s diabetic foot this morning – super fun for the both of you. The foot was famous in Jackson. A great source of shrieks and giggles when the old man decided to pull it out in front of the kids as his so-called ‘party trick’. We all gotta bring something fun to the table, honey, he’d tell you when you tried to put on your false tone of admonishment with him.
“Long – I had to take more than I’d initially thought I’d need to.”
“He alright?”
“Resting now… Just means it’ll be harder for him later on – take longer to recover, as best he can, in any case. And ideally, what he really needs is a boot – which we have – one… but it’s not in great condition. I don’t even know if it’ll fit him – or a wheelchair, and both of them are being used right now. So, seems my only other option is to order him into bed until I can figure something else out. And of course Connie’s all, “This is on you, honey. I trust your judgment, honey.” You deepen your tone and scrunch your brow trying to inflect Connie’s baritone. “As if that’s helpful.”
He grips your chin, forcing you to take a breath, brushes his thumb across your bottom lip, and your eyes flutter shut, pressing a tiny kiss to the pad of his thumb. He hums a little, and you catch the flare of heat in his eyes. “You’ll worry yourself half to death, little bird. Take a breath.” You huff a small laugh. He was right about that, worry was heavy on your mind recently. About lots of different things.
“I fixed you a plate,” you divert.
“You didn’t have to do that, sweetheart. Thank you.” He swings his long leg over the bench to sit astride it, legs open to pull you between his thighs.
“S’alright. I was getting Connie’s anyway.” He digs in, and you card your fingers through his thick hair – overly long now, it brushes the collar of his shirt in the back, you’ll need to cut it for him soon – and watch the thick column of his throat ripple as he swallows. You press your thighs together – the sun is so strong today. You think it might be making you a little delirious.
“You’re not eating.” It isn’t a question, posed more like an admonishment, paired with the severe crook of his brow.
“Nah, I’m alright. Can’t have anything just yet after staring at that foot all morning,” you joke.
“You telling me you’re not as entertained by it as the kids are?”
You roll your eyes at him. “Shocking, I know.”
He turns to give you an assessing glance now, “You sure you’re alright?”
“Just tired.” You lay your head in the cool, dark crook of his neck, breathe him in.
“Birdie …” voice laced with concern – he tries to gently tug you back by your ponytail, but you burrow in further – press your lips to the pulsing vein in his neck.
“I’m fine, Joel. Just tired, really.” He huffs. Grouchy man.
“Hi, honey,” Connie shuffles up to the table. “Joel–” he nods, “You two alright ? That go a long time with Mr. Shwartz?” he asks.
You’re grateful for the distraction from Joel’s fifth degree. “It was fine. Our handy dandy Bovie is so good.” You’d done your best recently to fashion an electrocautery device, like the ones they’d used before in surgery. The two of you had gathered the different parts over time and much voracious scavenging, to put the system together. “You’ve gotta try it next. We should be real proud of that.”
“You should be proud. You’ve got a nice mechanical mind in you, as well. You know, Joel, the body is just a machine of flesh and blood.” Connie turns his blue eyes, gone slightly milky now, on Joel, ready to impart his slice of wisdom – part lecture, part proud tirade for your benefit, as the younger man continues to work through his plate of barbecue. “She looks at the two the same way; it’s very impressive.”
Joel finishes chewing: “Our girl is nothin’ if not impressive,” he says, giving you an impish little smirk. You pinch the inside of his thigh over the thick denim, not imparting nearly enough punishment as you’d like to.
“Shut up,” you grouch at him. “Anyways, the lines were pretty sharp, the cauterization clean. A bit slow, though. I felt a bit held back – but not too bad, considering.”
“Considering…” Connie muses.
He starts to eat as well, and the sight of the slick, sauce covered meat is slightly revolting. The sun is way too hot with the change of season into fall just on the cusp, and after staring at poor Mr. Schwartz’s mangled foot all day… “I’m thinking with a little more juice it’ll be perfect. We just have to find a way to feed it more power without frying the whole system.”
“Yes… it’s delicate,” he says slowly.”You should ask Noah for advice.” Joel is silent beside you, but you feel the tensing of his thigh beneath your palm at the mention of Noah’s name. “He’s always been very keen to help us in any way we need.”
“Oh, has he?” Joel drawls, in that monotone he loves to use when cutting people down. He can’t fucking stand Noah; it’s quite funny to you, actually. You nudge his knee with your own, still cradled between his spread legs, and drag your nails slowly up and down his thigh, only responding with a non-committal hum. He shifts his jaw in that way he’s wont to do when he’s especially aggravated, cocks his eyebrow at you. You give him a tiny little mocking tilt of your head. You’re sure he can see the laughter at his expense in your eyes.
“Yes,” Connie continues, completely oblivious to the silent conversation going on between the two of you, “He’s very adept at anything electrical or mechanical. Although, you are, as well, Joel. Perhaps you could advise us too. Any help would be greatly appreciated.”
“I wouldn’t say that, but I can take a look. Offer what I can.”
You change the subject: “Teddy’s been in again this week.” One of the single mother’s in Jackson, Susanna’s son, Teddy, had been continuously ill the past few months. Coming down with different, seemingly unrelated afflictions on and off. His mother was beside herself with worry, and you and Connie were reaching your limits on what you could do to help him. Much less actually provide a clear answer as to a diagnosis.
“Yes, I spoke to his mother last night. Some sort of ague again, undoubtedly.”
You roll your eyes at him affectionately. Connie loved to condemn undiagnosable patients with ‘the ague’. “Connie, the ague is absolutely not a valid form of diagnosis,” you laugh. That launches him into a tirade about the conundrum the boys posed to the both of you these past few weeks. And ague is a perfectly valid explanation, honey. Neither of you are certain what’s causing his bouts of illness. Though you’re reluctantly leaning towards something that won’t pose anything good for any of you; you’re trying to remain optimistic, but the uncertainty is taking a toll on the both of you, as well as his mother.
As Connie goes on, there’s a hazy buzz rumbling around in your brain. Your temples throb, and you press the tender spot into the hard mass of Joel’s shoulder. He’s finished eating now, and you nuzzle into him, breathe in the warm scent of his skin and sweat, grip the hard swell of his bicep – the thick muscle has the most inappropriate arousal pooling low in your belly, but your stomach churns at the same time, and the sun is so damn bright. Too many opposing sensations going on within you all at once, you’re sure you’re on the verge of sun poisoning – dramatic – and it’s making you needy. Infecting you with ideas of crawling into his lap and having him cradle you. He stiffens beneath your attentions suddenly. The soothing large palm he’d been dragging up and down your spine goes still, pausing with his fingertips tucked just below the waistband of your jeans – as if he’s just now realizing how openly affectionate the two of you are being – his muscles go rigid at your display, and then that’s it. He’s pulling away.
Your gut twists again, your head is really spinning now – you straighten in your seat, scoot back and out of the cradle of his thighs, as far as the bench allows you. Always fucking pulling away. He’s stiff and uncomfortable, but at your retreat he clicks his tongue at you, frowns a little, and you want to snap at his subtle admonishment – you started it, what are you frowning at me for?
Connie is still going on about Teddy. “You sure you’re alright, dear?” he interrupts himself. “You look a bit peaky.”
“I’m fine.” You stand abruptly, “I’ve got to head back, actually.” Joel turns to reach for you, but you step back and away from his fingers. The heat is definitely making you grouchy, sick; you’re not acting yourself. “I promised Mr. Schwartz I’d be back to check on him within the hour.” You don’t want to look at Joel anymore – you’re used to his sudden bouts of tension – discomfort – but something is setting you on edge today.
“You should eat something before you go, honey,” Connie says – looking up at you with concern.
“I had something before I came. I’m okay.” You turn to look at Joel now, as the lie passes your lips, a provocation held in your eyes and tone.
He frowns, “You said –”
“I’ll see you two later.”
“Birdie –” But you’ve turned from him before he can continue, walking away quickly. Your head is spinning, gut cramping and turning over on itself. The sun feels like it’s two feet away from you, bearing down on the crown of your head, and you know you’re about to be sick. Always fucking pulling away, always. It embarrasses you a little that you still chafe at it, the back of your eyes pinching and saliva pooling heavy on your tongue. You know the way he is.
You make it back to the clinic just in time to vomit behind the bushes on the side of the house.
Jesus.
Susanna brings Teddy into the clinic late in the evening. You’ve just finished writing up your operative note for the ‘famous foot’ (Mr. Schwartz’s words, not yours) when she flies in, frantic, with the listless child in her arms. She tells you he’d been lethargic and without an appetite all day, but she’d chalked it up to fatigue and melancholy from being ill and bedridden so often, recently. His fever had crept up out of nowhere, and now Teddy was almost unconscious, burning hot and delirious – words slurring, eyes glassy.
It’d been hours since then. Teddy was now resting quietly with cool compresses and ice bags tucked under his arms and against his neck which seemed to be helping. Susanna had retired to the back of the house to rest for a bit, and you now sat between Mr. Schwartz and the boy, quietly reading over a text both you and Connie had already gone over multiple times – hoping to find anything that’d inspire an explanation. Most concerningly of all, you’d noticed a smattering of purple-yellowish, sickly looking bruises along Teddy’s spine. It pushed you in the direction your mind had previously taken concerning what could potentially be the cause of all of this. And even though it was the first you’d seen of any bruising on him, it didn’t reassure you at all.
“Joel’s here,” Nancy, the nurse that worked with you and Connie, says quietly from the doorway. You stand from your bedside vigil, sighing. It’s late, and you don’t want to do this now. A little embarrassed from your earlier fit. A lot tired from the long day and throwing up and the heat.
“Can you come out and get me in two minutes, please? Interrupt us.”
She gives you an assessing look. “Sure.”
You walk out to the office to find him leaning against your cluttered desk, bulging arms crossed against his chest, straining the sleeves of his button down. There’s a far off look in his eyes, scowl marring his brow, but when he looks up at you all the tightness in his countenance seems to melt away at the sight of you. “You alright?” His gaze is assessing – sweeping up and down your frame, taking everything in like always. The man sees entirely too much.
“I’m fine. I need to stay here tonight, though.” You jerk your thumb back towards the exam room. “They need me.”
“You said you were tired.”
“It passed – just the sun.” He looks at you like he doesn’t really believe you.
“About earlier—”
“It’s fine, Joel.” You feel too tired, too strung out, to give him an out by pretending to ignore that he’d hurt you, pissed you off. Let it be what it was – you had a sick child to care for – couldn’t think about all the distance that would seemingly exist forever between the two of you, not right now, at least.
“You lied about eating.”
Oh, now he wanted to be fucking honest. You roll your eyes at him, watch his jaw clench. “What?” Tone bratty and antagonistic, “No I didn’t – you misunderstood.”
“You told me you didn’t want to eat, and then you told Connie, not fifteen minutes later, that you’d already eaten.”
“Well then I misspoke – that’s not what I meant.” You turn away from him towards the desk, busy your hands with the papers littered across its surface to avoid his eyes. You feel like fighting – like baring your teeth at him, and you hate it. You don’t want to fight with him, ever. You want, need, things to be okay between the two of you. “Why are we arguing about this? I have to get back.” The bite in your voice startles you for a second, and your hands pause their shuffling. Turning back to face him, wide eyed and shocked at the way you practically spit the words at him, but, fuck it, you decide to just go with it.
He doesn’t let you, though – doesn’t take your bait. You watch the muscle in his jaw feather rapidly as he grinds his teeth, fists curled into knots at his sides like he’s trying to restrain himself from throttling you – and you think you’d kind of like him to do it. You’ve gotta be PMSing or something because where is all this sudden desire for violence coming from? You definitely need to sleep soon.
He exhales a slow breath through his nose. “Not try’na argue, baby… just figure out what’s wrong.” Your heart twists painfully, the back of your eyes pinching and hot, and you will not cry right now. His words make you even more angry because if he cares so much about such seemingly small things like this, why can’t he just let everything else fall into place between you as well?
Nancy pops her head through the open door, calling your name, “Need you when you’ve got a second.”
“Be right there, Nance.” You throw her a grateful look.
Turning back to Joel you rub your forehead, trying to press the ache that’s taking root in your brain out with your fingertips. “Nothing… nothing’s wrong. I’m just…” you sigh, suddenly very sad, very tired. You take in his weathered face, his brow pulled down into a scowl anyone who knew him less would take for anger, but you see it for what it is: concern, discomfort, frustration at the tension that’s held constant between the two of you all day. The both of you pulling away and then yanking each other back. You can see he wants to move past this, avoid whatever fight is brewing – too much for him to handle. You know he hates it when you’re angry and annoyed with him, and doesn’t that have to mean something? Please, please it must mean something more. But you’re too tired for this now, your body overwrought from its brief bout of sickness earlier, from your long day. You’d like to go to bed with him and not wake up for a year. Lay on his chest and feel the movement of his breathing rock you to sleep, count the spaces between his ribs, make a home for yourself within them. A great jealousy for his heart, the organ itself, writhes in you, that it gets to live inside him. You’re feeling melancholy and exhausted and overly emotional . Sad that even when he’s the source of your turmoil, your hurt, he’s still the only one you want to go to for comfort. You clear your throat, “I’m fine, Joel. Really.” You try and give him a small smile. “I was in a mood earlier, but I’m okay now.”
“I need us to be okay, Birdie. I– I know…” he looks away, hisses through his teeth in frustration. “I know I don’t always act like it, but–”
You hold up a hand to stop him. You don’t want to, can’t, listen to him try and make excuses. Explain to you things you’ve always understood about what this thing is between the two of you. “We don’t need to do this. I promise everything’s fine. I need to get back.” You step forward to press a kiss to the underside of his jaw, to appease the both of you, but also if only because you can’t help but touch him when he’s near, hands snaking up his belly and chest to fist in the collar of his shirt. He hums low in his throat and grips the back of your neck, other hand low on your back to press you to him, and everything inside you goes liquid hot and wanting, just at the feel of him, the scent of him.
“Try and rest.” He breathes you in at the crown of your head, and you nod against his chest.
“I will. Don’t worry.” But you know he’ll do that anyways, and that alone is a comfort.
Connie meanders in about midnight, nocturnal creature that he is, to check on you all. You’d pulled the armchair from the office into the corner of the infirmary while you read in the corner. An all night vigil wasn’t exactly necessary – Teddy’s fever had broken about an hour ago, his vitals were stable, and Mr. Schwartz had been snoring the night away for hours. Nancy lived on the second floor of the house, and was always near and available if necessary, but you were peaceful here. Tucked away in your corner with your book and a throw draped over your folded knees. The anxiety you’d carried heavy in your belly all day had dissipated. Thoughts of Joel settled now, compared to the frenzied hysterical swarm they’d been all day. Sometimes this need for him scared you. That your mood, your physical self, could so easily be altered by him, by his own mood, his words, his touch. The tether he held you by was so strong, it felt unbreakable, permanent. It scared you to think what would become of you if one day he decided to break it.
Connie passes a hand over the boy’s forehead, murmuring to himself as he examines him, pops his stethoscope in to take a listen. His movements are slow and practiced, methodical. You’d always loved watching him work. You’ve passed so far into the realms of exhaustion, you’re a little delirious now, your mind and vision hazy, and you rest your head against the wingback and watch. “He’s settled now. Vitals are steady.” You hum in agreement.
He turns to look at you then, his gaze contemplative as he takes a seat on the bench along the end of the bed directly in front of you. His tired groan makes you smile a little, old man. The fondness for him squeezes your heart. He has something to say, you can tell. “I know your father was an exacting man,” he starts. You nod, still quiet. You know that now is a time for listening. “I think of him often. I know I never met him, but he wanders into my mind quite frequently. I think of the things you’ve told me about him, about your mother and sister–” When you’d first become close, it’d been hard for you to speak of your family, of Beth and her death, but eventually you’d forced yourself to. For no other reason than that the thought of you being the only person left in the world that remembered their names, that knew their stories, wrought a grief in you so profound, it was impossible to keep it all inside. You were scared if you didn’t share, if you carried all that alone, you’d lose yourself in their memories forever. “I think that after all that, after living their deaths in such a gruesome way, it could have been very easy for you to lose yourself in all that. Do you agree?” Another small tilt of your chin. The precision with which he’d always read you, understood you, was the greatest comfort in the world. That sometimes it wasn’t even necessary to tell him out loud what it was you were feeling or needed for him to pick up on it.
“But you didn’t.”
“I didn’t,” you finally say.
“No…” his eyes take on the thoughtful look he gets, the one that makes you wish you could read his mind sometimes, read the wonderings of that brilliant mind like one of your textbooks. “Instead, you became a splendid and thoughtful physician. A seemingly impossible thing, no? Now, with the state of the world for you to have pieced together a vocation such as this…” his milky blue eyes glint with humor, pride, “Well, it’s all very impressive, my dear.”
“Thank you,” you acknowledge.
“And even more impressive, considering the fact, that had you been given a choice in the matter, you would never have chosen this for yourself… had the world been different, normal.” And there it is again, that keen sense of knowing.
“Yes.” There is nothing more to say. It is, after all, your most painful, most honest, most shameful truth. Painful, not in the sense that you carried any regret now, when you cared for your patients, when you put the knowledge your father and Connie had given you into practice. But painful in the sense that it chafed at your skin, that desire for other . That small seed that had the great potential of growth within you, to spread like ivy around a house, and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, until all you were left with were thoughts of what could have been.
“But like I said… your father was an exacting man, and this is what he chose for you. And then, perhaps, even I played a part in that same theft of choice from you.” You try to interrupt him then, to vehemently deny it, but he continues unheeded. “You got here and you seemed to be a sort of benediction to me. A vessel for all the knowledge I could impart on you. A shepherd I could leave this flock to.” He slips his glasses off the bridge of his nose and wipes them slowly with the hem of his sweater. “I know you’ll take good care of them when I’m no longer here. That they could not have ended up in better, more caring hands.” You hate when he talks about his dying, fills you with a premonitory dread you don’t know how you’ll cope with when it becomes actuality. “But alas, you did what was set upon you, took it all in stride.” He pauses, as if contemplating what he’s about to say next, and you know the point of all this has arrived. You even know where it is he’s going with this.
“I say all this, my dear, not to dredge up old painful memories, or reminders of what could have been… But because I would not like to see your choices taken from you once again.” And there it is. He levels his gaze at you, quiet for several moments, and it’s like he is here in the room with you now, his presence, his unsaid name heavy and poignant.
“Joel’s a good man, honey, but he’s a hurt man. Hurt in a way I don’t think even you could cure.”
Your instinct to defend him is immediate. “He’s not— he’s not a hurt man.” You shake your head, brow furrowed, “He’s been hurt before, but it doesn’t define him, Connie. It’s not the sole contributor to who he is.” And that’s true, you know it is. Believe it to your very core. You, who knows Joel better than few others, you know the pains of his past don’t define him. Perhaps before, they did. A pain so acute it molded him into a creature focused only on survival, or perhaps, he let it get the better of him at times. But he is so much more than all that. Has the strength and the will to set it aside when he so chooses to. Ellie being the perfect example of that.
Choices, choices, those were the things that defined a person.
“Isn’t it? You can’t live off the potential you see in someone forever.”
“I hate it when you say that.” You sit up, let your feet drop to the floor, and lean forward to stress your point. “What are we all, if not vessels of untapped potential? We’re all just walking around with the possibility of something more inside of us. Of course, of course I value the potential I see in him! I know he has the possibility of so, so much inside of him – that’s what makes me… That’s why I–” You cut yourself off before you can make that confession, a choked sound leaving your throat. You look out the nearby window at the dark street, press your thumb hard into the center of your forehead, will the tension and frustration out of the skin and bone.
“I know… I know,” he says gently, offering you his hands, palms up – a sign of concession. “But it’s not enough to hang all your hopes and dreams on just that. I want more for you than just that. I want you to have choices. To be able to have what you truly want, what you truly need. I would not like to know that something unfulfilling has been forced upon you once again by the circumstances of this world.” And he says it so sadly, with a look of such tenderness in his eyes, it makes embarrassment burn hot and red in your cheeks. The back of your eyes pinch. What must they all think of me when they see us together? The part that perhaps does, or should, make you the most embarrassed, is that you don’t really care at all. Not in any substantial way that would make a real difference, make you act differently. “I’m not unfulfilled, Connie. I love what we do here,” you say softly.
“I know that, I know. But still…I just–”
You rest your aching head in your cupped palms, bent elbows propped on your knees. You’re so fucking tired. “Connie, please, I know…” you whisper. “Just, please, no more tonight… I’m exhausted. You can tell me all this another time – tomorrow. Just no more tonight.”
“Alright, alright, dear. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to give you grief.” He stands, comes towards you to rest a gentle palm on your shoulder.
“I know… and you’re not… It’s me.”
“I only want good things for you, darling girl.” You press your hand over his on your shoulder, give a short nod.
“Go home – you need rest. Nancy will stay with them.”
“I can sit for a few more hours. Teddy likes to know I’m here.”
“No, no,” his voice takes on that stern fatherly tone he likes to whip you into shape with sometimes. “Enough for tonight. They’ll both be fine. You’ll see them tomorrow.”
You scrunch your nose at him, “Bossy.” But you stand to go, draping the blanket over the back of the chair. He pulls you in for a hug then, envelops you in the comfort and steadiness he’s always offered you, from the very start. He always smells faintly of peppermint and mothballs and old paper. “It’ll all work itself out, my dear. You’ll find a way. You always do. I’m not worried about that.”
Joel watches you leave the clinic from his spot in the shadows across the road. He’s been posted here, obstinate and pissed off with himself, for hours. Especially because he’s certain this must be a new low for him, sulking in the dark, watching for you like a creep. But he just wanted to be close to you. He knows you lied to put him off earlier. Your conversation had left him unsatisfied, restless. He knows you’re pulling away because he’s pulling away. Because he’s putting you off, and he tells himself he’ll give you space, tells himself that’s what’s best, but knows it’s a lie as he thinks it.
The thing is, despite his obstinance, Joel was not a man who lacked self awareness. He was, in fact, very good at recognizing a thing within himself, and yet still able to make a conscious decision to feign ignorance towards it to the outside world. This set up worked well for him – sometimes… on occasion… But this was different, and he knew it. Feigning ignorance would not work between the two of you for much longer. You were getting tired and sad and frustrated with him and he could see it and hated himself for being the cause of it. And if he was being honest with himself, which in this moment, he was trying to be, he was getting tired of it too, tired of himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in this position with a woman. On the verge of… something. Something he couldn’t confess, even to himself, yet. But to allow himself that, to allow himself the simple act of even admitting what he knew was the truth of his feelings for you – there was a part of him, a very broken part that had not been used in a long, long time, that couldn’t even imagine it. To allow himself that sort of vulnerability. To allow himself the truth of there existing another person in this world, in what this world had become, a partner – a woman he cared for, needed. It was too vulnerable, too precious a thing to allow himself. Perhaps before, perhaps in a world not overrun by death and disease and violence – by loss.
But what did that even look like anymore? A world bereft of monstrousness? Wiped clean of the beasts that had overtaken it, human or infected. Could Joel even remember such a thing – even imagine it, if only in his dreams? He couldn’t even discern which of the two was worse anymore. Part of him knew it didn’t really matter. Not in the end. It was all conjecture when it came down to losing your life – losing the person you loved. Whether it was fungus or a bullet – dead was dead.
Sometimes he didn't even feel like a person anymore. Just this thing that existed at the periphery of the world. In the moments when he pushed you away, when he turned from the loving look in your face, forced himself to brush off your words and your affection, to hold you at arms length – to protect the vulnerable, scarred mass of his heart – those were the moments in which he was most like a creature, least like a man.
He thought of a world where he felt safe enough to go to the woman he loved, his Birdie, hold you in his arms and say: here is everything I have for you, I’m begging you, please take it.
Such a world didn’t exist in Joel’s mind. Couldn’t fit. He’d been stripped of the ability. To have something so vulnerable and new. A type of fragile he’d not held since his twelve year old daughter lay bleeding and broken in his arms, and have the ability to say I am strong enough to endure the possible loss of this. I need you this badly. So badly I am willing to risk even my own heart.
It looked like trying to swallow the sea.
He follows you home in the darkness.
“You get that fixed alright?” Joel’s voice barks from the mouth of the garage. You startle, your knee slamming into the underside of the workbench. Deciding to follow through on Connie’s suggestion from yesterday, you’d come to see Noah, knocking on his door bright and early this morning, Bovie clutched in your hands. He’d been more than happy to give it a look for you. The two of you had been sitting here for about an hour now, and in that time you’d seen Joel’s form stalk by at least three times, from out of the corner of your eye. Absurd man that he was, you knew he’d been psyching himself up to barge in here and interrupt the two of you. Seemed he’d brought his attitude with him.
“Jesus, man–” Noah’s hand grips your smarting knee, rubbing it gently, “We didn’t hear you come up.” Joel’s left eye twitches at the we, his gaze zeroed in on the hand on your knee, his teeth bared in the perpetuation of a ridiculous growl as he takes a threatening step forward. You lift your brows at him – all your fire and fight from yesterday put to rest now after some much needed sleep. He cocks his brow back at you, shifts his jaw side to side in annoyance.
“Absorbed in your work?” he drawls sardonically.
“We’ve made some good progress actually! Come see,” Noah says, completely missing Joel’s mocking tone, the poor thing. He gives your knee another gentle pat, and you think you might just see steam come out of Joel’s ears. He steps up behind you, chest pressed close to your back and passes a hand over your hair, presses a kiss to the crown of your head. This fucking guy. Now he feels like getting handsy. You scrunch your nose at him, turning back to face Noah and the Bovie, your shoulder pressing into Joel’s belly. Noah takes in your positions, the possessive hand now curled around your neck – looks back down at the knee he’d just grabbed and then back to Joel’s broad intimidating form and scowling face. You see a slow swallow move through his throat. As he starts to explain the changes the two of you had made to the electrocautery generator, you consider the differences between the two of them. The contrast is stark. Noah isn’t small by any means, average height, a nice build – but there’s something about Joel. Some sort of warning in the air around him, in the space he takes up in a room, that makes him larger than life – something that says don’t fuck with me or mine. Heat pools low in your belly and you press your thighs together tightly. Fucked up, you’re fucked up – you try to brush his hand off your neck – suddenly feeling overwhelmed, your skin overly sensitized. “Quit –” he says low in your ear and you almost whimper. He’s jealous, and it’s turning you on. There’s definitely something wrong with you.
You try to shake him off again,“Let go.”
“No.” His voice is steel. Noah is heedlessly going on about the Bovie, about how it only took a slight rewiring from the generator into the hand-piece without overwhelming the system; giving it the little bump of power it was missing. Joel’s thumb brushes a slow, warning path up and down your neck. Down, down, to the top notch of your vertebrae, slowly kneading the fine muscles surrounding the prominence of your bone and then up and pushing into the base of your skull. His hands are warm and dry – the rough calluses abrading your sensitive skin. You feel the flush in your cheeks traveling down over your chest, the tips of your breasts tightening to painful points. You see Joel’s eyes flicker down, taking you in, and he gives a contemplative hum low in his throat.
