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radioactiveinvisible · 3 months

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pretty girl | spencer reid

spencer x fem!bau!reader summary: you realize you’re not that special to spencer. after all, he’s sharing his coke and kisses with someone you aren’t. and you could never be. still, you’re his friend. you’re gonna be always on his corner even if it means shattering your heart. genre: hurt/comfort i guess. and slow(est) burn with best friends to (maybe) lovers! warnings (?): lila archer's ep spoilers. 18x01. a/n: okay, at first i thought about making Spencer suffer a little more, but i'm not going to lie to you, my heart hurt. because i just finished the prison arc and- i just want someone to comfort HIM. please. he deserves some peace. so- yeah, that's why reader is so soft to him. hehe. i really hope you like this one! thank you so much for reading. word count: 6.7k previous | next

Los Ángeles, California

Late night

Art galleries remind him of you, especially those of contemporary works. He has to admit that he has a bit of trouble interpreting them. Spencer knows color theory inside out and is aware of the influences of psychology on art. In that sense, reading them is easy for him. But when it comes to enjoying them or feeling them? Well, that’s where he has troubles. So, from time to time, you swap movie nights for gallery ones. And he is more than happy to oblige.

“Does it make you feel anything?” Lila suddenly asks.

Oh. Spencer is surprised to not hear your voice. He frowns in bewilderment.

“Like what?” he answers, returning his gaze to the exhibit. It is an urban landscape of saturated colors. The gas station is dyed phosphorescent green and the sky in the background is an electric blue. Overwhelmed, maybe that’s how he feels.

“I can’t tell you how to feel,” Lila smiles, looking up at him through her long eyelashes.

He knows she can’t, but somehow he’s still waiting for you to guide him in the answer. You know that he has no problem deciphering the meaning of the work, and what the author meant. That’s easy for him. It’s almost like profiling the piece of art. So, you’d ask him what it means to him. And sometimes it just doesn’t mean anything to him beyond what the artist meant. In those cases, you would just shrug your shoulders and tell him it’s okay. “Not all art pieces have an impact on us,” you’d say. At those moments his breathing usually catches and he gently brushes his fingers against yours, just to make sure you’re real. To make sure that he can afford not to know something- at least when he’s with you. That he can finally stop being a genius and still be able to be looked at by you. He smiles just thinking about it.

“Right now I feel pretty good,” Spencer admits. And he wants her to feel good as well, so he talks about you. “Uh, my best friend usually takes me to gallery arts. And one night we went to one of John Baldessari’s. I think it’s one of my favourites.” He doesn’t say that maybe it’s because you are a huge enthusiast about his work. And when he sees you talking about it? Well. He definitely feels warm. “And, so, my friend was explaining to me the importance not only of what we can see in the exhibitions but also those elements that aren’t there. She then told me that Baldessari once said that one of the best compliments he ever got was ‘John, what I like about your work is what you leave out.’”

“He sounds like a smart person,” Lila says. “Your friend, I mean.”

“Oh, she is,” Spencer nods, correcting Lila. “She’s very smart.” There’s a hint of proudness in his voice that he doesn’t try to hide.

Quantico, Virginia

Next morning

You have the back of the chair reclined as far as it will go, with your feet resting on a space on Penelope’s overflowing desk. Your eyes are fixed on the wall, watching how the light changes inside the pink ball each time you bounce it against the same spot over and over.

“Could you stop that, please?” Garcia repeats. “You can break something and my babies are pretty expensive.”

“Sorry,” you say, stopping. “But are you doubting my aim?” you joke.

“I am doubting my patience, sugar.”

“Ouch, you know.”

“Where’s Reid when needed?” she mutters under her breath.

You straighten up, swinging your feet off her desk. The spring of the chair squeaks at your sudden movement.

“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask, trying to measure your surprise. Or your indignance. You are confused.

“You know what I mean,” Garcia says, though her tone is more gentle. Almost like apologizing.

“I really don’t,” you frown. You start to feel like you had been cut by a thin paper sheet.

Gracia sighs, spinning her chair so now she’s facing you. “We both know you are only this early in my beautiful cave because Reid��s in L.A, and since he can’t entertain you from there…” She explains.

You can feel how your cheeks are getting hotter- when, suddenly, you realize.

“Wait.” You say, narrowing your gaze at her. “So… when Spencer casually swings by your office and takes me back there to the bullpen…?” Garcia looks guilty and refuses to return your gaze. “He only does it because you call him! You tell him what, to pick me up?” You can’t believe her. You laugh genuinely surprised.

“No!” She says. “Well, yeah, sometimes. But only sometimes, I swear. And I only started doing it because he already came looking for you often enough.”

“I thought you liked having me here,” you say, the joke dying in your remorseful. Have you been making Garcia uncomfortable? (And in the back of your mind there’s playing a song you are trying to stop- does Spencer seeking out for you in her office mean that he misses you the same way you are missing him right now?)

“I do!” she quickly clarifies you. “But-“

“No, yeah, I get it.” You smile at her. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be!” Garcia’s expression is somewhat pleading. “I’m so sorry.”

Your laugh is amused again. “It’s nothing.”

There’s a knock. “Kid, we’ve got a case,” Morgan says as opening the door.

You nod, standing up in a second, and before leaving Garcia’s office you croon “I know you called him.”

“I didn’t!” Garcia grins back at you.

Morgan just huffs, shaking his head. “Later, babygirl.”

“So, where are we heading?” you ask, making your way to the roundtable room. Morgan stops you in your tracks.

“L. A, we’re leaving now. Grab your go-bag, we’ll debrief on the plane. Reid and Gideon are already visiting the crime scenes.”

“Oh.” You nod, suppressing the smile that threats to slips. “Okay.”

Los Angeles, California.

Later that day

You owe me. You repeat the words in your head. But not exactly how they sound, but rather how they were written on the newspaper. With pink sharpie. Dark enough so someone could mistakenly believe it was red. It’s odd. How many UnSubs had pink sharpies lingering in their houses? It’s very specific. You chew your bottom lip, waving the options.

“Kids, let’s go,” Morgan stands up, bumping Spencer’s knee.

Spencer waits for you to clear the doorframe before adjusting himself to your side.

“Do I look twelve years old to you?” Spencer asks out of nowhere.

“No,” you answer in a beat. “Why? Did someone say you do?”

“Yeah, yesterday we visited an art gallery with Gideon, and uh, an old high school classmate said I looked exactly the same.” He frowns, looking lost. Social cues are hard.

“Well, you don’t,” you assure him, flashing a smile. “I promis-“

You are cut by the sight of her. Gorgeous, gorgeous blonde hair. Beautiful side profile. Bright blue eyes. Oh, she must be a star-

“Lila?” Spencer is pleasantly surprised, his eyes lighten up with recognition. “Hi.”

She looks at him wearing the same expression as his.

Oh, she is a star. A star that Spencer likes.

* * *

“How well did you know Natalie Ryan?” Hotch asks, crossing his arms.

“We spoke when we saw each other in public, but we were never friends,” Lila replies, her gaze flickering through all of our faces. Poor girl, she must be scared, you think.

“How about Wally Melman?” Hotch tries again.

“What?” Lila looks confused.

“Wally Melman,” Elle repeats. “He was a producer who was killed a couple months ago.”

“The paper said that was a robbery,” Lila insists.

“Well, the paper was wrong,” Gideon intervenes, not even glancing up.

“Did you know him?” Hotch redirects the conversation back to the course.

“Well, we met a few times about a project, but I didn’t get the part. They went a different way.”

“Which way?” Elle asks.

“He cast another act-“ Lila’s voice dies. “Oh, my God.”

“What is it?” Spencer asks, concerned.

“He cast Natalie Ryan.” Lila’s manager explains.

Spencer glances up at you, standing by his side. You lift the newspaper. “You owe me,” you repeat the words written by the UnSub.

“I guess that’s one way to ice out the competition?” Elle’s eyes are sharp and her tone is sharper. She’s looking directly at Lila’s manager.

“Don’t look at me,” he’s quick to answer, holding his palms up. “I brought her into the police station.”

“Had you ever sense that someone is watching you, following you?” Gideon inquiries, absentmindedly.

“From the moment I get to work,” Lila starts, “I have hair and makeup, and warddrobe people, producers, writers, my agent, my manager, publicist. Not to mention photographers. I-“

“It’s part of the life”, her manager simplifies.

Phew. What a life. Must be exhausting. You think about it and shudder. You look down at Spencer and he’s- worried. His big puppy eyes are full of pure concern. For her.

“Anything that seems odd, out of the ordinary, happens on a regular basis or a semi-regular basis?” Gideon continues, now looking at Lila.

“What do you mean?”

“Repetitive phone calls with hang ups?” Spencer suggests.

“Gifts left anonymously?” You complement.

“I receive flowers.” She shrugs. “On the seventh of each month, they just appear in my trailer. Never a note. Just a plain glass bowl.” You and Morgan share a glance. “Red anemones. My favourite.”

“And you don’t want to know who they’re from?” Elle doesn’t blink.

“Celebrities get anonymous gifts all the time.” Her manager intervenes once more. Then he clears his throath. “She has fans, you know.”

“You remember meeting anyone on the seventh day of the month?” Gideons suggests. “Or in July, the seventh month of the year?”

Lila’s eyes are fixed on the floor, her hand holding her forehead. She shakes her head before glancing up at Gideon. “No.”

“Wally Melman was a producer who considered hiring you, but didn’t… and Natalie was a rival.” Hotch summarizes.

“And Chloe Harris, she looks a lot like you. Don’t you think?”, Elle adds, holding a photo of her.

“Who?” Lila asks, shooting her eyebrows up.

“A potential rival,” you say.

“She was murdered too,” Hotch clarifies.

“So, all these people are…” Lila stops, testing the word in her tongue. She looks like she has licked a lemon. “... being killed because of me?”

“It’s possible.” Hotch’s gaze soften a bit.

Lila brings both hands to her face and breathes out her frustration through them. “Ugh. Sorry. I can’t. I have to go.” She grabs her purse and hurries to the exit. Not even a heartbeat later, Spencer’s following her.

“Ooooh,” Morgan nudges you. “Looks like pretty boy got a celebrity crush.”

“Yeah.” You force yourself to laugh. “Looks like it.”

Elle places a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Have any ideas about the case?”

You blink and then you are nodding. “Actually, yeah. Uhm, here, one sec-“

Morgan laughs.

“What?” you say.

“Actually,” he mimics you.

“Oh, shut up.” “Grow up, Morgan.” You and Elle say almost at the same time.

“L/N?” Hotch says, stepping closer to the three of you. “The ideas?”

“Oh! Right,” you pull out your notebook. You don’t have an eidetic memory, so you manage yourself. “Uhm, there were a couple of things that stood out to me from what Lila told. Especially the flowers and the plain glass bowl. If you are choosing a vase and not just leaving the flowers on their own- why choose one without decorations? If I’m trying to win the heart of my object of delusion, wouldn’t I make more effort? Unless I don’t want her to know who I am. Unless my preferences are very obvious. Or I don’t know. Because there’s also the fact that the UnSub knows which flowers are her favorites. How many people know that? I’m going to call Garcia and ask her if there is any interview where Lila said that. Otherwise, maybe we should explore the possibility that the UnSub is someone close.”

