#atlanta & west point
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A Northbound West Point Route freight heads past the depot in downtown Auburn, Alabama lead by A&WP 425 in July of 1952. Photo by J. Parker Lamb.
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THIS MORNING: (note, the name in the tweet is incorrect, the name on the video is correct) noëlle mcafee, the emory philosophy department chair who was arrested yesterday, did an interview speaking about her experience. she explained that she wasn't even protesting, she was a legal observer who just wanted to see what the students were doing. noëlle stated that just moments after she started observing, police moved in on protesters and almost immediately started attacking them with tear gas & rubber bullets. saying that she saw 3-4 police officers brutalizing one single student, and when she tried to stay and record/be a witness they told her to leave and when she didn't they arrested her. it should be raising alarms for everyone that police are not only arresting protesters en masse, but arresting journalists and now any legal observer documenting their violence with impunity.
#and before you say anything YES OBVIOUSLY I THINK PROTESTERS BEING ARRESTED IS BAD!!#we are seeing cop riots break out at these universities to justify police violence against teenagers and people in their 20s... its horrific#but my point is that this kind of punishment of people who are just NEAR these protests is unlike anything ive seen in a while#and it should concern ALL OF US#we shouldve been concerned this whole time but things are getting more concerning#free palestine#end aid to israel#current events#palestine genocide#let gaza live#west bank under attack#save palestine#end the genocide#end the occupation#bds movement#campus protests#emory university#students for justice in palestine#stop cop city#gaza solidarity encampment#atlanta ga#acab#boycott divest sanction#from the river to the sea#free palestine in our lifetime#no one is free until we are all free#america is a fascist police state
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RCF074 by Ron Flanary
Via Flickr:
Northbound South Wind arriving at Louisville in 1964.
#south wind#prr#pennsylvania railroad#l&n#louisville & nashville#a&wp#atlanta & west point#1964#chicago#miami#trains#passenger train#history#louisville#kentucky
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Days Inn by Wyndham Atlanta Airport West/East Point Every effort is made to make guests feel comfortable by providing the best in services and amenities. Post your pictures and answer your emails whenever you want, with the hotel's free Wi-Fi internet access. Pre-plan your rides to and from the airport with the hotel's easy to book transportation services. The hotel provides shuttle services to help you find what you want in East Point (GA). Parking is available and free, provided by the hotel for guests with their own transportation. The helpful staff at the front desk can assist you with services including safety deposit boxes. The hotel's on-site laundry service helps you keep your favorite travel outfits clean so you can pack less. In-room conveniences include daily housekeeping, so you can relax and enjoy your stay. The hotel is entirely non-smoking, ensuring a clean air environment. Guestrooms are designed to provide an optimal level of comfort with welcoming decor and essential...
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twitter thread by Mouin Rabbani
March 14, 2024
Who was there first? The short answer is that the question is irrelevant. Claims of ancient title (“This land is ours because we were here several thousand years ago”) have no standing or validity under international law.
For good reason, because such claims also defy elementary common sense. Neither I nor anyone reading this post can convincingly substantiate the geographical location of their direct ancestors ten or five or even two thousand years ago.
If we could, the successful completion of the exercise would confer exactly zero property, territorial, or sovereign rights.
As a thought experiment, let’s go back only a few centuries rather than multiple millennia. Do South Africa’s Afrikaners have the right to claim The Netherlands as their homeland, or even qualify for Dutch citizenship, on the basis of their lineage?
Do the descendants of African-Americans who were forcibly removed from West Africa have the right to board a flight in Atlanta, Port-au-Prince, or São Paolo and reclaim their ancestral villages from the current inhabitants, who in all probability arrived only after – perhaps long after – the previous inhabitants were abducted and sold into slavery half a world away?
Do Australians who can trace their roots to convicts who were involuntarily transported Down Under by the British government have a right to return to Britain or Ireland and repossess homes from the present inhabitants even if, with the help of court records, they can identify the exact address inhabited by their forebears? Of course not.
In sharp contrast to, for example, Native Americans or the Maori of New Zealand, none of the above can demonstrate a living connection with the lands to which they would lay claim.
To put it crudely, neither nostalgic attachment nor ancestry, in and of themselves, confer rights of any sort, particularly where such rights have not been asserted over the course of hundreds or thousands of years.
If they did, American English would be the predominant language in large parts of Europe, and Spain would once again be speaking Arabic.
Nevertheless, the claim of ancient title has been and remains central to Zionist assertions of not only Jewish rights in Palestine, but of an exclusive Jewish right to Palestine.
For the sake of argument, let’s examine it. If we put aside religious mythology, the origin of the ancient Israelites is indeed local.
In ancient times it was not unusual for those in conflict with authority or marginalized by it to take to the more secure environment of surrounding hills or mountains, conquer existing settlements or establish new ones, and in the ultimate sign of independence adopt distinct religious practices and generate their own rulers. That the Israelites originated as indigenous Canaanite tribes rather than as fully-fledged monotheistic immigrants or conquerors is more or less the scholarly consensus, buttressed by archeological and other evidence. And buttressed by the absence of evidence for the origin stories more familiar to us.
It is also the scholarly consensus that the Israelites established two kingdoms, Judah and Israel, the former landlocked and covering Jerusalem and regions to the south, the latter (also known as the Northern Kingdom or Samaria) encompassing points north, the Galilee, and parts of contemporary Jordan. Whether these entities were preceded by a United Kingdom that subsequently fractured remains the subject of fierce debate.
What is certain is that the ancient Israelites were never a significant regional power, let alone the superpower of the modern imagination.
There is a reason the great empires of the Middle East emerged in Egypt, Mesopotamia, Persia, and Anatolia – or from outside the region altogether – but never in Palestine.
It simply lacked the population and resource base for power projection. Jerusalem may be the holiest of cities on earth, but for almost the entirety of its existence, including the period in question, it existed as a village, provincial town or small city rather than metropolis.
Judah and Israel, like the neighboring Canaanite and Philistine entities during this period, were for most of their existence vassal states, their fealty and tribute fought over by rival empires – Egyptians, Assyrians, Babylonians, etc. – rather than extracted from others.
Indeed, Israel was destroyed during the eighth century BCE by the Assyrians, who for good measured subordinated Judah to their authority, until it was in the sixth century BCE eliminated by the Babylonians, who had earlier overtaken the Assyrians in a regional power struggle.
The Babylonian Exile was not a wholesale deportation, but rather affected primarily Judah’s elites and their kin. Nor was there a collective return to the homeland when the opportunity arose several decades later after Cyrus the Great defeated Babylon and re-established a smaller Judah as a province of the Persian Achaemenid empire. Indeed, Mesopotamia would remain a key center of Jewish religion and culture for centuries afterwards.
Zionist claims of ancient title conveniently erase the reality that the ancient Israelites were hardly the only inhabitants of ancient Palestine, but rather shared it with Canaanites, Philistines, and others.
The second part of the claim, that the Jewish population was forcibly expelled by the Romans and has for 2,000 years been consumed with the desire to return, is equally problematic.
By the time the Romans conquered Jerusalem during the first century BCE, established Jewish communities were already to be found throughout the Mediterranean world and Middle East – to the extent that a number of scholars have concluded that a majority of Jews already lived in the diaspora by the time the first Roman soldier set foot in Jerusalem.
These communities held a deep attachment to Jerusalem, its Temple, and the lands recounted in the Bible. They identified as diasporic communities, and in many cases may additionally have been able to trace their origins to this or that town or village in the extinguished kingdoms of Israel and Judah. But there is no indication those born and bred in the diaspora across multiple generations considered themselves to be living in temporary exile or considered the territory of the former Israelite kingdoms rather than their lands of birth and residence their natural homeland, any more than Irish-Americans today feel they properly belong in Ireland rather than the United States.
Unlike those taken in captivity to Babylon centuries earlier, there was no impediment to their relocation to or from their ancestral lands, although economic factors appear to have played an important role in the growth of the diaspora.
By contrast, those traveling in the opposite direction appear to have done so, more often than not, for religious reasons, or to be buried in Jerusalem’s sacred soil.
Nations and nationalism did not exist 2,000 years ago.
Nor Zionist propagandists in New York, Paris, and London incessantly proclaiming that for two millennia Jews everywhere have wanted nothing more than to return their homeland, and invariably driving home rather than taking the next flight to Tel Aviv.
Nor insufferably loud Americans declaring, without a hint of irony or self-awareness, the right of the Jewish people to Palestine “because they were there first”.
Back to the Romans, about a century after their arrival a series of Jewish rebellions over the course of several decades, coupled with internecine warfare between various Jewish factions, produced devastating results.
A large proportion of the Jewish population was killed in battle, massacred, sold into slavery, or exiled. Many towns and villages were ransacked, the Temple in Jerusalem destroyed, and Jews barred from entering the city for all but one day a year.
Although a significant Jewish presence remained, primarily in the Galilee, the killings, associated deaths from disease and destitution, and expulsions during the Roman-Jewish wars exacted a calamitous toll.
With the destruction of the Temple Jerusalem became an increasingly spiritual rather than physical center of Jewish life. Jews neither formed a demographic majority in Palestine, nor were the majority of Jews to be found there.
Many of those who remained would in subsequent centuries convert to Christianity or Islam, succumb to massacres during the Crusades, or join the diaspora. On the eve of Zionist colonization locally-born Jews constituted less than five per cent of the total population.
As for the burning desire to return to Zion, there is precious little evidence to substantiate it. There is, for example, no evidence that upon their expulsion from Spain during the late fifteenth century, the Sephardic Jewish community, many of whom were given refuge by the Ottoman Empire that ruled Palestine, made concerted efforts to head for Jerusalem. Rather, most opted for Istanbul and Greece.
Similarly, during the massive migration of Jews fleeing persecution and poverty in Eastern Europe during the nineteenth century, the destinations of choice were the United States and United Kingdom.
Even after the Zionist movement began a concerted campaign to encourage Jewish emigration to Palestine, less than five per cent took up the offer. And while the British are to this day condemned for limiting Jewish immigration to Palestine during the late 1930s, the more pertinent reality is that the vast majority of those fleeing the Nazi menace once again preferred to relocate to the US and UK, but were deprived of these havens because Washington and London firmly slammed their doors shut.
Tellingly, the Jewish Agency for Israel in 2023 reported that of the world’s 15.7 million Jews, 7.2 million – less than half – reside in Israel and the occupied Palestinian territories.
According to the Agency, “The Jewish population numbers refer to persons who define themselves as Jews by religion or otherwise and who do not practice another religion”.
It further notes that if instead of religion one were to apply Israel’s Law of Return, under which any individual with one or more Jewish grandparent is entitled to Israeli citizenship, only 7.2 of 25.5 million eligible individuals (28 per cent) have opted for Zion.
In other words, “Next Year in Jerusalem” was, and largely remains, an aspirational religious incantation rather than political program. For religious Jews, furthermore, it was to result from divine rather than human intervention.
For this reason, many equated Zionism with blasphemy, and until quite recently most Orthodox Jews were either non-Zionist or rejected the ideology altogether.
Returning to the irrelevant issue of ancestry, if there is one population group that can lay a viable claim of direct descent from the ancient Israelites it would be the Samaritans, who have inhabited the area around Mount Gerizim, near the West Bank city of Nablus, without interruption since ancient times.
Palestinian Jews would be next in line, although unlike the Samaritans they interacted more regularly with both other Jewish communities and their gentile neighbors.
Claims of Israelite descent made on behalf of Jewish diaspora communities are much more difficult to sustain. Conversions to and from Judaism, intermarriage with gentiles, absorption in multiple foreign societies, and related phenomena over the course of several thousand years make it a virtual certainty that the vast majority of Jews who arrived in Palestine during the late 19th and first half of the 20th century to reclaim their ancient homeland were in fact the first of their lineage to ever set foot in it.
By way of an admittedly imperfect analogy, most Levantines, Egyptians, Sudanese, and North Africans identify as Arabs, yet the percentage of those who can trace their roots to the tribes of the Arabian Peninsula that conquered their lands during the seventh and eighth centuries is at best rather small.
Ironically, a contemporary Palestinian, particularly in the West Bank and Galilee, is likely to have more Israelite ancestry than a contemporary diaspora Jew.
The Palestinians take their name from the Philistines, one of the so-called Sea Peoples who arrived on the southern coast of Canaan from the Aegean islands, probably Crete, during the late second millennium BCE.
They formed a number of city states, including Gaza, Ashdod, and Ashkelon. Like Judah and Israel they existed primarily as vassals of regional powers, and like them were eventually destroyed by more powerful states as well.
With no record of their extermination or expulsion, the Philistines are presumed to have been absorbed by the Canaanites and thereafter disappear from the historical record.
Sitting at the crossroads between Asia, Africa, and Europe, Palestine was over the centuries repeatedly conquered by empires near and far, absorbing a constant flow of human and cultural influences throughout.
Given its religious significance, pilgrims from around the globe also contributed to making the Palestinian people what they are today.
A common myth is that the Palestinian origin story dates from the Arab-Muslim conquests of the seventh century. In point of fact, the Arabs neither exterminated nor expelled the existing population, and the new rulers never formed a majority of the population.
Rather, and over the course of several centuries, the local population was gradually Arabized, and to a large extent Islamized as well.
So the question as to who was there first can be answered in several ways: “both” and “irrelevant” are equally correct.
Indisputably, the Zionist movement had no right to establish a sovereign state in Palestine on the basis of claims of ancient title, which was and remains its primary justification for doing so.
That it established an exclusivist state that not only rejected any rights for the existing Palestinian population but was from the very outset determined to displace and replace this population was and remains a historical travesty.
That it as a matter of legislation confers automatic citizenship on millions who have no existing connection with the land but denies it to those who were born there and expelled from it, solely on the basis of their identity, would appear to be the very definition of apartheid.
The above notwithstanding, and while the Zionist claim of exclusive Israeli sovereignty in Palestine remains illegitimate, there are today several million Israelis who cannot be simply wished away.
A path to co-existence will need to be found, even as the genocidal nature of the Israeli state, and increasingly of Israeli society as well, makes the endeavor increasingly complicated.
The question, thrown into sharp relief by Israel’s genocidal onslaught on the Palestinian population of the Gaza Strip, is whether co-existence with Israeli society can be achieved without first dismantling the Israeli state and its ruling institutions.
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hungry, lonely, violent
Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader
Summary:
Days, months, years you spent hungry, yearning.
How can a simple two weeks change what's been your life since the outbreak happened? How can one man mend the shattered pieces you never thought could be put back together?
How can Joel Miller be that man?
Tags: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Caregiving, Recovery, Healing, Trauma, Oral Sex, Creampie, Size Kink, Size Difference, Older Man/Younger Woman, Hurt/Comfort, Porn with Feelings, No use of y/n, Protective Joel
Word count: 22k
Read on ao3
The sunset is a blaze of orange over Jackson, Wyoming.
You’ve been all over the country at this point, a nomad by choice, who escaped the Atlanta QZ as soon as you had the ability and supplies to do so. There have been rumors of a safe place, a town out west where people live in a harmonious peace behind sealed walls. No infected breaking in, no raiders to rob you or do worse. No corrupt FEDRA agents to gun you down for looking at them funny.
As it turns out, it’s a lot fucking harder to find a place like that, than it is to imagine it.
You know you’re close; you saw the Welcome to Wyoming sign days ago. Your best guideline is an out of date map that you’d killed a handsy FEDRA guard for. It’s gotten you this far though, so you can’t be too frustrated.
Of course, it’d be nice if it wasn’t the dead of fucking winter, but you’ve never really had the best luck.
You know you don’t have long before you need to give up on this insane venture. No one ever actually believed the talk about somewhere safe hidden in the mountains; somewhere that life was meant to be lived and not merely endured. Somewhere that a person could feel like a person again, by way of basic dignity and small decencies.
You can almost feel it now, if you close your eyes and let yourself imagine. The steam of a hot shower; water beating down on sore muscles, wet hair plastered down your back as soap bubbles cascade across slick skin. A mug of coffee, or tea, hell you’d even take hot chocolate at this point. Something to soothe the coldness of your palms; something to warm your throat and belly. The crackle of a fireplace underneath a mantle; hardwood floors, a rug nestled underneath a sofa.
You were so young when the outbreak happened that you’ve never really gotten to experience these things. But you know them well. Stories from your parents, wishful tales of a life once lived in comfort and peace. An expanse of opportunity, safety to explore, create, enjoy.
In a world like that, there’s room for all sorts of things you haven’t been able to have. What’s always been a quick meal of ration blocks scarfed down in a hurry, could be a slow-cooking stew, complete with fluffy bread and a glass of clean water with ice. Maybe even a wedge of lemon for flavor, if you’re lucky. A slice of hot pie for dessert, an unneeded expense of greed and hunger, nothing beneficial for your health really except to make you happy. Socks without holes, pants without inner thighs so worn you can feel your cold skin chafing between them.
In a world like that, there’s room for things like delicacies. Things like…romance.
You have no illusions that this could ever be your future. Since you lost your family, things like safety and stability have been mere fantasy. You can’t remember what a home cooked meal might taste like, or a hug from someone who genuinely cares about you. The men and women you’ve been with have all been quick, dirty fucks, going through the motions to make eachother cum and breathe hollow noises of pleasure that are more for show than anything.
In a different world, maybe it could all mean something.
You take quick stock of your rations. A half-empty water bottle with a screw-on filter that’s quickly becoming unusable from strain. A can of green beans. A small pack of bandages that have lost most of their adhesive strength from time. One pair of underwear that’s hanging off your pack, wet from a wash in the creek. There’s nothing worse than going commando in sub-zero temperatures, but it’s a necessary evil for hygiene.
From your place currently hiding out in an abandoned gas station nestled in the mountains of what surely used to be some sort of thriving backwoods community, any hope of that fantastical world really does feel out of reach. For most of your life it felt that if dreams were enough to keep you alive, you’d surely be immortal. But lately, that negligent bit of hope is starting to seem like the flicker of a candle about to blow out.
And it’s funny, for someone who claims to have given up hope, how quickly you jump into gear when you hear heavy footsteps behind you. Your hands fumble; cold and nearly frozen from the frigid temperatures outside, clasping the grip on your gun. You only have a half-mag left, and with your hands as shaky as they are from the weather, you aren’t feeling confident about your ability to aim as well as needed to make that half-mag worthwhile.
Still, you have little other choice. In your condition, a hand-to-hand fight would be your undoing.
“I hear someone in there, breathing,” a gruff voice says. It’s low and careful, a slow southern drawl that you recognize as Texan, most likely. You met a few of them in the Atlanta QZ, and they all had this gentle drawl to them, the same way this man does.
It would be almost a calm, reassuring sound, if his proximity didn’t surely mean imminent death for you.