“I’m so glad you let me help,” Noah says with a warm smile. He’s sweet and so genuine and as you take him in, how completely unaware he is of the silent struggle going on between you and Joel right in front of him, you’re struck by how easy loving a man like that would be. And how unfulfilling for a woman like you. What is it about some people, that they can’t appreciate a good thing unless it hurts a little?
“Connie and I are real grateful that you could help. You let us know if there’s anything we can do for you.” Joel gives him a short nod as you leave.
And then, soft and threatening into the shell of your ear as the two of you walk away from the nice, sweet, uncomplicated boy: we’re goin’ home, and I’m gonna lick that cunt until you’re cryin’, little bird.
Your steps speed up, trying to outrun the clutch of his hands on your skin, trying to escape – even if just a little.
You never stood a chance of that.
He follows, menacingly on your heels, as you dart into your house. A rabbit trying to outrun the big bad wolf. You make for the stairs and you feel the tips of his fingers ghost lightly in the ends of your long hair, one foot on the first step, but then his finger is catching in your belt loop, yanking you hard into his chest. Your back thumps against him with a small oof and then his hands are skating along your curves, big palms squeezing your breasts, pinching your nipples through the cotton of your t-shirt..
“Bad Birdie, try’na run from me.” He nuzzles, gentle, gentle into the nape of your neck, the line of your hair, presses his mouth to the top notch of your spine. You feel his hot, wet tongue slide over the jut of your vertebrae, small peppered kisses to your nape and your entire body flushes hot – arousal pulling low and tight in your belly. Your clit throbs in time with his panting breath in your ear. His soft mouth is totally at odds with the tension he’s holding himself with right now, the harsh way he presses his fingers into the skin of your hips.
You can feel the thick length of him pressing into your ass; he’s hard as stone and throbbing – turned on by the chase. You moan, deep and wanton, slick pooling in your panties, ready for him now , just at the feel of his hands on you. “You want it, baby?”
“Y– yes,” you stutter, pressing yourself harder into him.
“Want me to fuck that needy little cunt?”
His voice is so deep you feel it vibrate through his chest and into your back, down, down your body all the way to the tips of your toes. “Please, Joel,” you whimper. You try to turn in his arms, but he clicks his tongue at you, wrapping his arms more tightly around your waist, half dragging, half carrying you up the stairs to your bedroom.
“I always give my Birdie what she needs, don’t I?”
“Settle now. Stay still so I can eat you how I like.” He hitches his hands higher up the backs of your thighs, beneath your knees – spreads you further apart, up and back to press into your breasts, making more space for the broad valley of his naked shoulders. He’d gotten you naked and into bed, quick as a viper. His desperation, evident in the wild look in his eyes. He was unsettled, either by the tension between the two of you yesterday or you around another man, but he was trying to prove some unspoken point to the two of you in the ferocity of his grip on your skin.
He settles his face deep into your sex now and eats. “Who’s all this wet for, huh? Were you thinkin’ about me while that boy tried to get in your good graces?”
“It’s too much. Please, please, please,” you sob. Tears making a slow, steady journey back into your hairline, dripping into your ears. You yank hard on his hair, try to direct his movements. You can’t tell if you’re trying to push him away or pull him closer.
“Want me to stop?” He laps at your clit.
“I– I don't– I don’t know–” It felt like he’d been at this for hours. “I–”
“It’s okay.” Soft, whispered kisses to the puffy lips of your sex, your slippery inner thighs. You’re so wet, and you’d have burns from his beard and bruises from his teeth tomorrow. “I know, I know you’re just a little bird,” his teeth sharp and mean to the softest part of you, then the broad flat of his tongue to soothe – a sharp, quick suck to your swollen clit. His volley between rough and tender on your vulnerable sex setting you further on edge than anything else he was doing. “But you can take it for me. You can be so, so good for me. My good girl.”
Your cunt pulls tight – throbs like a wound. Hurts in a way you’re desperate for. You love him, you love him, you love him. Goddamn the things he does to you, makes you feel. You need him so much and he gives it all to you exactly in the way that’s the most perfect, just for you. You feel fucking delirious, on the brink of insanity.
He pushes two thick fingers into you, cunt spasming and clinging. He scissors the digits inside of you, stretches your hole. The squelch is lewd and obscene and messy. You can feel your cheeks burning red and hot, and you throw an arm over your eyes as you feel your slick leak down between your ass to pool on the sheets beneath you – hiding yourself from your own obscenity.
“Pussy s’fuckin’ good, baby. Tastes like candy.” He pulls out his fingers, slaps your cunt, twice, quick and sharp. The sound you let out shames you, high pitched and whining. “Fuckin’ red ‘nd gaping for me. God, Birdie–” he moans so deep it makes your heart race, brings his mouth back to you – licks a broad stripe from hole to clit with the flat of his tongue. His mouth latches to the aching swollen bud and sucks. “You need me so much dont you? Fuckin’ come in my mouth – wanna taste it.” And he’s right, he’s right, you do, you need him so much. In that instant, you feel so grateful that he knows it.
Your back arches, everything liquid within you pooling low in your pelvis, pulling tight, and it feels like the world is about to end around you; a catastrophe even greater than anything the cordyceps could have ever wrought. This is what he brings out of you with his mouth and his fingers and his words, and you gush onto his face. He almost fucking whines at the splash of your orgasm on his tongue – slurping down everything you have to give him, you feel your wetness cover his face and beard. This is what you give to each other.
He gentles his fingers and tongue. Letting your orgasm coast along into echoes and throbs. You try to push him away with your foot on the thick mass of his shoulder, on the brink of overstimulation, but quick as a viper, he circles his entire large palm around the fine bones of your ankle and squeezes. Quit – presses a tiny kiss to the protrusion of your bone there.
“Mine,” he growls. “Mine, no one touches you but me–” His hands open you wider for him, fileting you for his eyes only. You feel hot and flush, your skin tight, to the point of bursting, like an overripe plum in the sun. Skin fragile and thin, insides viscous, ready to spill your flesh for him, blood burning hot as it churns in your veins. “Not fuckin’ done yet, Birdie. Not done with this perfect pussy.” Tears make a slow path down your temples, your fingers tangled in his hair, wanting to hurt– just a little. Like the delicious hurt of holding him within yourself. The way it feels like an old aching bruise inside of you when he stuffs you full of his cock. And then he’s up, up, up – quick as a whip – his fingers shoving into the tangle of your hair at the nape of your neck, captured in a tight fist like prey in a snare, and he’s shoving your own taste deep into you with his tongue. The kiss, open and savage – he’s fucking your mouth like he was just fucking your pussy. Your heart pushes against the bones of your chest, and you desperately clutch at his shoulders for some sort of countenance. He unmoors you. You have been unmoored by this man. And you want – need – more.
He kneels between your open legs, thick thighs anchoring you wider and fists his cock, the head gleaming and painfully red. He pulls your thighs over his own thicker ones, and presses the fat tip hard to your sensitive clit, making you jolt and whimper pathetically. “Cock drunk, that’s what you are.” All you can do is nod dumbly, eyes glassy and wet. His voice is so deep. He drags the head down to your entrance, presses just a little, only the fat tip held inside you. He fucks you short and shallow like that, his hips moving in tiny, slow jerks.
“Please,” you sigh, your eyes fluttering shut at the subtle pressure, at the promise of what’s about to come, “Please, Joel.”
“Please what? Please what?” he mocks, just a little mean, and then he’s surging inside in one brutal thrust. Fucking into you without warning and he’s huge — almost too much to take, even after your orgasms. “Fucking tight,” he grits out. He hoists you up, arms wrapped around your waist and starts fucking up and into you, hard. Not giving you a moment to adjust. Letting go of the restraint he’d held while he ate you out. Cock battering into something deep and sensitive inside you, all you can do is take it. Let him have you as he pleases.
He can feel your slick pooling at the base of his cock and sliding down his balls. He wraps his hand around the fine bones of your jaw, “Who’s pussy is this?” he growls over the wet slap, “Wanna hear it out loud.”
Yours, yours, yours.
Your face is flushed and sweaty, cheeks red as an apple, eyes glazed, dark, wet lashes clumped together. The fucked out look in your eyes doing more for him than anything else. This is what he does to you, only him. He picks up the pace of his hips, fucks you harder, harder and your tits bounce against his chest. He slaps one of them gently, appreciating the soft jiggle it gives, the small gasp you let out. His other hand snakes low on your tummy and presses down into your pelvis so he can feel the battering of his cock inside of your cunt and shit he’s gonna come soon. Gonna come with his hand feeling himself fuck you from the outside. “Too much, too much, Joel,” you whine. “Oh god, I– I’m gonna–” You’re soaked, sweat and slick sliding between your two bodies, and clutching him hot and tight as a fist. He can’t get deep enough, can’t give it to you hard enough. He never wants to stop, will never be able to stop.
“You’re taking my cock so good, so fucking good. Jesus fuck, I can’t, I can’t–” He slates his mouth over your open panting one, licks into the sweet, red gleam of you. Your arms wrap around his neck, and he drags his teeth along your full bottom lip, lets it go with a little wet pop. You moan, head falling back on your neck, beyond words. He bends his head, hand wrapped around the fullness of your tit to bring it to his mouth, bites gently down on the tight, aching bud, laves his tongue around it and sucks it into his mouth. Then he’s pushing you back, letting you fall and bounce onto the mattress, legs splayed. When he pulls out abruptly you whimper – he can’t let himself come yet, not yet, just a little more – and he leaves a hot trail of open mouth kisses down your neck, over your shoulder, sucking the peak of your breast into his mouth again, over the swell of your belly, until he’s between your thighs again and bends his head to devour your slick. His tongue licking deep inside where his cock just was. He’s frantic. There’s no reason to the sense of urgency he feels, the urgency he’s taking you with right now. It’s something subconscious – something primal telling him to mark you, lay his claim.
He can’t stop taking and taking, always taking.
He pulls up again from between your legs, the abruptness of his movements confusing you, leaving you to deliriously allow him to do with you what he will. “Taste us,” he says as he licks into your mouth, fucking his aching cock back into your spent cunt, so fucking tight always. “One more, baby. Gimme one more, lemme feel you milk me.” And like his own personal little marionette on a string, you do. Pussy fluttering and then pulling tight, a little furl of a knot, squeezing his own orgasm out of him. He feels his balls pull up tight and he’s painting you inside, teeth latched tightly to the delicate muscle that connects your neck and shoulder. The sound from your throat is high and keening, supplicant. He licks the hurt he’s just left. Grinds his spitting cock deep, right into the mouth of your womb.
Mine, mine, fucking mine. It is a mantra of reassurance for the both of you.
He cradles you in his embrace afterwards, his body wrapped around you as if he were a vine grown from your very heart. He sighs, the sound deep from his chest, and you want to tell yourself you can hear a yearning desperate enough to match your own in the cadence of it. His head drops to your shoulder, nuzzles the vulnerable space beneath your jaw, now riddled with his bites and bruises. You know you’ll enjoy inspecting them in the mirror tomorrow, feeling the warm pull of your belly at the reminder. And the moment is so achingly tender, even more intimate in a way, than your sex. The feel of him surrounding you, soft and quiet. Your eyes feel hot, pinching threateningly.
“I have to go,” he murmurs, spent cock still buried inside of you. He presses kisses to your hair, your lips, over your closed eyelids. He can’t stop, God, he’s tried – is trying – but he can’t go, can’t part from you. Fighting is so fucking hard when you’ve got no will behind it. When what you’re trying to fight against is the thing you’ve wanted more than anything else in your whole life, and the only thing standing in your way is yourself, your own inadequacy. Perhaps he could endure the agony, the filth of life, the loss, the loss, the loss, with you held in his arms like this.
His patrol shift started almost an hour ago. The guys were going to ream the hell out of him, he’d been here with you for hours, and still, still he couldn’t stop, couldn’t pull himself away. His lack of will, lack of restraint, of self control – his body and heart’s inability to do what his mind told him to, makes him so angry. At himself, and maybe – not at you, never you – but perhaps, at what you represented. All he wanted but couldn’t let himself have in full. He needed to go. He had responsibilities. He had truths to confess to himself.
He was in love with you. He was. He was.
Joel was an obstinate man, but he did not lack self awareness. Now was the moment for this truth, if only confessed to himself. So, angry, and in love with you, and tremendously sorry, he turns away. Pulls out of your tight wet clutch with a wince, your breathy gasp making his cock twitch slightly, even so soon after he’s just come. You roll over, burrow into the pillows, and he grips the swell of your ass, pulls you apart to feast on the sight of his come leaking out of you. Obscene. Wet and messy and swollen, marked by his spend. He wants to bend for a taste but knows if he does, he won’t stop, will be likely to start all over again. “I gotta go, Birdie. M’already late.” He bends to nip a gentle bite to your ass cheek, one small last taste, then the press of a kiss. He hopes you can feel all he cannot say with that touch. The soft sound of acquiescence you hum as you burrow further into the sheets has his teeth clenching as he reaches for his clothes, heart turning over in his chest. He’s sure every sound out of you has a direct connection to his cock at this point.
He won’t shower, won’t wash your drying come from his body. He’ll take you with him, wear you on his skin. Anyways, what did it matter, really, when he already wore you on his heart, his soul? What was one more conquering of his self? Perhaps this was, ultimately, what swallowing the sea looked like.
Notes:
shout out to my grandmas crazy foot (extremely niche content sry) that she shows off at all our family parties. taylor swift said to write about your life so that’s what I did 😎
Chapter 3: Your bitter heart, heals my heart
Summary:
The damp dew of morning, as dawn broke across the sky the next day had taken on a biting frigidness, and with it everything was different.
Notes:
Let’s play spot the Fiona Apple reference.
I’d planned to wait until Sunday to post, but I just couldn’t help myself.
I love this chapter a lot. I hope you guys do too. The song Good Guy by Julia Jacklin fits it quite nicely, I think.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Something in my soul was rising, rising, ceaselessly, painfully, and refused to be still.
- Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from Underground
The mystery of Teddy continued and his health worsened. There were no objective indices of a malignant source to explain his symptoms, and yet, nevertheless, they persisted, intensified. The boy was fatigued, withdrawn, sensitive, losing weight, prone to bouts of what could be characterized as a cold or flu. You and Connie suspected the worst, but there was not much to be done to prove your theories without imaging or blood tests, not readily available to you. The best you could do was manage the child’s state symptomatically, and hope for the best until a more concrete plan was assembled.
One night in late October, you and Connie decide to bid farewell to the passing fall with a consolation dinner. The months of Teddy’s ongoing illness had fallen harshly on both of your shoulders and spirits were low. The air outside had taken on the true chill of deep fall, the threat of winter near. You were worried the cold would bring tragedy with it. The child’s constitution was weak and despite good shelter and food and the two of you caring for him, winter was harsh and difficult to endure, even at one’s strongest.
Joel had gone on a good hunt earlier that day and had brought back a nicely sized rabbit. He’d refused to join you and Connie for dinner. Withdrawn and sullen throughout the day, he’d told you to enjoy your evening with a soft kiss pressed to your mouth, before he’d wandered off. You could picture him now, sitting on his porch, guitar in hand, drink at his side, brooding at whatever was plaguing him. The image chafed. His inability, or lack of desire, to tell you what was wrong hurt.
You and Connie talked shop over your rabbit and greens, roasted potatoes in garlic and sage, and the braised plums Dina had brought you a few days before. It was a lovely meal, a veritable feast, lit by the warm candle light of the beeswax sticks Maria had traded with you. He told you about his wife, stories you’d heard dozens of times, that he never tired of repeating and you never stopped wanting to listen to. Stories of his training, the toils of residency, the great accomplishments of fellowship. Your favorite ones were of when he was younger, in his twenties, young and fresh and ravenous to learn everything he could. Eager for freedom and experience and knowledge. To hear of his life was to know him, and you loved nothing more than learning about the man who had become your greatest mentor and friend.
Connie died in his sleep that night. After you’d finished the last of the scavenged wine, he laughingly said he’d had it for years, and had been saving it for a special occasion – that now felt as good a time as any – like he knew this would be the last chance. He’d said good night to you, gone upstairs to bed and passed away peacefully. The damp dew of morning as dawn broke across the sky the next day had taken on a biting frigidness, and with it everything was different, would forevermore be different. For how could anything continue to exist as it had when the man who had given you a vocation, who had shared with you the greatest gift in his arsenal, his knowledge, was gone. It was a devastating blow for you, for the whole of Jackson. Beth and your parents took up space in your mind constantly in the days that followed, the memory of them a heavier weight than you usually carried. Their lives and their deaths, a constant loop of replay behind your eyelids at night, in your dreams. But you trudged on. Tried in vain to smother your grief as best you could. Hide it from Joel and Maria and Ellie and all your considerably disconcerted patients.
The weight of the wellbeing of an entire community, that you dearly cared for, now rested on your shoulders, and the responsibility was a formidable and daunting one. Sometimes, you wished you had it in you to rid yourself of the whole thing. To wash your hands of it. Too gripped by the terror of failure and inadequacy to hold on to your courage. Your fears called forth Connie’s past words, how you’d not chosen this for yourself, would not have chosen it if you’d been given another option. But those moments passed eventually, and you did what you must, what was necessary. However great the burden of responsibility felt on your shoulders, you had no choice but to bear them as you may. Choices, always choices; more than conviction of character, more than desires, or hopes, the choices you made were what determined who you were.
And then there was Joel. Joel who understood this grief of a lost loved one better than anyone else, who understood you better than anyone else. He’d taken your despair in stride, planted his feet in the ground and said to you with every action, every comforting embrace, every night where you cried yourself to sleep in his arms, in his bed, when you sought out the distraction of his mouth and his hands and his cock, with all of it he told you: here I am, use me as you will. Let me help you carry this burden of grief and responsibility, and if you cannot carry it at all, then I will carry you. And he did, with everything he did, he eased your pain. It was like he could read your mind, your heart, as if he’d studied that intrinsic understanding that had always existed between you and Connie under a magnifying glass and applied himself to taking it on himself, doing the same.
You loved him so much in that time of painful grief after Connie – felt the weight of it so poignantly within your heart, it was like a second presence you carried inside your body now, a second soul. His fist wrapped tightly around your heart, your very life blood held in his hands – his to wield as he chose. It was a terrifying, maddening ordeal, that of losing everything you were to a man. Of giving it to him. And yet, you saw your life in the strangest new light now. What did it matter if the world was vast and cruel and terrifying, if you had him? Very little, it mattered very little.
“Birdie.”
You’d been hunched over your desk for the better part of the afternoon. Late into the evening now, and you were still at it, only a small desk lamp illuminating the strewn catastrophe of papers and books in a wash of warm light. Your eyes stung, your back aching and strained. You couldn’t remember the last thing you’d eaten. “You’re back…”
“How’d it go today? How long’ve you been in here, baby?” You know that stern tone. You listen to him set down something heavy on the table by the door but don’t turn, too caught up in what you’re currently reading.
“Teddy’s bad again…” you murmur, “There’s – I – I can’t figure this out. It’s driving me insane. If – if I knew more or– or had more equipment…” you trail off. “It’s bad… This is impossible with so little at my disposal.” Your hands clutch your hair, hunched over one of Connie’s old journals, one you’ve read probably a hundred times. “Something’s fucking wrong…” you mumble under your breath. He was weaker and weaker every day. The bruising you’d first noticed a few weeks ago appeared more often, and you had a pretty good idea as to what it was that was wrong with him, but you were terrified of sharing your fears with his mother. Of being wrong. You told yourself you couldn’t be certain without proper testing. That until you’d found something beyond textual evidence to support your theories, that you should keep your conjectures to yourself. After all, if you were right, there was nothing to be done, but keep him comfortable. You told yourself that to hold off was the right thing to do, but you weren’t sure. Had never been in this position before. And alone, with only yourself to count on, with no one to consult with who had experience in something like this, there was only your gut to follow. It was Joel, who’d ultimately soothed your anxieties. He’d said that if it was him, if it was Sarah in this position, the threat of an incurable cancer plaguing her and no sort of cure or treatment closely available, then he’d not want to know the truth of it. The closest FEDRA outhold was hundreds of miles away, and Teddy would never survive the journey – not with the cold of winter starting to set in, he was too weak, too fragile, being eaten alive from the inside out. You felt so fucking useless, so desperate and hopeless, and you didn’t know what to do besides make him comfortable, try and be there for Susanna as best you could. And she knew, she knew something was interminably wrong with her child. She knew you were at a loss, beyond your depth of resources. You could see the understanding and resignation start to settle in her eyes as the days passed.
“C’mere, Birdie. Come look at this.”
You’re still murmuring to yourself, lost in thought, but you turn to him suddenly, and the look on your face – you feel so young, so lost– “If Connie was here it’d be better–” you say. And you feel so angry at your father suddenly. This is all his fault. He cast you into this role before you’d been old enough to have the sense of foresight to understand all that would come with it. Angry at Connie, for furthering it, for dying, for leaving you alone. Your eyes fill with tears, and he comes over to you, cradles your upturned face in his palms, your fingers twisting in his clothes. “Joel–”
“I found something for you – come see.” He says it so gently, pulls you from the chair, strong hand cupped around the bend of your elbow. Your legs feel as shaky and weak as a newborn fawns, and your vision swoops, dark stars appearing behind your closed eyes.
“Head rush,” you whisper.
“Damnit, Birdie. When was the last time you ate somethin’?” You clutch at his arms tightly as you feel your balance stabilize.
“I– it’s okay… I’m okay.”
You turn towards the table then, and sitting on it is a microscope. You turn to look at him, wide eyed, your threat of tears from before immediately becoming reality. “Where did you find that?”
“There’s a house about five hours west. Me ‘nd Tommy decided to check it out. Someone had a whole damn laboratory in the basement.” There’s a small duffle sitting next to the machine. “Don’t know if it’ll work, if it’s any good to you, or– or if you even want it… I brought all the other stuff I thought went with it–” he unzips the bag, peers inside. “Not sure it’s what you need… if it’s any good. But I thought–” He’s ranting, tongue tripping over his own words, and there’s a fierce blush washing over his cheeks. “I just–” he sighs, “I just saw it and thought of you. Thought it might be something you’d like or find interesting… Something to distract you.” And he’s so endearing and so sweet and so understanding and you’re pressing yourself to him, tears spilling. His breath whooshes out in a small huff with the force of your chest thumping against his, your arms sneaking around his neck like vines, feet scrabbling against the floor, stepping on the toes of his boots to boost yourself up higher, press harder. Your heart, your heart, it hurts, it pinches and burns, and oh, you love him.
He is undoing you.
His hand weaves through the long threads of your loose hair, presses your streaming eyes and hot face to his neck. You mouth messily at the skin of his neck, too overwrought for words. Trying to convey everything you’re feeling in this moment into his skin through the press of your own. And you know, with the gentleness of his hands over your hair, your face, your back and waist, that he knows, he understands.
“I knew you needed something – hoped this could help in some way.”
Thank you, thank you, thank you, you breathe into his neck.
This small action, him going out on patrol and bringing back something for you, seeing something that reminded him of you and hauling it all the way back here, just to make you happy, just because he thought it might entertain you – it’s everything. To know that he knows how much this would mean to you, how much this would help you, how much you needed this – it tells you more about the state of the two of you now, in this moment, than anything else that has transpired before.
You hug yourself closer to him, wet face soaking his shirt and he just holds you, let’s you bask in him. And his tallness and warmth and aliveness — it makes you forget that cowering animal you’d felt like these past few days. He brings back to life your own warmth, your own aliveness, pulls out of you the desire to share it with him. It’s like a damn breaking, a rush of despair and love and grief so overwhelming it punches the air out of you.
Gasp escaping in a loud, breathless sob,“I’m alone, I’m alone now,” you press your hot eyes into the space beneath his jaw, “I don’t have anyone anymore. Connie, Connie – I – I don’t – don’t know h– how–” It’s uncontrollable, breath hitching and hiccuping. Somewhere in the rational recess of your mind you know you shouldn’t be telling him all this. That maybe he doesn’t want to hear it, or maybe even more unlikely, that it’ll hurt him to hear you claim this aloneness. That being without Connie now was almost like being without Beth – out there, in the wilderness, alone and desperate; that facing the responsibility he’d left you with felt like that vast wilderness from before. That without him you felt so, so lost. Your anchor to this world, your guiding light, your friend, your teacher was gone; and even with Joel physically beside you, the encroaching sense of familiar loneliness was overwhelming. You couldn’t help it. Couldn’t swallow this hurt. It was too heavy to be repressed.
You pull back to take in his face and he splays his hand over your cheek, gently brushes away the wet under your eye, your bottom lip, the delicate wing of your cheekbone – his eyes: concerned and grave and slightly lost – like you’re breaking his heart, like he’d do anything in this moment to bear your pain for you. You look at him and think of all the times he’s pushed you away, held you at arms length, refused to let you in. The small hurts and the pinch of your heart in the space where you hold him inside of you, your recurring thought that: I know none of this will matter in the long run — but while we’re here — I want you to love me.
But with this, with this, he was showing you. He was telling you with his actions, with his pain and concern for you: I know of the things you need, of the things you want, and I’ll try and give them to you the best I can. I’ll try and take care of you the best I can. This is me trying; this is me telling you, I love you.
“You’re not alone. I’m here, Birdie. I’m gonna take care of you. I promise.”
You push your face into his large, warm palm, nuzzle the rough skin, and you wonder what will become of you if you cannot be close to him anymore — if he were to one day take himself away from you. Because you know that’s the only way this would ever have a chance of ending, if he were to decide to leave, to go away some place he’d not allow you to follow. Nothing else would ever rip you from his side.
“Thank you,” you whisper into his palm, press a small kiss to the center of it.
“Hell, baby. If I knew the damn thing’d pull this reaction out of you I’d have left it where I found it.” You laugh a watery little laugh. And you think that it really does feel like the world’s ending, a terrible thing, when you feel the love you have for someone settle within you, when you realize the depth of it.
You press up high on your toes, seeking out his mouth, a kind of frantic buzz filling your limbs as you reach for him. You twine your arms around his neck and your fingers into his hair. He understands you and he’s here and he’s going to take care of you and you love him so much. None of the things that had been plaguing your mind these past few weeks, none of the anxieties matter in this moment. Just the feel of his warm skin, his rough hands passing over your clothes and then gripping, twisting in the back of your shirt to press you up higher. He peppers open mouth kisses to your cheeks, your jaw, sucks on your neck sharply. “What do you need, Birdie? Tell me what you need, and I’ll give it to you.”
You can’t think, can’t put into words this frenzied desperation you’re feeling. All you can do is claw harder at his clothes and hair, try to climb the length of his body, get as close as you possibly can. You let out a high little whine, and he winds his fingers through your hair, grips tight and gives a sharp tug. “Need me to be the only thing in that pretty head right now? Huh?” He jerks your head back sharply, exposing the vulnerable column of your throat. His teeth latch onto the delicate line of muscle there, and you’re sure he can feel the rapid fluttering of your pulse against his tongue, a staccato of morse code telling him all your secrets, can taste the distressed need seeping out of your pores. You try and hitch your knee around his hip, grind your aching cunt into him. You can feel your arousal seeping into the gusset of your panties, and you claw at his back to try and find purchase, to rock yourself harder into him. His mouth moves down to the soft junction of your shoulder, and his bite there is harsher, claiming. You’ll have a red blossom of a bruise there tomorrow you’re sure. “So fucking desperate for me, baby.”