Hotch nods. “Alright. Call Garcia. See what you can get.”

“Yes, sir,” you reply, already dialing Garcia’s number.

“Ask and you shall receive, my lovely” Garcia’s voice answers.

You bite a laugh back. “Hey, Garcia, could you check some of Lila’s interviews for me? I want to know if she said something about red anemones.”

Spencer is back in the precinct and taps your shoulder to let you know, but you hold your finger up at him, motioning at your phone. You walk away to the other side of the room. And he stays dumbfounded.

* * *

Hot weather doesn’t excite you. Even less when you’ve forgotten your sunglasses. You sigh, cupping your hands over your eyes, praying it’s enough relief for now. While you wait for Gideon to arrive with the boys, you look around Lila’s trailer. There is no space in the parking lot, but there are not too many people passing through either. So the UnSub could be stood out and no one would notice, ‘cause there isn’t much going around. You don’t know for sure.

“Did you forget your sunglasses again?” You squint at Spencer’s emerging figure. Gideon, Morgan, and Detective Kim are a few steps behind him.

“Mhm,” you wince. “I’m so ready to leave L. A.”

He just hums, but something else is holding his attention. You follow his gaze and it lands right on your necklace. The sun shines sparkles on the pendant he gave you.

“May I?” he asks, his fingers twitching in anticipation.

You are unsure what he is talking about, but you nod anyway. Then, he ever so respectful, not even daring to touch your skin, picks up the astronomical ring. He unfolds it, lifting it towards the sun so you can see the shadow that the principal ring casts on the other ones. “See?” he whispers, “the shadow? It’s around noon.”

You’re positive you’ve forgotten how to breathe while buzzing ants walk over your arms. You can’t help but giggle. “Yeah?” you say.

He nods, wearing his good-boy smile. He’s close enough you can see the golden flecks dance in his brown eyes. “You can check it with your phone if you want.”

“I don’t need to do that,” you smile, leaning in enough so that your forehead rests against his cheekbone as shallowly as if it were a feather. “I trust you. And your 187 IQ,” you chuckle, pulling away.

“Are you two done?” Morgan tries to ask in a stern voice but fails to hide the smugness in his smile.

You are about to bicker back when you notice the uncomfortable expression on Detective Kim’s face and the warning in Gideon’s eyes. Maybe later. “Yes, sorry,” you murmur.

“C’mon, kid,” Morgan rolls his eyes, looping his arm around your shoulders to drag you inside Lila’s trailer.

Once inside, all of you begin to search for new details that will help you materialize the UnSub. And as if sent from heaven, Lila enters with a crumpled paper in her hand. Gideon, gears fast from years of experience, puts the note right away in an evidence bag. He hums before passing it around. “I’m intrigued by this particular version of the verb ‘to be,” he says.

“Past participle.” Spencer adds, holding up the evidence so you can read it too. The message is written in pencil this time, with angry caligraphy, made it in a hurry. Lila- I’ve always been good to you. Why’d you go to the police?, says the paper.

“Steady state of being,” you nod, understanding where they are getting.

“Preceding adverb,” Gideon continues.

“‘Always’,” Spencer agrees.

“In English?” Detective Kim urges.

“That is English, actually.” Spencer explains, uncrossing his arms so he can be able to gesture with his hands. You hold back a smile. “We’re discussing the verb tenses of-“

“Reid. Reid.” Morgan cuts him. This time, you don’t hold back your frown on him.

“Our stalker sounds like someone she knows,” Gideon translates.

“Based on the tense of the verb,” you add. “Plus, Garcia couldn’t find any interview about red anemonas. So, the UnSub might even be close to her.”

Morgan then suggests that maybe it’s time to take Lila off the streets in order to protect her. Spencer argues that so far Lila has not been physically threatened and that perhaps it would be best to do the exact opposite: keep her in the public eye. Gideon is about to give his opinion when Lila speaks for the first time since she came in.

“I’m standing right there, guys,” she uses her celebrity tone, tilting her head to the side and letting her hair flow down in a coordinated cascade of golden champagne.

“If we did remove you, we’d have to take you to a non-disclosed location,” Gideon states, glancing at her above his glasses. “I’m sure your stalker knows where you live.”

“I’m not having the whole show close down.” She shrugs, nonchalantly. “I only have one more scene to shoot.”

Everyone shares a moment of silence.

“Look, last night I decided I wasn’t going to be afraid of this lunatic.” Lila’s expression leaves no room for doubt. Surely she gets things done her way more often than not. “Am I safe here?”

“Well, the set’s cleared of everyone except essential personnel,” Detective Kim concedes, “and we have increased security at the gate.”

There’s a knock on the door that waits for no response. “Lila, they’re ready for you,” a blonde girl says.

“I’m staying at work,” it’s the final answer Lila makes, leaving the trailer.

“Well, she’s one tough girl,” Morgan says.

“Yeah,” Spencer agrees.

You press your lips into a thin line to avoid scoffing. Yeah. Tough girl.

* * *

You make the paper cup dance in circles, watching thoughtfully as the watered-down coffee spirally reflects the lights of the studio. You and Morgan are waiting on this fake beach for Spencer to come back from buying his coke.

“Everything alright?” Morgan asks, toasting his own bad coffee with yours to get your attention.

“Hmm?” you reply, lifting your gaze to him. “Yeah.”

“What’s bothering you?” he insists.

“I don’t know…” you hoop your finger in your necklace, fidgeting with it. “I think we’re missing something but I can’t really tell you what. And- on the other hand, I feel like our efforts are being dismissed by the very victim.”

Morgan huffs, noding. “I hear you.” Then a smile takes over his features. Oh, no. You know his teasing look. “Ooh, pretty boy is bold.”

You don’t want to look. You really don’t. But you can’t stop your feet soon enough, already turning in Spencer’s direction. He stands awkwardly close to Lila, shifting his gaze to every available surface to avoid looking at her. She is so bright it may burn him. And then- you can swear Morgan hears you gasp when Lila extends her hand, grabbing Spencer’s coke.

“You don’t mind sharing with me, do you?” Lila says matter-of-factly before bringing the bottle to her lips. And Spencer just shakes his head.

The acid settles at the bottom of your heart. You can’t help but feel displaced. You’d never say it out loud, but you thought you were special to Spencer. You thought you were the exception to his aversion to germs. You thought you had earned the privilege of sharing food with him out of confidence and a record of cleanliness. Well, you were clearly wrong. Because you’ve learned to carry hand sanitizer everywhere you go, but all Lila has had to do is reach out and shoot her sly smile. Huh. It doesn’t seem fair. But you should know that playing against stars isn’t. You will never shine the same.

And as if she were listening to your thoughts, Lila drops her bathrobe. You are going to cry. A blue bikini hides enough to not be censored on open television, but that’s it. The rest of her slender body catches the studio light in all the right places, making her skin look like porcelain. You know you shouldn’t, but there isn’t enough willpower in you: you look up at Spencer. And he’s looking at Lila like she’s the first girl he’s ever seen. You drink the horrible coffee hoping to choke.

Morgan, however, has another agenda in mind. He walks over to Spencer and waves to you. You shouldn’t listen to him, but there you are. Right behind him.

“You don’t mind sharing with me, do you?” Morgan repeats, already laughing.

Spencer flusters immediately. “Shut up.”

You don’t look at him and he doesn’t try to make you do it before leaving as fast as he can. Like your presence is unbearable to him. You don’t know why. He’s not the one having his circulatory system drowning on poison.

* * *

Are three agents more than enough to take care of Lila? Maybe you should leave this to Spencer and Morgan. Maybe you should’ve gone with Gideon. You sigh. You’ve already done your best to profile every person on this studio set. From the lady styling Lila’s hair to the guy carrying the microphones. Even the girl that popped up into Lila’s trailer- huh. That’s funny. You don’t have eyes on her anymore. But you do have eyes on Spencer. Again. He’s talking over the phone and sending worried glances towards Lila. You bite down your jealousy and approach him.

“Is everything alright?” you ask, keeping your voice low.

He shakes his head, not acknowledging you, his eyes still fixed on Lila. “Gideon’s got too late to her manager. He told me to take her out the streets.”

“By yourself?” you furrow your eyebrows, worried.

Spencer blinks, looking at you somewhat hurt. “Why? You don’t think I’m capable?”

“What?” you step back, surprised. “I didn’t say that.”

“But that’s what you meant?” he’s using his flat tone. The sarcastic one. He’s shutting you out.

“What? Where is this coming from?” you say, blood boiling in incredulous annoyance. “I am just worried. You might as well be a target. Lila likes you, after all.”

Spencer’s gaze softens a bit, but his words are still defensive. “I can manage. I am an FBI agent just like everyone else on the team.”

It takes everything in you to not roll your eyes. You sigh and hold your hands up, offering peace. “Okay, Spencer. I’m gonna get back to the precinct with Morgan. Let Gideon know that you’re safe.” ‘Cause right now I don’t care. You don’t wait for his response before turning around.

* * *

You never made it back to the police station but instead went after a lead. Joe Martinez, a paparazzo in the words of Detective Kim. You guys found a ton of photos of Lila and even a schedule of her shots. And several close-up photos of Spencer from his night in the gallery. The “I told you so” is quickly swapped away by your worry. You can only pray that he and Lila are okay.

And perhaps you prayed too much. Elle clicks her tongue in disapproval, looking Spencer up and down. He is soaked and his hair acts as a curtain, protecting him from embarrassment. You focus on the camera in your hands, mechanically taking out the photo roll. At this point in the investigation, you should know better than to trust your masochistic instincts, but it’s as if you’re looking to stab your heart at every given opportunity. You hold the negative photos up to the moonlight. And you would like an eclipse to occur that pulverizes the evidence of his indifference toward you.

Each frame is fascinating in itself. Lila grabs Spencer’s tie. He doesn’t make much of an effort to move away, but you notice his resistance. Lila’s lips are persuading, however. And Spencer’s conviction wavers with the flow of the pool. In the next photo, they both hold their faces as if they were what kept them afloat. Safe. They are the oxygen they need in the middle of the chlorine.

“I, uh, fell in,” Reid explains to Elle.

Elle extends a hand toward you, palm up. You’re more than relieved to leave the photo roll in her possession.

“Yeah, and I’m sure there’s plenty of photos of it,” Elle states bluntly, passing him the film. “You’re welcome.”

You chuckle, but it comes out more like a huff. And now Reid is looking at you. No, Spencer is. He brushes his hair off his face. You want to follow Elle and get out of there, but there’s a longing in Spencer’s gaze that you can’t ignore. You know what he’s willing to find. And you know you weren’t quick enough to hide it, so you disguise it. You dress your wounded heart with a protective layer of disapproval. He’s a federal agent. He was supposed to take care of a victim being stalked. Is his idea of surveillance making out with her in an open pool? What if Joe Martinez turned out to be the UnSub? They would both be dead. A bullet pierced between their eyebrows by now. He accused you of not believing in his ability to get the job done because all this time he was the one doubting his own skills. He was projecting. You know it well because you know him. And because you know him, you also know that he is having this same monologue inside his head. You sigh. You really don’t want to add more pressure to his guilt. You might be disappointed, but you know he is even more.