“A runner?” another voice asks, this one is younger. A man, or a boy maybe, a teenager.
Fuck. You’re outnumbered, even if these are the only two out here. You’re outnumbered by two men. You’re hungry, and half-frozen, and struggling to think of what to do next. It’s like your brain isn’t functioning at full capacity. Who could blame it, with the months of neglect on the road? When was the last time you even had fucking protein?
You try to listen, try to hone your ears to follow the footsteps of the man coming toward you. Surely he knows where you’re hiding, if he heard you breathing and assumed you were an ill infected. You must really sound like shit. You sort of knew that your lungs had a rattle from the cold and your nose was sniffly, but clearly it's worse than you thought.
Okay, okay, think. What can I-
Your train of thought is immediately interrupted by a large, thick arm circling around your neck from behind. You gasp as your body is wrenched into the air, a sturdy mountain of a man behind you. In your panic, you drop your gun and reach for his massive forearm, trying to pry it off your neck as your vision begins to go fuzzy.
Holy fuck, you’re going to die at the hands of some random Texas giant in this abandoned gas station.
“Shit, Joel, she’s not infected!”
“Wh- Christ!”
In a flat second, you’re on the floor, coughing and gasping as you clutch at your neck, trying to fill your icy lungs with desperate air. The floor is more like concrete, and with the layer of ice spread across it, there’s damn near no cushion for your fall.
The large man reaches out, you can hear his jacket shuffle and his body move, but you scramble away, reaching frantically for your gun.
The other one, the younger boy, comes into focus and reaches out to pluck up your gun before you can even make an honest grab for it.
“Hey, we aren’t gonna hurt you,” the boy says, looking down at you earnestly. It’s big talk from the teenager holding a revolver on you, but his eyes are genuine enough. “I’m sorry we scared you. We thought-”
Your vision whites out as you feel a large hand grab your arm. The big man, the giant Texan has grabbed your bicep and is trying to pull you up. Pure instinct takes over; reflex causing you to lash out with your free arm.
Your knife makes a decent slash in the skin of his hand, and he pulls back with a shouted curse of pain.
“Whoa whoa!” the boy tries again for a calming tone, still attempting some sort of diplomacy.
Ignoring his pathetic excuse for a ceasefire, you launch yourself at the large man, wielding your knife like it’s your last chance.
With him momentarily disoriented, it’s easy to hop on his back, effectively putting his body between yours and the boy with the gun as a human shield. And a gigantic one, at that. His shoulders are stocky, easy handholds for you as you settle your legs around his large waist. You press the tip of your knife against his throat, feeling the vibrations of his grunted breaths against your thumb bone.
This close, you can smell a soft aroma of lemon soap wafting off his wavy hair. It’s dark with streaks of silver dancing down through the ends, matching a well-groomed beard on his jaw. His jacket is thick brown leather, it looks heavy and surely adds bulk to an already impressively large man.
“Walk out, now!” You warn the boy with the gun, still pressing the blade into the man’s throat. “I won’t kill him if you leave me alone.”
You think it’s a pretty fucking generous offer, considering this giant just tried to choke you out.
The boy glances at the man, sighing. He shakes his head, holstering his gun. “Joel, just be gentle.”
Frowning, you look between them in confusion.
The man, whose name must be Joel, chuckles dryly. It’s a nice sound, a steady reverberation through his chest. In another circumstance, you think it might be a soothing noise. One of those laughs from a person who seems like they know the answer to every question, who's figured everything out. Someone who’d take care of you.
Then, he grabs your wrist so hard you feel bone press into flesh, wrenches the knife away from his throat as if you’re no more than a pesky mosquito, and flips your body over his shoulder.
Being effectively yeeted into a frozen concrete floor by a man three times your size would most certainly be a death sentence.
You feel the wind rush out of your lungs, the world spin upside down, and you’re preparing to hear a deafening crack of your skull against the hard ground.
Before the impact radiates through your body though, you realize he’s slowed your momentum by sliding an arm around your lower back, stopping you just before your body would’ve crashed into the floor. He kneels forward, holding you just above the ice, and you get a good look at his face.
It doesn’t feel like the right time to be thinking this, and you hate yourself a tiny bit, but he’s really fucking handsome. His nose is large and stately, his eyes framed by thick, dark lashes that brush his cheekbones, eyebrows pulled together so his forehead scrunches up. There are lines of age on his face, flecks of gray in his beard, yet the flush to his tanned skin and the light in his gaze tells you he’s in tiptop shape. This is a man who eats well, eats often, and probably isn’t sleeping on the hard ground every night as you’ve been for weeks.
Considering he just tossed you over his shoulder like a tiny bag of flour, this isn’t particularly surprising.
“If you’d quit tryin’ to kill me, little miss, then maybe we can have a conversation.”
With a growl of anger, you swing your fist. He catches your wrist in his hand so easily it’s humiliating, and gives you a disapproving look.
“We ain’t gonna hurt ya’,” he continues, “stop swingin’ on me.”
“We should take her back to town,” the boy says, still standing beside the two of you a little awkwardly, “she’s not well.”
At that, you pause, something icy running into your veins. You’ve run into more than enough fucked up little “towns” on your trip west. They always ended up trying to kill you or indoctrinate you into some demented cult ideals. You’ve fought your way out of more than enough situations like this to know that if you don’t escape now, it’s not going to end well.
You’re unarmed, you’re starved, you’re half-frozen, and the man above you is so large you swear you could strap a pair of reins to his shoulders and have him pull a carriage.
In so many words, you’re fucked.
“Get the fuck off me!” you snarl, wriggling in his grasp and trying to free yourself.
“Alright.” The man releases you and you hit the cold ground, a surprised noise of pain slipping from your mouth as your head smashes into the ice.
“Jesus Joel,” the boy says.
“She told me to!”
This is your chance. You just need to get to your feet and run. Fuck the gun and the knife, you’ll find new ones. You’ve been without your supplies before. You can figure it out. You just have to get up.
An attempt to move into a sitting position proves futile, as your vision begins to swim and your head throbs. Your hands fumble weakly for purchase at your sides, but the ice is too slick to find a solid grasp.
“I think she’s gotta concussion,” the man, Joel, muses nonchalantly.
“I think she’s got a lot going on,” the boy replies, “should we put her on a horse? Seems like she wants to be left alone.”
“Ain’t the policy that we bring back injured travelers?” Joel asks.
“Yeah, but normally they don’t…resist this much, right?”
Joel hums thoughtfully. “Normally they ain’t women all by themselves surrounded by two strange men.”
“I guess not.”
“Let’s get her on a horse. Once she realizes she’s safe, maybe she’ll quit the murderin’ shit.”
“What if she comes to and tries to kill you again?” the boy worries.
At this, Joel chuckles again. “If she manages to kill me on the back of a horse with no weapon, then I goddamn deserve it, kid.”
“Is this how all patrols are?”
“Nah. They usually ain’t this exciting.” Joel leans over you then, and you smell the lemon soap and a faint whiff of pine oil. “Hey there, you with us?”
“No,” you groan, though you’re not actually sure what you’re responding to.
“Listen, m’gonna have to pick you up and put you on a horse. Try not to gouge my eyes out. Think you can manage that?”
“No,” you repeat sourly.
“Excellent. You ever been on a horse before?”
“No.”
He exhales. “You say anything else?”
“No.”
“Alright then. When we get you up, just hold on to my waist, don’t let go or you’re gonna go flyin’ and that won’t be good for neither of us. You hear? No ain’t an option.”
You narrow your eyes which does nothing to help your already blurry vision. You feel your consciousness slowly starting to slip away on a delicate string, at a great danger of snapping and disappearing in the distance.
“I think she bonked her head,” the boy says when you don’t reply.
“Good observation, son.” With that, Joel reaches for you. You tell your muscles to resist, to fight back, but they frustratingly don’t move.
He slides his arms underneath your prone form and lifts as if you weigh no more than a backpack. Surprisingly, his touch is gentle rather than rough as you’d expected. He moves slowly, gradually pulling your body into a sitting position. Your head spins and you let out an involuntary noise of pain.
“M’sorry honey,” he murmurs, “you got your bell rung, that’s for sure.”
“I don’t carry a bell,” you manage a weak reply.
He chuckles again, and you feel yourself being hoisted up. After a moment of adjusting, you’re lying in his arms bridal style, thick forearms underneath your body. He grips your thighs to keep you in place, shifting you upward to preserve the momentum as he gets back to his feet with a slight huff of effort.
“Do you need help?” the boy asks, hovering.
“Nah, she don’t weigh more than one of them kitchen chairs in the mess hall. Just grab her stuff, m’sure she’ll be askin’ after it when she’s up and running.”
“Okay, okay got it. You want me to lead?”
“Yeah, go ahead. Thanks Jesse.”
“Sure thing.”
You’re moving then, you think. The world shifts around you, and your head lulls to the side, pressing into a coat. You shudder once, and find yourself transfixed on the even breathing of the man holding you.
“Cold?” he asks gruffly, and then sighs as if that’s a stupid question. “Jesse?”
“Yeah?”
“Help me with this.”
There’s movement, and your body is shuffled a bit, before someone drapes a thick weight over you, wrapping you up like a burrito in what appears to be a giant leather jacket. It smells of lemon and pine oil, the scent wafting off it with each movement.
You’re confused, disoriented and overwhelmed. The weight of the jacket around you is enough to soothe the cold for now, even as you feel shuffling and adjusting and find your legs slung around the thick flank of a horse.
“Hold on tight,” says Joel.
What other choice do you have?
———-
Somewhere between the gas station and here, you passed out.
It shouldn’t surprise you, given the state you were in. It only makes sense your body would give up in some way. Obviously you wish it hadn’t been while you were pressed up against the large, broad back of a grouchy old Texan, but as you said you’ve never had the best luck.
When you come to, you’re supine on a couch. It’s odd though, because from first glance, the thing isn’t musty and dusty like they usually are. It’s soft, squishy, and smells clean. There’s a blanket draped over you, some sort of fuzzy wool that keeps your limbs warm. It’s heavy too, the weight of it soothing. A crackling sound alerts your gaze to a mantle with a fireplace underneath, heat flickering off the orange licks of flames, well contained in the brick casing. Atop the mantle are framed photos, a girl with choppy hair and freckles on a horse, the man, Joel, at her side, smiling.
It’s an odd expression on him, you think. Although handsome, it’s surprising to see the gruff man look so at ease, so happy. From your brief interaction in the gas station, you’d come to gather he’s a no-nonsense, quick-to-choke asshole.
Not unlike yourself, really.
And if there are photos of him and what looks to be his daughter, or a teenaged relative maybe, on this mantle, that means you’re in his house. That means you’re in grave danger.
Though...you are seemingly fine, wrapped in a blanket by the fireplace, clothing intact on your body. Beside you on an end table is a lamp, a glass of tepid water, and a few leaves of unfamiliar greens.
You move to sit up, pressing your hands against your thighs in search of any of your weapons. Nothing. Your pack is gone too.
As you adjust, you find that your mouth feels like it’s full of cotton, tongue swollen and dry. Your throat is aching, desperate for water. You run your fingers along the arm of the sofa, eyeing the glass of water longingly.
What if he’s done something to it?
Before you can decide if it’s worth the risk, footsteps pad in behind you, and you whip around to see him entering the room. You stumble off the couch, legs wobbling, knees threatening to give out as you try to stand your ground.
“Easy,” Joel says in that slow drawl, “you’re alright, little miss. You’re safe.”
Your hands clench into fists. As if you’re stupid enough to believe him.
“You know where you are?” he asks, like he thinks you won’t know.
For a moment, you fumble. Where...are you? You know it’s snowing outside the windows of this little, quiet house. You know you came from Atlanta. You know you found yourself a little turned around in the backwoods of somewhere in Wyoming.
“Wyoming,” you say, forcing the word to come out assuredly, even as your voice cracks around it like a frail twig under a boot.
He nods once. “Good. You’re in Jackson. You hit your head and it seemed like you haven’t had a real meal in a while. We brought you back to get you feelin’ better. You passed out on the way.”
Blinking, you take stock of the room around you. You’re in Joel’s house, in Jackson. Can it really be true? Have you really found it? The place where life can be lived peacefully amidst the horrors outside the wall?
“It’s real?” you find yourself asking. The crackling fireplace and framed photos seem evidence enough of a more content lifestyle than anywhere you’ve ever lived.
Again, he nods. “You’ve heard of it?”
“Just stories,” you admit, “didn’t believe them.”
“It’d be hard to,” he agrees gruffly.
You allow yourself a moment to look him over. Here in his home, he’s shed his winter layers in favor of a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt with an unbuttoned flannel over the top. His hair is tousled from the wind, gray-lined dark curls framing his face. His shoulders, just as big as you remember noticing, fill out the fabric of his flannel so well it’s a little hard to look away. A quick scan of his body does little to reassure you of any chance you have to fight back if this goes sour. He’s large; his chest thick, thighs sturdy in his jeans, a faint outline of a comfortable belly underneath his shirt. You can see a cropping of dark hair just poking out of his shirt collar and the ends of his sleeves. He’s rugged in every sense of the word. Rugged, and huge.
“I left you some water there,” he gestures vaguely to the end table, “some mint leaves to chew on, sometimes they help when I gotta headache. I dunno. Just in case. They didn’t have anywhere to put you yet, and the infirmary was pretty overrun so they-”
“What are you going to do to me?” you find yourself asking, hating the hollow note of fear in your words.
Joel pauses, hands on his hips, eyebrows screwed together. “Do to you?”
In lieu of a reply, you just nod warily.
It takes him a moment, you think, to register what you’re implying. When it hits him, his shoulders deflate, and his expression heaves into one of displeasure. He clenches and unclenches his fists before he speaks.
“You’re safe,” he says again, voice even and composed despite the clear discomfort on his face. “I ain’t gonna hurt you. Once they find somewhere else to put you, we’ll get you comfortable. But for now, if it’ll make you feel better.” He moves toward you, reaching for the waistband of his jeans.
Reflexively, you stumble backward, putting distance between the two of you. Your legs betray you, and you find yourself leaning against a table by the window with little wood carvings to stay upright. He halts instantly, expression neutral.
“I was just gonna give you this.” He removes your gun from his waistband, presenting it matter-of-factly. “Loaded the mag for you. Don’t shoot me.”
With that, he sets it on the end table by the couch, halfway between the two of you, and steps back.
“You got no reason to kill me,” he says, “I got no reason to hurt you. I wouldn’t. Ever. So take it. But I’d prefer not to have any extra holes by the time you leave.”
You swallow noisily, eyes tracing the line toward the gun. It rests neatly beside the water and mint leaves, his gifts to you, comfort and safety all in one little package on the end table.
Unsure of what to say, you slowly move toward the end table, picking up the gun. Hesitantly, you pull back the slide and see a round in the chamber. Then, you pop the mag out and see that he wasn’t lying. It’s fully loaded.
You eye him warily as you tuck the gun into your own waistband, safety on. “Thanks?”
“Don’t shoot me,” he repeats sternly.
“Don’t give me a reason to,” you warn him.
At this, he scoffs. “Lady, if I wanted to kill you, I woulda done it with my arm around your neck.”
Your eyes narrow. “I never said you wanted to kill me.”
His nose wrinkles at that, eyes going dark. “You don’t have to worry about that. Listen, I’ll stay outta your hair. But they want me to get you healthy before you get set up on your own here. So-”
“Wait, before what?”
Another sigh, like he’s exasperated. “You’ll get assigned a house and eventually work duties and patrol schedules. They’ll go over all that with you. I’m just the middle man here.”
You’re shaking your head before he’s even done speaking. “Who fucking decided that for me?”
His eyebrow arches. “Ain’t that why you’re out here?”
Torn, you struggle to think of a reply. It actually is exactly why you’re out here, but you’re confused and suspicious at the easy welcome and acceptance of another mouth to feed, another burden on the resources. You don’t even know if he’s telling the truth. Maybe you’re not even in Jackson. Maybe this is some fucked up murder cabin and he’s playing you like a fiddle.
“How do I know you’re not lying?” You demand, fingers itching to reach for the gun now that it’s safely holstered away.
Joel gestures to the front door. “Be my fuckin’ guest.”
Reluctantly taking your eyes off of him, you push off the table and move for the front entryway. You brush by him briskly, annoyed when he doesn’t move out of the way. Your shoulder nudges into his arm, and you’re struck by how thick and immovable he feels beside your feeble frame.
You hate it. It would be so effortless to overpower you.
You dislike having him in your rearview, but you move toward the line of windows that overlook the front lawn.
Your eyes take in a sight you could’ve only ever imagined. Snow-lined streets, little shops and markets with pleasant looking customers milling about. People with horses, waving to each other. Children running in the street and laughing loudly while gentle adults corral them back onto shoveled sidewalks. No FEDRA guards shouting about work duty or drills, no bomb warning sirens, no distant roar of infected outside the gates.
No weapons, no shouting or robbery, no children sobbing in the snow from hunger. Everything that had ever felt unattainable, apparently just outside your window.
In utter disbelief, you slowly turn back to Joel, who’s watching you with mild interest.
“Wow,” is all you can manage.
“Yeah, you found the promised land and all that.” He shrugs. “Now they said they oughta have somewhere for you to stay on your own by end of week, provided you’re physically up for it. You’d better start with some water, kid.”
You glance at the glass on the end table, ruminating on the possibility of it being laced with something.
“For Christ's sake.” Joel marches toward the glass, takes a few huge gulps, and then holds it out to you. “Where the fuck would I even get somethin’ like that?”
He has to know that these days finding drugs to crush up and ingest is infinitely easier than finding food. Or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe living here has made a soft, ignorant man of him. Maybe he always has been.
You’re suddenly so angry. All of the years you’ve suffered, your family dying, FEDRA raids and Firefly bombings and attacks from hordes of infected.
And here he is. Sitting by the fire, framed photographs smiling back at him, mint leaves between his teeth for a mild ailment.
It’s so unfair.
“You guys are pretty selfish, you know.” You ignore his outstretched hand with the water. “Keeping all this a secret. Keeping it for yourselves while the rest of us struggle.”
Joel rolls his eyes, and the flippant gesture is enough to make your teeth grind together. “Ah. We’re doin’ this? You wanna leave, go. Ain’t nobody holding you hostage.”
What are you doing? Your brain is screaming at you desperately. This is what you wanted. This is why you came. You’ve found it.
You hadn’t realized what it would mean, actually seeing this oasis. Actually feeling the warmth of a fireplace and the soft fabric of a clean couch. Having mint leaves and bullets a plenty. How could you have ever expected the gaping hole it would punch through your chest, seeing what you could’ve had all these years, laid out in front of you like a decadent buffet. What your family could’ve had.