His words make something satisfied coil low in your belly. Yes, yes, you moan. You’re glad he knows. You want him to feel how much you need him, how much you want him. You want your desperation to incite his own. You want, need, him to need you as much as you do. He’s clutching your ass then, fingers squeezing your flesh tightly and hoisting you up into his arms. You wrap your legs around his waist, lick into his mouth as he walks the two of you towards the sofa against the wall.
He lets your feet drop to the ground and sits heavily on the couch, knees spread wide and he’s ripping your leggings down your thighs without preamble, clasping the bend of your knee to slip your shoe off and pull the fabric of your pants and underwear off one foot. He pulls you onto his lap then, and you’re clawing at his belt, pulling his already hard cock free of the confines of his clothes. It’s late into the evening now, but anyone could walk in at any moment. Nancy had gone out earlier, but she could come back, come looking for you. None of that matters right now. All you can think about is getting him inside of you now, now now. He grips the back of your thigh to spread you wider across his lap and fists the base of his cock, jacks it once, twice. The tip is gleaming with precum and flushed so red it’s almost purple – your mouth waters at the sight of it. He hasn’t even touched your pussy yet, but you can feel how soaked you are. Your sex tight and aching, and you wrap your own hand around him, pressing up a little higher on your knees to position him at your entrance, and then you’re sinking down, down and you both let out twin ragged groans of relief as you take him inside of you, watching the place where he disappears inside. It’s too much, painful, without having him make you come before, and exactly what you need. His eyes on yours are wide, as if he’s shocked. As if, even after all the times the two of you have done this, he still can’t believe it can feel like this. His neck is flushed red, you can see the hammering of his pulse in the thick vein of his neck, and it makes the walls of your cunt flutter in response. You’re going to come already, just with this. Just at the feel of taking him within you, your orgasm is there. You start to throb and pulse around him and your womb clenches and twists tight like a cramp. “ Jesus fucking Christ,” he grits out through clenched teeth, large palms gripping your ass to start to move you. And you’re orgasming fully now, cunt clamping down hard around his throbbing length. “ Shit, shit–” you bury your face in his neck, tears, a slow, uncontrollable stream from your eyes at the intensity of it, “You’re coming already – Christ– You’re coming already.”
He starts to thrust his hips up into you, the blunt head hitting deep at the mouth of your cervix. “Good girl – good, fucking take it.” All you can do is moan and sob into his neck. Nothing will ever feel like this. Nothing else in your whole life will ever be as good as this is. He’s subjugated you with the feel of his cock pounding inside of you, and if you weren’t in love with him, you’d probably resent him for it. For having such a hold over you. No one person should have this much power over another. You yank on his hair hard. There is a fist around your heart in the shape of him, and it fucking hurts, and you want more and less, all at the same time.
“Harder, please, harder,” you whisper into his ear, let it slide through him, over him. And then he’s flipping you over, your entire weight cradled briefly in his arms as he presses your back into the cushions, and spreads your knees wide, one hooked over the back of the couch, and the other held open by his hand.
“You want it harder, little bird? Want me to wreck this cunt?”
“Want it to hurt. Make it hurt, Joel, please.”
Your words set off a deep red flush in his chest that crawls up his neck and into his cheeks. His eyes go slightly glazed and feral, and he snaps his hips so hard into you your teeth click. He hoists your knee in his grip higher and you press your bare foot into his shoulder as he sets a brutal pace. He makes it hurt. Hand wrapped around your throat, angling your head back into a stretch that pinches. You arch your back, deepening the angle so that he’s fucking up into you and hitting something that makes dark spots flash in your vision. Oh, it hurts, it hurts, it feels so good. His hulking form over you, teeth bared in a snarl, would be terrifying to anyone else. But you think that even with his hand on your throat and that savage look in his eyes, there is nowhere you’d ever feel safer than right where you are. Beneath him, surrounded by him, held in the palm of his hand.
“Like that, baby? This what you needed?” He rips the collar of your t-shirt down, then the cup of your bra, and slaps your breast harshly, once, twice, three times, rips a high pitched keen out of you.
Yes, yes, yes. Thank you.
“You’re gonna take all of my come like a good girl, but first I need you to give me one more. Need you to come on my cock one more time.” The hand on your throat moves to your clit, circles it over and over again. You can feel the wet slap of his balls heavy against your ass. There’s sweat beading at his temples and your eyes never leave each other. Your heavy pants and the sounds of your fucking filling the room like some sort of lewd song. You start to throb around him, the pounding of his cock pulling your orgasm from deep in your pelvis so that it’s fluttering out, up your back and through your limbs like electricity. You pull his chest to yours then, and he lets his heavy weight crush you into the cushions beneath, grinds his cock deep, his pubic bone pressing harshly on the bud of your clit and eliciting another pulsing wave of your orgasm, and then he’s jerking inside of you. The heat of his come filling you. “Take it, take it all, every last drop.”
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
His hips grind slowly, and he lets your knee drop. You wrap your leg around him and push your foot into the base of his spine, pressing him harder into you. He pulls back a little after the last jerk of his cock, gentle thumb ghosting along the arch of your eyebrow, your cheek, then down across the wing of your collarbone, he lowers his head to press a long kiss to your shoulder. When he looks at you again his eyes are soft, a little concerned, “That was okay? I wasn’t too rough?” You nuzzle into his chest, press a kiss over his heart.
“No, no, that was what I needed. It was perfect.”
The two of you lay there for a long while afterwards. His head on your breast and his heavy weight pressing you deep into the sofa. The heat rolling off his body is almost overwhelming, sweltering like a furnace, and it wrings exhaustion out of you. There’s an ache settling deep in your pelvis, and the skin of your throat and thighs smart where he gripped you so hard. It’s bliss.
You run your fingers through his hair, nails dragging along his scalp, and then in long, languorous strokes down his back. He practically purrs, like an oversized and needy cat.
Perhaps this necessity is the worst thing that’s ever happened to you. I need you so much, Joel. Isn't that the worst thing you’ve ever heard? Like an addiction, some sort of disease. For him to be the thing in the world to best soothe you, to best comfort you, but also be the one thing that sometimes hurts you the most. The dichotomy of all he brings out in you – the almost overwhelming love you feel for him, the fear of needing him so much you’d die without him, the desperation to be close to him at all times, for the two of you to be more connected, to know each other better than any two people ever have in all history. You could set fire to the two of you wrapped around each other like you are now with the intensity of all your feelings, let your skin meld together as one. And then also: the hurt, the sadness, the feeling that there’s always something small but magnificently significant missing between the two of you. All the unspoken words that hang heavy in the air. That one piece of him he always manages to keep hidden and tucked away from you no matter the intensity of what transpires between you, no matter how wide you spread his ribs to peer within him. It’s like a neverending stabbing to the depth of your heart, over and over and over again. You think you might have become addicted to the way it hurts. So much so, it manifests physically. You think that perhaps the more it hurts the more content you feel because at least you still have him here with you, at least he’s still in your arms.
There is a part of yourself that realizes that you need something to hurt, to be difficult, to feel worth it. Like if there isn’t some seed of pain at the root of the thing, then it isn’t worth fighting for, isn’t worth the dedication, and you can’t understand why. Perhaps because the start of your life was so easy, so peaceful, despite the world you’d been born into. Perhaps because after your parent’s death everything was suddenly so jarringly difficult, from one blink to the next, life threatening at every turn, that it made the before not seem real anymore. Didn’t seem like it’d ever be attainable again if you didn’t hurt yourself in the process of obtaining it. Perhaps it was just martyrdom, or stupidity, or a subconscious inclination to make everything in your life infinitely more difficult than it actually needed to be. Like that girl who’d always done as was expected of her needed to find some way to counteract her obsequiance with a little bit of rebellion. Some small way within yourself to rail against always being good. Perhaps these small hurts were that form of rebellion.
And then, well really, how could you not resent him after all that? Even if that resentment is overshadowed by how much you love him, how much you need him, still, still you’re angry with him at the same time for keeping that piece of himself away from you when you’ve spilled your blood at his feet. And yet, despite all this, despite all these thoughts running through your mind as you feel his breath press into your chest, as you feel the strong, steady thump of his heart echo into the cavity of your own, you understand him. You understand the motives behind every one of his actions, read the feeling in his eyes like a book, and so how could you not continue to endure all this ache? Continue to crave it. How could you not offer him your understanding, at the very least? If he won’t let you give him anything else but that, then this is all you’ll offer him. A place he can shuck away the fear he holds gripped around his heart, a place to come and be accepted as he is. Whatever is missing after that can be endured, if only he continues to rest his head here on your heart, let you breathe him in, let you feel him.
And oh, you think, it is such a terrible thing to love someone so much. A terrible thing.
Ellie liked to say that time healed all wounds. And sometimes that was true. Sometimes it was not a healing, but merely a scabbing over. Eschar over a festering of hurt still alive beneath the surface, but lived with so long it becomes customary. The bearer becomes complacent – used to it. Parts of you felt like that. Different pockets of painful memory across the surface of your skin. Pushed to the back of your mind in a plight for the preservation of your sanity.
Joel liked to be contradictory and say it was never time. But people, it was people that helped you heal your wounds. Serious, stoic old man that he liked to pretend to be, but you found him incredibly soft and sweet the day he told you that. Trying his best to piece together words to comfort you. You’d shown him exactly how sweet you found him afterwards, on your knees, your mouth wrapped around his hard cock.
And you found they were both right in their own ways. At his side, surrounded by him, the stain of your grief dissipated little by little every day. And as time after Connie’s death passed, the clinic became your priority. The perfect distraction. The patient’s and the people of Jackson were tended to by you and Nancy, who’d become indispensable, with a dedication and hyperfocus, Tommy said, rivaled that of any soldier he had ever served with before. That thought made you quite pleased to think about. For others to recognize the strength in you was cathartic in a way you’d not known you needed.
“There’s been word of a group of travelers – about ten of them.” Maria tells you and Joel. You’re at your office desk, a strew of case notes and charts before you. Joel’s already scowling, shaking his head, arms crossed against his chest. His hair is getting too long again, dark curls streaked with gray, messy and sticking up in all the places where you’d tugged your fingers through earlier when he was kissing you. “A teenage girl found her way to the gates – patrol’s bringing her in now. She’s barely speaking, but we managed to get a bit out of her. Says there’s kids with them, a baby. Says they’re sick, hurt – been traveling a long time.”
Joel looks at you, a forbidding look already building in his eyes, “Absolutely not.”
“I wasn’t going to ask you.” You turn your nose up at him and look back at Maria, he feels his blood boil at your bratiness. “What else did she say, Maria? Is she hurt?”
“I said no, Birdie.”
“Not from what we could tell. Wouldn’t let us get too close– Joel, if they’ve got kids with them–” Maria tries.
“I don’t give a damn. And since when’ve you gotten so fucking lax with the safety of this place? What happened to floatin’ anyone who got too close down the river?”
“Joel–” you admonish sharply. But he isn’t listening to this shit. There’s no way in hell he’s letting you go along with this nonsense. “She ain’t going out there. Absolutely not… With just some unconfirmed story to go on? You think I’d let her–”
“Let me?” Your voice is incredulous.
“It isn’t safe. There are too many people here who need you–” I need you, he thinks, I need you so much, I’ll die without you, I need you safe. “People who rely on you. You’re not gonna put all that in jeopardy for a group of strangers.”
“I’m not completely helpless, you know.” You stand now, crossing your arms beneath your breasts, and fucking hell, now is not the time for him to be ogling your tits. You prop your hip out, the sassiest look he’s ever seen, set on your delicate features. “If I’m out there, if it’s necessary, I can take care of myself.”
“Birdie, you’re not hearing me. The answer is no.” There’s no room for argument in his tone, and he sees your temper flare in your eyes, bright hot and seething at him.
“Joel, I’m not asking your permission. This is what all this has been for – what everything I’ve learned and practiced for was always meant for.” You splay your palms wide, your voice cracking a little in your fervor, and he feels a terrible sense of premonition begin to creep up the back of his neck. His hair standing on end. “There may be only one of me, but that makes my skill all the more necessary to share. There’s only one of me and lots of people who need help – and I’m gonna do everything I can to help everyone I can. Strangers or not. You cannot stop me.”
He turns away, his heavy boot accidentally colliding with the chair beside him and jostling it violently. “ Fuck–” he spits, “Fuck,” runs a hand through his hair, grips hard and tugs. The thought of you out there, in danger, vulnerable, sets his teeth on edge. Goes against everything howling inside him to keep you safe, protected. To hunch his body over yours and bear his teeth like an animal at anyone who’d dare get too close, horde you only for himself. At the same time, his own sense of self preservation rears its ugly head. The thought of you hurt so abhorrent in his mind he shies away from it – wants to run far away, avoid witnessing such a thing.
He pivots sharply back in your direction, brandishing a threatening finger at your chest, “If we do this, we do it how I say. Exactly as I say. No questions asked.” He turns his glare on Maria, “And we’re taking a good group with us. None of those idiots who can barely handle themselves. I want Pablo, Kenneth and Ben.” You and Maria share a look. Jesus, fucking incompetent, the lot of them, he thinks and paces, but they’ll have to do. “And Tommy’s fucking coming. If you’re gonna risk mine, then you’ll risk yours.”
“Fair enough,” Maria says, holding up her palms at him. Her face is serious, not letting his provocation rattle her. “I agree.”
“Fuckin’ better,” he grumbles under his breath, glaring at her out of the corner of his eye.
You sidle up to him, run a soothing palm up his belly to his chest. He has to suppress a shiver. “You’re gonna rip all the hair out of your head, baby,” you croon, soft and appeasing, small palm wrapping around his wrist to gently pull his hand away. The glare he levels at you would send a grown man running. You scrunch your nose at him, and fuck the fact that he wants to kiss you senseless right now. No one person should be this beautiful, this appealing. It surely must go against some law of nature, for one cruel little creature to be so unbearably beguiling, so hard to say no to. Unable to hold on to his annoyance at you for anything longer than a few seconds, he wraps your small hand in his and tugs you further into him. “You’ll do as I say. We’re going to be extremely careful out there. I sense anything even slightly off, and we’re coming back. Understood?” he murmurs into your hair. You look up at him, eyes wide and falsely guileless, oh he knows all your tricks, you can’t fool him with that look. You nod in confirmation, soft pink cheek smushed up against his shoulder. Jesus.
Notes:
I kind of want to mention some things (and don’t know really know how to put it), but I realize there are parts of the readers thought process in this chapter, and really in the story going forward, that some people might not agree with all that much, or find like idk misguided, unhealthy, etc., and yes, most definitely acknowledged. But really, the whole point of this story is that she’s working through some things, they’re both working through things. So… I know her point of view is perhaps not very well adjusted, but I think she’s going to get better eventually. They’re BOTH going to get better eventually. At least, that’s where I hope I’m able to lead them both to, and I hope you all don’t judge her too harshly or think too poorly of her before this is all over. My goal when I started writing this was to examine the grace we all sometimes need others to give us when we’re our worst or weakest selves. This is a very personal chapter for me, and perhaps my favorite of the entire story.
I’m sending lots of love to you all.
Chapter 4: Mouth full of blood
Summary:
A trap is set, the two of you fall.
Chapter Text
Without violence, how do I understand my life as
meaningful?
As if the only tool I owned for finding truth were a knife.
- Gabrielle Bates, Eastern Washington Diptych
A silence as vast as it is particular surrounds the two of you. The loud, wheezing gasp of his breath, the only discernible thing he can make out. It was like you’d been sucked into a vacuum, the rest of the world taken through the maw of a black hole. Trees and darkness and your small hand clutched to the back of his jacket as you follow close behind him.
He makes his way slowly through the dark, one precise step in front of the other, rifle trained ahead of him. The two of you’d been separated from Tommy and the others one by one, picked off like goddamn flies. He didn’t even know if they were all still alive, if his brother was okay.
It was a trap. It was a fucking trap. Goddamnit, he’d known. He’d known this was a mistake.
He was going to kill someone, several someones, for this.
They’d come out of nowhere, the so-called group of weary travelers the girl had told you all about. She’d appealed to your soft nature, tears and timidity, and scrapes and bruises you’d tended to with the gentlest hands that’d ever graced this world. You didn’t belong out here. He should’ve never let you come. You needed to be somewhere safe and warm and protected. Surrounded by your books and your soft things, and him there, to watch over you, always. This was all so fucking wrong.
The men had diverted the group, spooking the horses and separating you all, a coordinated attack. Whether they were trying to find an in to Jackson, or if they’d heard rumors of a doctor, the resource you posed was a valuable one any group or community would vie for, he didn’t know. They’d targeted you first, spooking your mare. She’d reared and unseated you, and he’d almost cracked his neck he’d whipped around so fast watching you go down. The small thud your body had sounded as you’d hit the ground, the seconds it took you to open your eyes and start to move again, the longest moment of his entire life. He’d scrambled off his horse and lost it in his rush to get to you. Hands smoothing over you, down your neck and back, your limbs, checking for breaks. And then he’d looked around to find the two of you were alone. The sound of the others echoing off in the distance, accompanied by other, more harrowing noises. The shot of a gun firing, rushed footsteps and shouts going in and out of his ears. He’d told you to stay close and had set off in the opposite direction, away from where he thought the sounds of the group were coming from.
And then the clicking.
Singular in the darkness, the croaking click of an infected. He pauses your movements, halting abruptly so that the soft weight of you thumps into his back. What the fuck was an infected doing so far out here? Was this part of their plan? Had they connived some way to herd infected out here as part of their attack? Who the fuck even were these people? He needed to get you back, get you safe. Now. This was all wrong, wrong, wrong.
“Was that an infected?” Your scared, cracked whisper.
He holds up a single hand, listening, listening. “We’re gonna move, slow and steady. Silent,” he whispers. “It’s okay, baby. Don’t be scared, I’ve got you.”
“Joel–” fierce little hand clutched in his jacket. He starts to move again. And then the splintering of a nearby tree, gunshots directed at you, and he’s spinning and grasping the back of your head to push you down onto the ground.
“Down, down,” he shouts at you, “Crawl to the tree!” He hunches over your form, knees bent to hover over you and shield you with his body, towards the protection of the trunk. The shooter has shit aim, trees feet away from the two of you fracturing in the ricochet of the bullets. But then there’s a heavy weight slamming into Joel’s side, taking him to the ground, and he hears you scream his name as the man struggles to straddle his middle, get the upper hand. A heavy fist slams into his cheek and Joel grapples to get his arms and legs around the fucker. He can hear your voice sounding in the darkness, but all he can see is the man above him, his sloppy fists swinging without precision or direction. The man is haggard and dirty — months of traveling and wilderness apparent in his face and clothes. Joel manages to get a strong hold on his throat, and then he’s heaving his legs around the man’s torso and cinching him in a lock between his thighs, pulling his face down to meet his fist over and over. His knife is in the holster at his belt, and he’s able to reach it with the hand not gripping the man above him at the same time that he realizes Joel’s reaching for a weapon. He scrambles to knock the knife away and goes for Joel’s throat. Joel manages to turn his head enough to find you in his periphery while still grappling with his attacker.
He watches as the man above you grabs you around the ankle and slowly starts to drag you across the forest floor. Your screams reverberating in his ears like a gong, like the shredding of metal. They’re desperate and visceral and the worst fucking sound he’s ever heard in his entire life. You claw viciously at the ground, nails cracking and bloody, trying to find purchase on anything to pull you away from the man’s grasp, to use as a weapon against him. And then he’s gripping your knee and flipping you over roughly, boot planting his heavy weight on your chest as he pins you in place like a broken butterfly. He bends to say something to you he can’t make out from where he is, but the look of sheer terror and disgust on your face tells him everything he needs to know. Joel sees red, doubles his efforts into a savage mess of limbs and fists, trying to get the man attacking him off.
The dead man standing over you pauses then, turns his head slowly to Joel, and his smile is revolting – dark and rotting, “You ready to watch?” This is every nightmare Joel has had since the end of the world, come to life.
The man crouches down over your struggling form, hand wrapping around the delicate column of your neck. Get your hands off, off, off, get your fucking hands off. There’s fire in his lungs, in his blood. He hears the sound of a clicker again, the screeching monstrosity charging through the dark wood towards you all, and with a burst of extra strength, born of pure terror, he finally finds purchase on the ground with his foot, enough to leverage up and reach his hand towards his lost knife. The sound of the clicker getting closer, closer – and then he’s slamming the knife into the eye of the man above him, the sick crunch of steel meeting bone, and then deeper, until he feels the tip meet the softness of brain – rips it out and then slams it back in again at his neck – blood spurts hot and metallic across Joel’s face. And when he turns his head back towards you, preparing to take in the worst thing he’s ever seen since he watched his daughter die – there you are. Small, trembling frame straddled over the much larger body of your would-be attacker, a hunting knife the length of half your arm stabbing over and over again into his chest and abdomen. He can hear your guttural screams over the white noise in his ears – great heaving sobs shake your chest. Your face, tear streaked and splattered with blood. He sees the eye socket closest to Joel is empty, optic nerve hanging torn and bloody. The gouged eyeball lies a few inches beside his lolling head. The sight of you, his little bird, with hands that hold such power for healing, for care and love, imparting such violence – this is his greatest failure.
He calls your name, loud and sharp, and you pause your massacring immediately. Look up, as if waking from a haze, brought back to consciousness at the mere sound of his voice, eyes glazed and vacant, and his heart is breaking for you, a savage howling ringing within him, his bones vibrating with the very force of it. This is no place for his gentle little bird, no, no, this is all wrong.
“Run, Birdie. Run. Hide. I’ll find you. I promise, I promise. Run.” He can see the refusal in your eyes. The stubbornness threatening to set in. “You promised. You promised you’d do as I say,” he grits through clenched teeth, voice filled with desperation and panic. You shudder, body jerking violently as his words settle inside you, and then you’re shooting up quick as a bullet and turning to run into the darkness. He watches the wood swallow you, and then he’s pushing himself up and squaring himself to face the clicker.
The pounding of your feet in the dark, the rattle of your breath in your chest are the only things you can discern in the black surrounding you.
You have been here before.
You’re terrified that at any second you're going to see your sister. Her ghostly specter, her savaged and torn body, her beautiful, warm face, whole and healthy and smiling at you, the massacred pieces of her torn flesh, scattered along the forest floor.
But you need to go, you need to run, to hide, to do as Joel ordered you. Even though every fiber of your being is telling you to turn back. That the worst thing in the world you could ever do would be to leave him. And then you’re slamming into something, jarring and painful. Something blunt and heavy jabs into your gut, slams into your knee with so much force you see stars, sends you to the ground.
A woman screams, guttural and shrill, as your two bodies collide and a sharp needling cry echoes. Your back slams against the hard forest floor, your head bouncing sickeningly, and white streaks of light flash against the swallowing darkness.
“Fuck, fuck–” she spits, already scrambling back up to prepare to flee, the high pitched cry sounds again. A baby, you think dazedly. There’s a baby here. The baby the girl mentioned? Your head feels hollow, your brain pulsing against the confines of your skull.
“W–wait–” you croak. You can’t get your bearings, too many sounds muddling your pounding head: the far off gunshots – getting closer, the horrible clicking, your memories battering within your mind over and over, Beth’s phantom screams of pain, Joel yelling at you to run, run, run, the baby’s wail fueling your panic to rise higher and higher inside of you. You have been here before. A sense of déjà vu so acute – as if this moment is the only one you’ve ever existed in. Your skin throbs in echoes, a hair raising chill rolls through your body and you shiver, jerking. “A baby–” you stutter, “You have a baby–” you roll over, reach out to try and grasp her kicking ankle. Her boot collides with your wrist, and you swallow an agonized scream, rolling away from her.
“Get the fuck away from me! Fucking murderer!” She screeches, over the baby’s cries. A flash of the moon illuminates the woman’s figure for a second and you see the bulk of the child cradled to her front. And her face, panicked, dirt streaked and desperate. You lock eyes for one interminable moment, take each other in, they’re light, almost glowing translucent in her skull with the reflection of the moonlight.
“Let me– let me help you — Wait–” you urge, you can’t get up, can’t get your limbs to work.
“Get away from me!” she screams again, and then she’s up and gone, fleeing into the darkness. You need to move, the vicious sounds of a fight are drawing nearer – Joel’s pleading voice in your head run, run, run. The thought of having left him behind makes bile curl in your belly, burn your throat, but you’d promised him you’d listen to anything he said, and the instinct to keep your word won out. You hear Beth’s voice more clearly in this familiar darkness, and you force your shaky mind to move, to work. The way she’d say your name so patiently when trying to teach you something, imparting some of her slightly snooty big-sister-wisdom, always well meaning: The trees, the trees are always our friends. They can do so much for us. And then you’re clawing your way to your feet, just like that long past night, and grappling for any sort of purchase you can find with your hands and boots. Up, up the tree, go up the tree. It saved you once, it’ll save you again.
It terrifies you to think that life was only ever a recurring set of events; cyclical in an inescapable way. That you were all doomed to repeat the same steps, relive the same instances, again and again. Beth forcing you up the tree last time, the night of her death. You’d been taken by surprise by clickers that night also, but only you had made it up to the first branches before they were on her. Before you were forced to watch, helpless from your perch as she was ripped to shreds. You had been here before and you’d lost something essential to you last time. You would not survive a second loss.
Joel, please be okay, please, please.
You manage to foist yourself up into the lowest hanging branches, the blood in your head throbs so strongly it’s coupled with a wave of nausea with every beat of your heart, up higher, a little more. You’d perched on that tree branch for hours after she was finally dead. Staring unseeingly at the scattered pieces of her body. A sudden gunshot echoes loudly in the darkness and you almost lose your purchase on the branch, and then it all stops. Like all sound is suddenly sucked out of the air in a vacuum echo – the struggle of the fight, the clicking and screaming – and the vacant wilderness is so consuming, so terrifying, tears stream silently down your cheeks. You can hear your breath rattle in your chest. You feel very, very alone, as if every other human in the world had vanished with the sounding of that gunshot.
Alone in a sick and destroyed world.
But then there’s a sudden bumbling through the trees. A body breaking against the brush and leaves on the ground, and another one of the attackers stumbles into the clearing. You turn your head in the direction the woman had fled, perhaps she’d been part of this group, but the sheer terror in her eyes, the desperation to get away as quickly as possible, her words, calling you a murderer, inclines you to think not. Joel stalks into the clearing after him, and you huddle deeper into the shadow of the branches. The moon slants just so allowing you to take him in.