“Ang-“ he starts, but you cut him right there.

He wouldn’t. He has no right to call you that. Not now. Not after- Lila.

“Of course you fell in, Crash,” you say, your tongue tracing soothingly every letter in the nickname his mother gave him out of his clumsiness. “Make sure Lila lends you a dry mismatched pair of socks, okay?” you smile softly at him, turning around to enter the house and hide the sting that your eyes surely hold.

Comforting him as your heart bends in two unable to hold its own weight is the last thing you thought of doing, but you don’t regret it. If you are being honest, there’s no room for your hurt. You two are friends. And friends support each other, they don’t rub their mistakes on each other faces. It doesn’t matter how poorly they did their federal job. After all, he’s only 24 years old and he was in a pool with a gorgeous girl. How to blame him? Clearly, his IQ does not exonerate him from being human. But what really hurts you is that he tried to call you angel. How does he think that’s fair?

You can count on one hand the times he has called you that. The first time was when you killed your first UnSub. You stayed as still and quiet as a rock the whole travel back to Quantico. You felt like a bad person. What was the difference between you and him? You both pulled the trigger. You were just like the UnSub. You should resign from the FBI. Maybe it’s the first thing you’d do when you get to the office. The fluorescent lights in the elevator were suffocating you. All your mistakes were on display. The team would see them. Spencer would see them. My God, your lungs were burning.

Before you walked through the glass doors, Spencer pulled you lightly by your sleeve. He took you to the side of the hallway and looked you straight in the eyes. You’ve never seen him so determined. There was no trace of the timid genius who doesn’t shake hands.

“You did what you had to do,” Spencer assured you.

“It doesn’t feel like it.” You simply replied. You couldn’t talk more or you would break.

“It doesn’t matter how you feel right now. It matters who you are not.” He grabbed you by the shoulders, acting as an anchor to the real world.

You were not following, your brain being blurred from tears.

“You are not a murderer,” he breathed out, lifting your chin with his thumb. “You are not the same as the UnSub. You are not a bad person. And you are no less angel than before. Okay?”

You blink the memory away along with the tears. What is an angel compared to a star, anyway. With your focus back to the present, now you notice the collage in front of you. You must be losing your mind, ‘cause you swear you can see Lila’s features all over the art piece.

“Pretty girl?” Morgan softly calls you. It’s the first time he ever calls you that. And you know why.

You look at him like a deer caught by the front lights in the middle of the night. Frightened. In awe. And a little startled to be noticed, allowing you to accept your own existence now that you are in evidence- even if it means your death. “Am I that obvious?” you lower your voice, ashamed.

“Nah.” He hugs you by the shoulders. “Babygirl figured out. She might not be a profiler, but she sure has a sixth sense when it comes to these things. She was the one who told me. I don’t think anyone on the team had noticed, tho.”

“I can’t believe Penelope,” you breathe out, hiding your face in his chest. The tears are gathering again.

“She meant no harm,” he says, locking you secure against him. “And neither did pretty boy.”

“I know.” Your voice comes out muffled by Morgan’s shirt. “But it hurts anyway.” Knowing that I will never be the one he likes.

“Yeah, I know.”

You wipe away your tears, stepping back from Morgan’s embrace. You smile briefly at him. “Thank you. And, please-“

“Not a word, pretty girl. Of course.” His smile is nothing but gentle and caring. “So, what’s up with this collage? What’s so interesting about it?”

“Lila said she likes it because it reminds her of life itself.” Spencer’s voice says from behind you.

When you look at Morgan, pure terror in your eyes, he just shakes his head. Thank God. Spencer wasn’t there the whole time. You let out an audible sigh of relief.

“What was that?” Spencer asks, placing himself by your other side. Now you are between him and Morgan, all of you in front of the collage.

“Nothing,” you dismiss. “What did you answer to what Lila said?”, you turn your attention to him, tilting your head so you can face him better.

“I, uh,” he attempts to control his blushing. “Said there was something definitely appealing about this one.”

“Oh,” you nod, returning your gaze to the exhibit. “That’s a first time. You’ve never used that word before-“

You are right. He has never used that word before towards a piece of art. And maybe it is your hot white jealousy talking and you are really losing your head- but now you can see more clearly splashes of Lila. What did Lila say? Life itself. Of course. The collage is made with moments of Lila’s life. You share a glance with Spencer and you know he has clicked as well.

“I hope you already committed to memory this, ‘cause we are tearing it apart,” you say to Spencer, before addressing Morgan. “Help us to take this down.”

You guys take the strips of photographic montages to Lila’s kitchen table and recompose the work. You can’t believe it. It is a great warm and sick love letter that tells Lila’s entire journey.

“Lila, it looks like someone’s been stalking you for years,” Morgan says.

“Yeah, this tells your whole life story,” Elle adds. “Movie premieres, theater playbills.”

“Everything since college,” Spencer says.

“Who gave you this collage?” Morgan urges.

“He did.” Lila points to a photo in the collage. A bearded young man smiling.

“This guy? Who is he?” Morgan insists.

“That’s the guy I went to high school with, Parker Dunley,” Spencer answers.

What? That doesn’t makes sense.

“Garcia.” Morgan pulls out his phone. “Parker Dunley. E-mail me a sheet on him, all right?”

Spencer notices your puzzled look. “What is it?”

“I don’t know.” You shake your head. “It’s just… all right. Everything here feels so intimate. So close. So purposefully placed. Almost like a feminine touch. It’s something a girl in love would make like an anniversary present. And I am not saying that a guy couldn’t do it but… a guy like Parker? C’mon. He thought it was a funny thing to say that you look like a 12-year-old kid.”

Elle hums. “Whether Parker is the UnSub or not, we should pay a visit. Morgan?”

“Garcia already sent the address. Let’s go.”

* * *

The lights in the office are off and the only desks on are yours, Morgan’s, and Spencer’s. You want to finish the paperwork today. You don’t want to touch this case ever again, so the quicker it’s over, the better. But you’re so, so exhausted. Even though you pretended to sleep on the return flight, you didn’t get any rest.

The UnSub turned out to be not Parker Dunley, but Maggie Lowe. An old friend from Lila’s college. The same one you saw disappear from the set in the morning. So, so stupid. If you hadn’t been blinded by your dull feelings, perhaps you could have done a better job. Still, the only thing your mind is really determined to remember is Reid’s hands grabbing Lila’s face. It’s an infinite loop. It rewinds every time it ends. Her fingers intertwined in his tie. Reid’s hands on her face. Their lips colliding. Her fingers in his tie. His hands on her face. Their lips-

You make sure to read your report twice, afraid that you’ve accidentally described Reid’s kiss with Lila. You sigh with relief. Nope. None of that, just details of the case. Your eyes hurt and sometimes sting. The tears are at the back of your throat and you know it. Maybe you should have accepted the girls’ invitation. You could be laughing lightly in alcohol instead of drowning in thick sadness.

“I’m out,” Morgan announces, switching off his light desk. “Night, Hollywood,” he says, nudging Spencer’s side. “Need a ride, pretty girl?” he then offers to you.

You jump out of your chair like a spring. Her fingers in his tie. You can’t stay alone with Spencer. His hands on her face. Not with your broken heart on your sleeve. Theirs lips colliding. “Yes!” you nod, grabbing your satchel. “Bye, Spenc-“ You fail to act casual and he fails to hide his sad expression.

“Uhm, alright,” he smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Have a good weekend.”

Oh, God. It’s Friday. You can’t do that to him. You swallow your shattered love. You’ll be okay. You’re his friend.

“Uh, Morgan, y’know what, I’ll take the train.”

Morgan shakes his head. “Okay, kid,” he smiles with sympathy, opening the glass doors.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Spencer says, gathering his things. “I get it if you are tired.”

You don’t know how much.

“No, it’s okay. What are we doing tonig-“

Oh. There’s a magazine on Reid’s desk. A pop one. Spencer never reads that kind of magazine. But of course, he had never been on the cover before. He has his hand resting on Lila’s shoulder and she leans her cheek there. It feels wrong seeing this. It feels more intimate than the kiss. It feels almost personal- Your breathing hitches. He has also taken your shoulder and you have also leaned on his hand. You’ve also seen it like Lila is seeing him in the photo. But he’s never seen you the way he sees her.

“Mystery man, huh?” you joke, trying to suffocate this ugly feeling that spreads through your body faster than the light itself.

“Hmm?” he says, not seeing what you are. But when he does, he looks guilty. A mystery man in Lila’s life?, the magazine says.

“You know, if this thing with the FBI doesn’t work out, you can always be a mystery man,” you chuckle. You can laugh this out. You know you can. You have to.

But Reid doesn’t find funny your joke. “Why’s Morgan calling you pretty girl?”

“What?” you reply, confused.

“Why’s Morgan calling you-“

“No, I heard it.” You furrow your brows. “But what does that have to do with anything?”

He shrugs. You don’t understand.

“I’m just curious.”

And you are not sure why, but you get angry. What does he care what Morgan calls you. You know your anger isn’t more than just an unfounded resentment, but you can feel bile creeping up your tongue and you’re not quick enough to stop it.

“Why? You don’t think I’m pretty?”

He looks surprised. “What? That’s not what I said!”

Oh, how the roles can change. “But that’s what you meant?”

“Wh- no! Stop twisting my words” his voice is coming out in high pitches. And then he realizes. You are just repeating what he said earlier to you. And he hasn’t apologized yet. “Oh.”

Silence fall between you two. And not the comfortable one you’re used to. Maybe you were too optimistic. Clearly, you can’t be alone with him right now. You’re not being fair to him. Maybe you should have taken Morgan’s offer.

“You are pretty,” he then says. “And I’m sorry.” A pause. “Both are facts.”

You hate how your heart seems to sew back with honey threads when you hear him call you pretty.

“And you know how serious I’m about facts.”

Yeah, you do. And just like that, the silence is warm again.

bonus!

spencer’s pov

Spencer feels uncomfortable and it has nothing to do with the feeling of wet socks. No. It’s like a crashing shame that doesn’t let him breathe normally. What is Hotch going to think when he finds out that he was making out with the victim he was sent to take care of? Forget Hotch. What is Gideon, the man who introduces him to everyone as a doctor, going to think? Nonetheless, even as Spencer thinks about their disappointments combined, the weight isn’t enough to explain the pressure in his chest. What is it then? His own disapproval of him? As genius as he is stupid, he calls himself.

Forget both. When Spencer watches you hold the roll of negatives up to the moonlight, it’s like someone has kicked him in the pit of the stomach, effectively knocking the air out of him. And then a pale lightning bolt hits the necklace he gave you and he feels like he’s going to die. He becomes aware of every drop of chlorine in his body and how dirty that water must have been. Even if he bathes a hundred times, he will never feel clean again.

He expects to be greeted by well-deserved anger in your eyes, but instead, he finds a deep sadness that gobbles him up. No. Did he do that? Impossible. He tries to approach you, but the fear of you rejecting him immobilizes him. He is bolted to the ground and desperate. How can he return the stars to your gaze that he is used to looking at? How can he make you understand what an angel you are to him?