What this man, Joel, is trying to offer you.
“It isn’t fair,” you manage weakly, talking to no one in particular, eyes searching around the organized decor. “It isn’t fair.”
“I know,” is all you get in reply.
You move away from the window, not exactly sure where you plan to go, but overwhelmed. Finally, your weak knees do give out, and you pitch forward.
Your arms shoot out to catch yourself, but as it turns out, you don’t need them to. Strong hands grip you under the armpits, pulling upward until your legs straighten out. You stumble into a big, warm chest, and Joel grumbles something you don’t catch under his breath.
“Easy,” he murmurs, “gonna get you back to the couch.”
You’re too overcome to argue, though it is your first instinct. You allow him to lead your trembling body toward the sofa, jellylike legs carrying you only as his strength pulls them along.
He slots you between two couch cushions, and you sink down in the fabric. Then, he picks up the water he’d set down in his hurry to catch you, and holds it out.
“This would be a start,” he says earnestly.
In shaky hands, you bring the glass to your lips, sipping delicately. The water is room temperature, somewhat warmed by the heat of the fire. It goes down your throat, soothing the ache there with much needed droplets of hydration. You finish the glass in record time, and before you can blink, Joel’s taken it from you. Your arm reaches forward pathetically, a plea to keep the glass as if you could suck the remaining moisture out from the bottom.
“Hold on,” he says, but there’s no note of impatience or annoyance in the words. He leaves the room and returns a moment later with a glass full to the brim.
Eagerly, you take it from his hands, too lost in the euphoria of fresh, clean water to consider the possibility of the first one being a trick. He’s got you comfortable. Now, he can do whatever he wants.
You hadn’t realized how thirsty you were until the pain was soothed.
It’s a funny thing, longing. You get so used to it that you start to grow numb. You yearn for something long enough, eventually you don’t feel like yourself without it. Hunger, thirst, pining, it’s all a part of who you are. Fulfilled, sated, you wouldn’t know who to be or how to move forward.
Still, you finish the glass as quickly as the first.
“Better?” Joel asks, his voice lacking warmth but not particularly unpleasant.
You nod hesitantly.
“How’s your head?”
You touch your fingers to the back of your head, roving the pads across your tangled hair. You feel no bump, no cuts, nothing more than a rats nest of unbrushed locks.
“Fine,” you say, though it does hurt. You’re sure it’s nothing serious, but you definitely gave it a good bump.
“You feel like eatin’?” He asks, and the prospect of food is enough to make your chapped lips feel wet with salivation.
“You have food,” you tell him, more of a statement than a question.
Quizzically, he nods. “Uh, yeah.”
“Real food?”
“I got some venison in the freezer,” he says, “and some broccoli.”
“In a can?”
His expression softens marginally. “No.”
Fuck. Real fresh vegetables?
“Tell you what.” Joel cracks his knuckles loudly. “You go on up and take a shower, get yourself sorted. I’ll get started on some grub. ‘Bout dinner time anyway. Then maybe we can get you healthy enough to get outta my hair. How’s that sound?”
“Okay,” is all you can think to say, surprisingly amicable. In your defense, it’s been a while since someone offered you a hot meal and a shower. And you do have your gun...just in case.
Joel holds a hand out, and despite every instinct in your body begging you not to take it, you slip your palm into his. His hand is warm, calloused from exposure and rough on the pads of his palm, but there’s something familiar about his hold. It’s oddly comforting. It feels like a hand that knows hard work, not unlike your own, which you’re sure are twice as rough right now.
He offers you a small, barely perceptible smile before he releases your hand and says, “second door on the right.”
Then, he heads into the kitchen.
If you wanted to, you could quietly sneak in behind him, gun drawn, and put a bullet in his head. Right now, it would be so easy. He’s foolishly left you to your own devices in his home with a loaded gun. Who could blame you for second-guessing his motives and intentions?
But he’s also offering you a meal, a hot shower, the prospect of a life. And you’d come a very long way to find him. To find this, you mean.
You lean down and grab a mint leaf, sticking it between your teeth to chew as you ascend the stairs with a careful hand on the railing. It’s surprisingly tasty, the leaf, though it has a bite of burn that stings your tongue in an unfamiliar way. You press it between your teeth and tongue, feeling the sharp sting of the mint and breathing in the relief. You aren’t sure why, maybe it’s all in your head, but it feels like it is soothing your pain.
Your fingers trail along the wooden banister. It’s clean, well dusted, organized. There’s traces of life here, in the haphazard way his boots are strewn by the door, in the crumple of towels on the floor in the corner of the laundry room you pass by, in the photographs on walls and more tables. That girl with the freckles and choppy hair is all over his life, alongside a man with a beard and scrappy bun. A brother maybe? You can’t tell, but what’s clear in the multitude of photos is that Joel likes to keep his loved ones close. He likes tangible memories, reminders of those he cares for.
You find yourself in a large bathroom standing in front of a shower with a pastel yellow curtain. You grip the material in your fingers, pulling back on the curtain, enamored with the way it glides back and forth on the rod. The closest thing you had to this in the QZ was water boiled and poured into a tub for bathing. On the road, it was a nice cold creek when you could find it.
Curiously, you slide your fingers down the wall until they bump into a strange knob, delicate rounded designs poking out of the glossy finish. To the right, a little blue circle, to the left a little red one. You deduce they indicate the temperature of the water, and twist the knob until it’s halfway in between.
The water shoots forward out of a head at the top of the wall, spraying you in the face. You splutter, pulling back and coughing water out of your nose and throat. It’s a powerful stream, the droplets hitting your face with a velocity you hadn’t expected. You know the currents of lakes, oceans and creeks can be unpredictable. Waves are something otherworldly, a force to be reckoned with, never tempted.
You had no idea something so small could be so powerful.
You check once more that the door is locked, then you peel off your tattered jacket and undershirt. Your bra is barely held together by a stitch you keep doing and undoing in the back. The clasp broke a year ago. You slide your old jeans down your legs, face blooming red when you remember that your underwear was hooked onto the back of your bag to dry after a wash.
Where is it? Did they leave it in the gas station? It was your only pair.
Somehow worse...does Joel...have it?
Hesitantly, you step over the ledge of the tub into the stream of water, surprised at the feeling of the droplets crashing into your skin. It hurts a little, the pressure at which the water shoots out at you.
For a moment, you languish under the stream of water, feeling dirt and muck slide off your skin. It feels like you’ve been encased in a layer of grime for so long, you’ve almost forgotten what clean feels like. Though, you’ve never been clean like this.
You see a little sponge in a rack on the wall, and grab for it. There’s a bar of soap beside it, and you take that too, sudsing up the sponge as much as possible. It smells like lemon, the same faint aroma you’d noticed on Joel.
Then, it strikes you that this must be the sponge he washes his own body with.
You hesitate. Surely this violates some sort of acceptable hygiene norm. But also, your hand’s not gonna do the job. And you’d only be dirtying up his soap if you used that on its own.
In a confused moment of transfixion, you squeeze the sponge between your fingers, running the pad of your thumb over its gristly base. It wafts lemon, that enticing smell that Joel carries with him from a good wash in the morning.
You know it’s odd, and certainly not the time to be having these thoughts, but it’s a little distracting that this is his sponge. The same one he rubs all over himself when he’s naked, when the water is drizzling down his thick body, his sturdy chest and his soft stomach and the unmovable width of his thighs. You imagine he must like the way it feels after a long day, hot water sizzling on his skin, the sharp edge of a sponge cutting through dirt on his body, the smell of lemon in his nose and lingering on him.
You douse the sponge in lemon soup, and carefully slide it down your arm. The feeling makes you shudder; the rough texture of the sponge grating down your filthy skin. The sponge that Joel rubs on himself. The sponge that’s nestled itself between the bulging muscles of his chest, down the lines of his abdomen, all over his large arms. Down further...between his legs, maybe.
It’s been so long since you thought about a man this way; since you thought about anyone this way. On the road, there was no time for luxuries like sexual fantasy.
But now, safe and comfortable beneath a thick and steady steam of hot water, you allow your mind to wander a bit.
How thorough must Joel be, when he washes himself with this rough little sponge? To smell as good as he does even in the midst of a fight, even with adrenaline pumping, testosterone brewing, sweat surely slickening his underarms and legs. Still, he wafts pleasant aromas, the kind that make you lean into him, rather than pull away.
He must touch himself often, in depth. He must scrub the soap in between places on his large body that only he can see, only he can touch. Dripping little droplets of sweet-scented soap on to parts of him that would be so difficult to get to, unless he were naked in front of you.
Your fist clenches tightly around the sponge, expelling a myriad of soapy bubbles that drip down your legs into the drain. You blink, shaking your head, trying to come back down from those inappropriate thoughts.
Jesus. It’s really been too long. You’re gonna have to figure out something to do about that before you find yourself biting into this lemon-scented sponge.
Get a grip, you tell yourself. You have one hot shower and all of a sudden you’re ready and willing for the first person who will have you?
You’re sure it won’t be Joel, gruff and solitary as he seems, but maybe someone in this little safe haven is interested in relieving this ache.
Though, you’re no stranger to longing. It’s not as if you can’t take care of yourself.
Right now, you focus on washing. You scrub every inch of your body, including between your toes and in your belly button. You fight the layers of grime and grit until your skin is rubbed raw and red. Then, you take the syrupy bottle of liquid that’s labeled in marker “shampoo” and drench the crown of your head with it.
Scrubbing your hair takes more energy than you can expend. By the time the bubbles are rinsing down your back, your vision is swimming and you’re seeing black spots at the corner of your eyes. Your legs wobble, and you press a hand flat against the wall to steady yourself.
How long have you been in here?
Instead of tipping over and falling out onto the bathroom floor like an idiot, you slowly lower yourself to the shower floor. The tile is hot underneath your legs, and you realize you’ve turned the water all the way to the little red circle.
It burns, droplets of acid shooting into your skin like knives. It’s so hot, hotter water than you’ve ever felt cascading over your body. It burns nicely, melting away the road like you’re shedding skin to grow anew. The steam fills your nostrils, and you take a big breath, your lungs still rattly and weak from the cold outside, but soothed slightly by the thick warmth in here.
You lose track of everything on the shower floor. The water is so hot, the smell is so sweet, the confines of the tub feel safe and secluded. The door has a lock, the shower has a curtain, each sliver of a barrier between you and everyone else feels like more security than you’ve had in months. Or maybe ever.
Your knees press against the sides of the tub, knobby and thin, too sickly for anyone to desire. You don’t like the body you’re in, don’t like that you were mistaken for an infected today, don’t like that you’re more survival than person at this point.
And you can’t help but wonder, Jackson, Joel, this life here, would it be enough to change that? He says he can get you healthy, you can get your own place, a home. If you do as he says, follow his lead, can he really make that happen?
A place where you could lock the doors whenever you want. A place where you didn’t have to keep a loaded gun on you to feel safe. A place where you could drink the water without worrying it’s been spiked or it’s unsuitable. A life, a home, something meaningful.
All you have to do is get off the floor and go downstairs to it.
With a huff of effort, you shove your body forward, bracing yourself on the side of the tub for momentum. You clumsily yank on the knob and crank it until the water stops flowing. There's a fresh towel on a rack by the shower, and you reach for it feebly.
You avoid your reflection in the mirror as much as possible; your skin is a mapping of cuts, bruises, scars. A lifetime of suffering delicately traced into lines on your body. There’s no hiding what you’ve been through, it plays out across your limbs like the scenes of a movie. Each moment of misery, each near-death experience, each trauma, a little piece of it left within you and etched into your physicality for everyone to see.
Some people are born whole and become broken. Some are born whole and never lose enough pieces to say they aren’t complete anymore.
You were born with missing parts, already deficient in a world that ensured it would hack every last bit of you away. You don’t know how you stand, how you breathe, how you live, without lungs to fill your throat with air or a heart to pump your blood. Your chest is a cavern, all your missing pieces scattered across the trails you’ve walked, and mirrored in your scarred flesh.
Reminders. Everything is fleeting, everything is futile, and contentment is an undeserved fantasy.
Body wrapped in a towel, the cold air dimpling your flesh with goosebumps, you reach for your tattered clothes. They’re filthy, murky and bloodstained. You suspect Joel is going to need to thoroughly disinfect the couch you were lying on.
You don’t want to put them on. You don’t want to slide your clean, scrubbed raw skin into the folds of clothing littered with horror.
All you have is the cleanliness of your skin, and the mint leaf ground up between your teeth. Your first taste of comfort in...well, forever.
Reluctantly, you scoop up the pile of clothes and peer out into the hallway. You’re struck with a delightful smell; not the lemon soap, but something more tantalizing. Cooking meat, vegetables, the sizzle of smoke on a stovetop. You lean forward almost in a trance, your stomach growling ravenously, as you begin to descend the stairs.
Your footsteps are featherlight on the stairs, toes carefully pressing forward down the cold hardwood. It squeaks underneath the pad of your foot, but you ignore it, moving languidly toward the enticing smell.
He’s there, Joel, standing at the stove with his large back to you. He’s shrugged out of the flannel, leaving him clad in only his black t-shirt. The thin confines of the material give you more insight into the shape of him, the large, hulking physique of the man cooking vegetables.
He doesn’t seem to notice your entrance, either too enthralled in his task, or you’ve been in the shower so long he’s forgotten you’re here.
Carefully, you edge your way in a wide circle until you think you’re in his peripherals. He glances sideways, eyebrows shooting up as he observes you standing in his kitchen, only a towel around your body.
“Do you have my underwear?” You ask, before something less humiliating can come to mind.
Joel falters, something between embarrassment and amusement dancing across his expression before it smooths out. “Uh, yeah. I threw ‘em in the wash with some other stuff. Hope that’s okay.”
“Oh. Yeah it’s okay. Thanks.”
“I can take those too?” He jerks his chin toward the bundle of tattered clothes in your arms.
“I have nothing else to wear,” you admit.
At that, the corner of his lips twitch sideways. “I got somethin’ for ya’.”
He sets the pan down on the stove and gestures for you to follow him. You trail behind as he makes his way down the hall toward the laundry room you’d passed by earlier. He pauses in the doorway, looking around thoughtfully, before he spots a big tub in the back corner and reaches for it. It’s labeled with the same marker his shampoo was.
Ellie Winter Clothes
Joel brings the tub out into the living room and cracks open the lid, waving a hand for you to come in and examine the options.
You peer into the tub, surprised to find several neat stacks of folded up clothing. Jackets, pants, long-sleeved shirts and flannels. You look at Joel curiously.
“My kid,” he explains, “she just left last week to go on this tour of the west coast with her girlfriend. They just turned eighteen, all about gettin’ that freedom.”
You stare at him blankly. “You let your eighteen year old daughter leave on her own?”
Joel smiles wryly. “You ain't met Ellie. Anyway, she’ll be back at the end of next month. Just don’t lose nothin’ and I figure she won’t mind.”
You pick up one of the shirts. It’s soft fleece, navy blue, thick and warm to the touch. You purse your lips, doubtful it’ll fit you if it’s something a teenage girl’s wearing.
“I think it’ll fit just fine,” Joel tells you carefully, “‘least until we get some food in ya’.”
Warily, you slide the navy fleece over your head, keeping the towel upright with one hand and rolling the shirt down over the front of it. With dismay, you find the shirt fits nicely. It’s barely even snug.
And it’s so unfair that you almost cry in his living room. Because a girl ten years your junior shouldn’t be wearing the same size clothes as you. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep the emotions from swelling to the surface, blinking rapidly.
Joel clears his throat. “Hey, why don’t you throw them clothes on, and meet me in the kitchen? Grub’s almost up.”
You’re quick to nod, scooping up a pair of leggings and socks before you shuffle across the floor into the downstairs bathroom beside the kitchen. You allow yourself a moment to let the tears race down your cheeks as you dress in the teenage girl’s clothes, sniffling while wiping at your red eyes. You hadn’t realized, alone on the road all those months, how much you’ve shrunk in on yourself. You’ve never been as big as you should be, stunted by lack of food. But at least in the QZ you had ration blocks. It’s been a lean few months of scavenging.
You feel like something inhuman, something wrong, something unworthy. You don’t belong in this well-decorated, well-loved home. In this safe little town.
Finally, you wipe the last of the liquid from your eyes and exit the bathroom, heading into the kitchen. Your footsteps are careful, cautious, each one placed with delicate intention.
Joel’s just finishing up as he sets a plate down on his circular kitchen table. There are two settings, each with glistening silver utensils and a mason jar full of liquid beside them.
Joel spots you entering, and smiles hesitantly. He pulls out one of the chairs, which you assume is your cue to sit. You place your bottom in the chair, surprised when he pushes it in for you. He sits in the other chair and begins to eat unceremoniously.
Taking in the sights on your plate, you find a well cooked slab of meat, seared delightfully. The broccoli is steamed to a crisp, but not burnt, and there’s a slice of fluffy bread sliced beside it. You even see Joel dip a knife into a slab of light yellow paste and spread it over his slice.
“Is that...” your voice trails off in disbelief.
“That’s right,” he replies, “want some?”
You nod eagerly and hold out your bread. He smooths some butter over the top. He takes a sip from the mason jar beside his plate, and you can’t tell exactly what’s in it but, from the smell you think it’s alcohol.
You glance down at your own jar curiously, picking it up with a delicate hand. It’s a faded orange-ish brown color, but smells sweet when you bring it to your nose to inhale. No traces of booze, you don’t think. You’ve never been much of a drinker.
Tentatively, you bring the liquid to your mouth for a sip, eyelashes fluttering with surprise. It’s sweet to the taste, tangy and thin as it drenches over your tongue. The flavor is familiar, though you’re certain you’ve never had this drink. It’s tart and sweet all at once.
“You ever had apple juice before?” Joel asks, watching you make love to the mason jar as you eagerly sip more.
Frowning, you shake your head. “Maybe when I was a kid, before the outbreak. I don’t remember it though.”
“You like it?”
Nodding, you tip the glass back and finish it off, exhaling with pleasure. Then, you get to work on the meal.
It’s been so long since you used silverware you’ve almost forgotten how to properly position the fork and knife to cut into the meat. It’s tender though, and easy to slice into. You spear a piece with your fork and take it between your lips, eyes going wide at the burst of flavor breaking in under your teeth.
It’s like nothing you’ve ever had before. Juicy, tender, flavorful. It fills your mouth, satiates the hunger radiating through your teeth, goes down your throat in a smooth gulp. It settles in your empty stomach, a small portion of relief restored within you.
It’s as if a switch has flipped. Once you get a bite of the meat, you think you need to have more or you might die. It’ll be impossible to stop.