It’s like he’s grown five inches taller, the look in his eyes – there is no hint of the man who’d touched you with the gentlest hands you’d ever felt in your entire life – it’s terrifying. His gaze swings almost manically in his head, taking in the clearing, and then his eyes stop on your tree, pause on the patch of dirt at the base and slowly travel up, looking into the looming darkness of the branches. He will always find you. You know this as surely as you know your own name. His face, his hands are steeped in blood, his clothing savaged. There’s no weapon in his grasp as the man turns to swing a long, serrated hunting knife at him. He jerks back, smoothly evading it. “I’m gonna find your little bitch, gonna fuck her dead – gut her. Make you watch the whole thing, you motherfucker,” he taunts. He’s laughing, provoking, and Joel’s countenance is so terrifying in this moment – his face seems set in stone, unmoving and frozen in a rage so black. Your whole body shivers so violently you almost lose your perch. The branch creaks beneath you, and you let out a small whimper as your hands scrape and scramble to hold on, your bloody, broken nails clawing at the wood. The man turns at your sound, but Joel’s gaze remains trained on him. The man’s eyes are manic with sick glee. “Oh, there she is,” he croons. His teeth gleam red in the moonlight, and he never should’ve taken his eyes off Joel, not even for a second. He’s on him faster than you can blink, shoulder to the man’s gut, he slams him to the ground and his skull rebounds with a sick crack on the hard dirt, the sound of his skull breaking with the sheer force of the tackle.
Joel is an animal, hungry and vicious, ready to gorge.
The knife is in his hand then, and the sick, slick squelch of it plunging deep into the man’s chest sounds loud and victorious in the night. He lets out a small surprised oh, as he looks down at the knife impaling him, and Joel’s teeth are bared in a snarl, he grinds it harder, deeper.
“That’s right, fucker,” he says, voice low and guttural, almost unrecognizable in this darkness. “Shoulda never put your hands on her.” The sound of it makes you more afraid in this moment than anything else that’s happened tonight, the thought of not knowing the sound of his voice – of losing him so far to his rage you’d be unable to recognize him, to bring him back to you. But then he speaks again: “I’m going to kill you now.” He’s nodding his head mockingly, and that familiar monotone is back. His tone so matter of fact – almost like a reassurance to the three of you. The oily grip of your fear slides off you, and you’re left only to appreciate the magnificence of his violence as he starts beating the man’s face in with his closed first, again and again. The sound of crushed bone and flesh resonating in the dark night air like some gruesome song. And the sight of it: it is lurid, grotesque, but also somehow, erotic. Joel’s huge, heaving body, his fist breaking repeatedly over human flesh; you are mesmerized. You slowly start to lower yourself back to the ground, never once taking your eyes off him, barely blinking. The sight of him, wrathful, murdering, the way he kills for you, the way he protects you; you understand it. It is very much like the moment in which Beth died in its violent inevitability. It will always happen like this; Beth dying, Joel protecting you. The way her body was torn apart piece by piece by clickers as you watched on from above. The basest display of violence imaginable. Joel, meticulous, precise in his strikes, protecting you with everything he has. The man’s skull is an almost bloody mass of pulpy, bone riddled sludge beneath his blows. But in this instance, the scene before you is now something that is being given to you, something being done for you – not something being taken away.
There have been many times where the lines between the infected and the humans blurred in your psyche. Unsure which was more violent, more horrifying, more willing to inflict damage. But there never existed a question of which had a greater capacity for cruelty. It was always, always the humans. Cordyceps had taught you that nature could never be cruel – it only existed as it was meant to, did as it was always intended to. There was no cruelty behind it’s actions, no motivation behind the consequences it wrought besides to go on existing, no choice . But humans, people, the well of cruelty that existed within humanity was endless in its possibility. Endless choices. Nothing else like that lived in the world. The man you killed – his disgusting whispered words ring in your ears as you watch Joel: You think your man over there’ll get off on watching? ‘Cause I sure as hell am gonna enjoy knowin’ he is, pretty thing.
There are no lines in this moment – the way you’d murdered him – there is no sense of division. There is only Joel’s desperate violence existing with the three of you in this clearing – the echoes of your own.
And the sight before you, the violence in him, it is not frightening to you. He is not frightening to you. To see his very basest nature – to see him protect you in this way – that violent heart, beastly, savage – it does not frighten you. You step forward, closer to the massacre, to the man you love, and he instantly stops. Hearing or sensing your approach, he stops and turns his bloody, savage face towards you, chest heaving, fist still raised. The look in his eyes as he registers your presence, that you’ve witnessed him in this way – to Joel, to Joel it is devastating. You can see it in his gaze, the moment it settles within him – catastrophe of the highest order.
The possibility of losing you, of you being hurt, of him not being strong or fast enough to protect you; every fear, every moment of unimaginable danger, every point of no return flashes in his eyes – it’s like you’re reading his mind in this moment. The instance of connection, of knowing, of intimacy you share in the wake of his violence – it tethers you to him in a way that is deeper than anything else the two of you have experienced before. To share this, to know what he’s feeling in this space his violence has forged, to understand his rage – he’s seen this play out so many different ways, so many times, with different versions of someone he cares for. Sarah, Ellie, you.
His eyes like glass, broad chest heaving, painfully out of breath; it’s like you can see him recall another moment like this as he looks at you, as he takes in the familiar look of hungry reverence in your eyes, mirroring another set too young to churn with so much appreciation for violence.
He straightens from his crouch over the massacred form of your attacker, and comes to you, bloody hands fisting in your hair as he takes your mouth, open and fierce. The groan he licks into you is guttural, eliciting a shaky, broken moan in response.
“My brave girl,” he murmurs softly, nose nuzzling your cheek.
His hands roam down, gently pressing for wounds or hurts. “You’re okay? Are you hurt anywhere?” You press yourself to him, gaze peeking over his shoulder, staring out into the empty darkness, only the sound of your shared breaths now.
“There was a woman,” you whisper, “With a baby.” Where did she go? Why did she have a baby out here with her in this hell?
He pulls you back, grips your jaw gently, “Are you hurt?” He demands, ignoring what you’d just said, and you shake your head, wide eyed. Do they have shelter? Somewhere to go? Someone to help them?
“Are you?” you ask him.
“I’m fine.”
“I saw a woman, Joel. She had a baby.”
“Was probably with those bastards. We have to go – find the others. I have to get you back home.”
“But she had a baby–”
“That isn’t our concern,” he says sharply, and turns, clutching your hand in his, pulling you forward to bend for the knife still plunged in the man’s chest. He isn’t letting you go again. You feel the promise in the strength of his grip around your bones. The skull is caved in, and your eyes volley back and forth between the slaughter and Joel.
“But I–”
“Don’t.” There is no room for discussion in his tone, only an urgency that begs for your obedience. His panic, his terror, envelopes you both in its asphyxiating embrace. “Not now. We have to go.”
You make it back to Jackson within several hours. Never coming across the group or the horses again. Joel sets an uncompromising pace that has your exhausted, overwrought body shutting down once you finally set eyes on the gate.
He hasn’t said a word in hours except to check if you’re okay. His breathing, harsh and angry — you’d focused on the rhythm of it, the reassurance it provided you. Let the sound settle in your bones and guide you forward along with his hand. He’d not let go of you since he’d picked it up, and your fingers have long gone numb in his strangling grip. But you know, that like the sound of his breathing, the feel of your palm in his is his own form of reassurance. The embrace he’d not allow himself right now. Not until you’re safe.
The dark, red thread of tension pulls taught between the two of you. His earlier violence, still palpable on your tongue, felt in the rigidity he holds himself with, it buzzes between your bodies like a hive. A restless anxiety overshadowing the exhaustion threatening you, making your skin itch and sweat.
You return to find Tommy safe and unharmed, Kenneth and Pablo being patched up by Nancy and interrogated by Maria. The fourth in your party, Ben, is dead. A group already assembled to go out and search for the two of you. The teenage girl had disappeared from the clinic shortly after your group had headed out – the whole thing was a trap. Joel recounts the fight in tense, short bursts, never letting go of your hand. Pulling your body slightly behind his, as if these people, familiar to you, your friends, your family, also pose a threat. Anyone who dares too close is met with the fire of his glare, bared teeth. He’s yet to shed the blanket of violence he’d dawned to defend the two of you earlier, and your body seems to answer it, a keening cry only he can hear. Shaking and sweating, clutching the back of his jacket, pressing your feverish brow to his shoulder. You know you should pull yourself together, tend to Kenneth and Pablo, clean and wrap Joel’s obviously broken hand and your own scrapes and bruises – it’s your responsibility – but you can’t focus, can’t pin a rational thought in your mind long enough to propel yourself into action. The wet sound of Joel’s pummeling fist plays over and over in your mind, the only thing you can focus on, the feel of his warm back under your touch. You need him, need something from him after that trauma, after your fear of being taken from him, of one of you being killed. You need him to remind you that you’re both okay, alive, that you belong to him and only him.
You block out their conversation, eyes closed, you try to match the rhythm of your breathing to his, try to ground yourself with his body. The feeling of never having left those dark woods, of still being in that tree with Beth, not Joel, beneath you, of being lost, lost, lost, of never finding him, is overwhelming you.
And then he’s turning and pulling you into his arms, guiding you away from the group and whispering into your hair, “It’s alright, it’s alright, just a little longer. We’re going home now.” Home, he was taking you home. The words out of his mouth allow you enough clarity of mind to squeeze the wish from your heart into your brain – that you want so desperately for his home to be yours also. That you could both share the same space you call just your own.
“I’ve got you, baby. Stop your trembling now,” he presses into your hair. His voice, so comforting, so reassuring.
Your eyes are blurry, colors passing your gaze in a hazy amalgamation that makes your heart beat faster. You can feel the mass of it pounding against the ribs in your back, the sensation sick and uncomfortable. And then you’re in his bedroom, and his hands are everywhere, ripping aggressively at your clothes, sliding through your hair, squeezing your ass and your breasts and your hips.
“I need you– need you, need you– Need to feel you, Birdie.” His voice pushes an urgency into your skin that has your heart beating even harder against your ribcage, his mouth sliding over your neck, tongue laving into the hollow of your collarbone, teeth biting, sharp and painful, into your shoulder, and you find your voice finally, keening and broken, calling out his name. He’s moving lower, sucking on your breast, biting, as if he could fit the entire heavy weight of it into his mouth, “Joel– Joel, please.” You push and grip at his head, his hair.
“I know, I know, baby. I know what you need.” He pushes you back onto the bed, rips your legs open, fingers and nails pressing painfully into your soft skin, he spits on to your exposed sex, rubbing his saliva into your folds, bends for a long lick, and then two of his thick fingers are shoving into your cunt. He curls them forward and presses, presses, hooks into that spot that belongs only to him and bares his teeth at you. Snarls like an animal. Mine, mine, mine, you’re okay, you’re mine, he chants. He moves his fingers fast, with a lewd squelch that has you writhing and gasping, scissoring them to stretch you open. He pulls them from you, too soon, not enough, you want to say, but you hear the drag of his zipper – he spits again – and then the hot, wide head of his cock is there at your entrance, swiping along you in a wet arc, and then pressing, pressing in, and he’s there, surging into you and fucking hard and fast into your tight heat, hitting the end of you. The groan he lets out when he sinks to the hilt vibrates through you. You aren’t fully ready to take his thick length, and you don’t care, want it harder, faster, want it to hurt more, to remind you that you’re here with him, that you made it out of that dark wood. You curl your fingers under the damp crook of your knees and spread yourself wider for his ravaging. Eyes never leaving his, you arch your back to allow yourself to take him deeper. The moan you give him, pleading, almost pathetic in its desperate supplication – like an animal, like prey, pinned beneath the claws of a savage beast.
“This is what you needed – this is what you needed. You’re okay, you’re okay” he chants. You cannot discern where it is he ends and you begin. You never want to be able to tell again, want to meld your souls, your bodies together like ore.
Still standing over your naked form at the edge of the bed, he lets himself fall forward, rigid arms holding himself up. He takes in your flushed, sweaty face, the glassy, terrified look you’d worn for hours replaced by the glassy haze of arousal. Delirious at the pleasure he’s forcing into you right now, he picks up the pace of his hips, gives it to you harder. Snakes a hand down to give your clit a gentle swirl, then further down, where his fingers part in a V to feel where his cock splits you open.
“Just take it, just take it.” His cock inside you is brutal, cunt stretched to the point of obscenity, stuffed full. “I need you to take it for me, just like this – be a good girl – don’t struggle, lemme give it to you how I need.” His desperation has a flavor, a scent to it. He changes the angle to fuck up, up against something no one but him has ever touched, a space inside you that belongs to him, thumb soft as a whisper on your swollen clit, around and around. He can tell you almost need to tell him to stop, that it’s too much. “Fuck, that’s so good, baby, you’re such a good girl,” he praises, and you make a soft, obscene sound that he feels in his battering cock. He gives it to you harder. It’s a sound of acquiescence, of complete capitulation, that he rings out of you. He’s conquered you in this moment – conquered you in a way that grants you no option of stopping. The sound is his permission to conquer. With his body over yours, within yours – you are completely at his mercy and protected from everything else in the world that could ever hurt you. He feels god-like. There is no fear or loss or hurt, no possibility of failure, only his body moving within yours. Your warm wet heat swallowing, gaping for him as he fills it like you both need him to.
The panic of that darkness surrounding him, of being unable to find you, of killing everything in his path just to fucking get to you, sings through him. He’d kill this dead world over and over and over again a thousand times just to find you in that darkness.
He hooks your knees over his arms, hitches them higher – holds your legs open wider to receive him – your bare tits pressed up against the bloody, savaged cotton of his flannel – too desperate to bother stripping his own clothes, and the rough fabric rubs your soft skin raw. Each time his hips slam against your ass, balls slapping, your breath stutters out of you in broken gasps, and you don’t think he’s ever been as deep in your cunt as he is now. He wraps one of his arms around your back, gripping your shoulder to impale you down onto his cock. His other fists painfully in your hair to keep your head in place and tilted up to him; your jaw hinged open so you can breathe into each other. Your own hands clutch uselessly at his wrists, trying to exert some semblance of force against him – to remind him of your own strength while he overwhelms you with his. He’s fucking you as if he could burrow his way inside of you forever, live within the confines of your skin. You’ve lost track of how many times your cunt has spasmed and come around him, your muscles milking him relentlessly. Your clit engorged and rubbed raw. You’re one unending, throbbing orgasm. Everything is wet and messy between the two of you, the gush of your lust sticky and clinging to the hair on his pelvis and thighs. Birdie, Birdie, Birdie, it’s like a prayer.
“Should’ve never left you alone in the dark, baby.”
He wants to break you, you're sure of it – to turn you into a creature reduced to only the virtue of his whims, ruled by the savaging of his cock. The very nectar of you pooling at his feet, leaking out of your pores under the unrelenting focus of his body and you know you won’t survive him. Not after this. But no, you realize, no, this is Joel breaking, not you. His fear is a living creature sharing the room with the two of you right now. Everything that’s ever held him away from you, everything he’s ever been too scared of to admit, lives and breathes with you in this moment. Like some sort of monstrosity crouched in the corner, bloody and frayed and wanting.
“Birdie, I love you. Birdie, Birdie, my Birdie,” he brands the words into your skin. “I was so scared—” searing kisses pressed to your face, your neck, your breasts, in the wake of his words.
Oh, this is it. Your heart, your heart, it’s going to burst, to cleave in two. He’s wrought a fracture through the core of your very being.
This will never mend.
The rhythm of his hips speeds up, becoming sloppy and stuttered – he’s close – and his grip transfers to your jaw, so tight and bruising; you’ll have the ghost of his fingers on your skin tomorrow. His cock kisses your womb with each brutal thrust, and he bares his teeth at you as he starts to come, the blazing wash of his spend filling you. “You’re gunna take all of my fucking come.” Anger and violence and all the feelings he wishes he didn’t have to experience, churn in his dark eyes. And you’d hold onto his anger soaked skin for the rest of your life if you could, if he’d let you. His eyes flick between yours, still holding your face, he ghosts his thumb over your wet bottom lip. “Birdie, I– I…” His hips are still moving, fucking his come deeper into your messy, used cunt. You see the realization of what he’s just said settle in his eyes, moving back and forth between yours, as if he’s watching him bare himself to you over again in their reflection.
You’re losing him, you can feel the tension – regret, please, please don’t be regret – slowly start to seep into him as soon as he’s finished, to steal him away from you, and you cling more desperately to him, pull his face to yours and press soft butterfly kisses across his cheeks and nose. Joel, Joel, Joel. Please, don’t. His eyes flutter closed – the image of you beneath him already too much to bear.
“Stop,” he growls. Again: “Stop,” and suddenly he’s ripping himself out and away from you. The loss of him from between your legs, so violently abrupt, is almost a physical pain. The emptiness after being so full leaves you clenching around nothing, pushing his come out of you, and embarrassment, shame, fills you so acutely – to have your sex bared to him like a wound he’s left you with. You shut your legs, clutch your knees to your chest and gasp for breath, almost a sob. You gouge your nails into the skin of your knees trying to draw blood – before he can. You know what’s coming.
“I didn’t mean… all that. I– fuck—” he spits, clutches his hand in his messy hair, “I– I got carried away.” He’s backing away from you – other hand outstretched as if to keep you away. As if he could keep the reality of his confession, the betrayal to his own self, away from him with just that outstretched hand.
You’re still on your back, vacant eyes trained towards the ceiling, sucking in painful gulps of air, but you register him from the corner of your eye, the look he wears – you can’t decide if he was more terrified at the possibility of you being ripped apart by the clickers, taken and brutalized by the hunters; or in this moment, if his fear is more acute now, in the wake of his fortuitous confession. At the risk of being laid bare and vulnerable at your feet; as you’ve lived at his since the moment he first took you.
“Okay,” you say – try to temper your voice, slow your breaths, remain quiet and calm. Only one of you can be overwhelmed by panic right now. And yet part of you wants to rage at him. Your heart beats painfully in your chest, and you want to say, it’s not like I’m asking you to open your vein and let me drink – only just to love me.
Birdie, I love you. Birdie, Birdie, my Birdie.
“Okay…” you say again, “I– it’s… it’s okay. I know.” You sit up slowly, your body throbs and aches, still not able to look at him – the sight of him so terrified of all you represent, it would burn you – but you feel his gaze like a brand across your skin. You wrap your arms around your naked breasts, shielding yourself. His own bloody shirt is askew, his pants still open, cock slick with your mingled come, still semi-hard. If this were any other moment you’d tease him – how are you still hard after all that?
You turn your head away, towards the door, a traitorous little tear escapes the corner of your eye, and you quickly wipe it against your lifted shoulder, press your fingers to your mouth to keep in the threatening sobs. One of his flannels is strewn across the ground and you toe it towards yourself. “It was the adrenaline.” Your voice is limp, dead. Diminishing this will be the thing to kill you, you’re sure of it. How can he expect you to turn away from the one thing you’ve wanted from him more than anything else?
Birdie, I love you. Birdie, Birdie, my Birdie.
You shrug on his shirt, and he’s still not said anything else, but you see him move to tuck himself into his jeans now. “I- I’m gonna get some water,” you mumble, give him a moment to recalibrate.
Chapter 5: Love humiliates you
Summary:
Consider the moment before you go forward.
Notes:
Reminder that this does have a HEA, I would literally never write a story without one. I promise. The events of this chapter are what spawned this entire story. Enjoy.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
I was always ashamed to take.
So I gave. It was not a virtue. It
was a disguise.
- Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 4; 1944-1947
You reach for a glass as Ellie wrenches the back door open. The look on her face – set to kill. Another person needing something from Joel that he just isn’t capable of giving. Perhaps you’re wrong, to capitulate to his shortcomings, accept the things he can’t or refuses to part with. But in a world like this one, now, where merely staying alive is made so much more painful, so much more of a fight, you feel you have to give him this. If nothing else, understanding. It’s what you would want for yourself. And after everything that’s just happened, you know you won’t let her hurt him more than he already has been tonight. After you’d felt his fear, alive and sentient, brush up against you, overwhelm him. No matter what. You feel the resolve harden within you.
“Ellie.”
“I need to talk to him.”
“I don’t think now’s a good time. He–”
“Fuck that,” she spits. “You know he beat the shit out of Seth the other night? I don’t need him defending me. I can handle those types of things myself, and you can’t protect him from me forever.”
“That’s not what I’m trying to do at all,” you say severely. “Joel doesn’t need me protecting him. And he’d hate hearing you say that. But tonight–”
She pauses to really look at you, takes in the scrapes on your face, the harried look in your eyes, “Did something happen? Are you okay?”
“The kid they found – it was a play – they attacked us out there.”
“What? What are you talking about? Are you okay?”
“I can’t let you do this to him tonight.”
“I’m asking about you.”
“I’m fine. It was nothing.” A terrible lie. “But he– he needs some time… He–”
And then from the shadow of the stairs: “What’re you doin’?” Your heart stops.
Ellie squares her shoulders, she looks a little maniacal, and you have the hysterical urge to laugh.“I came to–”
“Not you–” he holds up a hand towards her. The look he levels at you, you feel afraid in that instant. On the precipice of something very bad. Very frightening.
“Joel–” you whisper.
“What d’you think you’re doin’?” You’re not his little bird right now. His face is cast in an angry set he’s never turned towards you before.
“I– I’m…” you feel out of breath, “I just–” You glance back and forth between the two of them. To Ellie for help – and you think you see the same fear for yourself in her own eyes, the realization that something is very wrong.
“What’re you tryin’ to do? You… you what? You think that what goes on between Ellie and myself’s your business as well? How many times do I gotta tell you that whatever goes on between us is not your concern? Whatever issues we have are family issues.” And you flinch as if he’d struck you a blow, fist closed, teeth bared. Nothing worse could’ve been said. You’re jarred into taking a step away from him, and you see his countenance shift, his gaze waver; fear flashing in those warm hazel eyes – now frigid – that you love so much. Perhaps fear of his own self. You clutch the back of the chair to keep upright.
This is the moment of no return for him.
“Y– you think w– what… That just ‘cause we fuck on occasion–” the words like a razor he struggles to spit out.
Birdie, I love you. Birdie, Birdie, my Birdie.
Ellie’s voice, warning and sharp, “Joel–”
You watch him gather his resolution around himself, a wall barricading you from him – he goes in for the kill, “...that just ‘cause we fuck on occasion you’ve got some sort of right to come in here and stick your nose in matters that got nothin’ to do with you?” I was already here, you want to scream, I’ve been here all this time – but the words don’t come.
He looks away as if the very sight of you burns him. His jaw clenched tight, fists curled into knots.
“You need to leave,” he says flatly.
And you nod a shaky jerk. A short breath of a laugh escapes, “Fuck on occasion…” you whisper, almost incredulous, hysterical. Or maybe questioning. Perhaps you should question all you’ve made this into in your head up until now.
Birdie, I love you. Birdie, Birdie, my Birdie.
You look away too, your eyes filled with tears you’d die before spilling in front of them. And you think that nothing has ever, ever hurt as much as this does right here. A sudden blinding flash of Beth in your mind’s eye, torn apart – decimated, a sea of blood as endless and dark as the night sky. A pain, sharp, piercing – as if a bolt of fire had shot straight through the soft of your belly. You wrap an arm around yourself. Nausea sits heavy on your tongue, you could vomit right now.
“You’re right …” your brows hitch high, like you’re surprised to hear yourself say so. “I– I’m s–sorry.” It’s a cracked whisper. You wring your hands together painfully – as if you could break your own bones, distract yourself with a different kind of hurt. You remember they’d ripped her arms from her body first – her screams so guttural. The worst sound you’d ever heard. Too much, too much had happened tonight. Flesh tearing from flesh. And then the rest of her, bit by bit as you watched helpless and useless from above. Tucked away quietly in the tree branches. Her hair, her skin, her bones. Your sister. It replays in your mind like some sick, horrifying montage you’ll never be able to forget.
The moment of no return has passed.
Silently, you make your way upstairs, still bare and dripping him beneath his shirt. Everything is so quiet, and if the end of the world had taught you anything, it was that calamity is never as loud as you assume it will be. You’d always known not to push. Not to pry. To let him be, and exist around him as he saw fit. As he needed you to. And you understood, you understood that it really was what he desperately needed, that he was sensitive, easily hurt, easily scared, despite what he wanted the world to think. That some people needed time and patience to come to terms with their own feelings – how he felt safest. And you were good at pretending you were okay with all that. You could tell yourself you didn’t need anything but what he could give you. For a time. But you’d forgotten, just then – seeing Ellie barge in on a warpath, with only Joel’s hurt in mind, the terror and the violence of the night, and his desperate confession ringing in your ears – you’d forgotten. There’d been nothing in you but a savage need to protect him as he’d protected you earlier. To step between the two of them and shield him from her wrath with your physical body if need be. He’d told you he loved you, and you knew it’d break him after everything else tonight.
You find your jeans blindly. Pulling them on and exchanging his shirt for yours, folding it carefully over the end of the messy bed, still damp from your fucking. A site of catastrophe.
There’s a rushing sound running through your brain. In your quiet, harried haste you forget your bra and underwear, hook your fingers into the backs of your shoes. Down the stairs – quiet, quiet.
And then you’re out. Gone. The way he wanted you. You can’t even look back into the kitchen before fleeing. You feel like a thief. Like you’ve stolen something integral to him with his confession. There is a sweet twisted sort of vindication in the feeling for throughout this painful, desperate, unavoidable thing between the two of you, you’d sometimes wondered if you were never anything more than an easy, desirable, nuisance to him. Yes, he wanted you. To fuck. To find comfort, softness in you. Love? Sometimes, you thought, perhaps. Now, you knew.
The ground is frigid and hard and you left your socks and your jacket behind, and you can feel him leaking out coldly into the rough seam of your jeans. The tears finally fall.
How could he expect you to turn away from the one thing you’ve wanted from him more than anything else? And now that you have it, it is a devastating victory for how alone it makes you feel.
Joel listens to your quick, quiet shuffling as you gather your things upstairs.
You're right. I’m sorry. Nothing you could have said in that moment, cursing him, spitting on him, railing against him, telling him he’s the lowest piece of shit to ever exist, could have made him feel smaller than your quiet acquiescence had. Nothing he could have said could have been worse either. Much less than what he deserves.
His skin flushes hot and cold, vacillating between numbness and panic, and already, he feels a desperate need to go after you. To not let you out of his sight. To run upstairs and get on his knees, beg you to forget the past five minutes. Hell, the past half hour, when he’d pushed so coldly away from you upstairs. To forget how fucking stupid and wrong and broken he is. To beg you to read everything he can’t say in his eyes and touch. To tell him how to go forward. To believe him, to believe him when he says he loves you, but doesn’t know how to not be scared anymore.
That he’d reduced you to an occasional fuck, as if the past few months, intertwined with you, hadn’t saved his life – his heart – in a way he didn’t know needed saving.
There’d been times where he’d look at an infected, right before killing it, and felt an understanding so poignant.
That is what I have become.
That is what I have become.
That is what I have become.
He is brought low by the devastation of his own brutality.
He never needed to have been bitten to lose himself.
He looks at Ellie – her gaze averted from him, like she can’t even look at him right now – how much she’s grown since the first moment he set eyes on her.
Look back at me, Ellie. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean any of it. Come back to me, Birdie. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean any of it.
He thought he’d grown as much, as well. He hears the soft patter of your feet down the stairs. You hadn’t even taken a moment to put your shoes on, and he takes a step forward as if to follow you. “Birdie– “ he whispers. You need your shoes, it’s cold out, and you need your shoes. It’s what he wants desperately, to go after you, but this fucking fear that makes him so goddamn weak and destructive. He hates himself for it.