“Ang-“ he tries, but he is immediately shushed by you.

“Of course you fell in, Crash.” He doesn’t remember a sweeter nickname or a gentler gaze. He is ashamed of how fast you can soothe him, his guilt draining as your eyes are no longer devastating. “Make sure Lila lends you a dry mismatched pair of socks, okay?” You shoot him a soft smile that smooths his sharp ugly feelings.

His heart fills with relief to see that you’re not angry. Nor disappointed. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve you in his life, but he hopes to do everything he can to keep you in it. “Okay,” he replies even though you’ve already inside the house. It doesn’t matter. After all, you’re always present in his mind. Just like the stars are always in the sky.

taglist: @mirdnightmass @monstrosityinside @nervousmumbling @sunflowersndpeaches s0urmarvelwispystarss405rryavis-writeshqsyrrupwishyoudaskmehaileycannotcometothephonernlololololooolook69redros3y@stargirlsturniololoveriamburdenedpleasantwitchgarden queermaxwooo becauseimamirrorball13 smashleywow cultish-corner zeida lou-the-confused-bisexual chaosemia l4venderia jupiteroftheuniverse keenstudentsuitcasegarden nomajdetective bohemianrhapsody86 sabage101 (once again, i hope i am not letting anyone out. THANK YOU SO MUCH, YOU GUYS! is wild how much you are liking these silly blurbs. it means a lot to me, thanks).

#criminal minds #dr spencer reid #spencer reid #friends to lovers #s1!spencer reid #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x reader #no use of y/n #spencer reid hurt/comfort #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fluff #spencer reid fic

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joelsgreys · 11 months

Text

to hell and back l one

Post Outbreak! Joel Miller x Female Reader

series masterlist l main masterlist l next chapter

summary: After escaping a group of brutal slavers, you are left with permanent physical and emotional scars. Unwilling to put your trust in another human being ever again, you spend a year fighting for survival alone in the post outbreak world. But when you choose to save the life of a man named Joel Miller, the wall that you’ve built to protect yourself slowly begins to crumble.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY MINORS DNI. canon violence, canon language, brief mentions of slavers, brutality, torture, assault, guns, reader is an archer, mentions of hunting, animal death, injured/unconscious Joel, very minor mentions of blood, age gap (reader is 30, Joel is 56) very brief mention of scars, reader does not/cannot speak at times, a lot of internal dialogue from reader, at one point reader does try to speak to Joel but she is unable. *please be advised that no specific diagnosis is used or will be mentioned, i’m writing the series with the idea that reader herself cannot fully comprehend her inability to speak at times. basically the gist of it is we have a very traumatized person who does not realize just how traumatized she is.

word count: 8.2k (good lord I am so sorry)

a/n: not a whole lot to say except for that this is...different. at least i think it is, i could be wrong lmao. this is by far one of the most challenging things i have ever decided to write, but hopefully it turned out okay

California l Fall, 2023

You’d been on the run since dawn.

It was several hours later now and nightfall was approaching—and it was approaching a hell of a lot fucking faster than you could have even anticipated. The darkness was quickly closing in, falling around you like a velvet black curtain. However, stumbling around blindly in the dark was currently the very least of your worries.

Your feet were raw, both completely blistered and bleeding through your socks inside of your worn out, muddied white canvas sneakers. Your sore, aching legs screamed out for mercy and your knees trembled violently, threatening to buckle out from underneath the weight of your body at any given moment.

In the week and a half leading up to your escape from captivity, you’d been deprived of both food and water—it had been your punishment for closing your eyes and turning your head away after you’d been instructed by the slavers to watch their brutal assault of the young teenaged girl that you had been sharing a cage with. She’d been unable to keep up with her work duties, and they had decided to make an example out of her.

Despite still having been forced to witness the horrendous, unspeakable things they’d done to that poor girl, your initial resistance resulted in you being beaten and then starved for several days. Occasionally, one of the late night guards would try and bribe you, offering a small piece of jerky or a couple of stale crackers in exchange for a blowjob. At first, you told him you’d rather cut your own tongue out with a rusty blade than suck his dick, but when he proposed the disgusting, vile trade again just a couple of nights later, you’d accepted it—because him pulling you out of that fucking cage after hours and removing the tight shackles from your wrists when no one else was around would give you the chance to finally make a run for it.

You swung yourself around the nearest redwood tree, slumping back against its thick, wide trunk. You covered your mouth with your two hands in an attempt to silence the sound of your heavy panting.

Besides being in pain, malnourished and severely dehydrated, the exhaustion was starting to set in too. The adrenaline pumping through your veins had brought you this far, but exactly how much farther could it take you? How much longer could it possibly keep you going before your tired body decided to give up and give out?

Somewhere behind you, you could hear the men calling out cheerfully.

One sang out, “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

“Come out and plaaaaay,” a second taunted.

The third shouted, “We’re gonna get you!”

Their giddiness made you want to vomit. If your stomach hadn’t been empty, you would have.

Those sick, twisted fucks weren’t letting up.

They’d been on your heels for hours.

The large group of slavers in California were over two hundred strong and had dozens of prisoners chained up in their human cages—they had more than enough people to force into labor. There was no need for them to waste their time and efforts going after you, but after spending the last eight months witnessing firsthand how these sadistic bastards operated, it occurred to you that their desire to recapture you wasn’t out of a need for labor. It was for their entertainment.

They were hunting you down for sport.

This was their idea of fun.

“Fuck,” you whispered underneath your breath, your hands falling down to your sides.

Something had to give.

Your legs, your body, your will to live.

Perhaps all of the above.

You couldn’t keep on running for much longer.

And even if you could, where the hell were you supposed to go? How were you supposed to get there?

You had no food, no water, and no weapon.

Just the torn, tattered clothes on your back.

You were defenseless against whatever else was out there and you couldn’t see yourself surviving longer than a couple of days at most.

There was a part of you that wanted to give up and surrender. If you could be absolutely certain that they would shoot you dead on the spot, you would actually consider it and step out from behind the tree—hell, you would happily let them put a bullet between your eyes and put you out of your misery once and for all. But they wouldn’t be so generous. You knew they would have their way with you here in the middle of this forest and only after they were done would they take you back to their settlement where they’d put you right back in shackles so the real torture could begin. Just like that teenaged girl, the slavers would make an example out of you so that nobody else in their right mind would even think about running away.

They would be sure to make your death as slow and as agonizing as possible.

No. If you were going to die, then you were going to die. But fucking not like that.

Hearing them draw closer towards where you’d been hiding, you pushed yourself away from the redwood and willed yourself to keep on going.

Wyoming l Fall 2024

Your eyes softly flutter open.

Bright, early morning sunlight filters in through the ripped, white lace curtains that hang over the small, square shaped window right above your head.

Blinking the sleep away, you prop yourself up slightly on your elbows and take a glance around at your surroundings. The old, abandoned cabin that you’d stumbled across just a couple of days ago is tiny, cramped, and crumbling. It also reeks—it smells damp, musty, and earthy, like rotting wood. But beggars can’t be choosers and you are certainly in no position to be a chooser right now. It’s not what you consider to be ideal, but it’s four walls and a roof, which is more than anyone can ask for. It’s sparsely furnished with a table and two chairs, an old wood burning stove you had been too afraid to light because you didn’t want to risk setting the place on fire, and there’s even a small, twin sized bed for you to sleep on. Well, perhaps calling it a bed was a tad bit too generous. It’s really just a mattress sitting on four large concrete blocks. It’s rough, dirty, and torn with rusted springs and bits of fluff sticking out from every corner. Still, it sure as fuck beat the hell out of sleeping outside in the dirt and using a rock as a pillow.

Besides the luxury of having something close to a proper roof to sleep under, there’s also a lake just two and a half miles north of the cabin where you had been able to fill your canteen with fresh water. Not to mention, you’d also been able to bathe and wash your clothes for the first time in a couple of weeks. You had been on your own for about a year now, and this was the luckiest you’ve gotten in terms of finding a decent place to stay.

Whether or not it’s safe, it was still too early to tell.

Sure, you were out somewhere in the middle of bumfuck nowhere and hadn’t seen a single soul, living or dead, in a couple of months now. But that still didn’t mean that running into the infected or other people wasn’t a possibility. Letting your guard down was risky. Too risky.

You swing your legs over the side of the mattress and sit up, slipping on your pair of warm, wool socks before tugging on your boots—you’d found them over the summer and even though they had been about one size too small for you, you’d managed to break them in since then and the supple brown leather now molds almost perfectly to your feet. You stand up and lift your arms up above your head while simultaneously twisting your stiff, sore back in a painful, but much needed stretch. You’re only just a couple of months shy of turning thirty years old, but lately, your bones snap, crackle and pop with each and every movement, making you feel twice your actual age.

The thought of it makes you snort in amusement. You should be so lucky to stay alive long enough to see the age of sixty. Hell, you’re still unable to fathom how you’d even made it this close to seeing thirty.

Dropping your arms back down to your sides, you make your way over to your khaki colored pack and pull out your aluminum canteen from one of the side pockets. You twist off the cap and gulp back a long, cool drink of water, hoping to get rid of the dryness in your mouth and the cracks in your chapped lips. As soon as the liquid makes it all the way down to the pit of your stomach, the hollow, muscular organ grumbles loudly, demanding food. You’d had some decent luck while out hunting the previous morning, capturing two wild rabbits—you had eagerly skinned, cleaned and cooked them both, devouring one right after the other so fast that it had nearly made you sick. It had been a pretty decent meal, but not nearly enough to completely satisfy your ravenous hunger. Prior to finding the cabin and settling in, you had been living off of a couple handfuls of nuts and berries for three days while on the move. You were still fucking starving and all you could do was pray that you’d find more rabbits today.

Maybe you’d get even luckier and spot a pheasant. It was their season, after all.

You drink some more water and set your canteen aside. You’d planned to return to the lake later in the afternoon to refill it as well as to have another bath. You pull on your faded, black denim jacket over your hoodie and pick up the wooden bow and brown leather quiver of arrows sitting beside your pack. You’d found the weapon in some hunting shop back in Utah that had already been picked clean to the bone over the last couple of decades. However, no one had even bothered with taking the bow. It hadn’t really surprised you, though. In the post outbreak world, a bow and arrow would do absolutely nothing to protect against the infected runners and stalkers—and it would do much less to protect against clickers unless your aim was flawless.

Still, a bow was useful in its own right.

It was perfect for hunting game. It was silent, keeping you and your location concealed from potential passersby at all times. Most importantly, you could reuse your arrows so long as you were careful and didn’t break them while removing them from your kills—and in the event that you did happen to snap an arrow, all you had to do was salvage what you could from the damaged projectile and make a new one. Simple as that.

Your father had taught you how before he’d died.

“Why bother with a bow? What about a gun?” you had asked him.

“Might not always be able to get your hands on a gun,” he’d replied as he sharpened an edge of the small, thumb sized rock in his hand. “Or bullets. It doesn’t hurt to have alternatives in the event that you can’t get your hands on either of those things, kiddo.” Despite being in your mid twenties at the time, he’d still always call you kiddo. “Always have a backup weapon, alright?”