You start cutting into the meat like your life depends on it, ravenously shoving pieces into your mouth in a manner you’re sure Joel finds unladylike. You supplement it with bites of well-seasoned broccoli and soft, buttery bread.
Joel refills your apple juice and you wash down bites with it, practically moaning at the taste. When your bread disappears another is set on your plate, buttered and soft, ready to go.
You barely look up to breathe before the plate is clean, the glass is drained for the second time, and Joel is still working on his first helping of it all.
He smiles at you when you meet his eyes, suddenly feeling something like shame wash over you. You don’t remember much of what your parents taught you about manners, but you’re pretty sure coming into a stranger's house and eating their food like a feral dog doesn’t fall under the umbrella of polite dining.
“Um...m’sorry,” is all you can think to say.
Joel arches an eyebrow, taking a hefty bite of his own and chewing thoroughly before he asks, “sorry for what?”
“It was really good,” you reply hesitantly.
At that, his smile grows, and he looks down at the plate to smooth his expression over. He nods once. “Good. M’glad. Glad you liked it. How’re you feelin’?”
“Like I want more,” you admit, though your voice is sheepish, “is that bad?”
He clears his throat, readjusting in his seat, and your face falls. Oh dear god. You’re humiliated. Clearly he’s uncomfortable with your gluttony and your request, you’ve made this weirder than it already was. Further proof of your fears; you aren’t made for a place like this. You’re wrong, broken, not-
“I’m real glad to hear that, darlin’,” Joel says, “maybe give it a few minutes. I bet you ain’t eaten that much in a while.”
Your face feels warm at the casual use of darlin’, but you ignore that and ask, “wait for what?”
“For it all to settle, make sure you still feel okay.” He shrugs, taking another bite of the meat on his plate, which you’re now noticing is much larger than the one you’d had. “Goin’ from as hungry as you look, to eatin’ like we do here...s’gonna take some time.”
It’s an interesting concept, the idea that there could be too much to eat, when all you’ve ever known is the opposite. You struggle to see how that could be a problem, but it’s his house, and his food, and you don’t want to make a scene.
“Okay,” you agree quietly.
Joel chews on his bottom lip thoughtfully, eyeing you as you wrap your arms around yourself, feeling as though your mere presence alone takes up too much valuable oxygen.
“Here.” He hands you another slice of buttered bread, holding it out in his large hand like a peace offering. “Can’t let you sit at my table hungry, darlin’. Just, take it easy, or you ain’t gonna feel too hot.”
Tamping down the glee that springs into your chest at the opportunity for more food, you accept the bread from his outstretched hand with a quiet thanks. You eat quickly, greedily, closing your eyes and letting out a small moan of delight at the taste.
Something funny happens as you eat that bread, a change in the way your stomach feels, a change in the way your body feels. A warmth, pooling in your belly, swelling through you up into your chest, softening your throat and relaxing your shoulders.
You’re full. For the first time in you don’t even know how long, the emptiness doesn’t persist.
“Wow, that’s a sight,” Joel says, and you look over at his face to find a surprising expression of amusement there.
“What?” you demand, voice going sour.
He shakes his head, rueful. “You, smilin’ like that. Didn’t take you for the type.”
A scowl immediately overtakes your features, and your jaw clenches. “I’d have plenty to smile about if-”
His low, dry chuckle cuts off your train of thought. Your eyes narrow, and he shakes his head again, looking a little too amused by all of this for your taste.
“Will you settle down?” Joel teases lightly. “It’s just nice, is all. Glad to see you lookin’ happy about somethin’. We’ve made a lotta progress from you holding a knife to my throat earlier.”
You regard him with cautious eyes. “And you trying to choke me to death.”
“Ah. Yeah.” Sheepishly, he rubs the back of his neck. “M’sorry about that. I didn’t realize you weren’t...”
“A disgusting mushroom monster?” you fill in, lips twitching.
“I wasn’t gonna say that.” He frowns.
“It’s fine. I know I look like shit. It’s been a rough couple of months.”
“I wasn’t gonna say that neither,” Joel replies dryly. “What I do wanna ask is…well, how’d you end up out there on your own? Ain’t you gotta family? Young woman like you-“
“I’m not young,” you bite back immediately. And it’s true. In this world, at your age, you’re considered lucky to still be here
“Alright,” he concedes, “woman like yourself, alone. How’d that happen?”
“Everybody’s got dead people,” you reply, running your finger along the thin glass around the empty mason jar. It’s cool against your skin, sticky with juice remnants. It gives you something to focus on besides Joel’s scrutinizing expression.
You don’t want to do this; pry open this bleeding wound in your empty chest and claw at the flesh until the pain subsumes you. Your family is dead, you’ve never had anything close to a friend, you’ve never been safe enough to slow down in the way you’d need to fall in love. What is the point of rehashing this? What is the point of saying aloud all the scars he can see written plainly on your body?
“Where is your daughter’s mom?” you ask, hoping desperately to shift the subject off of yourself.
Joel clears his throat, sitting up a bit in his chair. “She’s dead. I actually adopted Ellie.”
“Oh, you aren’t her biological father?”
“No. I uh...I was though. My older daughter. Sarah.”
You look at him, the plains of his face, the aged lines around his deep eyes, the flecks of gray in his beard. His use of the word “was” needs no further elaboration. It’s clear, probably should’ve been since even before he showed you Ellie’s winter clothes, this man is someone’s father.
You suddenly realize you’ve left your loaded handgun in the bathroom upstairs, abandoned with your discarded clothing. You suddenly realize, that’s alright.
“I’m sorry,” is all you can muster in reply to such a harrowing admission.
Joel nods once, a brief acknowledgement of your condolence. “Thanks. Was a long time ago. M’alright, these days. Life’s good.”
“Everybody’s got dead people,” you offer up again, a limp shrug to your shoulders.
Arching an eyebrow, Joel replies, “that’s true. Your parents, then?”
“Mhm. Yours?”
He chuckles. “Long before the outbreak, honey.”
“How old are you, anyway?”
“Old. Yourself?”
“Not old. Not young, either.”
Nodding, Joel’s eyes dart up to meet yours. It’s quiet then, the sort of quiet that lingers between two people when they aren’t sure what the next move is. When they aren’t sure where to go from here, what the future holds, what they are to each other.
“How are you feelin’?” He breaks the silence, of course, with a concerned glance at your empty plate.
You hesitate. How are you feeling? It’s been so long since someone asked you that question.
Yesterday, the answer would’ve been something as simple as an eye roll and a gesture to your ruined body. How are you feeling? Fucking bad. Is there any other way to feel in a world like this one?
Good feels like a stretch. Your head hurts from where you banged it on the floor, your stomach is so full now it’s starting to feel uncomfortable, your body aches and groans with each movement, and your mind is a torrent of uncertainty and confusion.
But...you’ve certainly felt worse, haven't you?
There’s food in you, and something delightful called apple juice. There’s a fire in the living room. There’s utensils, and plates, and warm clothes, and a shower with-
You suddenly remember something you forgot to tell Joel.
“I used your sponge,” you say abruptly.
Joel blinks. Once, twice, then his brow furrows. “Pardon me?”
“Y-your sponge,” you splutter like an idiot as you realize this was not an appropriate time to bring up the sponge. “In the shower. I’m sorry I didn’t…it was the only one, so- ”
“Oh.” Understanding passes over his face, and he looks taken aback for only a split second before he speaks again. “Oh, no. S’alright. I didn’t think about that before I sent you up there. Sorry. You’re good.”
“I rinsed it clean,” you tell him.
He laughs a little breathlessly, and you think you see the tips of his ears hueing a bit red. Clearing his throat, he swipes his used silverware onto his empty plate and stands. The chair squeals across the floor with his sudden movement.
“I ain’t worried about it,” he says, and moves to deposit his dishes in the sink.
Urgently, you scramble to your feet, collecting your own plate and following him. It’s your immediate instinct to take over and begin scrubbing the dishes; so long living on your own that every responsibility fell to you.
You’re stopped by his gentle arm brushing yours, and he shakes his head. “I got the dishwasher workin’ last month. No need.”
“Dishwasher?” you ask, confused.
Joel gestures to a large white door embedded into the cabinets. He reaches down, smooths his large fingers over the material, and pulls. The door draws down, opening to reveal peculiar little rows of racks and baskets.
“Whoa,” you breathe, kneeling down beside it with fascination, “that’s what these things do?”
“You were young when the outbreak hit,” Joel notes, not a question, but more of an observatory reminder. “I’ll bet there’s a lotta shit we used to have that you don’t remember.”
“We had one of these in the QZ,” you say, still transfixed by the inner workings of this dish washer, “but I didn’t know it opened. I thought it was just a weird design thing.”
At this, he bursts out laughing. It’s a bit more vivacious than the dry chuckle he’s been giving you all day, a genuine, pealing laugh that comes from deep within his belly. It’s nice, rumbling in your ears and soothing to your tense shoulders. The timbre of his pleased noises does something odd to you, something calming.
“It takes running water to use,” he explains once his laughter has died down, “that’s why yours never worked. If your QZ was like ours, that is.”
“You were in a QZ?” you look up at him, struck with how massive he seems standing above your kneeling frame.
“Boston.”
“Atlanta.”
“Heard that one ain’t a cakewalk.”
You shake your head. “No, we didn’t have cake.”
His lips twitch. “You don’t know what-”
“I’m fucking with you.” Rolling your eyes, you get to your feet and cross your arms. “I’ve heard of expressions before.”
“Just not dishwashers.”
Annoyed, your hand flies to your waistband, an instinct. You remember your gun is upstairs.
Joel follows the movement of your arm with a disbelieving noise of contempt. “You’re a violent little thing, ain’t you?”
“I didn’t-“
“Where’s the gun you were just reaching for?”
“I left it upstairs,” you admit.
Joel nods approvingly. “I’ll call that progress. Let me load the dishwasher here and I’ll take you up to your room.”
“My room?”
Your room, indeed.
After the dishes have been loaded into this bizarre machine, Joel walks you up the stairs, past the bathroom you used, into a spare bedroom. It’s nice and clean the way the rest of the place is, neat lines and vacuumed rugs. There’s a dresser, and a bed with four posts, a colorful quilt, photos of horses on the walls. It smells like pine.
You haven’t slept in a bed in a very long time.
You tell him as much, stroking the quilt beneath your palm as you approach the bed. It’s sort of itchy, the kind of fabric that has grit to it, but thick enough to keep you warm.
Joel watches you as you investigate the room, perched in the doorway with his ankles crossed and his arms pressed into the frame. “So you made it all the way from Atlanta, to here, on your own?”
“Mhm.” You vault yourself up experimentally on the bed, feeling the mattress dip beneath your slight weight. It’s aged, squeaky springs and lumpy spots here and there. The quilt scratches your raw skin and you pull back slightly.
But it’s a bed.
“Must’a been hard,” Joel notes.
You nod in agreement. It was hard. Now it’s over. No use rehashing it.
“Well, m’sure you’re exhausted.” He clears his throat and backs off the doorframe, nodding in your direction. “I’ll be just down the hall if you need...if there’s anythin’ at all...just, I’m here, alright?”
“Thanks.” You offer him a small, unsure smile.
He returns it with ease. “That’s two.”
“Huh?”
Holding up two fingers, he moves from the doorway. “Two smiles. Bet I can get three outta you tomorrow.”
With a scoff, you walk up behind him and place your hand on the door. “Good thing there’s no money for you to lose.”
He grins at this, crooked jaw and curled lip all wicked and teasing. There’s something mischievous about this expression, something so out of character for this stern, fatherly presence that it almost takes your breath away. You can picture him, twenty years younger, a rough-and-tumble young man with a teasing sense of humor and a sharp wit. It’s no surprise at all that someone loved him enough to give him a child, someone loved him enough to make him a father.
Joel is confusing, but he’s also quite simple.
He’s a man who cares, fiercely, for those he loves. He cooks, he cleans, he folds his daughter’s clothes up in a neat little bin in the laundry room. He scrubs with lemon soap and stokes a soothing fire in the mantle. He chews mint leaves when his head hurts, he washes dirty undergarments without being asked.
He also laughs, teases, chokes and leaves you to your own devices if you get on his nerves. Though, his patience seems admirable. He loaded your gun, handed it to you with a live round, even after you’d held a knife to his throat. He’d cooked you dinner, caught you when you fell, walked you to the bedroom so you could get proper rest.
You guess, if you were gonna end up getting choked out by some strange man, you’re glad it was Joel. Joel...huh.
“Hey,” you stop him before he can make for the staircase.
“What?” he asks.
“What’s your last name?”
Joel regards you curiously. “Miller. Joel Miller. What’s yours?”
You tell him your name, and he nods. It takes a quick beat of silence for you to continue, “it’s nice to meet you, Joel Miller.”
He smiles again, softer this time, more genuine. “Likewise, darlin’. Get some sleep.”
With that, he turns his back on you and descends the staircase.
______________________________________________________________________
The days go like this.
You wake up in a bed, scratchy quilt wrapped around your sore, aching body. You hadn’t realized how badly you hurt until you stopped pushing forward.
You climb out of the bed, and pad downstairs in the cold morning brisk of Joel’s house. He’s always up before you. He has a fire going in the mornings, heat wafting off the flicker of orange beneath the mantle, and you curl up beside it with the quilt dragging behind you. He’s out of coffee beans for now, but he makes the both of you a mug of hot tea with roots infused into it, and it’s close enough.
You hold the steaming mug to your chest, itchy quilt pulled up around your body like a coat of armor, and watch the fire. Joel asks why you sit on the floor when there’s a perfectly good couch right behind you.
You tell him you want to be warm. You’ve been cold for so long. He seems to understand.
You help him make breakfast, mystified by the seemingly endless supply of fresh produce he has available. He likes breakfast, says it’s his favorite of the day.
You watch as he cracks fresh eggs into a buttered pan; hear the sizzle of heat against runny yolk and whites, watch as the pools of liquid become firm and strong under the duress. Something soft and pliant, made durable through the forges of fire.
It’s so silly, but you relate to those tough little eggs.
You eat at his kitchen table some days, sometimes on the porch in the cold morning, waving to Jackson residents as they begin their work shifts. It seems like fair trades, a barter system built on community where everyone is taken care of in some way or another. It’s bizarre, unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. Joel’s brother lives here too, with his wife Maria who runs the council. It’s all very quaint, picturesque.
Joel says it works. He explains patrols, explains the work shift rotation, explains the mess hall and the greenhouses and the bountiful supply of food from gardening and hunting. He likes it here, you can tell, and why wouldn’t he?
He tells you about his life before, little bits at a time delivered while passing you a plate or tucking the corner of your sheet back down on your mattress. The damn thing insists on whipping up everytime he sits on the end of it to talk with you. He tells you about Ellie, how they came together, how she healed his broken parts.
You’re envious. Not of their relationship, but of the fact that his missing pieces somehow came back when you know your own are doomed to be lost forever. You don’t tell him about your past.
You eat. You eat like you’ve never eaten before. Eggs and bacon in the morning, fresh fruit and squeezed juices. Sandwiches for lunch; chicken and lettuce and tomato between thick slabs of bread that Joel makes in his oven. Cold, tart lemonade that tingles on your tongue and smooths down your throat. Hearty, tender meat with potatoes and veggies and soft baked bread.
Joel watches you eat with this look on his face that you can’t quite decipher. It’s an interesting mix between what you think is some sort of pride, tangled up with another confusing emotion that makes him watch you carefully. He eyes the fork as it slides between your lips, watches you sigh in pleasure, adjusts in his seat when you ask for seconds. You aren’t sure if it’s discomfort with you eating all his food or...something more confusing. Though, he says there’s no rush to get into your own place. The council will check in soon and see if you’re ready. But he says there’s no rush.
Either way, you’re full every day now, so full and satiated that you’re starting to forget what hunger feels like.
Well...not completely.
Days turn into a week, and a week to two, and it’s on this two week marker that you walk into the bathroom without knocking.
It’s your fault. The door isn’t locked, but why would it be? Joel’s been living on his own since Ellie moved to her little shed apartment in the backyard. Your presence is a recent one, two weeks not enough time to get out of a routine of comfortability in his own home.
And you, so many months alone on the road, any semblance of privacy was a lost venture. You’ve peed behind trees, bathed in streams, found yourself naked by the fire on late summer evenings while your clothes air-dried. Knocking on doors has taken some time to get used to.
So when you push it open haphazardly, not expecting to see the fully naked man stepping out of the shower, it’s a slight surprise.
Joel freezes, hand on the towel he’s reaching for, body dripping with warm water. It’s a split second, just a moment before you fumble out a frantic apology and slam the door shut.
But not quick enough that you didn’t see everything. Everything.
You stand outside the door, hand on the knob, eyes wide, chest heaving. You try to clear your head of these thoughts, but there’s only one thing you can really focus on.
Joel.
Naked. Droplets slowly dancing down his weathered skin; clinging to the dark hair on his chest, the slope of his full belly, gliding down toward his pelvis. His thick legs, muscled and bulging, arms the same. All of him, wet, breathing hard, and...and not just breathing hard.
God, you’ve never seen one so big before.
Everything about Joel is big. He’s a massive presence. His shoulders are broad, hips wide, thighs sturdy. His neck is thick and lined with veins, same as his wrists and hands. His stature towers over you, and his form exceeds yours in every possible sense.
But...well, you’ve never seen one so big.
It had been too quick, to really be able to tell if he was truly sporting a post-shower boner. You think, maybe a little. But you also think...maybe it’s just that big.
The hair was well groomed, you noted that, though you aren’t sure why. It makes you feel...feral. You haven’t had a shave in months, legs thick with coarse down, the slope of your pelvis protected by a soft bush of hair. Razors were hard enough to get in the QZ. On the road? Non starter. You’re a fuzzy decoration of body hair. Joel’s not exactly smooth, but he looked...groomed.
Why are you self conscious? Why do you care what he might think of the haphazard way you look naked? Why are you comparing your road-torn body to his strong, healthy one?
Why are you imagining what his might feel like against yours? How the scruffy beard on his jaw might scratch and tickle yours like that stupid quilt. How his hands, thick and massive, would cradle your flesh, the pads of his rough thumbs leaving lines of desire down each tendon. How his voice, low and gruff, a buttery drawl, would whisper in your ear. Tell you you’re beautiful, tell you he likes having you here, tell you this is permanent.
That’s enough to snap you out of your stupor. You release the door handle like you’ve been burned, stumbling back away from it. Your breath hitches, eyes feeling warm and wet.
Before you can make a hasty exit, the door opens, and Joel appears under the arch. He’s fully dressed now; dark washed jeans and an olive green t-shirt that clings to his large chest and arms in a way that’s almost unbearable.