The sound of the clickers echoes in his mind, the dark taking you away from him, unable to find you as he was caught off guard by your attackers; the violence and depravity of their words as they taunted him with what they’d do to you if he failed. It feels like there are a thousand screaming voices shrieking directly into his ears as he watches you walk out his front door. It snicks shut, whisper silent.
“You know, I came over here wanting to yell at you,” Ellie starts, “To hurt you,” pauses, considers him, her head falling sideways on her neck, looking at him as if she’s only seeing him, really seeing him now, for the first time.
The screaming stops. There is only an impossible silence now. She was so little all those years ago. He wants to smile at the memory of that goofy kid, as wrong as the moment is.
He thinks he might cry, and the thought startles him.
“To say something to really hurt you.” She worries her ring and middle finger in her other hand – fidgeting; finally she releases him from that terrible knowing look in her eyes, deflates as if all the fight she’d stormed in with is suddenly gone. “She saw exactly what I was here for…” The soft space behind his knees burns and itches. He thinks he might be having a panic attack, his chest caving in on itself.
What the fuck is going on in your head right now, Joel?
“I had Seth under control, the other night.”
“Yeah, I know.” She goes quiet again, and he can see in her eyes that this is not what she came here for. He is so tired of fighting. How many decades has this interminable battle been raging on around him, within him?
Finally she voices the truth of what she’s here for, the only truth left between them: “I was supposed to die in that hospital… My life would’ve fucking mattered… But you took that from me.” His thoughts are a barrage inside his mind – flipping from the attack earlier, you in his bed beneath him. Birdie, I love you. The hospital. Ellie, Sarah, Ellie, Sarah, you. Every decision made that’s led him here, to this moment.
There is something eternally complex about her words. Had he not intervened, had he not saved her in the hospital that day, yes, yes, she would have died, perhaps the world would have been saved. He remembers Kathleen, all those years ago, children die all the time, and didn’t he fucking know that. His own child was dead. He understood that better than anyone. Is one life worth everything? But he’d decided that day that Ellie would not be one of those children stolen by fate. No matter what he had to do or sacrifice, even of himself, she would not be taken. And so she wasn’t. Yes, he’d lost her in all other ways, but at least she was still alive to hate him. It was all that mattered when it came down to it. Did her life matter more or less now after the fact? The grace of her immunity would always exist. No matter what he did. Was it a miracle, a gift from God, or a burden too terrible to bear? In many ways, he’d turned himself into that great burden; for her, for himself, for the people he’d killed and those that waited for someone who’d never again return to them because of his actions. He’d fucked with fate that day. He’d brutalized and murdered so many people; this was fact. No amount of apology or forgiveness could ever erase that. So yes, he’d taken from her, taken the insurmountable weight of guilt from the small shoulders of a child who should have never carried that burden to begin with. Taken a misplaced sense of guilt at having survived when so many others hadn’t. Given her time to grow, to have a life. Nothing could ever make him regret that. No matter what. If nothing else was true, it was that Ellie going on, Ellie living, would always be the most important thing to him.
“If somehow the Lord gave me a second chance at that moment…I’d do it all over again.” There is no regret in his heart about that.
“That was the one thing, Joel” and she says it with such urgency, it makes his stomach clench tight. She brings her fist violently into her flat, waiting palm, clutches her hands together as if she’s grasping onto all the frustration and resentment she holds against him. As if she could just make him understand, like he’s too dense to do so. But he understands. He always has. “That was the one thing that could’ve made my life matter…”
“Your life matters, kiddo. It always did. It’s always mattered to me.”
She’s quiet then. As if the thought is something too big for her mind and heart to grasp. “Yeah…I just…I don’t know if I can ever forgive you for that…” and then, hesitantly, “But I would like to try…”
His voice hoarse: “I’d like that.”
She looks towards the door you just quietly left through.
“I want to let go of this fucking anger.” And he thinks: I want that too, to the point of desperation. “To just forget it. You don’t deserve it anymore… I don’t think– and after all this…” she waves her arm dejectedly at the room. “Besides… nothing I could ever say to you, could ever hurt you as much as you hurt yourself.” A devastating blow for the truth it holds.
“I– I ain’t hurtin’ myself,” every word sits tight and reluctant in his throat. “And she’ll get over that,” he points pathetically towards the door, he doesn’t even believe his own words. “She knows well enough what we are and what we aren’t.”
“I know she does,” Ellie says sadly. “It’s you who doesn’t,” she presses, “You who’s blind.” She shakes her head a little, softly, from side to side – retreats, as if she’s considering what to say next. Or how much of his own truth she should share with him. The sad pity in her eyes – it terrifies him.
“You’re in love with her.”
He wishes the screeching in his head would come back now because he does, he does know. He can’t deny it. Not that. Not to Ellie. Probably not to anyone. It would be too great a lie to tell, even for him. After all, he’s already confessed it to the person who matters most. What would be the point of refuting it? Panic rises again, thick and cloying in his throat.
Her eyes move back to the door, she clicks her tongue.
“That might just be the worst thing you’ve ever done,” she tells him softly, and she wants to cry for him. For her protector. Her friend. Her betrayer. She wants to cry for all he won’t let himself have.
The sins of his past hang with startling clarity between them in that indelible moment. He looks around the room as if he can see them plainly, and he is frightened.
She laughs a little. Sadly. Quiet. It breaks his heart.
“Maybe you’ve just lost her for good.” He shakes his head immediately, instinctively, eyes still swinging around the room – watching a blur of past mistakes he’d give anything to erase play out. “See you around, Joel.”
He is, once again, made monstrous in that instant.
The door slams behind her, and then they’re both gone.
The moment is lost forever.
Notes:
joel and birdie: i’m tired of this (suffering) grandpa!!
me: WELL THAT’S TOO DAMN BAD !!
Chapter 6: The indignity of suffering
Summary:
Go into that dark wood, but do not lose yourself.
Notes:
I just wanted to say that you all have been so fucking kind and lovely and supportive to me. I’ve read and tried to reply to every single one of your messages and cherish them so so much. I can’t even tell you what it means to me to receive this type of response to something I’ve written, my very first thing I’ve ever shared publicly, at that. I seriously thought this thing’d have two hits, me and my burner account and that’s it. I appreciate each and every single one of you to the end of the earth, and hope I can continue to write things that you all relate to and are moved by and find solace in. Thank you so so so much. I love you and I wish you all nothing but the most amazing things in the whole world.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Someone has to leave first. This is a very old story. There is no other version of this story.
- Richard Siken, War of the Foxes
You sit now in the dark quiet of your living room, facing straight forward, unseeing, feet planted firmly on the floor, trying to ground yourself and count the sounds of your breath. Feel the inhale pass all the way into your body, deep down to your toes, back up again through your abdomen, whistle through your lungs, up your throat and out, back into the world. A repetitive exercise to try and soothe your racing heart.
You need to leave.
You need to leave.
You need to leave.
Birdie, I love you. Birdie, Birdie, my Birdie.
Your nails are splintered bloody, the tips of your fingers rubbed raw from the fight in the woods. It hurts, and you pick at the broken skin trying to distract from the other pain writhing within you. Something, something else has to exist in the world that can hurt more than this, than him. Please, please, let there be something else worse than this. You pick harder at the skin. You still possess enough clarity of mind to be cognizant of the fact that your thoughts are slightly unhinged. Something to hurt more? Why? For what? What good would that do you? For the girl who’s always tried to have the answers to every question that came her way, you find that there are no discernible solutions to this. No reason, no way to conceptualize it. There was no easy way to color within the lines in this moment, tuck it all away neatly into a drawer. Your edges are frayed, savaged, bloody and torn.
He had done this to you – true. But in many ways you had also done this to yourself. You could only go on accepting the way others treated you for so long before it got to be too much. And you knew, once again, that it was all about the choices you made. What were you willing to put up with? What were you willing to let go of? What was necessary for your survival? What would you die without?
I will die without him, you think.
Asking for things for yourself had always been excruciating. You’d gotten better at pushing that piece of yourself away – that deficit – with age. You saw it for what it was now, something to hurt you, rather than, naively considered, to protect you. And it was time now, to ask for this, to demand he love you out in the open. He could not say the words to you, fuck them into you with his body and his touch, press them into your skin – and then take them back? No. His terror at the possibility of losing you, of you getting hurt sent him over the edge, robbed him of rational thought, you could objectively understand this, but the agony of having him and not having him – of being able to only brush your fingertips along the phantom idea of him, never being able to hold on tight — dig your nails into his skin and draw blood; well that provided grounds for cowardice. Surely, it excused it, even. Because, you think: this is unendurable, unendurable.
The two of you were made up of so much fear in equal measures. Him, afraid of his own feelings, of showing his softness, of putting that softness in someone else’s hands. And you, you, sometimes you terrified yourself. The lengths you could go to swallow your hurts, to repress the things that broke your heart – you couldn’t live like this anymore. It was too painful, abnormal – emaciating yourself in the name of being strong and stoic.
So perhaps Joel was right, in this instance. You did. You needed to leave. As a means of self preservation, you needed to do as he’d told you. You needed to get out, away from him. From yourself. From all these people who knew you, and how much you wanted and needed and loved him and fucking prostrated yourself at the effigy of him you’d created in your mind. You wanted to scream and thrash and gnaw your teeth through the very marrow of who and what you were, and you wanted to say that you hated him and yourself and everything, everything, everything. Why did you have to be this way? Why did he have to be this way? You felt angry and resentful with the world, with life itself. But you didn’t, you couldn’t, say or do any of those things.
None of them were true.
What was true was that it was not your responsibility to step between him and his daughter. To defend or protect him from her. That was not your place. Not right now, at least. The struggle between them was their own, could only be mended by them two.
What was true was that you loved him. And he loved you. You knew this now, without doubt. What was true was that he hurt you. That he was terribly afraid. That he could not allow himself the vulnerability of being hurt again himself.
Beth. Beth. Beth. Where are you, sister? I need you.
You needed to go back out. Despite what had happened tonight, and your very real fear that there could be more of those men out there, that woman and her baby were out there somewhere. You needed to find them; there was something inside of you urging you out there to them – the look in her eyes, the sound of the child’s cries – and there wasn’t anything that could stop you from going. The idea of leaving the safety of Jackson’s walls without Joel, without his reassuring protection and competence, caused a fear to surge up inside you that was almost debilitating. But you had to do this. You had to find them, help them in any way you could. The desperation in the woman’s eyes – it was like a mirror of your own terror the night Beth had died. You saw yourself in her gaze in that moment, the terrified reflection of your past self.
You’d gone straight to Maria from Joel’s. The look on your face, enough to tell her this was something you needed to do now. She’d gone straight to Noah first, then another girl in town, called Vero, both were competent trackers and hunters, and Noah was your friend. You knew he’d help you. They’d agreed to go. You’d head out tomorrow at first light, search the greater part of the day, go as far out as you could and still be able to make it back before dark. Easy and quick.
He wanted you gone. He wanted you to leave. Then you would. It wasn’t in your nature to be petty or lash out, but it was in your nature to hide, to swallow a hurt, to run. This was self preservation at its core. You needed to get away from the humiliation. The burning rejection of knowing that you loved him, and that even though he’d said the words, he still saw you as something apart from himself and the things he held close. Not family.
There was a more level headed part of you that objectively knew he’d be furious to know you’d gone back out without him. That he’d lose his mind when he found out. You couldn’t bring yourself to care. The petty and hurt part, the part he’d just trampled all over, would win tonight, wanted to lash out. If Maria was letting you go you knew your plan wasn’t suicidal – at least not in terms of what you might run into out there. You both knew the three of you could take care of yourselves. Joel, though, he might just kill you himself when you returned.
But you needed time to conceptualize your feelings. Fold things away as neatly as possible – the things he’d said to you – you needed to shut this love away in a drawer, put it to rest as best as you could. Dissociate from it if necessary, from him.
You wished desperately for Connie in this moment. For his clear logic and calming baritone. Use your head, honey. The answer’s right there in front of you. For him to pet your hair and tell you it’d all be okay. But he wasn’t here. And neither was Beth or Ellie or Maria. No one you felt could understand, not truly. Really, you knew you wanted to talk to Joel. Knew he understood this overwhelming feeling of having absolutely nothing left to give. That he knew how someone who knows what it’s like to go without, is always willing to give more. Even if they don’t have anything left for themselves. That this feeling you were experiencing now was exactly what held him back from you.
He understood the sentiment intimately. As hard as he’d tried to push you away, keep you at arms length, shield the softness within himself from your prying eyes and grasping fingers, you’d seen it. You’d even felt it brush up against you. And you knew, you knew, he had so, so much left to give. Even if he couldn’t see it himself. Even if he couldn’t bring himself to share it with you. He’d done it for Ellie. For that little girl all that time ago who’d needed him, and despite his reluctance, fear, trauma, his painful, painful past – he’d given himself to her entirely.
It wasn’t in you to judge him for holding himself back from you. As much as it ripped you to shreds, you understood him with a profoundness and an empathy you surprised yourself with. Of course he was fucking scared. Of course he was terrified of the risk of pain. Of the risk of loss.
The mistake was to assume that any person you loved would be, at all times, without fault. Never cruel. Never selfish. Would never hurt you. In love or friendship or family, you now considered, with experience, the real test of longevity to be acceptance of that occasional mistake – whether it be cruelty or selfishness or hurt – it didn’t really matter. The people you loved would hurt you sometimes. They’d say the wrong thing. Do the wrong thing. Make the wrong choice. To err was human. No one was ever perfect one hundred percent of the time, and to allow for that margin of error, was to be merciful in your love. Not only for them, for the person you loved, but for yourself, as well. The capacity – the space to make mistakes and forgive yourself for it, own it and move on – that was true mercy. That was the true promise of longevity. Especially in a world like this, one so full of cruelty and danger and casual hurts. Risk, always risk just around the corner. And Joel, he was not a man who took risks lightly. He was an animal cornered – and a threatened creature does not think of consequences. It considers only survival.
It was in the way you proceeded after your mistakes, the choices, the actions you took to make reparations, that the true test lay.
All of this understanding, however, didn’t mean his rejection was painless. All the self awareness in the world still wasn’t enough to soothe the sting of rejection. And it stung like a bitch.
You feel yourself start to tilt sideways onto your sofa, glassy eyes taking in the warm corners of your home. The piles of books, your tacky orange plaid throw over the armchair by the fire, the drawings Ellie’d given you to put up. A life strung together with sheer determination – a safe space. It didn’t feel as safe, as warm, in this moment, without him. Autonomy over your body lost to grief, your shoulder hits the green cushion. You turn your face into the darkness and let the hot press of tears break free. Muffled and quiet, you let all that hurt you wished you could erase, out. The pain in your throat is strangling, trying to keep yourself contained. There is a savagely broken place within you that forces you, even in this moment, to remain subdued, and you wish you could let it all out in a messy explosion of tears and howling. That your mind would allow your physical reaction to reflect the seething pain you’re feeling inside, to let go of restraint for even just a moment.
When you’ve lost everything, how do you muster the bravery to hold onto something new?
You had it in you to run – to sneak away in the dark. This you knew. To be cowardly – even if only in his eyes. To be selfish. Even if you knew that running away, even after he’d told you to go, was the worst possible thing you could do to him. Be selfish, Birdie. Be selfish for me, just a little bit, he’d said once. Well, you would be . You needed distance and space to lick the bleeding wound your heart had become, and you had something you felt you direly needed to do. That woman was waiting for you out there – you felt it in your bones, the baby’s cry resounding in your memory over and over again.
Perhaps your anger was useless. After all, an animal cornered could only react on instinct, and Joel had cornered himself with his confession.
But you were so, so tired. You couldn’t fight anymore.
It’s the end of the goddamned world, Joel. Just love me like I know you do.
You pull the cinch of the saddle, checking it’s secure. You’d slept like shit, the events of the night before replaying in your mind on a loop. His words clanging against your skull over and over again. The dark woods – Beth’s dying screams. The clicking. The look on Ellie’s face – so concerned, scared for you. Scared of what would become of you without him. Dawn hasn’t broken over the horizon yet, but you’re ready to get out of here.
Sometimes you feel like he isn’t actually real. A figment you’ve created in your imagination. And really, if you’re being wholly honest with yourself, isn't that the most honest truth between the two of you? Isn't everything you think you need from him merely something born from your own yearning? Haven’t you been half-existing without him this whole time? One foot in, one foot out. If you’d never had the whole thing, had you ever really even had it at all?
Perhaps that isn’t fair, to either of you. You can’t tell what’s right or wrong anymore, real or imaginary. Your mind, blanketed by exhaustion, coherence gone out the door like an old lover.
Have I been walking in circles again?
“You ready to go?” You’re snapped from your reverie at the sound of Noah’s voice. Nausea churns in your gut on a low, threatening simmer. Everything held in a tight knot at the base of your throat. Vero’s saddled and ready to go – waiting for the two of you to mount, as well.
Maria’s old adage, her overused one at that, sounds in your mind: The only people who can betray us are the ones we trust. How right she always is. After all, hurting someone is an act of reluctant intimacy. Who knows your soft spots, where to strike hardest, better than someone who loves you?
Leaving was probably a mistake. In the cool clarity of the damp morning, you’re worried you’re walking into something the three of you are ill prepared for, incapable of handling. But you know that baby is out there – you know the desperation in the woman’s eyes wasn’t feigned, couldn’t be. You had to find them. And Joel’d done most of the heavy lifting, killing, last night – that man’s skull crushed beneath the violent weight of his fist, the stray clickers done away with. All you had to do now was find that woman and her child, and hope nothing worse waited for you out there.
So much had happened in the span of such a few, seemingly short hours.
You mount your horse, and your belly sways with nausea you have to grit your teeth against. Concern nips at your heels, but you can’t think about that now. Not after last night, not in light of what you’re about to set out to do. Perhaps not ever. Perhaps you can ignore your anxieties and suspicions indefinitely. Perhaps then, they can’t hurt you, won’t be made real. Can’t remind you of how alone you’ll be after this is done.
You have much to do: you must make yourself into stone, kill your memories, kill your desires, find your future. Change the very nature of your soul, if you must, learn to live without him.
Noah settles on his mount, and you click your tongue, the three of you start to move forward. You’re afraid. A huge yawning pit of trepidation, of terror opening in your gut. This is how Joel must feel all the time. But there’s also the voice in your head, telling you this is something you need to do. No matter what. You feel so keenly, in your very marrow, that they’re waiting for you. There was no discerning evidence as to why you knew you needed to do this, why you felt you’d recognized her, but you did.
It seemed empirically impossible that the two of you’d have met each other at that precise moment last night. In the tumult of chaos that had crashed around the two of you in that dark wood, that the night had cleared for one precise second to allow you to look at her face, to see all she needed to voice but could not say; that she was terrified, that she needed help. There had to be a reason for that.
You’d been searching for reasons in meaningless things for far too long now. You knew this. You should apply your rational mind to questioning this hair-brained plan, tell yourself that leaving without Joel, despite the things he’d said last night, was suicide. You could very well die, either out there, at the hands of some monster, or in here, after he murdered you for going out there without him. Part of you didn’t really care anymore. A blanket of numbness clouding your judgment.
You’d always been a girl that had done as she was told, inhabited the place in life assigned to you. Perhaps now was as good a time as any to do something you weren’t supposed to.
You ride for several hours before you’re attacked. The silent woods surround the three of you, moving slowly in the general direction of the clearing from last night, and then further on towards the way which she’d fled. It’s peaceful, the steady cadence of the horses hooves, the wind disturbing the stillness of the trees like a whispered song of the leaves; you think they might be telling you to turn around, to go back to him. And then, as if you’d been struck by lightning, coming to after, only to discover catastrophe of the highest order. You tell yourself you won’t regret your choice to come out here, you won’t, no matter what happens, you all can fight, this was something you had to do. There’s chaos circling you, Vero and Noah’s shouts, a gun sounding, and then you turn to see Vero’s body falling to the ground. There’s a bullet wound straight through her skull, dead center, brain matter splattering behind her in a sick mockery of strewn life. You’re shocked into utter stillness, all thought, all understanding wiped from your brain as neatly as the bullet through hers. This is your doing.
And then fire, fire, fire, suddenly – shockingly. Pulverizing your ribs, your flesh, your very self. An inferno climbing up your chest, down your hip, and through your arm, spreading uncontrollably. You lose your seat on the horse, and then you too, are plummeting to the ground. The unyielding ground surging up towards your face like a cold wave. You feel as if you fall for centuries, and then your body is slamming sickeningly against the forest floor, your shoulder crunches and you want to howl; your head rebounding so hard you feel your very brain jostle inside your skull. Your vision flashes in and out, blurred and unfocused, and all you can discern are the mammoth figures of the trees around you. Looming over you like monsters in the dead of night, come to devour.
My secret, my secret, I never got to tell him.
You try to curl in on yourself, protect whatever remains of a body you’re not sure you possess anymore. More resounding shots of a gun, again, again, screaming and howling. Perhaps the wolves have descended. He’s going to be so angry, you think. My friends, my friends are dying because of me. Noah, where is Noah? Please, please, don’t be dead too.
You think that if you die, Joel and Ellie have to make up. They have to. He’ll need her so much.
Birdie, I love you. Birdie, Birdie, my Birdie.
You should have never left. You should have stayed with him. No matter what he said. What the hell did he know anyway? You should have fought harder. You should have stayed with him.
The dark lake of unconsciousness swallows you whole.
Notes:
Come yell at me :)
Chapter 7: For: Before
Summary:
Fate and irony make for strange bedfellows.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Grief is an amputation, but hope is an incurable hemophilia: you bleed and bleed and bleed.
-David Mitchell, Slade House
You come to in increments, taking stock of your body, each limb, slowly, as consciousness re-enters your mind. The taste of iron sits heavy on your tongue, thick and viscous in your mouth, and your side is on fucking fire. Your breath starts to wheedle in and out of you quickly, each gulp a stoking of the flames, but you can’t control it – can’t seem to hold onto composure as you regain your senses. Your left shoulder is a sharp throbbing mangle of searing agony, and you can immediately tell from the way you’re laying on it that it’s been dislocated from your fall. You try to shift your legs, make sure you haven’t hurt your back, and yes, yes there, they’re moving, thank God. You stretch your left knee, shift your ankles slowly. Not broken, that’s good.
Your eyes flutter open – you’re laying in a small pool of your own blood, and the woman from the forest is sitting directly across from you; rifle propped up on her bent knee and pointed straight at you. Her abdomen is ripped open, savaged, the gleam of her entrails peeking through her clutching fingers, the edges of torn skin shredded as if hacked at with a serrated knife. The sight makes your stomach turn.
“Fucking finally,” she spits. Her voice is a guttural whisper.
You swallow several times, try to find your voice again. “Where’s Noah? Vero?” You tilt your head up, searching for them, only to be met with Vero’s open, empty stare inches away from you. You jerk back, scream caught in your throat, the abruptness of your movement makes your injuries howl in protest. A hoarse, mangled sound, half groan, half scream claws its way out of your throat.
“Yeah, she’s dead,” the woman deadpans. “You’re the girl from last night, aren’t you? From the woods?” You can’t answer, your voice is gone. The sight of Vero’s empty eyes – what will you tell the others? She clicks her fingers at you. “Hey,” she snaps, “Boy here said you’re a doctor. That true?” The gaping hole in her head – there’s chunks of her brain and skull splattered in the trajectory of the bullet behind her prone body. What will you tell the others? What will you tell the others? You should have never asked them to come out here. This is all your fault. “Noah. Where’s Noah?” You move to sit up fully.
“I asked you a fucking question,” she spits. “Is it true you’re a doctor?” There’s a small trickle of blood coming from her mouth. Her color, gray and ashen, breaths coming in short, gulping pants.
“You killed my friend…” your voice is hoarse and grating “You killed her.”
“Answer me!”
“I– yes, yes– I have some training. Where is he?” She jerks her chin behind you.
“I thought you all were with that group from last night – the ones that attacked us. Didn’t know it was you. And look what the boy’s done to me,” she looks down at her savaged abdomen, there’s such resigned disappointment in her voice. As if this is the greatest inconvenience in the world. You shift to turn, but she snaps, “Don’t even think about moving. My daughter – she’s six months old. I need you to take her.” Noah’s lying face down a few feet away from you. From here you can see that there’s a large laceration to his scalp, the flap of skin hanging grotesquely – exposing the slick bone of his skull beneath – bleeding profusely, a bullet wound to his left shoulder and his left leg is bent at a sickening angle. What the fuck did this woman do to him? But you can see the small, subtle rise and fall of his back, and there are no protruding bones from his leg, a good thing. The pool of blood beneath him is significant, but not a call for hopelessness. At least, you think so, from here, from what you can tell with just your eyes. But then her words penetrate the haze of your mind, the small grasp of concentration you’re tenuously hanging on to snaps to attention – the baby, the baby she had with her.
You turn back to her. “Where is she?”
“I’m –” she gasps, her words pain her – she’s losing time, “I’m not going to last much longer.” She lifts her arm, looks down at the brutal wound marring her belly, and a gush of dark red streams from her. “Seems to be more than just a little scratch, huh?” She lets out a small hysterical huff of laughter.
“Where is she ?” You say again, more forcefully.
“There’s an abandoned cabin – about fifty yards in that direction,” she jerks her chin, “I hid her there.” The rifle is starting to slip off her knee.
“Alone? You left her alone?”
“Didn’t have much of a choice, did I? Her father was killed. Those fucking animals last night, they found us – killed him. Couldn’t wait around like a sitting duck, couldn’t hunt with h– her on me. Doesn’t matter–” Her words are starting to slur. “But if you’re a doctor y’can take her. No one she’d be– be better off with. Please, please, you have to take her.”
“You don’t even know me. What I do means nothing–”
“I saw your face last night. I recognized you…”
“Recognized me? What do you mean you recognized me?” A terrible sense of premonition begins to churn deep in your gut, and the words out of your mouth are hysterical because she’s right, and you know exactly what she means. Somehow, somehow, it was like you’d known her, even though you’d never laid eyes on this woman or her child before in your life. But there was something, some sort of preternatural call you’d heard from her. As insane as it sounded, you’d recognized her also.
“Don’t know… just– just did…” her head lolls over the hill of her shoulder, and you watch her glazed eyes stare off into the distance. She mumbles something else you can’t make out.
Your mind feels broken, your body just as mangled. You have enough foresight left to register that if you don’t stop the bleeding in your side soon, reset your shoulder – restore the blood flow you can tell is disrupted by the tingling numbness that’s starting in your fingertips – that things are going to get very bad and very complicated for you, very soon.
“Her name is Kate,” she says with the last of her strength. That snaps you back into focus.
Kate.
“Yes– yes, I’ll take her.” Because there is nothing else to say. Because there is nothing else to do – no other choice. You’d known, since last night, since you’d heard that high pitched cry of terror, that this was what you were moving towards. Perhaps that was why it was so easy to leave this morning, despite everything else. Perhaps that was why there was no doubt, no thought for the concern you’d leave behind because you knew, somehow, in some preternatural way, that this was what was waiting for you. She seems to almost deflate at your agreement. All the urgency and fight leaving her eyes like you’d just pulled the string of a lamp.
“That– that’s good,” her eyes flutter shut, finally resting. “That’s good,” she whispers.