He’d been wise to give you that advice.

You did have a firearm, a colt pistol that you hardly have ammunition for. There were ten rounds left in the clip and with no luck in finding any more in the last couple of months, you’d decided to preserve them, saving what little bullets you had left for a real emergency. You kept the gun tucked into the waistband of your jeans at all times, along with the sharp switchblade that you used to gut and skin game. As far as weapons go, you sure as hell could’ve been a lot worse off. But if you happened to stumble upon more ammunition for your gun, you certainly wouldn’t complain about it.

Slinging your bow and the quiver of arrows over your shoulder, you grab the dark gray foraging bag that you used to collect and carry your kills in and leave the cabin, feeling somewhat confident enough to leave the remainder of your belongings behind instead of hauling them all along with you like you had the morning before. It wasn’t that you feared someone would come along and steal them. There wasn’t really anything for anyone to steal, anyway. Rather, you’d gotten so damn used to the instability and the constant moving around—you never stayed in one place for too long and were always prepared to run. But today, you decide to leave your things in the cabin, feeling certain that you would return in just a couple of hours.

You step out onto the creaking, three step porch that’s so old it buckles slightly under your weight and a gentle breeze nips at your cheeks and nose. It’s the middle of autumn in Wyoming and the air outside is fresh, cool and crisp. Winter was looming right around the corner like a dark shadow, and although you’d somehow managed to make it through the previous year’s brutal snow season, that didn’t do much to stop you from being nervous about the one that was to come. If all went according to your plan, you’d be holing yourself up in that shoddy little cabin until the worst of winter was over and then you would move along.

To where?

You didn’t have the slightest fucking clue.

You make a short trek about two miles south, going in the opposite direction of the lake and finding yourself closer to the thick forest trees that surrounded the base of the mountain range out in the distance instead. There’s a dried, grassy clearing just feet from the entrance of the forest—finding a single, decently sized boulder in the middle of the wide, open space, you decide that behind it is the perfect spot for you to set up and hope for the best. Carefully setting your things down on the ground, you pull out a pair of old, cracked binoculars from your bag. You lean your body over the smooth, round top of the rock and lift them up to your face, peeking through the lenses. You hope to spot something right away because it sure would be fucking nice to eat something sooner rather than later. Otherwise you might just start gnawing at your own arm.

Diligently, you scan your surroundings for any and all signs of wildlife.

That’s when you see it, standing near the edge of the woods.

You gasp softly as your sights fall upon the deer.

Pulling your face away from your binoculars, you blink furiously before taking another look just to be sure that your eyes hadn’t been playing tricks on you. It’s not a hallucination. It’s a white tailed deer, a female, and from the look of her, she has to be at least about a hundred pounds. At least.

You try to not get too far ahead of yourself, but it’s far too late. The thought of finding some herbs and making a hot, venison stew for supper makes your mouth water. The rest of the meat could be dried out and made into a batch of jerky that could feed you for months. Months.

Then, you suddenly remember you’ve never even attempted to bring down an animal of that size before and you’re slapped back into reality.

You think about your father, who would bring home a deer every weekend after going on his hunting trips with some of his old college buddies. “You want to aim for the heart or the lungs,” he’d say as you and your siblings would watch him dress the carcass, much to your mother’s chagrin. “Look between the shoulder blade and the last rib,” he would tell you and your brothers. You’d also had an older sister, but she had always been incredibly squeamish and had a soul that was much too sweet and caring for hunting. She would always want to bring home every animal your father shot and nurse it back to health. “Somewhere between those two lies everything you need to hit in order to do the job and do it well. And for the love of god, don’t you ever aim directly for the shoulder. Behind it, kiddos, always aim behind it. You got it?”

“Yes Papa,” you’d all chime out together.

Setting down the binoculars in your hands, you reach for your bow and pluck an arrow from your quiver before stepping out from behind the boulder. You’re careful to be as silent as possible as you take a few steps closer towards the unsuspecting grazing animal. You position yourself and stand perpendicular to the deer, placing your feet shoulder width apart—you’re a little farther from your target than you would have preferred, but you don’t want to risk going any closer and scaring her off, so it would have to do. Once you feel comfortable enough with your stance, you nock the arrow and set it on the string. You then hold the string and steady your grip on the bow, relaxing your shoulders before drawing it and pulling your arm back until you’ve reached your anchor point, which is always the corner of your mouth.

Breathe, you remind yourself calmly as you aim at the delicate spot behind her shoulder blade. Nice and slow. Breathe.

Just as you’re about to release the arrow and take your shot, the deer whips her head back towards the trees and her ears prick forward—a split second later, she darts off, zooming across the field in the opposite direction of where you’d been standing.

Your mouth falls open in disbelief.

“Are you fucking shitting me?” you mutter under your breath.

Frustrated, you lower your weapon and just as you start to contemplate whether or not it’s even worth it to try and hunt her down on foot, you suddenly hear something—it isn’t until the noise draws closer to where you’re standing that you realize it’s the sound of a galloping horse.

Perplexed, you squint over in the direction of where you think it’s coming from, right near the edge of the trees. Then, just a moment later, a brown stallion emerges from the woods with a dark haired man riding in his saddle. He holds a rifle in one hand and clutches the reins tightly in the other.

Gasping, you whirl around on the heel of your boot and immediately make a beeline back to the boulder. You swing around the rock and crouch down, ducking out of his sight. You couldn’t be too sure if he’d seen you or not, but it doesn’t matter—a wave of sheer panic washes over you and you can physically feel your own body preparing itself to go into fight or flight mode. Despite having your gun tucked into the waistband of your jeans, you still haven’t reached for it and continue to clutch your bow and arrow in your hands instead.

Swallowing dryly, you turn and carefully lift yourself up just enough so that you can glimpse over the top of the boulder. That’s when you see a second man emerge from the woods. This one is blond and he is on foot instead of a horse. He’s also armed, carrying a shotgun.

“You’re mine you fucking son of a bitch!” he shouts. He lifts his weapon, aims, and then squeezes the trigger, shooting the horse in the side and bringing him down instantly. His rider goes flying off and he hits the ground several feet away from the dead animal, landing so painfully hard that even from a distance you’d manage to hear the loud, cracking sound his body had made upon impact.

You momentarily freeze.

Your heart anxiously jumps up into your throat as you watch the shooter begin to approach him. The attacker moves slowly and with no haste seeing as his helpless victim is lying there motionless on the ground with his eyes closed and no idea that he’s about to die. The blond man comes to a halt just a few feet away from him, grinning as he lifts his shotgun once again and points the barrel of it at the other man’s head. His index finger hovers over the trigger.

Before your mind and body can even make the connection, you rise to your feet and aim your bow, swiftly sending an arrow straight through the blond man’s neck. He crumples, falling to the ground writhing and squirming as he bleeds out in less than sixty seconds.

You wait it out for another minute, refusing to move another muscle until his body finally goes limp and you are certain he’s dead. Taking a look around, you make sure the coast is clear and grab your belongings, slinging them over your shoulder before you make your way over to the scene. Unsure of whether or not there could be others heading in this direction, your plan was to pick off their guns and any other useful supplies before making a run for it back to the cabin. You crouch down beside the man you’d shot and killed, carefully pulling your arrow out of his neck. It makes a loud, horrid squelching sound as you remove it and blood from his jugular splatters your blue jeans. You then pick up his shotgun and check the chamber for ammunition.

Just like the pistol tucked away in your waistband, there’s hardly any rounds left, making it all but useless. Rolling your eyes, you carelessly drop the gun on top of his chest and move on in search of the rifle. You spot it right beside the dark haired man.

Apprehensive, you cautiously make your way over towards him. With how still he had been lying, you could have sworn he was gone—perhaps the fall off of his horse alone had killed him. But just to be sure, you decide to give his side a harsh nudge with the toe of your boot.

He groans and his head rolls to the side.

He’s still alive.

You effortlessly string the bloodied arrow in your hand and aim it right at his chest.

Move again and you’re dead, motherfucker.

“Ellie,” the man mumbles, his eyes still closed.

Ellie?

You slowly lower your bow.

Without realizing it, a little bit of your guard lowers along with it.

Carefully, you sink down onto one knee next to the man and get a better look at him. He’s much older than yourself, somewhere in his fifties if you had to guess. He has harsh forehead lines, deep creases in between his eyebrows, a patchy beard that is speckled with many, many grays, and wild waves of thick hair that look soft to the touch. Though some of his features are a little worse for wear due to his age, he’s still quite a handsome man from what you can see. He also appears to be in decent shape, clean and well fed, and you detect the light scent of laundry soap on his clothes. Surely, he had to have been part of some kind of group, and judging by the leather trimmed saddle on his horse, this group was one that was very well off in this post outbreak world.

You hesitate, but then lift a slightly trembling hand and take the side of his face, cupping it in your palm as you turn his head towards you.

There’s blood on his right temple and your fingers reach up to touch what you had assumed was the source of the bleeding—but then you realize it was a scar, maybe an inch or two in length at most and completely healed. Your fingers trail up even further and venture into his hair which, as it turned out, is in fact just as soft as one would imagine. You find a small gash on his scalp and your fingers become coated in the man’s blood.

Must’ve hit himself on a rock or something.

Your hand leaves his hair and you place it on his broad chest as you begin checking him over for any other potential injuries or wounds. Slipping your opposite hand inside of his brown jacket, you lift the hem of the dark green thermal henley he’s wearing and you discover the scar on his temple isn’t the only one he possesses—he has several more, way too many for you to count on one hand alone. You’re so preoccupied with inspecting the remainder of his abdomen that you don’t even notice the way one of his hands is slowly reaching for yours, the hand that’s still resting on his chest, right over his heartbeat.

Semiconscious, the man takes your hand in his so damn gently that it startles you and takes you by surprise, but it doesn’t frighten you. Weakly, he laces his fingers together with your own and he speaks again, uttering softly, “Babygirl.”

Puzzled, your eyebrows knit together.

It almost sounds like he’s pleading.

For what—for who? For Ellie?

Is she the babygirl he’s referring to?

Your other hand moves up to his shoulder and you give it a violent shake.

Hey, you’ve got to get up now.

“H—” You try to speak the words, but can’t. They’re formed in your mind and it feels like they are right there on the very tip of your tongue, but when you open your mouth, they refuse to come out. You frown.

It’s happened before.

In the spring, you’d stumbled across a small group of people while out hunting in Idaho—it was the first time you had seen other human beings since leaving California in the fall. There had been both men and women and they even had children with them, but that did nothing to stop you from panicking when they’d approached you. One of the women cornered you, trying to tell you that they were traveling across the country to the east coast. “It’s okay,” she’d tried to tell you, holding up her hands. “We’re not bad people, I promise. We’re just trying to get to the quarantine zone in Boston. I think you should come with us, honey.”

You’d been so terrified that when you’d tried to tell her that you didn’t want to join them, you couldn’t push the words out. It felt like your voice had gotten stuck in the back of your throat. That’s how afraid you’d been.

Technically, you can speak.

You’d talk to yourself often when you were feeling lonely. You would read the books you carried in your pack out loud. Hell, you even liked to sing.