For a beat, there’s this silence between the two of you that feels almost tangible. Your throat sticks with it, clogging up any pathetic attempts at breaking the tension. You look at him, fumbling for something to say, something to do, fuck to even move.
“M’sorry,” he begins, averting his eyes, “uh, I-”
“My fault,” is all you can squeak out.
“I shoulda locked the-”
“My fault!” you repeat, like a real eloquent genius. You force a laugh out of your lips, but it sounds more like a manic cry than anything.
Joel’s brow creases, his eyes settling on you with clear concern. “No, s’okay. M Sorry, again. Are you...alright?”
Another manic laugh. “Joel, you’re not that special, I’ve seen naked men before.”
His jaw tenses. “You look upset.”
This is too much. This is all too fucking much. He’s got you all twisted up, all confused. Eating his food, using his sponge, sharing tea with him in the mornings and a leaf of mint at night. Letting him worm his way into your mind, make you feel safe and secure.
This is how pieces go missing; get hacked off. This is how a person becomes whole, and then utterly incomplete.
“I’m… fine,” you manage, “gonna… actually, was just going to tell you. I’m gonna talk to Maria today. Let her know I’m ready to be on my own.”
And it shouldn’t affect you, the way his face falls completely at these words. The way his shoulders deflate, his eyes go soft, his lips draw down and his eyebrows flatten.
You’ve hurt him, you’re hurting him. You don’t know why or how, but this hurts him. Despite the quick composure he sweeps over his expression into one of neutrality, you know. And you shouldn't care. It’s two weeks of nothing. You’ve been on your own most of your life.
“Alright,” Joel says, voice rough.
And it shouldn’t hurt you, the way he easily accepts this. The way he doesn’t fight. You don’t own him, he doesn’t own you, you don’t belong to each other.
Two weeks of meals, late night talks, healing. It’s nothing. To either of you, clearly.
But it does hurt. And that’s exactly why you have to leave.
“Okay,” you reply, swallowing hard.
“Council’s closed today, Sunday,” he explains dryly.
“Then I’ll do it tomorrow,” you snap back, voice going a little defensive. “I can find somewhere to sleep for tonight.”
At that, he rears back like you’ve hit him. “What?”
“To get out of your hair,” you explain, gesturing vaguely.
Joel rolls his eyes, crosses those big arms over his chest, and looks down at you disapprovingly. You shrink a little under his stern gaze, hating yourself for doing it.
“You ain’t in my hair,” he snarls, “I told you there’s no rush. Talk to her tomorrow. Sleep in your bed tonight.”
“It’s not my bed.” You don’t even know why you say it, why you’re arguing. You’re just afraid, angry, at yourself more than anything.
His eyes darken. “Do whatever you want, then.”
He brushes past you and heads down the stairs, not bothering to look back up.
__________________________________________
You do in fact, sleep in your bed that night.
The quilt is scratchier than ever, an incessant discomfort that has you tossing and turning all night. It’s never stopped you from sleeping before, but for some reason, tonight is unbearable. You roll on your side, roll on your stomach, bury your face in the pillow and try not to scream.
You’d skipped dinner tonight, for the first time in two weeks. You didn’t want to see Joel, even when he knocked on the bedroom door to tell you it was ready. Even when you said you weren’t hungry, and his worried voice came through the wood.
“Look, you gotta eat, alright?”
“Not hungry, Joel. Thank you though. Really.”
“Is this about-”
“No, I swear.”
“Please?”
It had been hard to say no to that one.
Now, you lie in a suffocating mess of pillows, stomach growling, feeling utterly pathetic and weak. You used to go days with this feeling, gnawing, desperate hunger in your belly, and you persevered. Now, you’re so fucking spoiled you can’t even go to bed without dinner.
You don’t recognize this person you’re becoming. She’s a stranger, a woman of luxury, of contentment, dare you say happiness. She is not you, but some foreign intruder who’s taken over your body in an attempt to finally rid you of your last intact pieces until you’re nothing. Floating in essence, vanquished into an eternity of emptiness.
You rely on him, you depend on him. He feeds you, worries about you, watches you from the corner of his eye to make sure you’re alright. And you don’t know what to do with that. It makes you feel small, futile, like a burden. You know how to take care of yourself. It’s all you know.
So, you toss and turn.
When sleep comes, it brings with it dreams. Haunting memories, things you’ve tried to keep buried deep inside that small little cavern of your brain where bad things go.
The men come, late at night, in a group of six. You’re young, twelve you think. The outbreak has been going on for four years, and you think you’ve got it all figured out now. You’re going to get to this quarantine zone in Georgia, since your own fell. It’s all gonna be fine. Mom and Dad and your big brother Andrew, they’re here and it’s okay.
You’re trying to sleep, burrowed and shivering cold in your thin sleeping bag. Andrew is sitting beside you, one hand on your upper back, shushing your whimpers quietly. His sixteenth birthday was last week. Mom and Dad couldn’t do much on the road, not like you all used to when there was cake and candles and Spiderman gift wrap. Still, he seems older somehow, the last four years have aged him far more quickly than regular life did before the outbreak.
You’re close to the border, your parents say nearly out of South Carolina. It’s southern here, supposed to be warm, but the nights are brutal and unforgiving in the winter. You’re so used to the cold now you’d think you wouldn’t mind, but it aches your bones, freezes your limbs into a stunted position curled around yourself. You hate the cold, always have.
“You’re okay,” Andrew murmurs quietly, trying not to wake Mom and Dad. It’s his turn to watch. They’ve done rotating shifts for days now, until he put his foot down and demanded they both sleep substantially.
“M’cold,” you whine. You know you’re being a crybaby, and maybe once upon a time he would've teased you for it, but not now. You’re bundled up in your layers and sleeping bag while he sits upright against a tree, his thin windbreaker the only barrier between him and the cold. His gun is laid on his thigh, safety on, facing the opposite direction. Guns are a permanent part of your family’s accessorizing these days.
“I know,” he whispers in reply, “it’ll be warm in Atlanta. Just try to sleep.”
“I’m afraid,” you say, even though you’re embarrassed to admit it.
“Me too,” Andrew says, “but we’re all gonna be fine. We’ve made it this far, hm?”
You nod half-heartedly. “Yeah.”
“As long as we’re together, we’ll be okay. Alright?”
“Okay, yeah.”
“Get some sleep.”
“Okay.”
That’s the last thing you ever said to him.
They appeared from the trees, too quiet, too well hidden for Andrew to spot them in time. By the time one of the men got close enough to reach out and yank your sleeping bag up with you in it, he was out of time.
Andrew shot, blindly. He nailed the man who’d scooped you up, and you both fell to the ground. He cried your name, rushing toward you, and then another shot rang out. Andrew hit the dirt with a spurt of red liquid that splattered across your face.
You remember screaming. You remember your parents waking up, frantic. You remember fumbling around on the ground and grabbing Andrew’s gun, only to feel a vice grip on your arm. One of the men grabbed you, while your parents shot and fought off the others. Your mother screamed, and a body hit the ground. You struggled against the man’s hold as his greedy, chapped hands combed your adolescent body to see what of value you had.
“Nothin’ on this one!” he’d shouted, tossing you to the ground like you weighed nothing. Your head hit the hard dirt, and you found yourself even with Andrew’s face. Well, what was left of it.
“The lady had some ammo, there’s some stuff in these packs,” another man replied.
“What do we do with this one?” asked the man who grabbed you.
“Eh, she’ll die out here on her own anyway. Might as well put her out of her misery.”
That was the moment you knew you were going to die.
“Hold it,” another man said, “she’s a fucking kid, just leave her. We got what we needed.”
“Yeah she ain’t worth the bullet,” chimed in another man.
“I’ll choke her out,” one suggested.
“Just leave her,” a more commanding voice ordered, “grab this shit and let’s get going.”
You remember lying there in the darkness, watching the bits of chunky red substance leak from Andrew’s eye socket, waiting for someone to tell you what to do. Waiting for your parents to sit up and give you an order.
The night grew colder. You weren't strong enough to bury them, even move them on your own. For a long time, you just lay there, staring at Andrew. The image burned into your brain forever.
By the time the sun rose, your bones were so cold, lips blue, eyelashes stiff, you felt like you’d died right with them. Four corpses lying unceremoniously on a campsite. Rigor mortis set in early for you, a paralyzing terror of the next steps rendering you utterly immovable.
After a while, you got hungry.
Isn’t it funny, how that’s what motivated you to push your small body away from your brother’s hollowed face? Your own selfish need, your own emptiness, always threatening to swallow you whole.
The walk to Georgia left you breathless a lot. You stumbled, more than walked. Drank from streams the way your parents taught you, foraged for food as best as you could with no weapon besides the little knife holstered in your sock. You hid from infected and more raiders, using your small body to your advantage as much as possible.
When you finally made it to the giant cement wall of the QZ, it felt like you’d lost your breath forever. Your lungs rattled, air came in short, quick bursts, your throat ached from dehydration. Your legs didn’t work, not how they were supposed to.
You remember the FEDRA guards holding guns at you, a scanner to your neck, shoving you through the gates roughly. You remember telling them your family was gone. You remember lasting a week in the orphanage before you ran away, doing odd jobs for older QZ residents in exchange for places to stay.
Mostly, you remember Andrew’s face. You remember the biting cold contrasted with the warm splatter of blood on your face, you remember his insides leaking out, you remember wishing you could scream, but not having enough power in your lungs.
As long as we’re together, we’ll be okay.
You remember knowing that you would never be okay again.
The remembering hurts, restricts your lungs into a tiny little ball in your chest. You struggle to inhale, struggle to fill your sternum with necessary oxygen. It burns, the hunger for air with no satisfaction. The emptiness consumes you.
You gasp, you see Andrew’s face, it hurts, everything hurts.
Alone on a campsite, alone in the woods, alone in the QZ, alone on a cross-country trek, alone in a cold gas station.
A warm fire, mint on your tongue, tart lemonade down your throat, food in your belly. A dry chuckle in your ears, a steadying hand on your back, a comforting presence beside you.
Alone. Afraid. Broken. A burden. Couldn’t save your family, could barely save yourself-
A burden.
Alone.
Broken.
“Hey.”
A voice, low and urgent. Familiar, gentle but concerned.
You gasp.
Alone.
Burden.
Broken.
“Hey,” more insistent this time, “hey, wake up honey.”
You gasp, your body freed from its rigor mortis as you bolt upright, air circulating through your lungs like a broken fan blade. Your hands fly out, a desperate attempt to shield your face from whoever is currently saying your name.
“...breathe, breathe,” he’s saying to you, a little frantic, “s’okay, you’re okay, breathe.”
“Please,” you wheeze, but you don’t know what you’re begging for. There are tears in your voice, a fragile broken blossom of desperation.
“I know, I know baby, s’okay,” he’s touching you now, delicate fingers tracing up and down the protruding knobs of your spine. “Listen to my voice, darlin’. Take a deep breath for me, s’gonna be okay, I promise.”
You try to follow his example, try to steady your breathing to an even pace. He’s doing it for you, showing you how, patiently inhaling in a slow motion and letting it go in one soft exhale.
“I-I can’t,” you gasp, feeling hopeless, helpless, pathetic and like a burden in every sense of the word.
“Shh, yes you can honey. In, with me now, in.”
He inhales, slow, lowering himself to look up at your trembling frame perched on the bed. The sheet’s come up, the fading cream color of the mattress almost too bright in the dark room. Pale moonlight illuminates Joel’s face, scruffy beard, wrinkles around his gentle eyes, broad nose. His lips part, and he breathes in, keeping gaze with you.
You follow suit, inhaling in a choppy, half-hearted attempt at the smooth breath he’d accomplished.
“That’s good darlin’,” he nods at you, even though you know it wasn’t good. “You’re doin’ so good. Breathe out.”
You exhale in a stunted whoosh.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, “keep goin’.”
With his hand on your back, rubbing slowly, delicately, you fight to steady your breaths. Your eyes are wet, your lips trembling, his voice soothing in your ears. He’s saying all these things, all these nice, lovely, wonderful things that people don’t say to you.
“Attagirl, good job.”
“S’okay honey, you’re doin’ good, just breathe.”
“You’re okay, you’re safe, promise, I ain’t gonna let nothin’ hurt ya.”
Mercifully, you come back into your body, chest expanding the way it’s supposed to. Your fingers unclench from the tangled up sheets, aching from how tightly you’d been gripping.
Through a curtain of hair, you draw your eyes to him. He’s still there, rubbing your back, murmuring sweet nothings, keeping his own breathing steady.
Still there. He’s still there. You aren’t alone.
“Joel,” you gasp, and he moves toward you in an instant.
Large, warm arms pull you in. His chest, thick through his t-shirt, the steady thrum of his heartbeat a rhythm in your ear. His chin at the crown of your head, his breath in your ears. You curl up like that useless little girl in a sleeping bag, and cling to his shirt.
“M’here,” he whispers, “you’re okay, honey. Was just a dream.”
He’s here. He’s warm. He’s here and you’re safe and not alone. Four walls around you, a quilt underneath your cold legs, a kitchen full of food just down the stairs.
Panic leaks into your veins, memories of the road, cold and lonely and frightening.
As long as we’re together, we’ll be okay.
You want to tell him you’re afraid. You want to admit it; be forthcoming about just how damaged you are. You want to tell him just how heavily you’ve come to rely on his steadying presence, his warm food, his laugh, the way his eyes crinkle up and his teeth show when you make him happy.
You’re so, so scared. So alone, so petrified, not at all as tough as you’d like him to think.
But the last time you admitted you were afraid, you lost everything in the blink of an eye. Your own weakness, always your undoing.
“You’re okay,” Joel says into your hair, not realizing he’s speaking empty words into a hollow recipient, “I gotcha. You’re safe. I’m here.”
You can’t tell him how badly you want him to stay. That will only make him leave.
“Joel,” you repeat, breathless, unsure of what else to say.
“M’here honey.” He reaches down with one hand, cups your face in the rough of his palm, strokes his thumb over the delicate line of your cheekbone. And you feel safe.
Desperately, you lift your own trembling hands, taking his cheeks in them. He seems surprised, but doesn’t pull back, allowing you to explore with your own frail fingers. You trace the bridge of his large nose, the slope of his full lips, the broad jaw and stern forehead. His eyelashes flutter, and you move yourself closer, cradled in his arms, faces only inches apart.
“M’here,” is all he says. And you must be tired of hearing it, surely you must, but you can’t find that anywhere within yourself. All you feel is safe.
You don’t know exactly how it happens. Your face moves, his does too, hurried breaths and warmed air between you. His lips press into yours, soft and lush and tender. You don’t know who leaned in first, but you feel his caution, his carefulness as you deepen the kiss from something superficial to something that has meaning.
He allows you to part his mouth with your tongue, falling into one another as your noses bump. His grip tightens around you, and you’re awash in the smell of lemon soap and mint, the itch of the quilt beneath you, the squeak of a mattress underneath your combined weight.
After a few seconds, your lips part. Your noses touch, the frame of your foreheads making a heart against the shadows of moonlight through your window. His hands cup your face, rough and calloused, yet unbelievably gentle all at once. It’s as though his grasp is a shield, impenetrable and solid. You’ve never felt so safe, so cared for, so protected.
And so, so scared.
Now that you’re here, safe and cocooned in this warm house, this gentle society, the arms of this incredible man…
How can you ever let yourself love something that would hurt so badly if it were lost? You’ve done it before. You can’t do it again.
“D’you wanna talk about it?” Joel rasps, thumb still soothing small lines over your cheek.
You shake your head quickly, but the words spill out as if in spite of your body’s intentions. “Just… mm. My parents. My brother. Just-that’s all.”
“Oh,” he murmurs, “what…can I ask what-”
“Raiders. I was twelve.”
At this, he looks down at your face, brows furrowed. “You saw it?”
“Yeah, I got away. They let me go, I mean. After some debate.” You clear your throat, breathing settled and eyes drying with each word. You’re feeling grounded enough to be utterly humiliated. “Um, I’m really sor-”
“I know you ain’t about to apologize for havin’ a nightmare,” he interjects dryly.
“More for what happened afterward,” you mutter.
Joel’s fingertips tuck a lock of hair back behind your ear, even though it falls right back out again. “Now why on earth are you apologizin’ for that?”
Because I can’t stay.
Limply, you shrug.
He laughs, that low, dry sound. It smooths from his chest like a bass drum, reverberating in your ears. And you smile in spite of yourself, a small, gentle pull of your lips. You love making him laugh.
“Sorry I barged in,” Joel says, even though he’s still holding you in his lap like a stray dog.
“S’okay. Thanks for…thank you.”
“Don’t gotta thank me.”
“Be kinda rude if I didn’t.”
His lips twitch. “Can I ask you somethin’?”
“Okay.”
“Did you do that just now…kiss me…’cause you wanted to, or ‘cause you were upset?”
Swallowing thickly, you reply, “can it be both?”
“If it’s both, it’s both.”
“That’s fucking vague,” you grouse.
“Pot, meet kettle.” He smirks down at you.
“I’m sorry I kissed you,” you say.
“Don’t be,” he responds, “I’m not.”
You have nothing to say to that.
“You oughta get some rest.” Joel squeezes you once, then moves like he’s going to get up and leave.
Your fingers dart out to clench his shirt, gripping the soft cotton in vice like digits. Wild-eyed, you look up at him, terrified of being alone, terrified of seeing Andrew’s face again all night.
“Hey, easy.” Joel pries your fingers off his shirt. “You alright?”
“I-I-“ you stumble over the words, throat choking up. It’s all so confusing. You need to be away, pull back, stop this before it goes too far. At the same time, you’ve never needed to be close quite this badly.
“I can,” he answers a question you didn’t ask, “if you want.”
Limply, you nod.
“Go on then, scoot.” Joel gestures for you to make room on the bed, and you do. He adjusts the pillows and lies flat, opening his arm for you. You curl up at his side, cheek on his chest, listening to the steady heartbeat underneath the cotton shirt. He smells like lemon soap, and a faint musk of sweat from sleeping. It’s enticing, the mixture, and you don’t know why.
You press your face into his shirt, breathing in the security that this strange man somehow brings. You don’t know when the shift happened from him being a man you wanted to stab, to this, but it’s happened now. It’s too late to deny this: Joel means something to you.
“I’m sorry about what I said earlier,” you tell him quietly.
He hesitates. “You…didn’t say nothin’ bad. That was always the plan, for you to go out on your own darlin’.”
He’s right of course, that was the plan. For the past two weeks, all you’ve been doing is letting him take care of you. The end goal, ultimately, to help you become a functioning Jackson resident.
“But can I ask?” He continues, voice low and soft in the dark bedroom.
“Yeah?”
“Do you…do you want to leave? S’okay whatever you wanna do baby, just… that is what you want, right? To be on your own?”