You begin to shift, get ready to move, pushing Vero’s dead body from your mind, you can’t dwell on that right now – shoulder first, you think. “Knew – knew last night,” her words are stuttered, almost incoherent. You sit more firmly on your bottom and bend your knees to find purchase with your feet spread apart on the hard ground – slowly you begin to slide your jacket from your back. “S– Some– something in your ey– eyes.”
You keep your sight on her as you fold the sleeve of your jacket into your mouth to bite down on. She’s going to die soon – minutes, seconds, is all she has left. The pool of her blood surrounds her completely now, a macabre barricade for the place of her death. You lay back, flat on the ground, shoulders level, feet planted, knees bent, and slowly start to pull your left arm up with your right one – it really, really fucking hurts, and your stomach heaves, bile stinging in your throat, vision wavering, tears burning. You swallow a cry, bear down harder on the jacket, press your feet hard into the ground, as you straighten the arm with your other hand. Slowly, slowly, you can feel the joint making the painful shift. You can’t pass out, you can’t pass out, please, please, you can’t. You hear Joel’s soothing voice in your mind, my brave girl, the feel of his palm enveloping your cheek. You have to be brave now. Noah needs you, there’s a baby waiting for you. Kate. You focus your mind on the thought of her, what she might look like, trying to dissociate from the feel of the rotating ball of your bone shifting back into place – muscles screaming with fire, your flesh shooting bolts of pain down the lines of your back and up into your neck and head. Your movements are gentle but firm, and you feel the joint settle in place. You open your clenched eyes, she’s staring in your direction, eyes starting to take on the far away look of death, like a small light being snuffed out.
“Good job,” she whispers it like she’d laugh a little if she still had it in her. “I really loved her…” A single tear makes a slow track down the side of her face. You watch her hand laying on the ground twitch, “My name’s An– Anna.” And then she’s dead. That feeling of premonition comes to a screeching head, makes your heart drop into your stomach.
Fucking irony. If you had it in you right now, you’d cry for them all. Anna.
You find that Noah has another bullet wound low to the right side of his abdomen, besides the one through his shoulder. Both seem to be bleeding steadily, but thankfully, slowly. The one in his belly, low and lateral enough for you to guess, based on your approximated path of trajectory, is not life threateningly concerning, at this moment, if you can get them closed soon. His head is bleeding much more profusely, and poses the greater concern. You quickly realize that the leg is pulseless and will need to be reduced as soon as possible. You need to get out of the open before you do anything, though. You’re too vulnerable here.
You manage to coax one of the horses down to the ground for you to pull him onto its back. Doing it one handed is difficult, but you have to avoid using your hurt arm as much as possible. If you make it worse you run the risk of losing function in the limb forever. The pain and exertion is making you delusional. You keep hearing Joel’s voice through the trees. Beth’s dying screams. Fucking concerning that you’re already hallucinating. Vero’s body will have to be left, there’s no other option. You need to get to the baby and tend to Noah as soon as possible. A constant litany of prayer is running through your exhausted mind, that she’s still in the cabin, that you’re even able to find the goddamn cabin, that she’s okay, that no one’s found her, that no one else finds you, that you can save Noah, that you don’t pass out. You wish Joel was here so badly.
But he’s not. The only one here right now to help Noah and that baby is you.
You start to move.
You find her in the cabin, exactly where her mother said she’d be. And as you take her into your exhausted embrace, as you take in her little face, the big blue eyes, dark lashes, wet and clumped together, the little cherub mouth, it’s like everything around you is screaming: the wind, the trees, your heart.
Your choice to leave, your choice to go after this baby, your choice to walk away from him, even when you would rather die than do such a thing, to risk the tragedy of him not following – it feels worth it in this second. You’d thought once that nothing would ever be able to take you away from him, but as you look down at Kate’s little face, you realize, she is worth it. Coming out into this hell alone, if only to find her, this is worth the possible loss of everything else. This is what I was meant to do, you realize.
Anna had left a pack of supplies with her, fairly well stocked. Shockingly, with several canisters of formula, God knows where she’d found those. You set water to boil while you prep your supplies.
Stitching the slash of the bullet wound to your side proves more difficult one handed, than you’d imagined, but you manage it – thanking every higher power you’ve ever heard of for the fact that it’s only a flesh wound. The blood loss you’ve experienced will pose a problem soon, you need to work fast before it catches up to you and the adrenaline wears off. You inspect your butchered stitch job once you’re done, not your best work, but at least it’s closed and doused in the alcohol you’d packed in your kit – albeit minimally. Noah needs it more.
You reduce his leg first, which restores pulses to his foot – good sign. The muscles are malleable, the color of his skin normal, another good sign. You’ll have to watch for stiffness, though. You say a silent prayer of thanks that the fracture hadn’t pierced the skin. That would’ve been something you’d worry you’d not be able to save him from. Next are the two bullet holes. Both are through and through, and the trajectory of both are optimistically positioned. You douse both in alcohol and stitch them up. Then you shoot the both of you up with penicillin from your pack. Over-preparedness is truly the gift that keeps on giving. You give your past self a metaphorical pat on the back. The laceration to his scalp is closed quickly, as well. No obvious fracture to the bone underneath.
He mumbles a few slurred words, but other than that, he remains unconscious. Kate is sleeping peacefully after her bottle, and you know you need to rest too. Although, it would be incredibly shortsighted to fall asleep right now, your body isn’t giving you much choice. Your aches and pains and the blood loss are all catching up to you, and you’re fading incredibly fast. You fashion yourself a makeshift sling, and then pull the lone table in the room in front of the door, barricading yourselves in. If anyone tries to break in, you hope you’ll hear the jostling of the piece of furniture, and then you drag Noah’s body to the farthest corner of the room and place Kate’s little bundle between the two of you. You lay down between the two of them and the door. You’ll just rest your eyes for a while, rest your body, you won’t fall asleep. You only need to lay still for a few moments, you’ll feel better after that.
You told Maria you’d be back tonight, promised not to be gone after dark. When she sees the three of you haven’t returned she’ll send someone out. As soon as Joel realized you’d gone, he’d probably come out to search. You hope. His words from last night ring in your ears, but you can’t think of that now. Despite what he’d said, despite wanting you to go, he can’t have wanted this for you. You hope last night’s damage isn’t irreparable. That he hasn’t decided to be completely done with you. And that thought jump starts your anger. If that’s what he’s decided, well then fuck him. You feel the small warm press of Kate’s little body up against your back, and despite the position you now find yourself in, you can’t regret your decision to come out here, to come find her. You have bigger things to consider now. You press your hand to your belly, to the fear you’ve carried with you these past few weeks. Much, much bigger things to worry about now.
You dream of him. Over and over. His face swimming through the dark lake of your unconscious mind. There’s a house somewhere, shrouded by trees. You know somehow that there’s water near, and you think that this must be his home. You know he’s somewhere near, but as you walk through the lonely house, you can’t seem to catch up to him. He stands just outside the scope of your dream vision. You want to ask why he’s here, if this is his house, if you live here with him too. But he won’t answer your questions. His omniscient voice keeps telling you to not forget, over and over, he repeats it. Don’t forget, Birdie, don’t forget, don’t forget. And you want to scream that you don’t know what he’s talking about, that you don’t know what it is you’re not supposed to forget, but suddenly your voice won’t work anymore. All you can do is continue to follow the possibility of him, around another and another corner of the house.
You come to a room suddenly, with an old couple within. They sit alone, side by side, looking out a window that faces upon a wide, green field. You wonder if perhaps they’re his parents, but something tells you that’s wrong. His parents? No – they’re someone else. Someone you know but can’t place in your mind just yet. You’ll think on it, you’re sure it’ll come to you eventually. They sit quietly, holding hands. You can ask them no questions either, so you sit on the floor, knees pressed to your chest, slightly behind them, watching them look out the window. Their silence is so comforting, as if they’ve been sitting here their entire lives, as if they will always be sitting here.
You pass out for longer than you’d intended. Startling awake out of a dead sleep, scrambling on the cold ground at the sound of Kate’s sharp, piercing cries. You can feel her little wiggling form at your side, and you wrap an arm around her to pull her up onto your chest, her squirming settling as your warmth seeps into her. The inside of the cabin is freezing, and your mind is so hazy, your entire body screaming in pain. The sun coming through the murky window is bright with the light of afternoon. Fuck, you’d slept much, much longer than you’d intended, it’s probably the next day now. You turn your head towards Noah, passed out, but still breathing.
“Noah,” you croak, and his head shifts a tiny bit at your voice, eyelids fluttering. You need to move, need to get up and feed the baby. Try and get the three of you home. You need to find the strength to do so.
You manage to force your body into moving, slow and painful. You give her another bottle and examine Noah one last time before leaving. His wounds are holding up well, pulses still present in his leg. He’s strong, you know he’ll survive. You force yourself to eat something small from your pack and load the horses. The exertion of doing everything with half of your dexterity compromised is excruciating, but you manage it.
The real issue now’ll be finding your way back. Plagued by a lifelong poor sense of direction, you’re hopelessly turned around after last night’s struggle, but you think that if you keep east you’ll find your way eventually. If someone else doesn’t find you first.
Dawn creeps over the horizon, the sky a meld of pinks and blues, orange streaked, as if smeared by the fingers of a child. Your rational mind seems to have abandoned you miles back. Your blood a bread crumb trail leading back to the site of death, of catastrophe, you’d left behind. Vero, Vero, I’m so sorry. Your haphazard stitches popped a ways back with the exertion of getting Noah’s unconscious form draped onto the back of his horse again and yourself on to yours. Your body sways with the cadence of the horse's pace. You’ve tied your left hand loosely to the pommel, in case you lose consciousness and fall off again. But despite all this, the baby is tucked into the front of your jacket up against your breast, sleeping and warm, and Noah is still breathing. You’re still breathing. That’s all you can care about, all you can focus on now. You pray no one you don’t want finding you comes upon the three of you. You’re certain there’s nothing left within you to fight anyone if you need to. You keep hoping you’ll miraculously come upon Joel. That he’ll find you somehow. That whatever connects the two of you, whatever has always prevented the two of you from staying away, leads him to you now.
For the first time in years you’re able to recall the exact cadence of your mothers voice. Keep going, sweet girl. Just a little longer, you can do it. She was always gentle and understanding of your sensitive nature. Always understood that you were the child who liked to color inside the lines, follow the rules. That your heart was soft and easily hurt, but that there was strength and steel within you, as well. It only needed a little coaxing to be lured out. Sometimes Beth and your father, for all he liked to exploit your obedience, made it seem like this was a weakness, but not your mother. Never her. She always reassured you that it was your greatest strength, your greatest asset. That a soft heart never meant weakness, if anything a wealth of patience, of tenacity, of understanding and care for the world around you could only ever bring you good things. She always encouraged you to push that heart to greater lengths, greater realms of understanding, but to never let anyone take advantage of it. You hoped you’d done as she wanted, so far. That she’d be proud.
The mountains in the distance look so terrifying. They whisper at you that you’ll never make your way back. That the three of you are going to die out here. That you’re not strong enough to find your way home. That you’ll never see him again.
Your mind flits from place to place, like a butterfly nursing on the nectar of a sea of flowers. You think of your mother, the feel of her soft hair. The years of study – you’d tried for so long to be perfect, you’re sure you never achieved it. Connie’s familiar scent of peppermint and mothballs and paper. I would not like to see your choices taken from you once again. Beth, your last night together. Your shared childhood room, the drawings of stars you’d glued to the ceiling. The two of you would lie on the floor of that room with the soft pink walls and look up at your pictures, imagine constellations connected between the lines of your made-up heavens. That last night she was alive, lying together under the open sky, you’d connected the real stars in the hanging darkness, mapped the constellations out. Planned for a future together you’d never have.
Why do non-reasons sometimes feel so much more urgent than actual reasons? Like the things you really want, the things that are truly important to you, get pushed to the back burner in favor of things that never really mattered in the first place. Joel. The two of you should have just figured it out. Been more open, more honest, less afraid. The feel of his hands on your skin – you wish you had them now. You can’t help but wonder if you’d done anything different, even a single thing, if the outcome would have changed. If you could have eased his fears, if you could have helped him be a little braver. If you had been braver, if you’d had the courage to just ask for what you wanted out loud, if he’d have readily given it to you then. You’re terrified you’ll never see him again, never make it back, never hear his voice again, never get the chance to tell him all the things you need to.
You think you get lost several times. Too delirious to properly navigate your way back home with any real sense of direction, the sun sets and rises more times than you have a mind to pay attention to, it seems like. You feel like the three of you ride aimlessly for days, years. You get to a point where you can’t even soothe Kate’s desperate, hungry cries, and eventually the only thing keeping you balanced on the horse is your sheer force of will, the thought that if you fall, you’ll crush her.
Eventually, you assume it’s her cries that draws them near, that helps them find you. Because suddenly, out of the dead quiet of night, you hear shouts of what you think you remember your name to be. It’s a little lost to you now. Who you are. You don’t know if Noah’s still alive – haven’t had the mind or strength to even turn your head back to check if his chest still moves. The only thing that exists anymore is the sway of the horse beneath you, Kate’s wailing.
And then your name, being shouted out of the yawning darkness, and you think you hear him. The deep cadence of his voice, so familiar to you. You think you could recognize it even if you weren’t yourself anymore – through anything, time, space, death. The sound of his voice is like the sound of your own beating heart – it lives inside of you now.
You hear a pounding, pounding, pounding – the sounds of war, and you flinch away, curl your screaming arm around the baby. Even if you’re dead, you still have to protect her. And then there are lights and movement surrounding you, and it’s too much for your broken and exhausted mind, and you’re falling, melting off the side of the earth.
Gravity overtakes your body, takes you away with it, and you brace yourself for the agony of your injuries screaming against the hard earth, but then he’s there. You recognize the strength of him immediately – his scent, the pressure of his touch, before you hear his voice pressed against your ear. The precious bundle clutched protectively in your arms screams at being jostled, stolen, starved, frozen, traumatized, and the wound in your side writhes with fire. You could howl into the frigid night air if your voice still worked. You grit your teeth together, jaw clenched so tight it feels on the verge of fracture.
You press the baby tighter to your breast as you feel Joel’s arms lower you slowly to the ground. Your head is a two ton weight, unbearable to sustain. You’re bleeding heavily. You can feel the hot, slick warmth of your blood pool and mingle with the cold, wet grime of your clothes and the dirt beneath you as he settles you between his legs. You’re fading fast, and you have the sudden, jarring thought that if you die, this little girl will be alone. You promised her mother you’d take care of her, and now you’re bleeding, and your body won’t fucking listen to you, won’t get up and do what it needs to – to take care of her, protect her. Joel’s voice is a panicked buzz in your ears, you can hear your name on his lips. His hands gripping and pressing along your body checking for injuries. You cry out in pain as he comes into contact with your wound, and you’re gasping out his name then – a pleading litany you need him to recognize. His horrified gasp comes as his hands find the dark vermillion of your blood. “Come on, baby, please.” Your moans are high and pleading, and his panic answers yours, clashes and twines with it. “I know, baby, I know.” He clutches you tighter against his body, and you want to say that you’re sorry. That you didn’t mean for this to happen. That you never meant to make him go through a hurt like this again.
“I know it hurts – you’re gonna be okay. Listen to me, I gotta get you up. I gotta get you up, alright?” he says over and over again in your ear. You wish you could just be quiet together for a moment. That you never had to move again. Just the two of you here together, just for a little bit.
“Tommy, help me!” He’s shouting. He’s afraid again. You can hear it. You wish you could open your eyes, look at him one more time.
Birdie, I love you. Birdie, Birdie, my Birdie.
No other words matter in this moment. The encroaching darkness echoes with his confession, soothes your blistering agony. You will hold on to that, you decide, hold on to him telling you he loves you. That will anchor you.
He’s been here before. His panic is full blown, screeching in his ears, his heart a fist punching against his chest, his worst nightmares come to fruition again. Searching for you for days without success. It didn’t make sense, he was always supposed to be able to find you, always, always, no matter what. The most terrible, gripping fear he’s ever experienced in his entire life. And now finally, here you are, he’s found you, but your blood covers his hands. The sight so abhorrent to him it drives all sound, thought, understanding from his mind. Sarah, dead in his arms, again and again and again. The sick fucking vision of the person he loves slipping away from him eternally. Her big brown eyes, vacant, and her purple t-shirt, the one he never forgot, made dark with the gruesome sight of her blood. Never being able to stop it. Your head lolls back at a sick angle, your eyes flutter behind your closed lids. The skin tinged blue with the hue of your veins, stark against your shockingly pale skin. And then he sees the baby – tucked inside the zipper of your jacket, her wails not having registered in his mind until the moment his eyes meet her big, wet blue ones – and he freezes. “Birdie, who is that?” he whispers, tries to grip your jaw, but his fingers are slippery with your blood, leaving horrifying streaks of rust in their wake across your pale, frigid skin.
It’s a baby.
“Joel… please,” you can’t open your eyes even though you so badly need to look at him, to reassure him, you don’t know if he can even hear you, “I promised her mother…” Your voice feels invisible, broken. You think of Ellie, what she must have been like as a little girl, her face comes into your mind. She’d told you once her mother’s name was Anna.
Anna, Anna, Anna.
Fucking irony. You want to laugh or cry or scream, but all you feel is the slide of a tear track back into your hair. The universe has a sick and twisted sense of humor. You think of how hard it is now for you to recall your own mother’s face some days. You hope she and Joel can forgive each other. You think about how fate robbed you of a sister but gave you Ellie, gave you Connie, Joel. You hope the world can gift Kate someone like that one day.
He’s still there, his voice begging you to come back to him. You don’t want to fail him. He loves you.
And then nothing. Darkness.
Notes:
Friends, I got some messages this week saying that some people don’t really use tumblr but were going onto my blog anyways for updates. So … I’m wondering if you all would like me to post about updates and such on my twitter as well? Let me know in the comments :)
Chapter 8: The Fisher King
Summary:
Teach me how to ask for forgiveness, even when I know I don’t deserve it.
Notes:
CW: Very brief mention of infertility in the first section.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
But still. Still.
Bless me anyway.
I want more life. I can’t help myself. I do.
I’ve lived through such terrible times, and
There are people who live through much worse, but… You see them living
anyway. When they’re more spirit than body, more sores, than skin, when they’re
burned and in agony, when flies lay eggs in
the corners of the eyes of their children,
they live. Death usually has to take life
away. I don’t know if that’s just the animal.
I don’t know if it’s not braver to die. But I
recognize the habit. The addiction to being
alive. We live past hope. If I can find hope
anywhere, that’s it, that’s the best I can do.
It’s so much not enough, so inadequate but
…Bless me anyway. I want more life.
- Tony Kushner, Angels in America
“Do you think you’ve been happy, so far?” you ask her one night.
“I think so, yes. Have you?” Her answer is immediate. She’d never been one for much indecision – that was always your role.
“Yes. At times. I’ve also been very sad.”
“Me too.” You can hear it now, that sadness, in the quietness of her voice.
“I hope we can be happy in the future. That we’ll be together, always.” The two of you are laying under the stars, hidden in the forest, in your old sleeping bags. She says the trees guard you, keep you safe. If you’d had more experience, you’d have felt very close to death in that moment.
“We will be. Don’t worry about that.”
“I don’t want either of us to die,” and you can hear how young you sound, how naive. Despite all you’ve been through, you’ve not been able to let go of that part of yourself. When you’re older you will think that, perhaps, that was not such a bad thing.
“We won’t. That won’t happen.”
“You can’t know that.”
“Yes, I can. I have a plan. If we stick to it, we’ll be okay.”
“Alright.” Your trust in her is implicit, after all.
She is very quiet for a while after that, you think she’s fallen asleep, but then suddenly: “You know, I can’t have children.”
“How do you know?”
“Things were off – Dad was able to run some tests.” That sadness is there again, echoing in her voice, and it is a very painful thing to hear from someone you love so much – someone you know would want that for themselves.
“I’m sorry.” For there is nothing else to be said in light of such a tragedy for her. She would make a wonderful mother.
“It makes me really sad.” There’s quiet again, for a long time, but then: “I know it’s a terrible world. Not safe – but still… It makes me very sad.”
“I’ll have one for the both of us. We can share.”
One of the last times you ever hear her laugh – you should have cherished the sound more – branded it in your memory. “I’d like that.”
Beth is dead two days later.
He sits by your sick bed for days. Shrouded in darkness, he lets his fear, his nightmares swallow him whole – the great gaping maw of a monstrous dream come to fruition. He thinks of Sarah’s mother, his ex-wife, for some reason – can’t understand why she comes to his mind in this moment, honestly. He hasn’t thought about her in decades, that woman he’d known so long ago – can hardly remember her face now. It makes him indescribably sad.
He’s trying to prevent his mind from dissociating. To keep himself present, in case you wake, in case you need him. But the sight of you, small and pale and broken. So still. It fractures his mind in a way he cannot understand. The days of you being lost – of his mad flight to find you, out with teams of hunters, combing the forest for any sign of you, the way he’d screamed at Maria and Tommy and Ellie and anyone else who got too close, spoke too loudly. He’d been extremely close to violence, of the unimaginable sort. That terrible last night, his own destruction, flashing over and over and over in his mind, the things he’d said to you. He could not compare the terror to anything else he’d ever experienced before. The pure horror of that being the last memory you’d ever have of him, of coming across your dead, mangled body, of never seeing your bright, unguarded smile again – in decades filled with fear, day in and day out, he now felt he’d been infected with the most unimaginable of diseases. A stabbing, bone melting pain to his mind, his heart, his flesh, again and again, all of his own making.
This is his fault. He did this to you. Pushed you away. Made you feel like you needed to flee, escape him. He wants to be angry with you for being so stupid, for going out there without him. But how could he not understand it – for what choice did he give you? That you’d prefer to face the monsters out there, rather than the one inside, the one in front of you – rather than him. He thinks he too would rather face the horrors out there, a thousand infected, than face himself. Face his own guilt, his own shortcomings.
He still isn’t speaking to Maria – can barely look at her. He’d told her if you were dead it’d fall on her head. That he’d blame her for it forever. It was a viciously unfair, nasty thing to throw at her when he’d been the one to push you away, the one to tell you to leave, when this was really all his fault alone.
He thinks of Tess – how he’d not been able to keep her safe either, all that time ago. A regret so profound, he’s sure he’ll swim in it for the rest of his miserable life.
Ellie had said sending you away that night had perhaps been the worst thing he’d ever done. The sight of you in this bed proves that fact, and he is filled with a rage so black, so all consuming, it cripples him, will send him to his grave if you don’t come out of this.
He hasn’t slept in days. Merely closing his eyes to rest his racing mind a few moments at a time. The baby you’d had with you has been with Maria. Tiny, squealing, rageful thing that she is. She only quiets when Maria brings her into your room, lays her beside your sleeping form. As if she knows already, even now, that the best place in the entire world is at your side. He closes his eyes in the quiet interminable moments of waiting and tries to picture Sarah’s mother in his mind. To remember her face. He cannot. There’s only a flash of dark curls. The sound of her voice, gone to time. All he can conjure with clarity is the image of Sarah’s smiling face that last morning he’d spent with her. His most precious memory. Something he exercises in his mind every morning when he wakes, lest, he too, forget that. He wonders if she’s still alive, what happened to her after the outbreak. He hopes she survived – hopes she lived a life not too full of terrible, painful things. Although, he isn’t entirely sure there exists any other version of this life anymore. He hopes he can find it, if it does, and give it to you, if you’ll let him.
He looks back at your resting form. The welts and scrapes that had marred the side of your face are healing well. The swelling receding into angry bruising. Nancy was worried you’d sustained a head injury, as an explanation for your prolonged unconsciousness, but neither the bones in your face, nor your skull were broken. Perhaps only a mild concussion, she thought. It inclined her to believe this was simply a side effect of the blood loss you’d endured from the wound in your side, the exhaustion and trauma.
Joel thinks he might become a religious man after this. Thinks he might start going to church, prostrating himself at the effigy of the cross to thank whatever higher power there exists for bringing you back to him, keeping you alive, allowing him another chance to see that smile, even if it’s never directed at him again. Because that is something else he is terribly afraid of. That his last words to you that night, will be the only thing you’ll ever be able to remember of him. All you’ll ever be able to see of him, going forward. He is so, so afraid of the consequences of his own terrible actions. Terrified that the moment he cast you away will be the only moment the two of you live in together for the rest of your lives.
And he thinks: Joel Miller, you are a man made up of fears.
The first thing you see when you finally open your eyes again are his hands. They’re scarred. Tiny, faded marks of a life past, marring the lines of a map of all his pain, his history. Your body hurts, one large throbbing bruise. But the fire in your shoulder, the muscles of your back and arm, has abated. You say a silent prayer of thanks that you’d been able to keep from straining it more. Any more damage and you’d have probably lost function of the limb entirely.
His eyes are closed, his temple pressed against his fist on the arm of the chair pulled up to your bedside. The house is entirely silent – dark and peaceful. You stretch your legs under the blankets, no terrible amount of pain, and his eyes spring open immediately at the subtle sound of your shifting. So attuned to you, that the mere rustling of the sheets brings him to wakefulness. You watch the dilation of his pupils, everything else frozen in place. Head still resting against his fist, he stares at you wide eyed and unblinking. You take in his face – his eyes are bloodshot and rimmed in the harsh purple bruising of exhaustion. His too long, messy curls lie limply across his forehead. He looks haggard, wrung dry. The most defeated you’ve ever witnessed him. Neither of you say anything as you study the other. He still hasn’t moved and the look in his eyes – afraid, resigned, like you’re a predator about to come in for the kill strike.
You feel indescribably sad for him, seeing him like this. Brought down low. It’s wrong. Not an image of the Joel you know that should exist in the world. You’re sure you mustn’t look much better. Broken, the both of you, in this shared moment. You slowly start to slide your palm across the bed towards him, and like a flip bringing him back to life, he melts onto the ground from the chair. Coming to kneel on the floor at the edge of the bed, he grasps your outstretched hand and presses his forehead into your palm, his grasp so, so gentle. His other hand snakes up, under the blankets to grip your bare knee in his warm palm, his thumb slowly sweeps over the bend.
His shoulders begin to jerk, in tiny little gasps. He’s crying.
“I was so afraid.” It is choked and guttural, a confession of the highest order, an admission of weakness, a supplication for mercy, for forgiveness.
You know that his words are all encompassing. He was afraid that night, when the two of you were attacked, when he told you he loved you, when he sent you away, when he couldn’t find you. He’s been afraid for decades, since the moment he met you, since the moment his daughter died. Your heart cleaves in two at the sight of his defeat. The hot slide of his tears through the spaces between your fingers, pooling in the cup of your palm, the liquid feel of them burns you, incites a violence in your heart to rise up at the sight of his suffering, of his pain. But you say nothing. Too weighed down by your own terror, your own pain.