But whenever you became stressed, anxious, or scared, it would happen. You’d lose your ability to speak and to communicate—not that you had anyone to communicate with except for yourself, but that’s besides the point. No matter how hard you tried to force your vocal cords, all you could get out were quiet, strangled noises. It was as if your own fears chased your voice away and during periods when you were under extreme distress, it would take several days for you to find it again. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that, whenever you used your voice back in California, it only led to the harshest of punishments.

A gunshot sounds off in the distance, snapping you out of your train of thought.

You shake the man again, harder this time.

Come on, get up! They could be coming this way!

It’s useless. He’s losing complete consciousness.

You hear another gunshot and this one sounds like it’s coming from the base of the mountain range on the other side of the trees, not all too far from where you are. For all you know, it could very well be members of his own group who are firing those weapons out there. But whether it was his group or the other man’s group, it doesn’t really fucking matter. You don’t want to run into either one of them, regardless of who were the good guys and who were the bad guys. In your eyes, everyone’s a fucking bad guy.

Yanking your hand out of his, you get to your feet and prepare to make a run for it. But just as you’re about to take off, the man mumbles one last time. It’s incoherent and barely audible, but you manage to catch that name again. Ellie.

Ellie, Ellie, Ellie.

For some reason you can’t quite explain, that sweet little name bounces around in the inside of your skull.

You chew the inside of your cheek anxiously.

If it’s his group out there, they’ll save him.

If it’s the other man’s group, they’ll kill him.

Normally, you’d have no problem with the idea of leaving another person to die.

After everything that happened in California, you had lost your sense of humanity. Your ability to empathize and actually give a shit about other people had been long gone—or so you’d thought. But you had just saved this man’s life and now you find yourself unwilling to run the risk of leaving him for dead. And you don’t have the slightest fucking clue as to why. He’s a stranger. He shouldn’t matter to you.

You exhale a heavy sigh of defeat.

Okay, how the fuck do I do this?

Without much time left to waste, you gather up your belongings over your shoulder and pick up his rifle, slinging the brown leather strap across your chest so the gun rests comfortably against your backside. You walk around him, lean over, and hook your arms securely underneath his. Using every ounce of physical strength you have inside of you, you start dragging him back to the cabin as fast as you possibly can.

The pretty melody fills his ears as he comes to.

“Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high

there’s a land that I heard of once in a lullaby…”

Joel Miller isn’t all too sure if heaven is a real place that actually exists, but the very minute he hears the feminine voice singing, he can’t help but think he’s died and that’s exactly where he’s gone—because only an angel could possibly have a voice like that. So rich, so smooth, and oh so sickeningly sweet.

“Somewhere over the rainbow, skies are blue...”

The ballad being sung is all too familiar to him.

The Wizard of Oz had been Sarah’s favorite movie back when she had been a little girl, when she was seven years old and she still believed in princesses and fairy tales and faraway lands with yellow brick roads. Even when she grew older, his daughter continued to hold a soft spot for the film and Joel would watch it with her every Thanksgiving at his parents’ house right after their dinner—it would air on cable and Sarah would beg him to let her have her slice of pecan pie while sitting cross legged on the floor in front of his old man’s television set.

“So long as you don’t make a mess on Nana and PopPop’s carpet,” he’d warn her. “Deal?”

Sarah would beam at him and nod eagerly. “Deal!”

He’d grab his own slice of pie, park it right on the couch behind her, and together they would get lost in the whimsical world of Oz, although admittedly he’d usually fall deep into his food coma long before Dorothy had the chance to make it back home to Kansas.

“Where troubles melt like lemon drops

away above the chimney tops

that’s where you’ll find me...”

The words fade and the rest of the song is now being hummed.

Goddamn, he thinks.Even the humming is too fucking beautiful.

Joel feels a cold, damp cloth dabbing at his sore right temple.

Come to think of it, everything is fucking sore.

Once, when Joel had been in his mid twenties, he had been doing some under the table roofing job with his younger brother, Tommy. It had been the hottest day of the summer in Texas, and the two of them thought having a couple cold beers with their lunch to cool off would be a good idea. The pair of them went back to work and started fucking around, goofing off like the drunk idiots they were. While horsing around, Joel accidentally stumbled right over the edge of the roof and he had fallen about fifteen feet to the ground, landing on his back on Mrs. Adler’s lawn. Luckily, he’d been okay after the fall and hadn’t sustained any serious injuries or broken any bones, but he had spent the following three to four weeks feeling like he’d been hit by a fucking Greyhound.

That’s how he felt now.

Like he’d been hit by a fucking bus. Twice. There isn’t a single part of him that isn’t pulsating with pain—his back, his shoulders, and his head. Oh god, his head feels the worst. It’s fucking killing him.

Joel’s eyelids twitch and he cracks them open ever so slightly, just enough that he can see the silhouette of another person hovering over him. He feels a hand at the crown of his head as the other continues to dab at his temple with the cool cloth. It feels incredible against his warm skin and even sort of soothes the pain.

He lets out a small groan and the humming ceases.

Finally, he manages to force his eyes open.

Joel hears a little gasp and the bed he’s lying on squeaks and shifts. He then hears a loud thumping sound as if something, or someone had fallen to the floor.

Although he’s still disoriented and his entire body aches with even the slightest movement, Joel manages to push himself up into a sitting position. Blinking rapidly, his blurred vision steadies itself after a minute and he glances around. He’s in a small, single room wooden cabin that has seen better days in its lifetime. Looking down, he sees that he’s lying on a bare, worn out mattress with his own jacket draped over him like a blanket. He racks his mildly concussed brain, trying to recollect what had happened—it takes him a minute, but one by one, the memories start flooding back to him. Joel had been leading mid morning patrol with Tommy when they had been ambushed by a large group of hostile raiders. He remembers shouting at his brother, telling him that he’d try and lead some of them off, away from the direction of their community. He’d succeeded and managed to pick off a few of the bastards that had been tailing him with his rifle, all except for one. The very last thing that he remembered was the sound of a gunshot behind him before his horse went down and he’d been thrown off and knocked out.

Everything after that was nothing but a blur.

Joel takes another look around the cabin and that’s when he sees you.

You’re on the floor, backed up against the wall near the foot of the mattress. Your eyes are wide and round, like a deer caught in the headlights. Your chest heaves, rising and falling rapidly—you remind him of a helpless, frightened animal that had been cornered by a vicious predator. You clutch the handle of a switchblade up against your chest with the blade pointing downwards, holding it so tightly in your hand that Joel can see the skin stretching tightly over your knuckles.

“Who the hell are you?” He grimaces slightly, his own voice causing his head to throb.

You don’t reply.

Joel moves onto his next question. “Where am I?”

Again, no response.

He tries again. “Are you alone?”

Silence.

Joel takes a better look at you.

You’re young. You couldn’t have been older than your late twenties, perhaps even your early thirties although that might have been a bit of a stretch. You had that look about you, one that had become all but too familiar to him in the last two decades—the exhausted appearance of someone trying to survive in the post outbreak world. Your face is tired and worn, but somehow still soft and youthful at the same time. You might have looked a little rough around the edges, but you’re still the prettiest goddamn thing he’s seen in a long, long time.

Joel speaks again. “Who are you? Where the hell are we?” When he’s met with complete silence for the fourth time, he raises an eyebrow, feeling annoyed. “You gonna fuckin’ say somethin’ or what?”

You can only stare at him, your fingers wrapped around the handle of your knife in a vice-like grip.

Joel frowns.

Are you really that fucking terrified of him?

Or perhaps you can’t hear?

Only one way to find out, he thinks to himself.

He raises his voice, asking once again, “Who are you? Where are we?”

You wince, your features twisting in discomfort.

Oh, you could fucking hear him, alright.

Joel swings his legs over the side of the mattress, his movement causing you to shrink back further against the wall, almost as if you were trying to become a part of the old, rotted wood. He holds up his two hands, demonstrating that he has no plans to move another muscle towards you. “How long have I been out?”

He tries to show some patience and gives you a minute, gives you a chance to respond, but when you say nothing, he can’t help but sigh out in frustration. Just when he’s about to force himself to come to terms with the fact that he wouldn’t be getting any kind of answers out of you, you lift your free hand and hold up three trembling fingers.

His stomach sinks. “Three days? I’ve been out for three fuckin’ days?”

You give him a nod so tiny and so subtle that he would’ve missed it had he blinked.

“Fuck,” Joel curses, hanging his head. He begins to spiral.

What happened to Tommy? And the others?

Did they make it out alive?

And then Ellie’s face flashes in his mind, causing the blood in his veins to run ice cold.

What could she possibly be thinking right now after he’d been missing for three whole days? Who was taking care of her and looking after her while he wasn’t there?

He needed to get back to Jackson—he needed to get back to Ellie.

He wasn’t sure how he would be able to do that if you didn’t start talking soon and answering his goddamn questions.

Lifting his head, Joel looks over at you again.

“You all by yourself?”

You hesitate, but then nod in reply. Yes.

Joel sighs, his tense shoulders relaxing. That’s a start. “Listen, I’m gonna need a little help here, alright? I don’t remember much ‘bout what happened. I’m part of a community. I was out on patrol with my group when we were attacked by raiders. There were too many of them and I tried to lead some of them away,” he explains. He might not have known what had happened after he’d been thrown off of his horse, but the fact that he’s in your cabin and he’s alive help him piece at least one part of the puzzle together. “Wait a minute. Did you—did you save me out there?”

Sucking in your bottom lip, you nod again.

Stunned, Joel’s eyebrows raise up towards his hairline. “You fuckin’ serious?” he can’t help but question in complete and utter disbelief. Skeptically, he presses, “But how? What happened out there? How did you get me here all by yourself?” His queries spill from his lips one after the other despite knowing most of them, if not all of them, would go unanswered.

You look overwhelmed by them—by him.

Figuring it’s best to take it one slow step at a time, Joel stands up and he cautiously walks over towards you. He holds out his hand. “S’alright,” he assures you in the most gentle voice he can muster. “I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

You refuse to loosen your grip on your knife, but you accept his hand and allow him to help you up to your feet. Given that you didn’t lodge the blade straight through his chest, Joel would say some progress had been made.

He releases your hand and takes a step backwards to give you your space. He isn’t too sure if you can’t talk or simply don’t want to talk—still thinking you’d been the woman he’d heard singing when he had drifted back into consciousness, he guesses it’s probably the latter.

Joel tries to think of questions he knows you’ll be able to answer without having to speak.

“How long have you been by yourself?”

Shifting anxiously from one foot to the other, you hold up one finger.

“Sorry darlin’ but that don’t really help me much,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Are we talkin’ one week? One month?”

You make a gesture with your hand. Keep going.

“One year?” He doesn’t bother hiding his blatant skepticism. “You’ve been completely alone for one whole year?”

You point at him. That’s right.

Joel is beside himself. He’s almost in awe over the fact that you’ve survived on your own for so fucking long.

“You got any other weapons besides that knife?”

You nod over towards a bow and sheath of arrows next to your backpack.

“You’re kiddin’ me. That’s all you’ve got?”

You narrow your eyes at him.