As long as we’re together, we’ll be okay.
No, no, no I don’t want to be alone. Ever again. I want to stay with you forever.
“Yes,” you lie. It’s a lie. You’re so afraid. Why can’t you just tell him the truth? Why can’t you just let someone in? If it’s gonna be anyone…well, it’d be someone like Joel.
No. Not someone like Joel. Just Joel.
“So all that time on the road,” he adjusts your body slightly, tugging you up higher on his chest so that his chin rests on your head, “didn’t make you lonesome?”
An ache in your chest, sharp and spearing overwhelms you. “It-it did.”
“N’you like bein’ lonesome?”
The lie is on the tip of your lips before he says, “be honest, honey.”
“No,” you say, shoulders deflating.
“It’s hard,” he whispers, “lettin’ people in when you lost so much before. Believe me darlin’ I get that.”
“Then you know why I have to leave,” you tell him, desperate that he’ll understand, but also hoping that he’ll argue against it.
“I know why you think you gotta leave,” he corrects.
“This isn’t good for you anyway,” you’re shaking your head as you speak, fingers splayed out on his chest, “I’m a burden to you.”
At that, he manages a small, dry chuckle. You look at him, confused by what’s made him laugh.
“Honey, havin’ you here…well, I think I needed it just as much as you did. You got no idea how much I like watchin’ you eat what I cook, listenin’ to you hum in the shower ‘cause you’re too shy to sing, watchin’ you curl up by the fireplace with that damn quilt around your head like a sherpa.” His fingers come down to cup your jaw, tracing the line of bone that leads to the curve of your chin, up to the bow in your lips. “How nice it is havin’ a pretty girl around to talk to, someone smart, someone funny, someone who’s like me.”
“Like you?” you inquire.
“Mhm.” He presses the pad of his thumb against your lips, parting them slightly as he uses his finger to study the contours of your mouth. “Someone hurt, someone who thought they had no chance in this world. Someone who can get better, if she lets herself.”
Your throat feels tight. “I don’t know if I can.”
“You’re already doin’ it, baby.” He tilts your chin up with the meat of his palm, looking down at you through the silver streaks of moonlight. “Every day you get up, eat breakfast, and keep goin’. That’s all it is. Takin’ it one day at a time. Takin’ care of yourself. Letting yourself get better, slow n’ steady.”
You blink up at him, trying to process his words. You guess he has a point; two weeks ago you barely felt human, didn’t feel like you could ever belong in a place like Jackson, or somewhere like Joel’s home. But lately, through these routines of care, you’ve begun to feel…alive again. Still agonized by loss, still hopeless and confused and frightened, but something more than that too.
“You don’t gotta stay,” he assures you, “not if you don’t want to. But don’t go just ‘cause you’re scared. Ain’t no reason to punish yourself. Not when I like havin’ you around so much.”
“What if you get tired of having me around?” you ask weakly. It’s no far stretch; every other short term partner you’ve ever had got sick of you after enough time. Every adult you roomed with in the QZ kicked you out sooner or later. Nothing is permanent, especially not people.
“You think I could at least get a chance to prove myself ‘fore you go ahead and write me off?” He smiles down at you, hand still cupping your cheek. “I actually ain’t all that bad a guy.”
“No, no,” you’re quick to reassure, “Joel, you’re the most amazing man I’ve ever met. You are- you are a good guy. It isn’t that, it’s-”
“It’s not you, it’s me, honey, that one’s a little played out.” There’s gentle amusement in his voice.
With a groan, you start to pull away. “You’re impossible.”
“Hey, m sorry.” he pulls you back in, gentle but demanding, and you concede, all too eager to lay against his warm chest. “All I'm sayin’ is, no one’s asking you for your hand in marriage or nothing. Just…stick around for a while. Let me make sure you’re real healthy, ready to go. Get some meat on these bones. Get you feelin’ good. Might take some time. Two weeks ain’t much.”
“I’ve got meat,” you defend.
He snorts. “Me too.”
“Joel-”
“S’gonna take time, that’s all I’m sayin’. Just, stay, alright? Let yourself…have this.” Joel presses a firm kiss to the top of your head.
Finally, you exhale and find yourself nodding. Although it’s against your instincts, and better judgment, you know he has a point. How can you ever get better if you don't give yourself the opportunity?
“I don’t really know how to do this,” you admit, “I’ve never really…been a person before. Y’know what I mean?”
He makes a quiet noise of consideration. “Gimme an example.”
“Like, the apple juice,” you explain in a rambly sort of voice, “or the dishwasher. I don’t know how to do things like you do. I mean, fuck, I walked in on you in the shower today.”
At that, he clears his throat. You must be imagining it, but you’re sure you can hear some sort of…something in the noise.
“That kinda stuff takes time,” he replies quietly, “s’okay.”
You arch an eyebrow. “What else am I missing then?”
“You’d have to tell me that, honey.”
Abruptly, you remember his body, naked and wet from the shower. Something about him is so desirable; whether it’s simply the masculinity of his form; hairy and strong, the impressive endowment between his legs or something else, you aren’t sure. Could it be that he’s simply an attractive man, who’s kind and thoughtful and funny? Of course.
Could it be that everything about Joel represents what you’ve always wanted? The security of this home he’s created, the warmth of his fireplace and the way he’d thought to set out mint leaves for you to chew on? The heft of his body; his large shoulders, his thick thighs, his soft stomach, well fed and dense with nutrition. He is whole, broken pieces glued back together painstakingly to build back up this incredible man. This beacon of recovery, healing, strength and happiness.
What are you missing? Everything that Joel has, it would seem. The chance to finally become the way he is… to be okay again.
And…well, it’s also been a while since you had a good fuck. That wouldn't hurt either.
The thought is so ridiculous, so sudden and inappropriate, that it makes you laugh. A real laugh; a genuine, deep-chested sound of amusement that has Joel pulling back with surprise.
“Somethin’ funny?” he inquires, arching an eyebrow at you like you’ve lost your mind.
“No, m’sorry.” You press your fingers against your lips in a pathetic attempt to stifle the laughter. “So stupid.”
“What?” he demands.
“No it’s- god Joel it’s so ridiculous I can’t-”
“Oh, just tell me damnit.”
“I was just thinking, you know, what might help make me feel normal again. Haven’t had it in a while…” you look up at him expectantly.
It takes a moment for the message to land in his brain, and his eyes widen slightly. “Oh. I-I see.”
“Yeah…” you clear your throat quietly.
“Well, shit honey. All y’had to do was ask.”
Your eyes widen. “Pardon me?”
He takes your face in his hand again, tilting your chin and gently pulling your body until you’re face to face, noses brushing. His lips twitch, eyelashes sweeping over his cheekbones as he studies your face.
“Like I said,” he murmurs, “ain’t nobody proposing marriage or nothin’. But there’s no reason you can’t…enjoy yourself. If you want to, that is.”
“You…we…are you sure?”
“Ain’t nothin’ you haven’t already seen,” he quips.
You groan. “Joel.”
A low chuckle in his chest. “Sorry baby.”
“If you’re just gonna tease me the whole time, then you can go fuck yours-”
Your retort is cut off by his lips pressing into yours, and you startle a bit, though you don’t pull back. Your body melts, tension leaking out of your shoulders at the feel of his gentle mouth on yours.
And you’re consumed. There’s nothing else in that moment except for Joel.
His mouth on yours, his tongue pressing forward until it parts your lips. His body, thick and warm against your chest. The tangle of his graying hair, the way his breath grows more heavy when you intertwine your fingers with it and tug. His hands, one cupping your cheek, keeping you close, the other delicately beginning to roam your body.
And maybe it’s wrong; hooking up with him on the heels of a horrific nightmare about losing your family, or doing it after you told him you were going to leave, or doing it at all considering you barely know each other outside of these serene, isolated two weeks of eating and sitting by the fire and laughing.
But you want him, and he’s good and you want to be a person again. You want to eat meals and drink tea and sleep with a quilt and fuck often. You want to ride a hard dick, suck on a thick, veiny cock, be caged in an embrace of big bulging arms, hear the guttural moan of a man in your ear as he cums.
It’s a hunger, like any other. The way your stomach growled and gnawed for the relief of a hot meal, your body yearned to be filled too. That warm, wet space between your legs, at times so empty and vacant you thought you might just die from the need. Fulfillment, desperate for it in all its forms. Yearning, hunger, pleas to live a life where such simple pleasures are not only permitted, but taken with ease.
It won’t make you whole, it won’t heal your scars or fix your wounds. It won’t change what’s happened or secure your future.
But for a while, no matter how fleeting, it’s going to fill you up.
Isn’t that enough for someone who’s spent so long being hungry?
“C’mere,” he murmurs, so gentle, so soft, that it’s impossible not to do as he asks. You let him readjust you so you’re sitting on his lap, slender thighs spread around his thick ones, arms hanging off his neck, foreheads pressed together as he hungrily meets your lips again. He’s warm, heat radiating off his large body, and you instinctively lean in.
“Gonna make you feel good,” Joel’s words are muffled by the skin of your jaw as he leaves lingering kisses there, slowly traveling down to your neck. His tongue flicks delicately at the column of your throat, eliciting a small moan from your lips.
It’s been so long since you’ve been touched…
“God, you’re so pretty baby.” His fingers slide into the neckline of your nightshirt, which is really just one of his. It’s so large on you that you wear it as more of a dress, the only thing guarding your intimate areas from the outside world is your solitary pair of underwear, that’s been washed to death as you wait for more fabric to come into Jackson’s seamstress to make more. You’ve been going commando a lot.
It’s your immediate instinct to argue; you haven’t been pretty for a while, you’re not sure if ever. Survival is all you know; not caring for yourself or putting effort in to appear beautiful.
But what’s the point, anyway? He’s here, he’s seen you for what you are, and he wants to make you feel good. What does it matter if you’re pretty?
Though… you do like the way it sounds coming off his lips.
“Can I…” his lips explore the small patch of skin on your neck that’s exposed above the shirt, “can I take this off, honey?”
He’s tugging lightly on the shirt, asking your permission, even though in every way you’ve really already given it. You hesitate only briefly, concerned about the state of your sickly body. Then, you nod.
Calloused hands moving with a practiced tenderness, he bunches the shirt up at the hem and carefully slides it over your head, exposing your breasts and abdomen. You hear his sharp intake of breath, feel the warmth of it washing over your skin, and for a moment you’re paralyzed with fear.
He doesn’t like what he sees. How could he? You’ve become something inhuman. Scars, bones poking through flesh, discolored bruises. You’re something so ugly and unsightly that-
“Jesus, baby, you’re beautiful.” The pad of his hand smooths out to cup your breast, his thumb brushing elegantly over the bud of your nipple, which is rapidly coming to life from the sensation. “Lookin’ so healthy these days, so so pretty. You feel better?”
Robotically, you nod. “Y-yeah.”
“Love gettin’ to feed you, baby. Watchin’ you eat my food, gettin’ healthy n’soft.” He leans in, cradling your back to keep you upright as his warm lips explore the expanse of your chest, kissing down your sternum until he replaces his thumb on your nipple with his mouth.
And he’s right, you think as you look down critically at your form. You’ve put on weight, surely not enough, not yet. But… you’re softer now, edges rounded out to a more gentle plush, knobby knees more full, bony hips more tender, slender thumb joints smoothed out.
And you do feel better. Not dizzy or aching all the time, not sore or struggling to sleep from the pain, not burning from dehydration or growling from hunger.
You’re almost there, almost as full as a person can be. So, so close.
“I like it too,” you breathe, the last word pitching up with a surprised noise as his teeth graze across your nipple. A pleasant, but unexpected motion.
“That okay honey?”
“Mmm…yes…”
“Gonna make you so soft n’happy,” he murmurs, almost more to himself than you, you think, “gonna take care a’you.”
“Okay,” you whimper, pliant in ways you’ve never been with a partner before.
You aren’t sure why, because he’s just sitting there, kissing you and holding you and telling you all of these kind things, but you feel the pooling of tension in your lower belly and the beginnings of a wet patch on your panties. It’s bizarre; other than teasing your nipple he hasn’t done much in the way of sexual advances, yet from his touch and his words alone, you need him.
And you didn’t imagine it, that his cock was big. You can feel it beneath your spread thighs, through his boxers and sweatpants, the thick girth and diamond hard weight of it pressing into the fabric.
The heat between your legs feels almost unbearable now, the growing need and tension from his ministrations of your nipple spurring you on. Your fingers tangle in the wavy hair atop his head, and you feel his lips curve into a smile around your breast.
“Mind if I take this off?” he asks, removing his lips from your skin to tug at his own shirt. You nod quickly, eagerly, watching him slide it over his head.
In the soft glow of moonlight, the contours of his body are illuminated like the artful scenes of a movie. The tendons and muscle in his large arms, bulging and pulsing each way he moves, the clench of his jaw beneath his well-groomed beard, the mapping of dark hair over his thick chest. His stomach is full, wide and round and healthy, a sturdy man in every sense of the word. A big, meaty body to match that huge cock in his pants. It’s only fitting, you think as you admire the large score of his body. He’s scarred too, like you are, the lines and wrappings of a survivor beaten into his flesh.
“Ain’t as trim as I used to be,” he remarks offhandedly, though you think you sense a beat of hesitation in his words.
Your delicate fingers trail between his pecs, smoothing the hair down there until you reach the place beneath his belly button where the hair connects to his boxers. You tug experimentally at the hemline of his pants, eyeing the desperate thing there that begs to be freed. You watch his breathing pace up, his stomach and chest moving in synchrony with each hurried breath.
So big, so full and warm and secure. Solid and strong, an impenetrable wall around you.
“You’re perfect,” you tell him, and you don’t just mean his body.
He ducks his head then, surely embarrassed by the praise, and buries his face in your neck once more. His lips and teeth graze the skin there, sucking and biting and kissing, leaving little wet spots as he moves along.
His large hands grip your hips then, lifting you with such ease it’s almost startling. He heaves you upward and then gently lays you on your back, head against the mound of pillows pushed up on the headboard. Your legs splay out before you and he positions himself above, careful not to lower his weight on to yours.
His lips return to your neck, dancing slowly down between your breasts, kissing the scarred flesh of your stomach and hips, teeth bumping into the cotton of your panties. His eyes dart up to you when he reaches them, eyebrow quirking. A question. He’s asking for permission.
You nod, too eager you’re sure.
“So pretty…” he breathes, pressing his lips to the wet fabric of your panties, eyes closing as he tastes the flowing liquid through the cotton. “‘Bout lost my cool when I saw these little things hangin’ off your pack, darlin’. Wondered what they’d look like on you, wondered what they’d look like off you…” He kisses the wet patch again, which makes your legs tense up, and slides his finger into the hemline, murmuring thoughtfully.
“Don’t fit so good anymore,” he notes, and you realize he’s right. There’s a pinch of fabric at your thigh that wasn’t there before, the mark of underwear too tight. It leaves little indents on your skin when he pulls at it, angry red marks that line the contours of your body.
“You’ve been feeding me too much,” you manage.
He chuckles at this, deep and throaty. “I think we can do better, even.”
With that, he carefully glides the panties down your legs, the stickiness of your arousal clinging to the cotton until he finally separates it from your ankles. He holds it up, admiring the damp fabric. He balls it up in his hand, and then presses it to his nose with a deep, hungry inhale.
You blink, surprised. You’ve never had a partner…do that before.
Joel’s eyes open, underwear still pressed to his nose and mouth. You can see the twitch of his jaw, the smile on his lips even though it’s hidden by your wet underwear, and it does something odd to you.
He wants you so bad, is so hungry for you that he’s taking in every piece he can, breathing in your smell, your taste, even where it clings to the underwear that used to fit you and no longer does.
It makes you need, the way he wants you. It makes you ache desperately, makes you yearn and hunger for him too. Being wanted, being desired, it’s not something you’re used to.
“Smell so nice, honey,” Joel mutters, “bet you taste even better. So sweet, so wet.” He lowers himself between your legs, grabbing your thighs in his large hands, fingers pressing into the meat.
It’s a reflex for your legs to tighten up, tension pooling at the sight of a relatively new man between them. He pauses, noticing your trepidation, and glances up at you without moving forward.
“Hey, you okay honey?” his voice is measured, composed.
You nod.
“You sure? Talk to me baby, I gotta make sure you’re alright. You here with me?”
“I want you,” you manage, “please, Joel, I want it.”
“I’ll take real good care of ya’,” he promises you in that low, sultry drawl, “be real gentle. Treat you real nice.”
You’re nodding, already lost in whatever it is he plans to do to you. You feel a brief stab of insecurity for the state of your body hair, and you want to tell him as much, but you’re afraid it’ll kill the moment.
He doesn’t seem to mind, either way, lips pressing into your inner thighs, seeming completely heedless of the thick hair there. He pulls your body closer, gripping your hips in his strong hands, bringing your dripping cunt closer.
Joel’s head drops down, lips covering a delicate pattern on your lower belly, gliding easily over the soft hair on your pelvis, finding his mouth at your lips. Experimentally, he smooths his tongue over the wet slit there, glancing up when the action makes you inhale sharply.
His eyes are teasing, mouth quirked up in a small smile. Teasing, cocky, mischievous.
“You’re g-gonna have to do better than that,” you tell him with a small curve to your lips.
“There’s that smile,” he muses, before burying his face between your legs again.
And there’s no ability to think of anything else, because he’s there. His tongue, expert and well practiced, running whirlpool motions over the bud of your clit, sucking and kissing and licking hungrily at the dripping bellow of your opening.
Every sense is alight, each breath you take heavy with elation. The bundle of nerves between your lips is in overdrive, tensing and pulsing with desperate need as he gets you closer and closer. His tongue works miracles, the speed altering at just the right moment, switching his motions at just the right interval, lapping up your sopping liquids with his tongue like a starving man at a buffet.
“Taste so fuckin’ good, baby girl,” he groans into your wet folds, “such a pretty little cunt, so wet and soft for me.”
“For you…” you echo in a whine, fists gripping the sheet that’s come up off the mattress again.
The noises are obscene, the wet squelch of his tongue against your body, the almost frantic way he devours you. Hands holding your trembling legs in place despite the way you tense and move from the sensations, face buried against your wet center, the mess of liquid dampening his face and your thighs and the sheets underneath.
You cum with a whining cry, a noise you didn’t know a person like you could make. It’s an innocent sound really, despite the debaucherous context. A noise of pure, primal pleasure, ripped from deep within your chest, a release and elation you haven’t felt in…you’re not sure if ever.
Knees clenched around his head, you’re expecting him to pull back now that you’ve gushed more fluid onto his face. But dutifully, he keeps eating. He drinks you in, the overstimulated, swollen clit beneath his lips is begging for relief, pleading to rest, but he doesn’t let it.