By the prospect of having to tell him the truth. The secret you’ve been carrying with you, that you’re pregnant. Terrified of his reaction. Of his possible rejection. For it isn’t just you anymore that would feel the loss of him. There’s two, three, of you now. And you’re terrified of having to ask him to bear this with you. Don’t want to have to ask. And part of you knows, is positive, that he’ll be there for you without you ever having to even ask. That there would be no question of it. No other alternative. That if anything else, the man before you is honorable and good – despite his violence, despite his sins, despite his fear, he is good. He would never abandon you to face this alone. But still, you’re afraid. Just as he is, just as he has been. So you say nothing, simply bring your other hand up to cup the back of his bent head.
There are no words that could fit in the quiet space of your room in that moment – so swollen is it with all your shared fears, all the things left unsaid. You let him cry.
Ellie finds him sitting on his front porch, guitar in hand, strumming gently – a mug sits by his side. There is no fight to be had now, this she knows. Perhaps no reconciliation, either – not at this moment. But there is much to be said, still, or even perhaps, merely silence to be shared. This is her olive branch. In the days since your disappearance, and then since you’d been found, recovering, she’s had a lot of time to think. To consider her choices.
“Hey.” The look on his face as he watches her walk up guts her – so full of reluctantly glad surprise.
“What’re you drinking?”
“Coffee.”
Of course. “Where’d you get that?”
“Uh… those people that came through last week. A little embarrassed as to what I had to trade to get it, but … it’s not bad.”
“Oh,” she’s slightly at a loss for what to say, how to continue. Their once easy banter seems so unreachable with so much laying between them. “You need to stop harassing Jesse about my patrols.”
“Okay,” he says succinctly – like he’s not going to take her incendiary bait. He looks away, considering what he’s about to say next. “Dina. Is she your girlfriend?”
And nope, she sure as fuck hadn’t been expecting that one. “No! She – That was just one kiss. It doesn’t mean anything,” she denies, referring to the kiss he’d accidentally witnessed last night when he was on his way home from trying to see you. “She just… I don’t know why she did that.”
He tilts his head contemplatively, gives her a knowing look. “You do like her.”
“I’m so stupid.”
“Look, I have no idea what that girl’s intentions are, but I do know that she would be lucky to have you.”
And she knows she told herself she didn’t come here to fight, but he’s so damn aggravating and nosy, she can’t help it. “You’re such an asshole!”
“I’m not trying to–”
“Just – just leave it.” She snaps, looking out at the dark road. “Have you been in to see her today?” Veering towards less conflictive ground.
“Nancy didn’t let me in, said they were both restin’.” He drags his hand tiredly over his face, “Haven’t had much of a chance to talk at all.”
“But before… how’s she been?”
“On the mend – tired, I think. Nance said she’s recovering well. But quiet. She– she doesn’t much want to see me, to be honest …” Maria had said you’d been withdrawn. Not really wanting to see anyone besides Nancy and the baby.
“That was – When we couldn’t find her… Scared the fuck out of me.”
He looks down into his mug of coffee, his jaw shifting side to side, “Yeah… yeah. I– it was–” She knows he can’t discuss it, can’t even voice the terror that gripped him at the thought of losing you. Something about the confirmation of knowing how much he loves you, settles something within Ellie. Reinforces the resolve in her heart.
“Not just for her though. I was scared for you too.” The look he gives her then – she sees that flicker of desolation she was so scared he’d be lost to forever if you’d not come back – if you’d died. There isn’t much left in Ellie that’s overly sentimental, but she could cry at the relief of knowing you’re okay, the both of you.
“Kate’s cute as fuck,” she smiles.
“She is… got those big blue eyes.”
“What are you gonna do? With them?”
“Not much I can do, I guess. ‘Cept take care of ‘em. Keep ‘em alive. If she’ll have me…”
“Love them,” she adds, and he hums in agreement, tilting his head a bit. No point in hiding it, he’s gone soft, everyone knows now, might as well embrace it. Put up a sign. “Well,” she continues, “We both know you’re good at doing that, at least,” her eyes are full of laughter, full of memories. “Taking care of misbehaving girls that can’t ever do what they’re told.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, kiddo. You listened sometimes.”
“Yeah…” she chuckles, “You’re right, there was the rare occasion.” Her grin is roguish.
“Guess I’ve got enough practice ‘bout now, don’t I?”
She goes suddenly serious, “Do you ever feel ashamed? When you remember what you did?” The question is abrupt, as if she wasn’t expecting herself to ask, but couldn't help it. She could be referring to so many things, so many sins.
He thinks about the day after Sarah died, when he’d been so ready to follow her to whatever end. His mind shies away from the memory – that is shame – a wound healed over, but still tender if pressed on too harshly. But he considers it now, in light of her question, how the overwhelming feelings driving that choice had been acceptance in that instant. A readiness to be done with all that continuing in a world without his daughter promised. Fate had granted him the opportunity to flinch, a chance he’d then passed on as a gift to Ellie. No matter how she saw it, he’d given her a chance to flinch. Something perhaps, one couldn’t recognize had they never consciously held that cold gun in their hand, pressed it to the tender nook of their temple and looked their own mortality in the face. But he’d given it to her, and not even an entire life of reliving all he’d endured as of yet, could ever, ever make him regret that choice. A parent did what they could to give their child the gift of choice. That was, in the end, the only thing one could do. The gift of choice, something he now had and so arrogantly squandered. Birdie was his choice. Fate had given him a gift once again, now he had to consciously decide to flinch or not.
“No. Never.” There is no doubt – no room for doubt. “I told you once, if I ever had the chance to do it again, I’d do it exactly the same.” There was a space where one could exist with their sins and not resent them. Joel knew it well now. There was only one road that had led him to this moment, to this place. He could not regret the decisions that’d brought Ellie to this life of peace and safety. That had brought him to your door. You had never felt like a sin. The sight of you, it made him calm, so free. There had been fear, too much of it, but never regret, never shame alongside your name.
“Do you feel ashamed when you hear my name?” he asks her, and he can see the question takes her aback, a second of shock crossing her face. It’s all the answer he needs – for the thought to never have even entered her mind. She shakes her head, sharp and quick, “No.” She pauses, and then says, “Fuck your fear, Joel. If that’s what’s keeping you from her you have to let it go. It’ll be the thing to kill you in the end. Maybe not dead in the ground, but in a worse way.”
“I know…I know, Ellie.”
And so what if he had been afraid? In a world, a life, overrun with the worst possible outcome playing out in real time, what was one more terror? He realized it wasn’t the fear of loss that held him back. It was the fear of himself. Of his own inadequacy, his own monstrousness. Because he’d already lost you. Could feel the current loss of you, your absence, acutely. Like a gaping, putrid wound. The days you’d been missing, that he’d been so fucking terrified that he’d never see you again, that you were dead, as he searched desperately for you – he was already experiencing that which for so long was the reason for his denial. And he could think of nothing now that could be worse than not having you. Of knowing his little bird was existing out in the world and that he couldn’t touch you, hold you, kiss you. Fuck his fear indeed.
What did it matter if the world was vast and cruel if, in the end, they had one another?
“I struggled a long time with surviving. And no matter what, you keep finding something to fight for, something to be brave for,” he repeats his long ago words to her.
“You keep going for family… And she’s family.”
“Yeah… she is.”
“All this, it can’t have been for nothing.”
“It’s not. It won’t be.”
Existing in a grave for all those years, only to be violently pulled awake by a forest fire of a little girl – it changed the nature of a man. His nature had been changed irrevocably. And he needed to give this new version of himself to you now, in its entirety. And what struck him most was that despite all this, despite all he’d changed, lost and grown, since the start of all this, since Sarah died – who he was hadn’t entirely been determined yet. There was still possibility within him. There was still hope for more. And you saw that, you’d always seen that.
In a sudden startling way, he could perceive what he was, what he lacked, what he could be. You shared that perception; your vision of him was another gift. What was it about this sudden acute sense of self perception that was so close to madness, and how was it that suddenly, when you realized you were in love, it was as if you were able to see the world as it really was? Cordyceps had blanketed the earth in a film of death that he now saw in spectrums. There was a spectrum to death as it existed in the world, as what you allowed it to shape itself, and you, as. How did you perceive death – loss? How did you let it affect you when it inevitably touched your life? Was it to overwhelm you – or exist alongside you as simply another phenomena of nature? He could exist on that spectrum set about by nature or he could break free from it. Cordyceps – and all humanities’ basest desires it catered to – could go on existing, could continue to subjugate the world to its will, but he would break free from that subjugation of fear, of death, of failure, he would live his life now as he chose to. He could perceive with such clarity now what was real and what was not. His little bird was real and alive and waiting for him. This was no delusion, no farcical whim; it was a glance down into time – into the realities he’d once known and lived in, a world before calamity and fungus and dead little girls – and it wore the staggeringly beautiful face of you, a glance at the woman he loved.
“She’s angry with me. I– I hurt her.”
“Hmm… True… but she isn’t like us… she’s good. Kind. She’ll forgive you. She understands you.”
“Perhaps,” he says, but he isn’t sure, is terrified of the alternative, will try and make it up to you for the rest of his life if you need him to.
“Maybe time’ll be the thing to heal this wound”
He pauses at that, “It wasn’t time that healed it… remember?” The memory of their past hangs, once again, heavy in the air, but perhaps now, in this moment, a bit lighter than before.
She shakes her head, gives him a small smile, “I remember.”
She’s quiet for a moment, pensive. He’d missed her so much. This easy casual nothingness between the two of them. Just being together, talking. And as he takes her in, her chin tipped to the breeze, eyes closed, he thinks: if he could have done it all again, he would have loved her better. Perhaps made better choices. But he could not have loved her more.
How broken, how small he must have been, just a short time ago, to have found that thought so difficult to confess, even just to himself.
“Go find her, Joel. Tell her what you need to tell her.”
Notes:
me reading this back again: omg can they just fuck already?🙄
Chapter 9: What should we believe in next?
Summary:
There is no point to which you cannot return — the moment lives on forever.
Notes:
*to the beat of the imperial march* porn PORN porn PORN pornpornpornnnnnnnnnnnnn
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
To love someone
is firstly to confess: I’m prepared to be devastated by you.
- Billy-Ray Belcourt, A History of My Brief Body
In many ways, you felt like the forest had swallowed you down its dark maw, and spit you back out a different person altogether – a rebirth of sorts. You’d awoken to a different set of priorities to which, you now knew, you had to dedicate yourself to like nothing you’d ever done before.
There could be no recalcitrance, no doubt, no fear. You realized it was, as ever, always choices, choices, choices that determined the value of your character, the weight of your potential. It had seemed for so long that you’d found yourself unmoored – waiting for something, Joel or your own certainty, your own desires to come to fruition. But you’d not realized, until this very moment, until death had been so close, until you’d almost lost yourself in that overwhelming wilderness, alone with only the possibility of what your future could be, and now, carrying this baby in your arms, another held within you, born of all the love in your heart you could ever hold – you realized your choice had been made a long time ago – in your dedication to survive after Beth. You remember the moment of startling revelation that you’d never considered putting an end to yourself after witnessing such a tragedy, that it, perhaps, would have been less of a struggle after such a trauma. The realization seems to be colored in a different sort of light now, after everything. You can see now that that was your decision, that was your choice. That was your moment of ownership over yourself, of taking your very life, your future in your hands, and choosing to go on. Everything that had come after that was merely a byproduct of that moment of perseverance. Joel, Connie, Jackson, your life here, those were all consequences – the fruit – of that choice. You’d chosen to live. You’d chosen to go on in a world in which there existed the great possibility of being alone for the rest of your life, of dying, of more pain, more hurt, more struggle, and yet you’d done it.
You think of that long past conversation with Connie, I would not like to see your choices taken from you once again, but what he’d failed to realize was that you’d been living in the realm of that past choice already. That the ultimate decision – the one to endure, to survive despite whatever had passed or may come to pass, had already been made. The enlightenment of that certainty, that which you could provide for yourself, to forge your own path, to survive when you needed to, was infinitely comforting in the face of all that you had to look forward to. You realize now, holding such potential for life within you, in your arms, that was what your choice was, to live. Anything that came after that was only what had always been intended, what was inevitable, what would have always happened thereafter, no matter what. A life full of inevitabilities: Beth, you, Joel, a child. The comfort that realization provides now is so profound. You wish, like in so many other moments, that Connie were here to share it with him. The great epiphany of having realized that the place your life had come to had been led here by your own hand, after having felt, for so long, so out of control. There could be no regret after that, only a great appreciation that now you had so much to look forward to; even if, perhaps, the one thing, the one man, you needed might not be part of it. Another choice to be made there. Perhaps the most terrifying of them all.
Courage, above all else, it is courage that is necessary to go on.
You look down at Kate asleep in your arms, her full belly and the gentle sway of the rocking chair pulling her into drowsiness. You run the tip of your finger over the soft peach fuzz of her tiny little brow. “Poor little girl. All alone in the world… But now you have me – you’ll always have me. And soon there’ll be another, another baby,” you tell her, your most precious secret. “There’ll be three of us then. And I don’t know where I’ll get the strength to take care of us all, but I will, I promise. I’ll find it, I’ll pull it out of myself any way I have to. I promise you.” You press a small kiss to the softest rose petal of a cheek you’ve ever felt.
Joel leans against the side of your house – listening to you talk to Kate – promising this most sacred of things as you sit slowly rocking her on your back porch. Another baby, another baby, another baby. The entirety of the face of the world could be alight with fire in this moment, and he doesn’t think he’d feel himself burning. Maybe he already is. His heart, his heart – it’s on fire. Maybe I’ve finally gotten so fucking old this’ll be the thing to kill me. Maybe I’m actually just dying of a goddamn heart attack right now. He clutches his chest. Wants to laugh and cry and scream and kiss the ever loving hell out of you. He wishes, like in so many other moments, that Sarah was here. He wishes he could tell her she’s going to have a little brother or sister, that the two of you could have known each other. He can’t move, can’t get his brain to send a signal to his legs to move. To go to you. And he thinks: this is what real wonder is. This is like nothing else that has ever come before. A baby, a baby, my Birdie’s baby.
He can’t say he’s even surprised really, has just been subconsciously waiting for this. Acting like a goddamn teenager, just discovered sex, never heard of a condom or pulling out, fucking you every chance he got. Jesus. Two babies in his fifties – he’ll never hear the end of it from Ellie. A huff of a laugh escapes, and he feels a tear run down his cheek.
“Can I hold her?” He steps up onto the porch. You startle a tiny bit, jostling the sleeping bundle, looking around yourself as if for an escape, but when you look back into his eyes, it’s almost like there’s an air of resignation in them, as if you’re now realizing there’s no escaping this.
“Of course.” You frown down a little at her as you make the transfer, a soft coo passing your lips to settle her, reassure her, I’ll be right here, don’t be scared. The warm brush of your arms along his chest sends a shivering jolt through him. He hasn’t touched you in too long, what feels like years. He takes the baby gently from your arms and settles in the rocker across from you. The tiny weight in his palms is so small and yet so magnificently significant, heavy in the weight of what she represents. It’s been so many years since he’s held a baby, his own baby, but it feels as natural as breathing. The muscle memory reawakening to remind him to support her head, keep his too-big-hands gentle and soft. He looks back at you, so lovely, always. The most beautiful thing he’s ever set eyes on in his whole life, he’s sure. He wants to go and lay his head in your lap, stay there forever. And now that he knows the secret you’ve been carrying, he’s shocked at himself, that he hadn’t noticed before, so attuned is he to the planes of your face, the slope of your mouth and brow and cheekbone, the color and warmth of your skin, your body. But he sees it now, painted upon you as if you were a canvas for all that’s shared between the two of you, this tiny little secret you’ve both created together. It glows out of the light shining in your eyes, bathes your skin in the most radiant luminescence. But you look tired now too, afraid of him, of what he’s about to say, for he can see you know there’s something he wants to say to you.
“What is it? Tell me,” you breathe, and there it is, always that keen ability you have to read his mind.
“I was afraid,” he confesses.
And yet it is not a confession, for you already know, have always understood him to his very core. “I know.”
“I had a choice to make, a moment to flinch. I chose wrong.” Your gaze is trained on Kate asleep in his arms, and he can see the roll of your throat swallowing. “I should have never turned away from you. I will never turn away from you again.”
You stifle a little gasp, turn away to look out into the dark of the surrounding trees. He can see your eyes shifting back and forth, as if you’re searching for something. Perhaps now’s the appropriate time for him to get on his knees and start begging. He watches your throat work several times, and the tears welling in your eyes tell him you’re trying to swallow your sobs. A bludgeoning would be less painful than watching the look on your face right now.
He can’t voice what he just heard you say, not yet, not yet. He needs this to be about the two of you first, about what he feels for you, about what he needs you to understand about what’s inside of him, what he’s let go of, before he lets anything else interfere in what might happen here. He needs the two of you now to come to each other of your own volition, unburdened by anything else except for what you feel for one another, the necessity of being together because without the other you’d simply die.
“Birdie, look at me. Gimme those gorgeous eyes.”
“I can’t,” you choke out.
“Please, baby. Why not?”
“I don’t want to see what’s not there. I can’t–” He gets up then, comes to kneel before you, the baby still cradled in one arm, he brings his other to grasp your face.
“Look at me, Birdie. Listen to me when I tell you that I fucking love you, and I will never ever leave you again.”
“Joel– there’s something–” you cut yourself off.
He grips your chin gently, the rest of his life cradled in both hands, “I am so fucking sorry. And I love you so goddamn much. I can’t say that I’ll never hurt you again, piss you off, that’ll I’ll never make a mistake, do the wrong thing, say the wrong thing,” his voice is guttural, he has to clear his throat several times of the tightness overwhelming it before he can continue, “But I promise I’m gonna do everything in my power to try. To be the man you need, the man Kate and Ellie need. Look at me–” for you’ve closed your eyes now, silent tears streaming down your cheeks, running over his fingers to drip down onto your lap. You blink them open. “You hearin’ me?”
“Yes–” you whisper, “Yes, I hear you.” And then you’re sliding down into his lap, bottom coming to rest on his bent knee so he’s cradling you in one arm and Kate in the other. “I should've never left–” you sob, clutch at his clothes, his hair, drag your nails through the thick of his beard.
“No, baby– no. I should’a never let you go.” He tangles a hand into the back of your hair, bringing your mouth to his, and then finally, finally the taste of you within him again. He licks into your mouth, deep. The hot cave of it, opening so sweetly for him. You moan into him, breathe him in, let your head fall back for him to devour more deeply.
But he pulls back, gives you a moment to breathe. There’s still so much left for the two of you to say. He grips you around the waist and rises to his feet with a grunt, goddamn knees, the both of you clutched within his arms. “Let’s put her to bed.”
The sight of him cradling Kate’s in his strong arms, the little bundle of her, so small, he could hold her entire weight in the palm of his large hand. Watching him set her in the crib you’d set up beside your bed, so, so gently, it has images of the rest of a shared life flashing in your mind. Sending painful cramps of lust through your womb, spears of longing through your heart. He’s so solid and strong. Broad and thick and you know that nothing could ever hurt you when you’re in the circle of his arms. He makes you untouchable by anyone or anything but him.
When he turns to face you you’re already there, pressing your hands and your breasts along the broad, strong planes of his chest. Pulling him out of the bedroom and into the hallway to push him roughly up against the wall and attempt to climb him. “Jesus fuck, Birdie–”
He cradles your jaw in that strong hand he’d just so gently cradled the tiny baby with, and you suck his thumb into your mouth, the groan he lets out at that — it sets you ablaze. “Joel, please, please, fuck me,” you beg. Your voice pitched into a whine. You’ll become inconsolable soon, if he isn’t careful, if he doesn’t hurry. Your cunt, a tight furl of desperate need, you claw at his belt, his shirt. “Please, p–please, I can’t wait anymore, I need it. I don’t care.”
“Birdie, open your fucking eyes,” he gives your head a sharp little shake, you’d pressed your eyes tightly closed to keep the tears at bay, “Look at me. This is it,” he says, “You and me. Do you understand? This is it – us.” Your eyes are huge and wet, unblinking. His grip on your jaw, cheeks smushed, mouth in a pucker, forces your head to nod like a marionette – as if he could force the understanding into you.
“I love you, Birdie. Do you understand me?” And you want to say no, no you don’t understand because how could you ever comprehend something that enormous.
You look down, then, unable to meet his eyes anymore and press the tips of your fingers to his lips as if to stifle his words. How can something you’ve wanted for so long, so desperately, scare you so much now? It’s as if the two of you have switched places – as if he’s transplanted his fear into you. What would you do with the love of a man like this? What does one do once they have the possibility of everything they’ve ever wanted within arms reach? How could your love for him, the intensity of it, intertwine with his in a way that could create a life together? How did one grapple with the notion of casting away their loneliness, their aloneness, when you’d lived with it for so long? And most important of all, what about all you hadn’t told him yet? What would he say then?
So many questions, little bird.
“I’ll give you anything. Anything you want, baby,” he whispers, and you wish he wouldn’t say such things. No – you couldn’t brush up against the idea of your love for each other existing out in the world one moment, only for it to be ripped away from you the next.
His voice is hushed, he says again: “I love you,” and the words slide through your hair like water as he presses you tighter into him. You feel so empty, your cunt clenching desperately around nothing at just the deep, familiar sound of his voice.
This feels, simultaneously, like the final nail in the coffin being ripped away, setting you free, and also, being hammered home, sealing your fate away with an undeniable finality.
And Joel, he’d never been able to say the words easily before. I love you, it is a blessing – a benediction and a gift – to be able to tell the person you love, out loud, how you feel about them. To have them in front of you to do such a simple thing. To have that choice. He’d always felt too laid bare by it – vulnerable. To Sarah, to Ellie, to his brother. He’d always needed to work around it, find another word for it, another action to show them – let me do you this favor, let me bring you this thing I know you love, let me stand guard over you all night so you can rest. It wasn’t ever enough; so, he’d say it now. He’d tell you now, without fear or regret or take backs. Without pushing you away after. He’d tell you, let it settle between the two of you and exist as it would.
You rip yourself from his arms then and turn away abruptly, too much to take in all at once. Pacing away, you can feel him stalking after you, herding you like prey. His fingers ghosting along the trailing tips of your long hair. You go as far as the confines of the house allow you to escape him, and then his hands are gripping your hips, spinning you around to face him and pressing you up and against him. Patience seemingly at an end.
He presses you up against the wall, his hands everywhere, under your breasts to lift the heavy weight of them up and into his face and open mouth, kissing and sucking and biting. He bends his knees to bring his face down closer to your level, sucks whatever skin of yours he can into his mouth, breathes you in, wraps his arms around your waist and squeezes.
You moan at the feel of him, your head tipped back – you should talk, you should talk, you know you have more to say – but your eyes are cast to the ceiling almost in supplication, and he’s everywhere, touching every part of you.
“I love you, and you’re gonna listen to me. I’m gonna say it over and over until you’ve got it in your head. Do anything I gotta do to prove it to you.”
“Promise me you’ll never leave me,” you beg suddenly, “Promise me you’ll be with me always, please.”
“I promise, Birdie.” I promise, I promise, I promise.
He pulls back, presses his brow to yours, it feels feverish and you’re trembling in his arms, needy little fingers carding through his hair to tug his mouth back to yours. “Tell me– lemme hear you say it.” He does not need to specify, you know what it is he wants from you.
A tiny whimper, and then: “I love you too.”
“Fuck–” who would’ve ever thought the words’d have such a direct line to his cock. He moans, deep in his chest and slots your mouths back together, takes your top lip between his own to pepper soft little kisses on your open, panting mouth, sucking and nibbling and licking.
He straightens to his full height, grasps the hinge of your jaw to open your mouth wide for him and thrusts his tongue inside, runs it along the roof of your mouth, behind your teeth. It’s wet and sloppy and you feel like you’re suffocating in each other. His hands roam down to clutch your ass in his hands and hoist you up and into him, your legs wrapping around his waist, he rolls his already hard erection into you. “I’m gonna fuck you now, alright? ‘Nd then we’ll talk some more, but fuck, right now I need inside that gorgeous cunt.”
“I missed you – oh God,” you moan, rolling your hot center along the stiff length of him, “Missed you so mu–much.” He growls the start of your name, his ragged voice turning it into nothing more than an incoherent, wordless snarl before he’s turning on his heel and setting your ass down on the edge of the kitchen table. His hands tangle in your hair, tugging your head back to open you to his savaging, all tongue and teeth, he fucks into your mouth with all the mounted desperation and fear and need of the past few days.
Your hands are at his belt, tearing his clothes open and then your hand is there, wrapping around the hot, hard length of him and he rips his mouth back to stare into your eyes, teeth bared in a snarl. You stare at each other, open mouths panting into each other as you start to jack his cock slowly, up and down, tight little hand squeezing from base to tip, a twist at the sensitive, leaking head.
“Shit, I– I was out of my fucking mind–” and at his words a flash of hot anger burns through him. “You’re never leaving me again. This is it,” he growls.
“Never,” you promise, “Never again.”
He pushes you back onto the surface of the table and pulls your ass to the edge, ripping your leggings and panties over your hips and down your legs. He pushes your sweater up over your naked breasts, wraps his hand around the lush weight of both of them and brings his face to them, licking and sucking as much as he can into his mouth. “Joel, please, please, I need you inside of me,” you’re crying, breathy, high pitched and whining.
“Not yet, not yet. Need to feel you, Birdie. Need to feel you here with me, need to taste you.” He kneels between your spread thighs, hooks one over his shoulder, your other ankle held in his grasp to anchor you wide, pushes to rest your heel on the edge of the table, completely vulnerable and open to him. Your pussy is red and swollen and soaked, slick sliding down your thighs, between your ass onto the table. “Fuck–” he licks the broad, flat of his tongue through the mess of your cunt, drinking your slick down. The taste of you – he’ll never tire of it, never get enough. Your back arches at the feel of his mouth on your aching sex and he takes the swollen bud of your clit gently between his teeth and holds there, you pause, acknowledge that you’re caught, before he sucks hard, and the whining mewl you let out, Jesus Christ, he could come just at the sound of it. He moves back down, presses his tongue inside, fucking in and out of you, can feel the ripple of your muscles, desperate for more.
He moves back up to your clit lapping at it with his tongue as he presses two thick fingers inside to stretch you open, eyes trained on your face the entire time. He can hear you whispering his name over and over again and it washes over him like a litany of forgiveness. He will do anything he needs to, to continue hearing you say his name like that for the rest of his life.
He stands then, fists his aching cock at the thick base and presses the wide head at your little clenching hole. “Gonna give it to you now, baby. No more crying, it’s okay, I’m gonna fuck you now.”
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Joel, Joel, Joel.
He’s pressing in, then, all the way to the end of you. Until his tip is at the mouth of your womb, right where you’re carrying his baby now. He pulls his hips back, the slick suck of your cunt trying to hold on to him, pull him back in deeper, and thrusts in again a little harder, but slow, just as deep, so that you feel the entire length of him, every throbbing ridge. Your eyes are unfocused, wet – lips red and swollen. So, so fucking beautiful. He needs to tell you now. He needs to tell you what he knows. Needs to tell you that he heard. That he’s gonna take care of the three of you. That you and him and Ellie and the babies will all be a family. That you’ll never have to worry or be scared or alone ever again. That there will be no more monsters. He pushes in again, harder, his hands sliding along the slopes and dips of your soft curves, brings one of them to the crown of your head to hold you in place, anchor you against the sharp thrust of his hips.