Hey, it’s a good weapon and it saved your fucking life, thank you very much.

“Sorry. Just can’t imagine that thing would do much against a clicker. ‘Specially if your aim is shit,” Joel muses. He notices the offended expression on your face and quickly moves on. “You don’t have a gun at all?”

You reach behind yourself and pull out a colt pistol from the waistband of your jeans. You finally set down your knife and then show him that you’re low on ammunition and don’t have any more. Tucking the gun back into your jeans, you step around him and walk over to a corner where his rifle is propped up against the wall. You pick it up, make your way back over to him and hand it over.

I believe this belongs to you.

“Thank you,” he utters quietly, taking it from you. “And I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout the gun, either. I honestly don’t think I’d be standin’ here alive if you hadn’t done whatever it was you did out there.” His eyes try meeting yours. “I’m serious, darlin’. I owe you one. I really fuckin’ do.”

You shrug, too timid to meet his gaze.

“I’m Joel,” he says after a minute, setting his rifle down. “What’s your name?”

You simply stare at him.

“Oh that’s right,” Joel mumbles sheepishly. “You can’t—” He stops himself, but he’s sure you know what he’d meant to say.

You can’t talk.

“You got a pencil or somethin’ to write with?”

You snort and roll your eyes at him. No, sorry. Silly me totally forgot to pick up a pack of pencils while I was out scavenging for supplies the other day.

Joel chuckles and holds up his hands in defense. “Figured it was at least worth askin’,” he says. “It’d be kinda nice to know the name of the person who saved my fuckin’ ass, you know.” He clocks the way the corners of your mouth threaten to turn upwards into a tiny smile at his remark. “How ‘bout a map? You got one of those so you can show me where we are?”

You hold up a finger, as if telling him to give you a minute. Digging into one of the front pockets of your pack, you pull out a large map of the state of Wyoming. It’s severely creased, as if you’ve folded and unfolded it hundreds of times. You hand it over to him and as he holds it out for you, you point to your current location.

“Jackson’s ‘bout fifteen miles south from here,” Joel murmurs as he scans the map. Suddenly, his dark brown eyes flicker over your wrist—the long sleeve of your thin gray shirt had hiked up, exposing severe discoloration and scarring that went all the way around, marking your skin.

Noticing where his gaze had wandered off to, you quickly retract your hand away from the map and tug your sleeve down back into place. But it’d been much too late. He had seen the mark, clear as fucking day.

Joel awkwardly clears his throat and for the sake of not causing you any discomfort, he pretends he hadn’t seen a goddamn thing. He turns his attention back to the map. “Remember how I told you I’m a part of a community? It’s in Jackson and it ain’t all too far from here,” he states, peering up at you from over the top of the map. “The town’s gated and it’s secure. You’ll be safe there. If we head out right now, we can make it there by nightfall—”

You back away from him, shaking your head.

I’m not going with you.

He cocks an eyebrow at you. “Look darlin’, I don’t mean to offend, but you ain’t gonna last a whole lot longer out here on your own, especially not in a place like this with winter right around the corner. If you don’t starve to death, then you’ll fuckin’ freeze to death.”

You glare at him and lift your chin.

I’ve been doing just fine on my own, thanks.

Having read your mind, Joel sighs. “Alright, fair enough. You’ve gotten this far by yourself, but that don’t mean you gotta turn down an offer for some help. Just come with me to Jackson—”

You shake your head even harder.

The last time that you had agreed to go back with a stranger to their camp, you’d been imprisoned. Tortured.

Joel observes you, and it doesn’t take him very long to connect the dots between the scars around your wrists and your refusal to leave with him. His hard, stony face softens. “Listen sweetheart, I ain’t all too sure ‘bout what’s happened to you,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “But I can assure you that you ain’t gotta worry ‘bout a thing this time around. Just come with me and I’ll prove it to you.”

You toss him a skeptical look.

“Jackson is a safe place,” he swears. “My brother runs it along with his wife and a small council. There’s families, lots of children—hell I’ve got a kid myself. Teenager. Her name is Ellie and she’s fifteen years old.”

Your lips part slightly and your eyes glimmer with something that looks a lot like recognition, though Joel can’t be too sure what had prompted it. Perhaps you’d known someone with that name once in your life.

“There’s plenty of food, running water, electricity,” he lists off in an attempt to sway you. “It’d be a shot at a normal life. Wouldn’t you like that?”

Crossing your arms, you lift your chin again.

You’d heard that before.

Why the hell should I even trust you? Why should I trust this place is what you say it is?

Joel bites back another frustrated sigh.

Normally, he wouldn’t bother to put up with such stubbornness. He wasn’t one to plead or beg and part of him almost wanted to give up so he could be on his way, but you had saved him from being killed. He owed you his fucking life. He had to get you to go with him. He wouldn’t give up until you agreed to go to Jackson with him.

“I’ll let you carry your weapons,” he offers as a compromise. “Hell, you can even walk behind me with your gun pointed at the back of my fuckin’ head if that’s gonna make you feel safest.”

You squint at him. Really?

“Or that bow of yours,” he adds, chuckling softly. “It’s your pick, darlin’. Whatever’s gonna make you feel comfortable. I’ll trust you not to shoot an arrow through the back of my skull—all I ask in return is that you at least make an attempt to trust me too. I think that’s a fair enough deal. Don’t you?”

You bite your bottom lip.

I don’t know about this.

“I really don’t wanna leave you out here all alone,” Joel says, taking a step closer towards you. He finds himself feeling surprised that it hadn’t startled you and he only hopes that means that, to some degree, you trust him already. “Please. You saved my life—and I know you probably don’t need me savin’ yours, but at least let me take you to Jackson so you can see for yourself what we’ve got goin’ on there. If you don’t like it and you don’t wanna stay, then we’ll load up your pack with food and supplies. We’ll put you on a horse and you can be on your way. You can choose to leave and no one will lift a finger to stop you, I’ll make sure of it. How does that sound?”

He waits, giving you a chance to think it over.

Finally, after a minute, you sigh and reluctantly nodd your head.

Okay. I’m gonna try and trust you.

“Good,” Joel says, softly. “Now get your stuff and let’s head out before we start losin’ daylight.”

#joel miller series #joel miller story #joel miller #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x oc #joel miller angst #joel miller pedro pascal #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #joel miller imagine #the last of us fanfiction #fic: to hell and back

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thepoetswentodie · 2 months

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I've been the archer I've been the prey

#taylor swift #the eras tour #tswiftedit #tswiftgif #tswiftdaily #candy swift #**#mine

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taylorswifts13 · 1 year

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Taylor performing “The Archer”, The Eras Tour in Las Vegas, March 24th 2023

#taylor swift #tswiftedit #the eras tour #gif #*

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devnmon · 1 year

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You Deserve the World

Originally written by @avanatural; credit to her for the idea and inspiring me as well.

Summary: Daryl's been insecure about his age starting to show, and is worried he'll lose you. You show him every way he won't.

warnings: comfort, (a lil angst), fluff, implied smut.

wc: 3.4k

Daryl's back ached.

He slid the bow from his back and dropped it onto a wooden side table, letting it clatter loudly. His vest was the next thing pulled off his body, left on the chair beside his bow. Unbuttoning his shirt, the cotton tightened around his biceps, until he finally ripped it from his torso and left the shirt on the ground behind him.

Now freed from the confines of his tight clothing, his arms stretched out, muscles flexing in the process. Daryl glanced around the room per usual, until his eyes came across the mirror in the corner of your room. Slowly, he sauntered towards it, pushing his shoulders down as he approached.

The archer studied himself intently. All of his features remained as they were - same cerulean eyes, distinctive birthmarks, scar crossing over his left eyebrow and part of his cheek, and his rounded nose. Daryl couldn't help the fact of time passing, and he definitely couldn't help the fact that aging was catching up with him. A few new lines on his face became more prominent, and the bags under his eyes from minimal sleep only bore into him further.

He tried to force a smile, but stopped before the realization of wrinkles and other lines made him even more self-conscious. Daryl grunted to himself, before running a hand through the tousled hickory of his hair. Sunlight hit the crown of his head, illuminating its unwashed state, along with the few grey hairs that managed to show themselves. The hairs of his beard were the first on him to become grey without him knowing.

Aging was an aspect of life he couldn't get used to. He didn't want to get used to it either. Though it was only a part of growing older with time. Not only did he grow accustomed to working out more often in order to stay on top of his game, but his hunting agility was having a lower success rate each time he was out there.

On the contrary, he'd been worried about keeping up with his partner.

You, the one of his dreams. If his aging continued at the rate it began, he was worried that you'd grow tired of his older features and desire someone younger than him. Someone better than him.

Daryl knew you were popular amongst the men of Alexandria, those better options only poking at the back of his throat as if it were bile waiting to give. Being in a constant state of hyperawareness whenever you two were out in the community had exhausted him to his core.

Every time one of Deanna's sons or any of the other guys in the community even caught a glance of you from across the courtyard, Daryl wanted to pummel them into the ground, but push you into their arms from his all the same.

Although Daryl felt this way, he realized the strength of your bond with him went deeper than just physical attraction. The two of you cared deeply for one another, and you always tried to clear his mind of any negative thoughts.

You're enough the way you are, my love. I don't want you any other way than that.

With a deep breath, Daryl decided to push the nagging thoughts from his mind and trudge over to the dresser. He fidgeted with the button of his jeans, pulling them off his legs and ending up next to the shirt he'd tossed as well.

There was conveniently another mirror in the corner, one that took the full image of him into account. It was noticeable to him when he'd noticed movement from out of his peripheral vision. It would have only taken a glance to the left before seeing his figure in full length. Stood in only a pair of boxers, his hands sifted through one of the dresser drawers, pulling out a pair of black jeans. A glance downward at his body stopped his movements, and the pair of pants fell from his grip.

Despite everything telling him not to, his eyes drifted to the left. Once the full image of him in the mirror hit his eyes, the disgusting thoughts he had a moment before busted down the door in his mind. Daryl stepped in front of the mirror, jeans left on the dresser.

Cerulean eyes raked over every inch of his body as harmful thoughts flooded his head again. His thighs weren't as taught as they once were, his pecs weren’t as defined. His fingertips grazed over the expanse of his belly, where some scars lay not as prominent as others. Eyebrows furrowed and a scowl made its way onto his face.

His partner was perfect to him, and he wanted to be perfect to them, too.

As if you'd read his mind, you came walking into the room, same smile on your face that made Daryl want to live forever. He hadn't noticed you at first, standing against the doorway. You tilted your head to the side, taking in the view of him in only boxers, hands tracing his stomach.

"Checking yourself out?" you chuckled softly, picking up a book on a dresser near the door.

Daryl's eyes locked on his reflection, his button nose scrunching up.

When he didn't reply with one of his quips or side comments like you were expecting, you took notice of the furrowed eyebrows and slouched state.

You'd noticed something different in Daryl these days. One look at the displeasure on his face, and you realized something was up. More solo hunts, fewer intimate moments in the bedroom.

Daryl, of all people, was insecure about how he looked.