Joel is hungry, and he won’t leave until he’s satisfied. Until you’re both satisfied.
“Taste so good when you cum for me,” he breathes when he pulls his lips back for air, “so sweet n’wet. Cum on my face, darlin’, do it again. Wanna eat you, all of you. So wet f’me baby.”
You think you cry his name, you aren’t sure, but you rip your fingers through his thick hair, tighten your thighs around his face, tears budding at the corners of your eyes from the ruthless sensation between your legs.
Then, a thick finger, gentle and careful probing at your entrance. He slides it in just a bit, moving with caution and curiosity. You buck your hips toward him eagerly, the desperate clench of your wet cunt around nothing is almost too much to bear.
Slight relief as he glides his finger in all the way, pumping it gently in and out, back and forth to get a feel for the tightness of your slick walls. It’s been so long since anyone touched you this way, since you had anything substantial inside you, and Joel’s got the biggest fingers of any man you’ve ever met.
“That feel good baby?” he grunts as his lips ghost over your pulsing clit and his index finger smooths inside of you, “hurtin’?”
“No, good, good,” you pant.
“Good girl, attagirl.” He kisses your clit again and your hips buck once more, but he pins them down with his other hand. A second finger inside of you, matching the pace of his first, stretching you around the thick width of his digits. Preparing you for what’s to come, the massive, hard cock that’s going to spear you against the headboard.
Fuck, fuck.
“Joel,” you groan his name, feeling his fingers curl up in a crude little gesture inside you, coursing against your walls, brushing up against that place that makes you feel like you’re going to erupt. “Joel, Joel….”
He hums a low sound, lips and tongue still violently, rhythmically devouring your wet cunt. Between the pulsing thickness of his fingers, and the circular motions of his tongue on your clit, it’s not long before you white out. The pleasure is too intense, too sudden and overwhelming. It’s too much, too much, more than you’ve ever had before.
Tears track down your cheeks against your will, your chest heaves with desperate, panting breaths. Your fingers have gone numb from their vice grip on the sheets, legs aching as they spread around his head to give him easier access, not a shred of resistance in your body as you submit to his expert touch.
And it happens again, more intense this time. A black film teases the corners of your eyes, a devastatingly intense pooling in your stomach and through your cunt, a pulsing, thready explosion of pleasure bursting through you.
You soak his face, legs jerking, hips convulsing, voice raw from crying out. The feeling is so intense that it dizzies you, your head floating off your body and spinning into a whirlwind somewhere in outer space.
Joel licks it all up, tongue dragging across your drenched inner thighs, gliding across the shimmering wet slit of your lips, sucking on the raw skin until it’s nearly unbearable. Then, his wet mouth is moving, kissing up your thighs, the slope of your hips, your stomach and your breasts, sucking on your nipples and cupping them in his rough palms.
Once he reaches your ear, teeth grazing the lobe, voice gruff, he whispers, “you with me, baby?”
You whine a small sound, feeble and needy. You feel the curve of his lips into a smile where they’re pressed into your ear, and he kisses your temple, lingering there.
“M’gonna take these off, hm?” he slides a hand down toward his sweats, where you can see the large, intimidating shape of his hard dick outlined.
God, you need it, you need it like you’ve never needed anything in your life. So many years spent hungry, never realizing just how painful it could truly be to want something and be empty of it.
Your pulsing, desperate pussy aches for him, dripping with the evidence of his prowess. Your thighs clench around nothing, pleading, begging, needing to be filled with whatever he can give you.
Joel slides the pants off, boxers following suit, and your eyes widen a bit at the sight of his large cock springing forward. There’s a well-groomed crop of hair at the nape, heavy, even balls framing the thick protrusion of his shaft. The tip, angry and red, dripping with his need.
“Joel, let me-” you make a move to take it in your mouth, but he stops you with a gentle shush.
“No baby, just you tonight.” He lowers himself back above you, the hard tip just barely brushing your sopping cunt.
A synchronized moan fills the air, both of you shuddering at the teasing contact. Holding himself upright on his thick, powerful arms, he lowers his forehead to yours, noses bumping. His lips ghost against your own, and you kiss him greedily, whining into the touch as his dick presses against you once more.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, “you wan’ me to fuck you, honey?”
You nod desperately.
“Talk to me, honey.” His lips press delicately right beside your mouth, smoothing his large nose over the supple skin of your cheek. “Tell me what you want, hm?”
“I-I want you,” you croak, voice frail and shattered, “want you inside me, Joel. Want you to fuck me. Fill me up, fill me with you. Please, please. I need it.”
He smiles down at you, no trace of teasing or mischief there, only a genuine, earnest warmth. Gradually, his hips roll into you, pushing just the slightest bit of him inside. You shudder, gasping at the beginning of the stretch.
“Gotta go slow, honey,” he breathes, eyes closing as if in concentration, “don’ wanna hurt you.”
“N-no, I don't care,” you insist.
“I do, baby. Gonna take care of you, promised. I got you. I got you. You’re safe with me.” His lips warm against your collarbone, kissing wetly there as his hips inch forward, shoving more of himself inside.
The stretch is intense, painful despite how wet and glistening you are for him. The head of his cock, fat and dripping, grunts into you with restrained desperation. His thighs push forward, hips moving slowly, slowly, giving you time to adjust, giving you all the focus and care and attention.
Finally, mercifully, he bottoms out, both of you groaning out a noise of agonized want. Your thighs are speared apart by his wide body, balls of your feet digging into his lower back. His arms cage you in, one hand flat on the mattress to prop himself up, careful not to put any of his massive weight on your light frame, the other touching you. Your breasts, your cheek, your hair, your lips, every part of you he can see he explores while he allows you to adjust to the heavy weight of his dick inside of you.
It’s huge, spreading you and stretching you so intensely that you’re grateful for his godlike patience. You feel it bumping up inside, tip scraping the mouth of your womb, almost enough that you swear you could touch it through your belly.
“So big, Joel,” you tell him, your voice a thready imitation of your usual cadence, “so big n’strong…so nice…”
“I got you baby,” he cups your cheek, bending his body down to kiss you lightly. The movement sheaths his cock forward inside, and you both groan.
“Please,” you beg, “please fuck me…please fill me up. Want you to fill me with your cum. Keep me full forever.”
“Fuck, fuck, honey girl,” he bites at your lip, pulling hard between his teeth until he draws blood. He licks across the soft pink flesh, taking more of you into him; the thin red line decorating his tongue before he swallows it up like a good boy.
Then, his hips grind into yours and you let out a shrill noise, a wounded animal crying out. He moves, slowly at first, allowing your body to stretch around him, getting used to the impact of his impressive girth.
Quickly, he picks up the pace.
You’re begging at this point, nails raking down his thick back, teeth gritting into the hot meat of his shoulder, feet forcing his hips into you. He grunts your name, spits curses into the soft flesh of your neck, grinds and pounds his hips against yours so hard it feels as though he really could split you in two.
But split, you do not. Rather, you become more. Full, whining and screaming his name, sated and hungry all at once. Desperate and satisfied simultaneously. A hungry, soaking little mess underneath this massive man. This man who at first glance, had tried to kill you, a favor you quickly returned.
A man who’s done nothing for the past two weeks but try to make you whole. A man giving you all the pieces of himself he can spare to try and mend your broken ones. A man who knows what it’s like to fall apart and be put back together again.
He sees you; scarred flesh, fear, loneliness, all your worst, all you have, and he takes you as his own.
“Goddamnit,” he growls into your skin, “so fuckin’ tight baby, so good…so wet f’me…so tight, fuckin’ gripping me baby.”
Your nails dig deeper into his back, which only seems to spur him on. His hips somehow continue their breakneck pace, pounding against your deepest point so hard that it makes your head feel floaty all over again.
“Feel so good, you okay baby?” his lips against your skin are slurred, sloppy and greedy.
You nod, nod your head so fast you feel dizzy, and he laughs a little breathlessly. Then, you feel the rough pad of his thumb move from your face down to your clit.
You do white out then, with the combination of his hard, massive dick spearing you against the pillows, and the grind of his thumb against your swollen clit. The sensations are overwhelming, so intense, too intense. Your legs clench around his waist, and you let out a low, guttural scream.
“Fuck,” Joel gasps, eyes shutting as his rolling hips grow sloppier, less rhythmic, “fuck baby, fuck, fuck you just came all over my cock. God, so fuckin’ tight, so good so good honey, m’gnonna-fuck-”
And you’re full. The hunger, the emptiness, it all fades away in that instant.
Joel empties himself inside you, cock jerking and pulsing against your throbbing walls. He groans deep in his throat, cursing and grunting as he fills you up, liquid gushing out over your pelvis and thighs.
It takes a few moments for both of you to come down, his spent cock still sheathed inside your warmth. He hovers over you, and you feel one of his hands cup your cheek, fingers tracing slow lines across the bridge of your nose.
“Baby,” he breathes raggedly, “talk to me.”
“M’fine,” you assure him, though you feel like you’re on another planet.
“You sure? Everythin’ okay? Didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“You’re stupid,” you tell him.
At that, he snorts. “Yeah, you’re fine.”
He moves to detangle himself from you, but your legs clench around him, arms clasping desperately around his neck. He’s so warm, so solid and safe, and you’re so full.
“They used to have a word for this,” he muses quietly, jerking his chin toward the cage of your legs around his waist, “think they called it baby trappin’.”
“As if you couldn’t get off right now if you wanted,” you mutter.
“Already did that, sweet.”
“Okay, you know what, get the f-”
He presses into you again, and you’re silenced by the low moan that slips from your mouth at the pressure of his heft inside you, even soft and spent. He smiles, teeth digging into his lower lip as he looks down at you with admiration.
“M’gonna make you a real nice breakfast tomorrow,” he says matter-of-factly.
“That so?” You arch an eyebrow, amused at the ridiculous attempt at conversation he’s making with his dick literally still inside of you. “What’s the Joel Miller Morning After Special look like?”
“Waffles, homemade batter ‘course. Blueberries, the ones we been savin’. Big ole jug of apple juice, just for you.”
“Just for me?” You smile faintly at him.
“Just for you,” he confirms, “whatever you want, just for you.”
A small laugh drifts from your lips. “Well, that’s very nice of you.”
“So you ain’t leavin’?” he asks, a note of hope in his voice.
“No.” You shake your head. “Think I'll stick around and annoy you for a while.”
He brushes a lock of hair behind your ear with the pads of his fingers. It stays put this time.
“I’d like that, darlin’.” His teeth flash white in the darkness again. “Think I could go for a little somethin’ now actually. You need anything? Some water?”
You nod, fighting the instinct to get up and get it yourself. Maybe, just maybe it’s okay to let someone else take care of you once in a while. Even if it’s something as simple as a glass of water.
“Sounds great,” you admit, wincing slightly at the pull as he finally slides out of you with a sopping noise. You don’t even want to look at the mess on the sheets.
“How about a snack?” he asks. “You hungry?”
And you look at him, sliding his t-shirt on over his sweat-slicked body, reaching for a towel on your rack to pass toward you. So gentle, so caring, so tender and pragmatic all at once.
You aren’t alone. You’re warm, and full, and for the first time in a long time, you’re happy.
“No,” you tell him in earnest, “I’m not hungry.”
“You sure?”
You nod, managing another smile for him. Surely, he’ll add it to his annoying internal tally.
“I’m sure. I actually…I actually feel pretty full.”
What a wonderful feeling it is.
#dontlooknow#joel miller#joel miller smut#joel miller x reader#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller x you#pedro pascal characters#tlou#the last of us#joel tlou
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@jewishvoiceforpeace
"Last night, on the 8th night of Hanukkah, JVP chapters shut down 8 bridges and highways in 8 cities to say: No business as usual while the US is funding and arming the genocide of Palestinians.
In Philadelphia, Washington DC, Atlanta, Chicago, Minneapolis, Portland, Seattle and Los Angeles—with San Diego as the shamash—thousands shut down rush hour traffic with banner drops, candle lightings and giant handmade ceasefire menorahs demanding an immediate lasting ceasefire, an end to the siege on Gaza, and full Palestinian freedom.
This week, the Israeli military bombed whole families, executed parents and children sheltering in a school at point blank range, stripped and blindfolded men for humiliation, kidnapped the leaders of the Jenin Freedom Theater, starved over a million people searching for bread, and sung the Shema—one of the holiest of Jewish prayers—through the loudspeaker of a West Bank mosque they took over. Over 25,000 children in Gaza have now lost one or both parents.
There can be no business as usual while the US funds and fuels this unspeakable cruelty. This Hanukkah, we commit to going bigger and bolder until the Israeli government’s genocidal war on Palestinians ends. This Hanukkah, we take back our thousands-year old Jewish tradition from a 75 year-old apartheid regime that carries out war crimes in our name. This Hanukkah, we heed the words of Grace Paley, that “the only recognizable feature of hope is action.” Action for an end to the genocide of Palestinians. For a future where every person is safe and free. And we recommit: We will never give up fighting for it."
Photo Credits:
Seattle - Logan Price
Philadelphia - @rayephoto
Los Angeles - @slamrich
JVP Portland
JVP DC Metro
Chicago - Peter Lysongo
JVP Twin Cities
JVP Atlanta
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The Country Doctor, Chapter 1: A Fresh Start
Pairing: Dr. Leonard “Bones” McCoy x F!Reader (eventual). Other Characters are the usual suspects: Jim Kirk, Nyota Uhura. Spock, Montgomery Scott, Hikaru Sulu, Pavel Chekov (to be introduced in later chapters.) OMC's Travis Myers and Miles Cooper.
Word Count: 4530
Warnings: Divorce, break-up, ruthless businessmen, mentions of infidelity, but mostly fluffy (for now)
Summary: Fresh off of his divorce, Dr. McCoy receives word that he has inherited a 5,000-acre farm and home in Logan, Montana. Finally, he has an opportunity for a clean slate and to start his own clinic out west and leave his ex-wife behind. Along the way, he'll meet a cast of unique characters, each with a place in his new small-town life. But there could be trouble ahead in the form of a powerful CEO hell-bent on acquiring Leonard's property by any means necessary.
A/N: This idea was posted by @hailbop1701, with a specific list of plot points/dialog to be included. I won't put the list here, because it'll give away too much. Not sure how many parts there'll be, but I hope you like where I take the story.
A/N 2: If you’ve been tagged here, it’s because you’ve interacted one or more times on a McCoy story of mine, or we’re moots. Whether you like or reblog, I am eternally grateful for your support. If anyone else would like to be tagged on any future Karl Urban character postings, or would rather leave the Crazy Train, please let me know. Thank you, and enjoy the show!
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"Court is adjourned."
That was the declaration eight weeks ago, when Dr. Leonard H. McCoy sat at a table with his attorney in the Fulton County Courthouse in Atlanta, Georgia. The Honorable Judge Michael Simmons had just pounded his gavel on the bench to signify an end to the McCoy v. McCoy divorce proceedings. Unfortunately, his now-ex-wife, Jocelyn, had the better attorney, which resulted in a somewhat less-than-equitable division of their assets.
At least Leonard was able to keep his vintage pickup truck and the 4-bedroom, 2 bath, ranch-style home he had lived in with Jocelyn. She basically got everything else in the settlement, though, including most of the furniture. She didn't technically need the furniture, since she was moving in with her new boyfriend. However, he had a rental property that needed furnishings, so that's where they went.
Two weeks after the divorce was finalized, Leonard received correspondence from a law firm in Montana, with a request for his presence. The letter did not specify the reason for the request, and when he called the law office, no one was authorized to divulge any information. He didn't want to find himself on the wrong side of the law and besides, he was more than a little curious. Luckily, the law firm had a satellite office in Atlanta, so that's where he attended the meeting.
An hour or so after the meeting ended, a slightly dazed Leonard walked out of the attorney's office with a file folder and a property deed in his hand. The meeting was for the reading of the will for his distant uncle, Walter McCoy. Around 5,000 acres of land in Montana along with an old craftsman-style farmhouse were bequeathed to him to do with as he pleased. There were also various outbuildings on the property, such as a machine shed, a barn with a hay loft, and horse stables.
He had options. There was an Eastern conglomerate, NorthStar Corp, that was willing to pay a more than fair price to buy it from him, lock, stock, and barrel. With what they were offering, Leonard wouldn't have to worry about money for the foreseeable future, if ever. Or, he could make the break from Georgia and his ex-wife with her boy-toy to make a go of it in Logan, Montana. Although Leonard wanted to stay near his mother, Eleanora, he had to consider that this was his chance to start over somewhere else.
When he told his best friend, James T. Kirk, about his inheritance, Jim could hardly contain his excitement. He considered it to be the start to a great adventure and was more than willing to accompany Leonard.
Jim had no family ties to speak of, preferring to live a sort of nomadic existence. He even offered to take turns driving the moving truck the 1,900 or so miles to Montana. "Good music, good snacks, and good company are all we need to get us to our destination, Bones," Kirk told him with a wide grin.
The more Leonard thought about it, the more he warmed up to the idea of starting somewhere new. A place where he wouldn't have to worry about running into someone who knew about the divorce and wouldn't hesitate to share an opinion about it. So, with Jim's help, he cleared his house out of any remaining items, put them in storage, then contacted a realtor to list it for sale.
After only a few showings, a deal was quickly closed, with a $30,000.00 profit in his bank account to show for it. Leonard and Jim loaded up his remaining possessions into the moving van, hooked up a car trailer with Leonard's pickup truck on it, and headed west to Montana. The pair made a few stops along the way, renting a hotel room to rest for the night before hitting the road again the next morning.
The more miles Leonard put behind him, the more comfortable and free he felt with his decision. He wasn't too keen on leaving his mother behind, but she assured him that she would be fine, even encouraged him to take this leap. He made a note to send her a plane ticket so she could visit once he got settled.
Nearly four days and more than 1,900 miles later, Leonard turned into the gravel driveway that led to his new home. It was a charcoal gray with white trim craftsman-style farmhouse with a tall, red brick chimney on one side. The wooden wrap-around porch was accented with white, tapered columns, set on top of the slotted railing framing the area. He appreciated the large windows, which would bring in a good amount of natural light, as well as soft breezes on lazy summer days.
"Well? Is it everything you expected?" Jim asked.
"I didn't exactly know what to expect, Jim. I don't even remember either of my parents ever mentioning an 'Uncle Walter McCoy'. He isn't someone I knew well enough for him to leave me something like this, but I'll do my best to make the most of it. From what I've seen so far, though, at least the outside looks fine," Leonard replied.
"That's the spirit, Bones! Let's go have a look at the grounds, then inside the house. After that, we can start unloading your stuff," Jim grinned as he scrambled out of the truck.