“How is it that we always end up in this position, huh?” he grunts. “Meant to have a conversation, but instead buried balls deep in your sweet cunt.” He nuzzles into your throat and you tip your head back. You’re beyond conversation, a half laugh, half moan all you can manage. He presses again and again and again against that sensitive spot he owns inside of you, fucks up against it harder.
“I heard you,” he whispers, so soft, into the dark, tender crook of your neck, that place made just for him, not stopping the rhythm of his hips. “I heard what you said to the baby earlier.” You freeze beneath him. Suddenly filled with tense fear and trepidation, and he hates himself for ever behaving in a way that could ever pull such a reaction from you. He promises himself and you and his child within you, that he will never, ever do something again to further that uncertainty. He presses a gentle kiss to the hinge of your jaw, runs his palm over the soft swell of your belly. “Heard you’re carrying a little secret, just for me.”
“Joel–”
“Didn’t think I could ever– would– would ever have– have this again,” presses another soft kiss, grinds his cock deeper.
It is almost possible to canonize each other with the force of this feeling. To give so much to each other – to create life in a dead world– what on earth could ever, ever be as sacred as this?
“You gonna give me a baby, little bird?”
“Y– yes, Joel. Yes – Oh, God– that’s so good,” you moan.
He grips your face roughly: “Tell me again, say it. I have’ta hear you.”
“I love you. I’m gonna give you a baby.”
“Fuck — fuck.” He starts to saw his length in and out of you again, the wet squelch like some lewd song between your bodies. “Again, again.”
“Ungh — I love you, I love you, I love you, Joel.” His cock feels like it gets harder and harder the more you say it. The words sing through his entire body. He grips the sides of the heavy wooden table to keep it from scooting across the floor with the power of his thrusts, and you clutch the front of his shirt to pull yourself onto him deeper.
“Fucking tight, p– perfect,” he grits, forehead pressed into your breasts as he watches the place where his cock impales you. His hips pick up their pace, fuck you harder “I’m gonna take care of us. Gonna love you forever." He starts to feel your muscles pulse and flutter at that, the wet suck of your pussy as you start to come around him, and the tight clutch is so wet, searing, it triggers his own orgasm. He wraps his arms around your waist to arch your back up, off the table and buries his face in your breasts as he starts to fill you with his spend. Your fingers tangle in his hair, press him harder into you until he’s almost drowning in your soft musky scent, come and sweat and him covering your skin everywhere.
“What are we going to do?” The two of you lay in a nest made of the comforter dragged off your bed, your ugly orange throw draped over your naked hips. He’d gotten the fire going, the warm fingers of it licking at your back. Your head’s tucked into the crook of his shoulder, your bare chests pressed together, hot and sweaty. So close and comfortable.
“You’re not to worry about anything,” tiny kiss pressed to your nose, “I’m gonna take care of everything,” another to the arch of your brow, the corner of your mouth, the edge of your jaw.
“Two babies is a lot.” You twirl your fingers through the curls at his nape. You’ll never stop touching him now, for the rest of your life, you plan to keep your hands on his skin.
He ignores that, continues his lecture, “And you’re not going to work so hard anymore – lots of breaks and resting. And you’re not to go forgetting meals anymore either. Three times a day, three square meals. And be sure that I’m gonna keep a close eye on all that.”
“And, and, and,” you mock, “Anything else?”
He gives you a stern frown, “I’ll let you know as I think of ‘em.”
“Actually, I think I’ll do what I want.” You hitch your thigh over his hip so that your wet core is pressed up against his thigh, his come still leaking from you. Even after he’d bent to clean you with his tongue after he’d pulled out earlier.
“You’ll do as I say.” He gives your bottom a gentle swat.
“What are you gonna do? Punish me?”
He nuzzles at your nipple, “No–” gives it a little bite, “You’d like that too much. Won’t give you my cock, that’s what I’ll do. Make you really suffer.”
“What a mean old man you are.”
“You like that too.” He rolls to lean over you, your head cushioned in the crook of his elbow. He gathers your wrists in his hand above your head, runs his nose along the length of your throat, a wet swipe of his tongue over the wing of your collarbone, down to the peak of your breast where he presses a long kiss, then his open mouth dragging over the lines of your ribs, lower still to the soft swell of your belly, where he presses his forehead. No sign of your secret yet, just the shared knowledge between the two of you for now. His tongue dips into your navel and you giggle, try and push him away, but he grips your thigh to keep you in place. He has you caught, snared. His nose journeys back up, skating along the surface of your skin. He nips gently at the meat of your bicep, and then back into your hair again to breathe deep, “Smell so good,” he moans. You can feel his length hardening again against your hip and your answering wetness begins to pool. “So soft–”
Kate’s cry sounds from the bedroom.
He pauses, “I’ll get her, don’t worry.” He presses a soft kiss to your temple and brow and heaves himself up with a rough groan. You watch the long lines of his body uncoil, the messy, silver threaded curls, broad shoulders, thick arms, smattering of hair on his chest that creeps down to his belly, his cock, thick and long, even soft as it is now, still wearing the glossy sheen of your slick. All your insides clench at the sight of him. Lust mixed with the satisfying flavor of possession, and the overwhelming splendor of your love, the knowledge that he’s all yours. That his claim over you is mutual, shared in full. That you love him, you love him, you love him, and he loves you back. That you’re carrying his baby.
Thank God pregnancy’s going to give you an extra excuse to jump his bones even more than usual, you think, with a pleased sigh.
“Stop ogling me,” he grouches, but you know he likes it, likes your eyes on him.
“Never.” You burrow further into your nest of blankets and stare at his ass as he walks away.
Joel and Ellie sit on her porch in the cool evening air after dinner. Nancy makes hooch in her spare time, when she isn’t helping you tend to patients, and they nurse glasses of it together now. It’s strong as shit, and who knew old ladies’d be so good at brewing booze, Ellie laughs.
“How’s she doing?”
“Good. Settled now, just a bit tired from all the movin’ around. Overturning a mountain’d be easier than trying to get that woman to get off her feet for ten minutes.” He’d moved you and Kate into his house earlier that week. He had more bedrooms. More space to turn one of the guests into a nursery for the babies.
“She’s unsatisfied with the color of the outside of the house.” Baby, it’s so dreary. It can’t be a curmudgeon lair anymore, it’s gotta be baby friendly and bright. “Too dark and dreary, according to her.” It needs to look happy. “Don’t know where the hell I’m supposed to find enough exterior paint for a whole house in the middle of the damn apocalypse but–” he sighs. And really, when you’d gotten on your knees afterwards to make him agreeable, how was he meant to do anything besides whatever it was you could ever possibly want.
“Real trouble maker you’ve got on your hands there, it seems.”
“Ah, well, what’s three more trouble makers in the grand scheme of things, huh? Dealt with you well enough.”
She freezes, “Three?” The look on her face – oh, he’s in for it now.
“Well…you see– Birdie’s… well, she’s— I’d been meaning to mention it—” he can’t even say the word to her, slow and stuttering and red in the face.
“You knocked her up, didn’t you?!” she shouts. “But h– no – oh, that is so – ewwwwww! That is so– I don’t even– I don’t even wanna think about that!”
“Don’t be immature,” he says, exasperated, “And quit your damn hollerin’.”
“Fuck you, man. That’s disgusting – I can’t think about that shit. Old man and my friend – no way. Let’s talk about something else –” she looks up at the sky, anywhere but him, pretends to whistle, even though she still can’t, “Isn’t the weather nice tonight? Not too cold, huh?”
“You’re a weird kid.”
“You’re a weird kid, you dick.”
“Don’t go gettin’ all over excited now. These things happen–”
“You knocked your girlfriend up in the middle of the apocalypse,” she deadpans.
“Ellie–”
“Oh god–” she’s laughing hysterically now, bent over and clutching her middle, “Oh, god… I am never gonna let you live this down – Dina!” she hollers, “Dina, get the fuck out here! Oh my god, the fuck are you going to do with two babies, Birdie, me and Dina.You’ve officially been overpowered by estrogen.” She cranes her neck back and screams again, “Dina, Joel’s gonna be a baby daddy!” at the top of her goddamn lungs.
“Ellie! What’s the matter with you?” he hushes, looking around the dark road, “Whole damn neighborhood’s gonna hear you.”
She turns back to him, points a mocking finger at him, “You better fuckin’ pray that baby turns out a boy or you’ll never win another argument for the rest of your sorry life, old man.”
He slides into bed with you afterwards, his hand sneaking up the back of his t-shirt you have on to slide against your bare skin.
“How’d it go?” you murmur into his hair, sleepy and warm, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders.
“Good, Dina made dinner. Me and Ellie sat out on the porch after, had a drink.” The girls had invited the two of you over tonight as a small step, Joel and Ellie’s way of easing back into the normalcy of things, with the benefit of you and Dina serving as buffers for the inevitable awkwardness. You’d been too tired to join them – the fatigue of pregnancy taking a toll on your good graces. “Nancy’s hooch s’fuckin’ strong,” he mumbles into your skin, “Think it got me tipsy or somethin’.”
You huff a laugh, “So, normal…”
“Yeah, normal, s’good.”
“You talked?”
“Yeah, we talked. Told her about the baby” he says with a small smile, softly pushing your hair behind your ear.
“Oh, and what’d she have to say about that?” You sidle up into his chest, running your hands across the strong planes of him.
“Nothing flattering or respectful towards me or for the ears of an infant,” he grouches.
“I’d expect nothing less of her. Call you an old dog?”
He grumbles, “Yeah, yeah, amongst other things. Not so old I couldn’t knock you up though, am I?” Smug bastard.
“Of course not, baby. You know your old-man-charm is what really got me into bed with you in the first place.”
“Shut up, little girl.” He buries his head in the valley of your breasts, nuzzles softly, gives the swell a soft nip. Your breath hitches, extra sensitive now. “And how were you?”
“Tired…achy,” you pout. His hands roam now, squeezing and kneading the soft swells of your curves.
“My poor Birdie.”
“Feel better now though,” you squirm a little, hitch your knee higher up on his side.
“Is that so?”
“Mmm, we missed you.” Your hips roll a little, seeking the relief of his hard length.
“Missed me?” he nuzzles deeper and laves his tongue into your cleavage.
“Missed our daddy,” you whisper into his hair, breathy, whiny. Provoking.
That shocks him into stillness, gotcha. “Jesus,” he says gruffly. His hands reach down to cup your ass, squeezing roughly, rolling his hardening length into the soft apex of your thighs. Pressing down right on your clit and pulling a throaty moan out of you.
“Jesus fucking christ– ” he pants and moves to cup you between the legs. “Make me so fuckin’ hard with that mouth.” The molten heat of your core seeps through the thin gusset of your panties, already soaked. “Can’t wait to see you round and swollen with my baby, little bird.” He pulls the neck of your soft, worn t-shirt down bearing your naked breasts to him. “So goddamn pretty…” His big hands mold the heavy weight of them and gently squeezes your tits up and into his open mouth, so sensitive… I know, I know, Birdie. Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle with this soft little cunt. I’ll get you nice and ready for me first.
What a cruel, cruel man.
He reaches down to free his hard cock from the confines of his jeans, pushes them down far enough to free his aching length and heavy balls. He pulls your panties to the side, exposing your aching, wet flesh to the cool air and tucks his cock under the elastic, letting the thick weight of him rest there, over your cunt, the tight stretch of the fabric adding to the pressure. Oh, he’s going to be mean, you can already tell. “Joel, please, no– no teasing– It hurts–”
“I know, I know, don’t worry, I’m gonna give it to you – Don’t worry. Just be a good and patient girl for me, just for a little.” He starts to thrust against your slick pussy, the fat head catching on your clit with every thrust up – stoking the fire in your blood. His hands on your ass direct your movements, but you need more, you need to feel more of his skin. You pull your shirt up over your breasts, and tug his own t-shirt up his chest as well, let your stomachs press together, the shared heat between your skin turning the temperature of your blood up to boiling.
“Need to feel you,” you whimper.
“I’m right here, little bird.” His thrusts start to get faster, and he shifts his hips back a little, changing the angle so that the wide tip catches on your sensitive entrance with every thrust, and then up to grind against your clit. “Come for me, baby. Give it to me just like this so I can fuck you after. Need that little cunt nice and soft for me – gotta be gentle with her now she’s filled with my baby.” And God, the mouth on this man.
Your heart is beating so fast, it feels like it’s burning, like it’s going to melt and seep right into his own chest cavity. Everything below your waist starts to tighten and quicken and his cock is soaked with your slick, sliding fast and smooth, the slight catch at your opening and then the surge up to grind the entire length of him against your sex, the restriction of your panties making the squeeze tighter. You grip the thick muscle of his shoulders to leverage yourself better, roll your hips onto him harder, faster. You’re moaning his name, begging him for his cock and everything else he has to give, you want everything. And then you’re coming, the knot in your womb going loose and wet. Your head falls back on your neck, but he grips your jaw to bring your face back to his. “Lemme see those gorgeous eyes, my love, lemme see you come for me.” Your open mouth is panting into his, and he licks into you, tastes behind your teeth. He guides you through it, keeps the steady roll of his thrusts and your ass gripped in his hands bringing you further into him. “Just like that– Yeah, baby, give it to me just like that. So fucking pretty.”
“Feels so– so good,” you stutter.
He grips the base of his cock, your walls still fluttering and pulsing, and starts to press into your still clenching pussy. The wet gush of your orgasm pulls him in with a lewd suck of your walls, and then he’s there, there as deep as anyone’s ever been inside of you, right at his spot, and fucking up into it. His grip on the flesh of your ass is tight and you feel one of his hands sneak back between your legs to slot around where he’s fucking you open. “Goddamn, it does–” he growls, looking down at where his cock disappears into you. “Look at that– milking me like such a good girl. My perfect girl. Gonna give me a baby, my Birdie’s baby, huh?”
“Y– yes, Joel,” your voice is a soft, whimpering mewl. “I’ll give you anything– anything –” You dig your fingernails into the muscle of his back, try to drive your words home, into his skin.
“I know, I know, you’re fucking perfect, fucking wet– Keep going, keep coming around my cock, just like that.” He rolls you over onto your back now, settling deeper between your thighs, and picks up the pace of his hips. Your naked breasts pressed tight against his chest, the hair there rubs against your sensitive, swollen nipples. It feels like he’s everywhere, embedded in every square inch of your skin, invading, conquering. And he has, he conquered you a long time ago.
It is perhaps the greatest thing that’s ever happened to you.
One of his hands cups the crown of your head, keeping you in place, his palm so wide it covers the entire span of your skull, and the other pulls your thigh open for him wider, angling your pelvis so he can ram against the mouth of your womb, and your insides are so sensitive, your orgasm still echoing in your skin, it feels like he has a direct line to the very heart of your pleasure. He speaks to it in whispers and demands, and you roll directly into the throbs of a new orgasm. No reprieve, no moment to gather your skin around you, pull your seams together.
Joel, Joel, Joel.
“Yeah, I can feel it – Gonna soak my cock again, I can feel it–”
“Oh my fucking god,” your moan is broken and guttural, and then it’s there, overtaking you completely, your vision whiting out. Your back arches as deep as possible, somehow letting him in ever further and you feel the pulse of his come, the heat of it, as he starts to fill you.
“Fuck– fucking perfect cunt, take me so well.” He buries his face in your neck, licking and kissing as much skin as he can get his mouth on. The hinge is your jaw feels like it’s come undone, gasping and hiccuping, it’s too much. He feels so heavy inside of you, like your insides, your skin is swollen with him.
“Joel–” you whisper, trembling. He hums, pressing his nose into your hair, he pushes your head back, making room to run the tip of it along the column of your throat, kiss to the soft spot behind your ear, down to your collarbone to suck a blossom into the dip there.
He’s whispering into your skin, perfect girl, perfect pussy, so good, so pretty, let me fuck a baby into you, take me so well always. He pulls out gently, the both of you groaning at the loss, at the sudden gush of your mingled come. You’re soaked, the insides of your thighs, your panties a sodden mess. The lap of his jeans, that he’d not bothered to even take off all the way, soaked in your slick as well. He moves to shuck off his clothes, and then pulls your ruined panties down the smooth slopes of your legs. He kneels between your spread thighs, brings your foot up to his mouth, presses a soft kiss to the arch of it, then further up, his tongue dragging along your calf to your knee, another press of his mouth to the bone there, and then he’s spreading your thighs wide, a smug look of appreciation as he surveys the wet, swollen mess he’s made of you. His thumbs pull your lips apart to take in the sight of his come leaking out of your still clenching hole, a soft swipe of his thumb to your clit that has you gasping and bucking away.
“Ah, ah, gotta clean you up, little bird.”
You’re too blissed out to even object, to tell him you’re too sensitive, that you can’t take anymore. His tongue is gentle, slow languorous strokes against your wet flesh. He eats up the mess, cleaning you slowly until another orgasm is right there, pooling low in your pelvis and then surging through you in gentle waves, rolling along the lines of your limbs. There are overwhelmed tears running down your cheeks, and you can see the slow grind of his hips into the mattress, turned on just from this, from the shared taste of you.
He kisses the insides of your thighs, runs his tongue along the crevice between your leg and pelvis, licking up the slick and sweat there, and it should be disgusting, but all it does is make you want to taste every single inch of his skin, as well. Finally, he lays his cheek on the damp inside of your thigh, looks up at you, and the two of you just lay there, holding each other’s gazes, quiet.
There’s a tiny bump to your belly now. The soft little swell existing between the two of you, like the most precious, perfect shared secret. This little kernel of truth that only belongs to the two of you. He’s been so smug about it, strutting around like a damn peacock. You’ve made him promise, Ellie, and Dina by proxy, are the only ones he can tell until you’re a little further along, but the cocky look he gets in his eyes every time he looks at you is practically a blaring sign. Yeah, I knocked her up, she belongs to me. And it’s also made him insatiable, relentless and needy, fucking you every chance he can get. Not that you’re complaining.
Wish I could get you pregnant again already, he’d whispered in your ear as he’d finished inside of you yesterday, bent over the kitchen table, leggings and panties around your ankles.
It is a small sort of miracle to lay here now, like this. Without any sort of distance, after everything else.
The desire for choice was the spark that animated the deepest inquiries of what now existed between you. The force that grounded the two of you together, a need for a path of your own choosing; one so savage, it overcame all other obstacles. Internal, external, human, fungus, past, present. None of those existential inquiries mattered after the choice for one another had been made. Once the helm of fear had been cast away, all that remained thereafter, was only the deepest desire to choose the path that, at the birth of the end of the world, had been stripped of the two of you. The willingness to choose for yourself that which you knew might, could, devastate you, and yet choose it anyway. To accept that a thing could hurt you, maim you, obliterate you, and yet still take its hand. To know that you may not deserve it, but that you would inevitably be hurt – that you would, yourself, inevitably hurt someone who, in turn, did not deserve it either. But that was the price of accepting your monstrousness, of cherishing it, of, at long last, letting it go. After all, to acknowledge a thing was, in many ways, to free yourself of its power over you. Your fear could not lead you, control you, if you were aware of it enough to master it, to take it for what it was, merely a faction of yourself, not the entirety of who you were.
No longer a man made up of fears, no longer a man made up of hurts.
After courage, the possibilities were endless. For courage, above all else, was what was necessary to go on.
Notes:
Only the epilogue left now, and I’m sad 😭 I hope this ended up being what you’d hoped for, and I hope you’ve enjoyed our journey here together as much as I have.
Chapter 10: Epilogue: Birdie
Notes:
Ahh my friends, here we are at the end of this now, and I just need to say that this experience has been one of the kindest and most supportive I’ve ever had. Please know, from the very bottom of my heart, that I have poured over and tucked away in my memory each and every single one of your kind and encouraging and supportive words. You all have given me something I can never repay you for other than by trying to continue to write things that you all enjoy and connect to. Thank you, thank you, thank you a million times thank you.
Chapter Text
Softer than a little wild bird’s wing
Are kisses that she pours upon my mouth.
- Sara Teasdale, Sappho
As the end of summer nears and the birth draws closer, she spends more and more time in the water. The heat is blistering, and the heavy weight of their child sits low in her pelvis, a tight ache in her back making the dark pool of the nearby lake one of the few places of relief.
He’s never far. Though she likes to fight and gnash her teeth and feign independence and rebellion, even now, when she’s more tender and vulnerable than ever. The dawn of motherhood has made her claws sprout, sharp and vicious, but she knows he enjoys them. Enjoys taking the rebellious streak pregnancy has imbued her with and taming it to his will.
She floats on her back now, the looming shade of the trees shielding her eyes from the bright sun, and she is languorous. Mind made hazy and withdrawn and overwhelmed by the song of the birds and the lilting rustle of the trees in the soft breeze. Her hair fans out in a cloud of long tendrils made specter-like in the deep water. Like fingers reaching out, searching for him.
She knows he’s near. Watching her from the darkness between the trees. Knows that he’s followed her from their home, even after she’d forbade him to – promised that she’d be safe, that she could take care of herself.
After all, they’ve been through so much. She’s proven herself twice over and more.
She lets herself sink a little lower, only the prominence of her round belly and her eyes peeking above the surface of the water. That’s when he steps forward, like some sort of beast out of the shadows, uncomfortable with so much of her being hidden from him. She hears the rustling of his clothes and the movement of water and then he’s there.
Little bird.
Big hands sliding along her skin, smoother than the water, cupping her swollen breasts and then further, pressing down gently on her belly. The child gives a sharp kick, recognizing her father. He insists she’s a girl.
“You followed me.”
“I’ll always follow you, my love,” he murmurs into her skin.
She doesn’t fight him, despite his disobedience, lets him pull her onto his already hard cock. And then she’s there, impaled and taking him deep within. The child turns restlessly, matching the staccato of her beating heart.
“You can’t try flying away anymore, little bird. You belong to me now.” His clutch on her skin translates all the possession of his words.
“What if I promise to bring you with me?”
A soft kiss behind her ear, the hinge of her jaw, tongue running along the column of her throat to taste the sweet water gathered there, “Only if you promise.”
“Always.”
Birdie, Birdie, my Birdie.
She lets her head loll back onto his shoulder. His skin is wet and cool and he tempers the fire in her skin while he strokes the one in her cunt. It’s a haze of slick bliss. The heat of the sun presses down on all the parts of her made swollen and ripe by him.
They float together afterwards, her back propped on his strong chest as he curves his hands in an arc over her body, the gleam of his wedding band catching in the sunlight, and she watches the wispy milk white of his seed floating up through the water, seeping out of her cunt. The very essence of him made physical, come to life
Soon they’ll have a baby born of the two of them. A perfect piece of them both, also come to life.
There is a farm near Jackson, Wyoming where a family lives. Where they are happy. Where they are always together, protected and surrounded by love.
It took a sort of brutality others found terrifying to get there, but sometimes an ending is made all the sweeter for the ugliness that comes before.
It was like this: Joel Miller had a daughter once, a beautiful daughter, full of hope and happiness, and she was his entire life. But then she was taken by a world overwrought by monsters almost indistinguishable from their human counterparts, and so he lived in a grave for many years. But then came another little girl, also full of hope, but who, perhaps, had not known as much happiness. And yet with a potential for it so great, it pulled him forcibly out of that grave and back into the living world.
And then there was you. You who saw him for exactly the sort of creature he was, who unraveled the spool of him until you reached his very marrow. And you stole him for yourself. Drank him down until he lived inside you. And together, you made life in a world gone to decay.
The love of his life.
And now it is this: Joel Miller has four daughters — two by fate, one by you, and one past. Not one cherished any less than the other. And there is no more mere potential for happiness. Because now they exist only in it. Always.
There are no monsters in the house, and no one ends up alone.
The moment lives on forever.
Pages Navigation
forestkey on Chapter 1 Mon 03 Apr 2023 01:06AM UTC
Comment Actions
netherfeildren on Chapter 1 Mon 03 Apr 2023 12:58PM UTC
Comment Actions
Dxcarmxn on Chapter 1 Mon 03 Apr 2023 03:22AM UTC
Comment Actions
netherfeildren on Chapter 1 Mon 03 Apr 2023 12:58PM UTC
Comment Actions
nothoughtsjustmeds (ElleOL) on Chapter 1 Mon 03 Apr 2023 07:38PM UTC
Comment Actions
netherfeildren on Chapter 1 Tue 04 Apr 2023 01:15AM UTC
Comment Actions
strawberrymoonblast on Chapter 1 Tue 04 Apr 2023 11:00PM UTC
Comment Actions
netherfeildren on Chapter 1 Wed 05 Apr 2023 04:58PM UTC
Comment Actions
djarinswhore on Chapter 1 Fri 07 Apr 2023 08:32AM UTC
Comment Actions
netherfeildren on Chapter 1 Fri 07 Apr 2023 04:03PM UTC
Comment Actions
twitter anon (Guest) on Chapter 1 Mon 10 Apr 2023 12:31PM UTC
Comment Actions
netherfeildren on Chapter 1 Mon 10 Apr 2023 01:23PM UTC
Comment Actions
myrealmofchaos on Chapter 1 Mon 10 Apr 2023 09:47PM UTC
Comment Actions
netherfeildren on Chapter 1 Mon 24 Apr 2023 03:09PM UTC
Comment Actions
InsanityKeepsMe on Chapter 1 Fri 14 Apr 2023 02:19AM UTC
Comment Actions
netherfeildren on Chapter 1 Fri 14 Apr 2023 04:05PM UTC
Comment Actions
impossibletrash on Chapter 1 Mon 24 Apr 2023 12:10AM UTC
Comment Actions
netherfeildren on Chapter 1 Mon 24 Apr 2023 02:55PM UTC
Comment Actions
paperheartsxx on Chapter 1 Mon 24 Apr 2023 12:27AM UTC
Comment Actions
netherfeildren on Chapter 1 Mon 24 Apr 2023 03:08PM UTC
Comment Actions
skeletontwins on Chapter 1 Sun 23 Jul 2023 06:45AM UTC
Comment Actions
halseyquinn666 on Chapter 1 Mon 24 Jul 2023 06:25PM UTC
Comment Actions
Invaderchels on Chapter 1 Mon 02 Oct 2023 06:39AM UTC
Comment Actions
Sluttymurdock on Chapter 1 Sun 15 Oct 2023 02:34PM UTC
Comment Actions
iamnegan on Chapter 1 Wed 02 Oct 2024 03:23PM UTC
Comment Actions
MotherMichonne on Chapter 1 Sat 19 Oct 2024 07:29AM UTC
Comment Actions
buckyinlove on Chapter 1 Wed 05 Mar 2025 02:48PM UTC
Comment Actions
DiamondSmasher on Chapter 1 Sun 16 Mar 2025 05:27PM UTC
Comment Actions
netherfeildren on Chapter 1 Mon 17 Mar 2025 03:06AM UTC
Comment Actions
maddiesshoes (Guest) on Chapter 1 Sat 03 May 2025 02:19AM UTC
Comment Actions
netherfeildren on Chapter 1 Sun 04 May 2025 08:49PM UTC
Comment Actions
munchhhhhhhsss on Chapter 1 Mon 05 May 2025 09:07PM UTC
Comment Actions
Pages Navigation