Your lip caught between your teeth, dropping the book back onto the dresser. "Daryl, are you alright?" Shuffling over to him, you placed a hand on his shoulder. The contact made his muscles flex, the warmth of your palm against him growing his enamor for you.

Daryl sighed, knowing he'd been brushing you off every time you asked him if he was okay. His avoidance level had dwindled down to nothing, not wanting to push you away any more than he already had. You were his person, the one he could always confide in, and you listened every single time.

"Do you- Do you think I'm gettin' old?" he questioned under his breath, eyes still unwavering from the mirror.

Your chest tightened at the mere suggestion of his aging. To you, Daryl was the most perfect anyone could ever be- his aura, his personality, his appearance, his quips, even his idiosyncrasies, but most of all, his heart.

"No, I don't," you replied honestly, "You been thinkin' about that a lot, huh?"

Daryl's shoulders stiffened as he finally ripped his eyes away from the view of the mirror, turning completely to face you. Reaching out to cup his cheek in a loving touch, he leaned into it and closed his eyes.

"What made you think about that?" you inquired, letting go of his cheek and trailing your fingers over the soft hairs that adorned his face.

Daryl's eyes opened again, lines on his face reappearing in the furrowed state of his eyebrows. "I know the way those pricks in the town look at ya.. Younger guys."

Your gaze shifted back and forth from his sapphire eyes, the realization hitting you. "Is this about Spencer?"

When you'd first gotten to Alexandria, your relationship with Daryl was just beginning. You hadn't told the rest of your group about it yet, but from the first time you saw the older Monroe, he had his eye on you. He'd admittedly been attractive to you at first, but he had absolutely nothing on your Daryl.

Spencer had pulled you aside the night of Deanna's party, asking you questions about yourself and wanting to get to know you better. His motives seemed innocent but there was a slight glint of mischief in his eye. When he suggested something more perverted, you knew he only saw you as a one night stand and nothing more. You explained to him that you weren't interested, on account of being taken by a different, better man.

Spencer Monroe could never compare to Daryl Dixon.

"He didn't want me like you want me. I could never want that asshole, and I don't." If Daryl knew the things Spencer said about him after you told him you were taken, he would have pummeled his face into the ground.

"I'm way older than you," Daryl mumbled, "One day ya might wanna take him up on that, or any of 'em."

"You really think I want them? That they're better than you?" you questioned, your hand grabbing his.

"Don't ya think so?"

You scoffed, "What could any one of them give me? I know for a fact that they couldn't be as good to me as you are. I'm a damn lucky person to have you. I scored you, Daryl Dixon. Not the other way around. You always had my back, every time I've needed you."

"'Course I do, an' you always got mine, too. I jus' don't see why," He shook his head, "You don't gotta settle for me-"

"You know what? Enough, look into the mirror right here," you stated, grasping his shoulders and turning him to see his figure. "Let's start with your shoulders." You gave them a slight squeeze, flesh emerging from between your fingers. "They're so big and broad, and I'm obsessed with them."

Your statement made a corner of Daryl's mouth jolt upwards, forming just the tiniest bit of smile on his face. His mind brought him back to the memories of you gripping them when intertwined in a hug or kiss, but especially when you were making love.

You shuffled to stand next to him, affectionately running your fingers down his thick forearm. Meeting his eyes in the mirror, you took his hand in yours. "These hands and arms of yours are so strong, especially when you're holding me close, when you touch me. You know I appreciate how handy you are, especially when you're using that crossbow of yours, and working on your bike or cars."

Daryl hummed, intertwining his fingers with yours.

Smiling at his reflection, you continued, "I adore your stomach, know that? You're all muscle and firm where it matters most, but the softness of your stomach doesn't compare to the rest of you. I find that so incredibly sexy, know that?"

"Ya really like that?" Daryl questioned with disbelief, locking his eyes with yours in the reflection.

You nodded, leaning your cheek against his arm before placing a soft kiss on his bicep. "Yeah, I do." You already knew the tension in his body was starting to dissipate. "You wanna know what else I think?"

"Mhm," He replied almost instantly. Daryl felt selfish asking for your compliments, but he knew you'd give them to him every time he asked. It was simply too fulfilling to pass up.

"Your thighs are perfect, and they're such a strong part of you. I love sitting on them in your lap. And this?" You dropped his hand from yours, sliding it behind him to lightly squeeze his butt. He jolted slightly at the contact and smirked. "This is firm and so cute. A lot perkier than mine, too."

Daryl opened his mouth to speak, but your hands began to play with the hem of his boxers near his crotch, silencing him. "I assume this morning is a good example of what I think about this?"

His smirk widened, filling him with satisfaction of the fact that he could still make you feel good in bed.

"Don't even get me started on your pretty face," You shifted, cupping his cheeks with your hands again. Your eyes trailed over his face, taking in his intoxicating features. "Your eyes are so deep, like the ocean. When you look at me, I forget what I'm going to say most times."

Daryl shifted closer, purposely to make you flustered. His eyes met yours in the playful way he'd done a thousand times before, and you recognized the expression immediately.

"Don't do that to me now.." You said, rolling your eyes.

A hearty chuckle erupted from him at your flustered state, wrinkles around his eyes emerging once again.

"Your lips are so damn tempting, pretty and pink like they were made for mine," you went on, "You have perfect teeth and whenever you smile at me, my heart jumps a mile high. I'm also jealous of your birthmark, and how it gets to go everywhere with you on that handsome face of yours. But this..." you took a moment to run your hands along the wispy hairs of his chin and jaw, "is my favorite thing to feel when we kiss."

"Oh, really?" He questioned, that signature smirk of his growing inch by inch, "Guess I better kiss ya more often."

You beamed at his words, a blush rushing onto your cheeks as you let go of his face. "I'm such a lucky woman to have you, such an attractive man, by my side. You say guys notice me, but you aren't aware of just how many women practically drool over you when you're around the town. Warms my heart and makes me jealous at the same time," you confessed.

Daryl's head tilted to the side, "You got nothin' to worry about, sunshine."

"Well, neither do you, got that?"

He sighed, meeting your gaze with enamor filled eyes, another smirk tugging at his lips, "Yes, ma'am."

Daryl leaned down to your face and attached his lips to yours. His kiss was soft and slow, a low hum escaping you. His toned arms surrounded your waist, pulling you in close to his chest.

Your hands flew up around his neck, toying with the long strands, "I'm obsessed with your hair, too." You told him after pulling back from the kiss.

His grasp only tightened around you, arms flexing around your waist, bodies pressed together. Your foreheads slightly touched as you talked quietly.

"I gotta few gray hairs..." He retorted, those large hands of his snaking behind to your lower back.

"Yes.. and? You'd look so hot with gray hair."

"You sayin' ya wanna grow old with me, hun?" He inquired, hands squeezing around your butt now.

You grinned up at him through your lashes, "Of course. That is, if we live long enough to do so."

Daryl sighed, "Sounds good to me, darlin'. Now, I believe you were talkin' about my hair.."

You took the opening to run your hands through his bangs, pushing back the strands of hair that framed his face. "I love your long hair, It's so pretty and wavy, for a man like you. I'd love to braid it sometime, if you'd let me. Don't think a guy like Spencer could pull it off as well as you do."

"You love playin' with my hair, don't ya?" He questioned, voice lowering. His large palms rested comfortably on your behind. Daryl enjoyed touching your butt, even when it wasn't in a sexual way. Because of you, he craved intimacy in its most raw form, and with you, it came even easier.

"Absolutely," you responded, taking away what little distance was left between them and rejoining your lips with his. Daryl picked up on the change in tension between you two and grasped at your behind a lot firmer than before, using his strong grip to push his crotch against yours.

You mewled into his mouth when she felt the tent in his boxers against you, but you weren't done yet. You placed your hands on his broad chest, and pulled back.

"You okay?" Daryl asked, eyes darkened with lust.

Your fingers found the tattoos on his chest, the heart and other small ones littered across his collarbones. "I have more to say, that's all."

"An' what's that?"

"Your body isn't the only thing about you that makes me crazy for you."

The thought of you worrying about him in this state made his heart race, since he hadn't been thinking very highly of himself. The truth was, Daryl had been thinking that way his entire life, and couldn't help it. Brought up by people who only put him down and made him think so little of himself, he weighed his decisions with every one he made. When he met you, though, was the first time in his life he'd witnessed genuine love and support. You managed to bring him back from those moments every single time he got trapped in one.

You knew he deserved to be loved the way he was, with nothing standing in the way between you and his true self. In this world, he deserved to be given the same amount of love and support that Daryl gave to everyone in the community.

Just hearing about what you thought of him, in every way possible, kept him going in the darkest of times.

"Daryl, there's never been anyone in my life like you, you're so good to me," you said, tone in your voice filled with disbelief. "You think anyone else could treat me the same way you do? Those pricks only want to get in my pants, and dropped me like a fly when they realized I wasn't interested. But you, you became my best friend before anything. You became the one person in my life who knew me. Like, really knew me. And then I just.. fell for you in the process. I'm the luckiest person in the world to have you."

You could've sworn a blush crept its way onto his cheeks, but he dropped his head before you could see better. Two of your fingers looped under his chin and lifted it again. "Don't ever hang your head, Daryl Dixon. You are the best man I know. I've never met anybody as caring as you. I see it in everything you do, the way you care about Rick, about that little girl, Jude? It warms my heart to see. You deserve the world, Daryl."

Daryl knew every word out of your mouth was true. He knew you would never lie to him, and even then, you were terrible at it. The minute you got lost in his ocean eyes, every little fib crumbled to nothing. Like all things, Daryl was better at expressing himself with actions, and not many words. He pulled you into another kiss, and it took your breath away. His strong arms hooked under your thighs, scooping your body up into his arms. A squeal threatened to leave your chest, but it only got swallowed by the archer's lips on yours.

Without restraint, he carried you over to your bed, one you both shared on many occasions, letting his weight fall back on top of it. You giggled as you landed on top of him, taking his pretty face into your hands again and slipped your lips between his. He groaned, hands attaching to your waist as you attempted to deepen the kiss.

Daryl slid his tongue across your bottom lip, making you moan into his kiss. In response, he opened his mouth to you, tongue gliding across yours with desire. A moment passed before Daryl pushed you over onto the bed, now hovering over you.

All the kissing made you hot, and pretty soon your hands were clawing at Daryl's boxers, chuckling at you as he pushed them down his legs, leaving him bare between you both.

"Hey, now. Tha's not fair at all, is it?" Daryl questioned, very upset with the fact that you couldn't be more clothed. His hands immediately went for your shirt, tugging it over your head. Your pants and underwear followed, placing hungry kisses along the expanses of your skin. There was something different about Daryl now, he hadn't resumed the usual acts of self-consciousness he had recently been taking part in.

Though his hand reached out to turn the lamp in your room off, he felt a restraint when his fingers met the button. Since the days of his insecurities, he felt safe in the darkness while making love to you. It meant security, and kept him from the nervousness that came with the thought of being judged by you.

But now, he didn't have a reason to hide anything from you anymore. His hand resumed his loving touches on your skin. You loved all of him, every single part. There wasn't anything luckier than that.

"How 'bout I leave this on?" he declared, locking his eyes with yours.

"I'd like that."

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