Leonard stepped down from the driver's seat and closed the door. "Sure, Jim. Why not," he muttered to himself. He fished the house keys out of his pocket on his way up the porch steps. The front door was made of solid oak with a dark finish and leaded glass panels arranged in a geometric design. He inserted the key into the lock and tilted his head back. "Here goes nothin', I guess," he murmured, pushing the door open.
***
At just after 2:00pm, you stopped by the post office to retrieve your mail that had piled up over the last couple of days. Before you left, you strolled up to the counter to chat with your best friend, Nyota Uhura. Her shift was almost over, so she suggested the two of you meet for coffee and a snack at the Java Station Café on Main Street.
While you waited for her at the café, you thought about how you met her and what brought you back to Logan, Montana. Your now-ex-boyfriend, Travis Myers, had convinced you to move with him from Logan to Bozeman. He'd landed a lucrative position as in-house counsel for a large and powerful corporation. You found work at a tech company doing data entry work for a medical office. Not too terribly taxing nor was it what you wanted for a career, but it paid well.
Around the six-month mark of living together in the big city, Travis started coming home later and later in the evening. Missed date nights and other outings were becoming more frequent, with him coming to bed late and leaving before you woke up. Whenever you tried to talk to him about it, he always chalked it up to working late on a big case or project, so you let it go.
The last straw was when the two of you were supposed to meet a few of your friends for dinner. Since he was late picking you up from home, you asked one of them to drive you to the restaurant. From the lobby, you called Travis and told him to meet you there.
Just before you said your goodbyes, you heard, "Come back to bed, baby, I'm cold" in a woman's voice. You were furious, demanding to know who the woman was and how long he had been seeing her. After first denying everything, he ultimately confessed it was his assistant and it had been going on for about six weeks. You felt your world collapsing around you at his admission. Dinner was forgotten while your friends drove you back to the apartment to pack up your belongings.
You couch-surfed for about a month before finding an apartment back in Logan, where you had previously lived with your parents. Because Travis paid for most of the expenses such as rent and utilities, you were able to save up quite a nest egg to cover your new living situation. However, you weren't sure how much longer your savings would hold out, so you decided to look for a job to make ends meet.
The bell above the door tinkled, and Nyota rushed over to your table. After a brief hug, you both sat down and waited for your server to appear and take your order. Uhura was practically vibrating with energy, which meant she had something exciting to share. A few minutes later, with your order submitted, she spilled her secret.
"You'll never guess what happened today!" she exclaimed. "Two men came in today to file a change of address card."
You snorted. "That sounds like something that happens every day around here, Nyota, not that interesting. You're nearly jumping out of your skin about this. What is so compelling about them that has you barely able to sit still long enough to tell me?"
Uhura made a face at you to show her displeasure. "If you can keep from insulting me, I'll tell you," she pouted. You held up your hands in surrender as her cue to continue. "They moved here from Georgia, and one of them has the most tantalizing Southern accent. They were both tall, one blond hair with striking blue eyes, and the other dark hair and hazel eyes. He seemed a little grumpy at first, but Blue Eyes was the more charming of the two," she explained.
"Did you get a look at their new address, the one here?" you asked.
"The one with dark hair listed his name as Dr. Leonard H. McCoy, and his address matched the one for Walter McCoy's place," she replied.
Now she had your attention. Every so often, you drove by the farm, wishing you lived there instead of your small, one-bedroom apartment. You had thoughts about what it would be like to buy the place one day so you could fix it up and return it to some of its old glory. You'd heard through the grapevine that the owner passed away a few months back. It was also mentioned that ownership would pass to his only other living relative.
"I've always thought about that place, what it looks like inside, how I would spruce it up. Wait a minute, did you say Doctor McCoy?" you squeaked.
"And her brain has finally caught up with her mouth," Uhura joked. "I was wondering when you'd catch on to that tidbit of information. That house has a separate office space, ideal for treating patients. Word travels fast in this town, and once folks get to know there's a doctor in town again, Dr. McCoy is bound to need help. You know, with paperwork or coordinating treatment of his patients. Know anyone with those kind of skills?" she grinned.
In addition to your data entry job, you had acquired some basic medical training. The town had a couple of paramedics within the Volunteer Fire Department for the more serious cases. For now, it was enough, but it would be nice for the vacancy to be filled, especially by a handsome doctor. "Hmm. Maybe I should head out that way, introduce myself, see if he needs any help." Beg him for a job, you silently added.
"That's the spirit! If you're done with your coffee, we should drive out there and check things out. You in?" she held out her hand for you to shake.
After draining the last of your cappuccino, you nodded and shook her hand. "I'm all in," you declared.
***
Leonard and Jim wandered the property, taking in the condition and contents of the outbuildings. Many of the machines and tools were left behind. They noted which items were and were not still functional, to determine what could be easily returned to service or sold for parts. The good news was, the buildings themselves were structurally sound, although at least in need of a new outer coat of paint.
As for the house itself, Leonard was pleased to find a side entrance that led to an office, set apart from the main house. It was perfect for starting his clinic, with a small area that could function as a waiting room, and enough space for a reception desk. He made a note to check in town for a secondhand store to pick up a desk, some chairs and other furnishings.
Jim joked and told him that all he needed now was a pretty receptionist who could also perform nursing duties. Leonard glared at him in response, reminding him that after the way divorce went, he wasn't at all interested in dating. "Just doctorin'," he affirmed. "Maybe fishin', if the winds are just right," he added with a smirk.
A tour of the home's interior revealed hardwood flooring in the bedrooms and living room, while ceramic tiles covered the floor in the eat-in kitchen. There was a separate dining room space between the kitchen and living room. The centerpiece of the living room was a fireplace made with gray bricks and had a dark wooden mantle above it.
Before his arrival, Leonard contacted the utilities and asked for them to be turned on and transferred into his name. That gave Leonard and Jim a chance to determine what worked and what needed repaired. For the most part, the electrical system was in good working order, except for a few outlets that may need replaced or updated.
The water situation was another story. At first, when Jim turned on the high-arching faucet in the kitchen, the white farmhouse sink reflected a light brownish tint to the water. The pedestal sink and clawfoot tub in the main bathroom, plus the sinks in the half-baths were the same shade of brown. However, the more they let the water run, the clearer it became, which helped ease their minds a bit.
Leonard walked back out to the porch to make a mental list of what he'd need to bring the old house back to life and working order. The hardwood floors were in good condition, though they could use a bit of polish applied to them. There were a few non-working electrical outlets that would need an electrician's expertise to chase down the problem. In the bedrooms, there were spots where the wallpaper was peeling away from the wall. Not exactly a fan of wallpaper, Leonard decided it would be better to tear it all down and paint instead.
Overall, the pluses outweighed the minuses, such as the updated appliances in the kitchen and quartz countertops. Leonard could definitely see himself cooking up a Sunday dinner of his mother's chicken and dumplings with a peach cobbler. As an avid reader, he also loved the built-in bookshelves to showcase his personal library of classics. And the side-door entrance to the office space provided a break between his professional life and his personal life.
Jim joined him out on the porch and gazed out over the mature trees that dotted the property. "So now that you've taken the grand tour, what do you think, Bones?"
Leonard thought for a moment before answering. "Think I'm gonna like it here. Let's start unloading the truck," he directed. "Good thing we hit those consignment shops on the way here, or you wouldn't have a bed to sleep in," he jested.
Jim was about to unlatch the door on the moving truck when he noticed a car turning into the driveway. "Welcoming Committee?" he wondered. Leonard shook his head and rolled his eyes while he walked over to stand next to Jim. They both watched as the car rolled to a stop near the front of the truck.
***
The drive to the McCoy place only took about twenty minutes, which you spent silently reviewing your qualifications. Uhura could tell you were worried about making a good impression, which she was sure you would. She told you not to worry about it, that you were the best candidate for the job, if Dr. McCoy was hiring. "What if he's not hiring, though?" you asked.
"Then we'll have to convince him that he'll need your help, being the only doc in town. There really is no way around it, he will require an assistant," she reasoned. Her response sounded logical, so you accepted it and kept driving out to meet your prospective employer.
Soon your car was pulling into the driveway, where a large moving truck was parked. Upon seeing the two men standing to one side, you had to admit that Uhura was right. They were both strikingly handsome men. The dark-aired man carried a stern look on his face and his arms were crossed over his chest. The blond seemed a little more easygoing, self-assured, bordering on cocky, as if he knew what a good-looking man he was.
As you exited your vehicle, the men had started walking in your direction. "You ladies lost or somethin'?" the dark-haired man drawled. Ohhhh, that accent was enough to make you weak in the knees, you thought. You held on to your open door for balance.
"Yeah, can we help you?" the blond man wondered with a smirk.
When your brain finally rebooted, you responded, "Actually, we were hoping to be of assistance to you, since you're new in town." At this, you introduced the two of you and learned that the blond was James T. Kirk, or "Jim" he offered with a waggle of his eyebrows. His grumpy companion with the dark hair was the Dr. Leonard H. McCoy who now owned the property.
"I think we can manage fine with just the two of us. Good day, la--" Leonard was interrupted by Jim, who pulled him aside.
"Wait a minute, Bones, let's not be too hasty. I mean, these are a couple of gorgeous women who showed up out of nowhere to see us," Jim pointed out. "It wouldn't hurt to hear what they had to say, now would it?"
Leonard pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed in exasperation. He was here to be a physician, to take care of people who need help, not dip a toe in the dating pool. When he looked up, he noticed that Jim had left his side and was talking to Uhura, while you had stepped up in his place.
"Excuse me, Dr. McCoy? I understand that my friend and I just turned up unannounced on your doorstep, and you don't know anything about us. But this is a pretty small town, and I should tell you, it won't take long for people to learn that we have a new physician to replace old Doc Thomas. Therefore, I'm offering you my services. I have some basic medical training, and I used to do data entry for a medical company back in Bozeman," you explained.
"Bozeman? Why on earth would you ever leave there to live here? Not to say that what I've seen so far of Logan isn't simply charming," Leonard added with more than a hint of sarcasm.
"I'll be glad to share that little tidbit of information once we've gotten used to working together," you shot back. "By hiring me, you'll have a well-organized appointment calendar, along with accurate patient files. You'll also have someone who knows how to take and record vitals, which leaves you free to do the doctorin'. So, do we have a deal?" you asked, your hand outstretched.
Leonard took a moment to consider your offer, bold though it was. He had to concede that in a town of this size, word would get around about a new physician and spread like wildfire. He'd probably end up with a huge influx of patients. Even if it was only at first, he might become easily overwhelmed. Patient care was of the utmost importance to him, and if you could make things easier for him, who was he to reject such a proposition?
His lack of response translated to you as a decline of your offer of assistance. As you started to withdraw your hand, he quickly grabbed it and clasped it between his own. "Whoa, hold on there just a minute. All right, you have a deal, but we'll do this as a trial run. A three-month probationary period, take it or leave it," he bartered, fighting the urge to smile.
"Thank you, Dr. McCoy! Three months? That'll be more than enough time for you to decide you can't live without me! In-in the office, I mean," you clarified.
Leonard couldn't help but smile at your blunder. "All right, now that we have that settled, I hope you'll excuse me and Casanova over there with your friend. We have a lot to unload, and I'd like to sleep in my own bed tonight rather than the couch," he stated.
"We can help, if that's okay with you? With four sets of hands, we can be done in no time. Besides, I've always been kind of curious about what the inside of your house looks like," you admitted.
You are one interesting woman, Leonard thought to himself. "Okay, let's get started then. Once we get everything out of the truck, I'll take you on the nickel tour," he winked. He whistled to get Jim's and Uhura's attention, then opened up the back of the truck.
***
"There, I think that's the last of it," Leonard declared after he removed the final box from the moving truck and placed it on the lawn. He jumped up to grab the leather strap, then pulled down the rolling door until it was flush with the deck. He latched and locked the door, picked up the box, and brought it into his new home.
Jim and Uhura had taken your car into town to pick up something for dinner, which left you alone with Leonard. During the unloading, you didn't get much of a chance to stop and look around. But now that most of the heavy lifting was done, you seized the opportunity to take in your surroundings.
You were so caught up in admiring the home's features that you didn't hear Dr. McCoy slide up next to you. "If you have your nickel, I'm ready to start the tour," he grinned. You dug in your pocket, which luckily contained the right coin for the price of your ticket. "Ready when you are, Dr. McCoy," you replied, handing over the 5 cents.
***
Video Conference Call -- Bozeman, Montana
Travis checked his watch to see that he had another ten minutes before his conference call was scheduled to start. He opened the blue file folder in front of him, which was sent from his employer regarding a property they wanted to acquire in Logan, Montana. He sat back in his chair as he thought about how you'd moved there after breaking up with him. Before he could stroll any further down Memory Lane, his alarm beeped to let him know it was time to start the call.
"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen," Travis greeted. He could see the CEO, Miles Cooper, at the head of the table, surrounded by other members of NorthStar Corp's Board of Executives.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Myers. I see you have the file in front of you, so let's begin. We understand that the principal owner of the McCoy property has passed away. As such, we want to move forward and make the new owner an offer to purchase the parcel of land and whatever's on it. The house, barn, stables--everything, down to the last shingle," Mr. Cooper explained.
"My source tells me that the new owner drove all the way from Atlanta, Georgia to check out the property. He is also a doctor, and the town has been without one since the last one died. In my opinion, this could present a problem. He may decide to stay and 'hang out his shingle', as it were," Travis pointed out.
Mr. Cooper leaned back in his chair and rested his steepled index fingers on his chin as he contemplated his next move. As he considered this new development, conversation buzzed around him among the other executives. According to one of the scientific reports he received, there were plenty of reasons for encouraging the good doctor to sell.
The report mentioned the discovery of several veins of copper and silver running beneath the surface. The financial gains from mining those resources would more than cover the initial investment paid to acquire the property. Whether the new owner was aware of these precious metals was unknown, but Cooper needed to act fast before the doctor learned of their existence.
With a wave of his hand, silence returned to the board room as Mr. Cooper had made a decision. "Mr. Myers, I suggest you do your best to convince Dr. McCoy to sell the property to us. I will have a new purchase offer drawn up that's more than fair, and you should strongly encourage him to accept it."
Travis carefully considered Mr. Cooper's words that carried the barest hint of a threat behind them. "Sir, I will present your offer; however, we should be prepared for him to turn it down and decide to become the town's doctor."
"You worry about getting a signature on that purchase agreement, Myers, and I will worry about whether or not a contingency plan will be needed. Before the previous owner's death, this was a working farm, right? Lots of tools, machinery? Farming is considered to be one of the most dangerous professions, you know. Accidents can and do happen. It would be unfortunate if an accident should befall the good Dr. McCoy," Mr. Cooper replied darkly.
There was no mistake in Mr. Cooper's intent this time. "Absolutely, sir. I will find a way to present your offer that will make it difficult if not impossible to decline it."
Mr. Cooper's eyes brightened and a smile graced his face. "Excellent, Myers, I knew I could count on you. I'll send that new offer over to you as soon as I have it and we'll go from there," he stated. "I appreciate your cooperation, Myers, I certainly won't forget it."
"And thank you, Sir. I welcome this opportunity, and I will not let you down," Travis concluded.
"Let us hope not, Myers. I'd hate for you to experience any....negative fallout, should you be unable to close this deal," Mr. Cooper remarked ominously before disconnecting the call.
Travis relaxed in his chair and began to formulate a plan in his mind. A sly grin crept across his face as he thought of the perfect way to get an inside look into the doctor's life.
Of course, it involved a trip to Logan and should he happen to run into you, so much the better. For him, anyway. Though there was a near 100% chance that you would want nothing to do with him. If that was the case, his plan may be a bust before it even gets started.
Especially after the way things ended between you discovering his infidelity. For that reason alone, it was likely your walls of protection against him and his crap were nearly guaranteed to be sky-high. But it was a chance he was willing to take, because he did not want to disappoint his client. Something told him that with a failure of this magnitude, Mr. Cooper was capable of making his life a living hell.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Tags: @marvelouslytrekking @spacedancer1701 @anna-phora @hailbop1701 @writercole @lassie-bird @never--doubt @phoenixisred @wayward-dreamer @erindiggory @strangesgirls @dumpsterhippie @genevablog26 @lokis-deares @medicatemedrmccoy @rooweighton @mamamercurymist @d-doki-doki @malmeansbad @imamotherfuckingstar-lord @ghosttrekkie @noforkingclue @bellestalesoffiction
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On this day in Black History.....
Henry Ossian Flipper was born into slavery in Thomasville, Georgia in 1856. Just over twenty years later, he would become the first African American to graduate from West Point.
His path of education to West Point began in a wood shop of a slave. Henry was eight then. His schooling continued at Missionary Schools and then at Atlanta University. However, his dream was to attend West Point.
No African American had ever graduated from West Point. But this didn't deter Henry. He wrote James C. Freeman, a state Congressman, asking to be appointed to West Point.
After the two exchanged letters, the Congressman appointed Henry.
Henry joined four other African Americans at West Point. And of the group, he became the first to graduate, a member of the Class of 1877.
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YAGP Hope Award/(Youth) Grand Prix Winners 2023/24
Hope Award
Los Angeles: Spencer Collins, Age 10 (Westside School of Ballet, CA)
Austin: Yihan Jiang, Age 10 (Movements In Time, TX)
Chicago: Evelyn Allen, Age 11 (Elite Classical Coaching, TX)
Philadelphia: Amelia Sias, Age 11 (Pennsylvania Ballet Conservatory, PA)
Salt Lake City: Ellary Day Szyndlar, Age 11 (Master Ballet, AZ)
Boston-Worcester: Juliana Kuang, Age 11 (N&D Ballet, MA)
Atlanta: Elynn Nie, Age 11 (MorningStar Dance Academy, GA)
Dallas: Lydia Bachman, Age 11 (Independent, TX)
Phoenix: Victoria Carrillo, Age 11 (Master Ballet, AZ)
Kansas City: Calla Massey, Age 9 (Independent, KY)
San Francisco: Athena Hu, Age 11 (Ju Lu Performing Arts, CA)
Denver: Reagan Neuhoff, Age 11 (Dallas Conservatory, TX)
Toronto: Owen Simmons, Age 11 (School of Cadence Ballet, ON)
Indianapolis: Eva Julia Sutanto, Age 11 (Academy of Russian Ballet, VA)
Youth Grand Prix
Chicago: Ekaterina Pichkova, Age 13 (Osipova Ballet Academy, CA)
Austin: Melissa Plishchadina, Age 14 (Pavlova Professional Coaching, TX)
Chicago: Chloe Helimets, Age 13 (Bayer Ballet, CA)
Salt Lake City: Annie Webb, Age 13 (Moga Conservatory of Dance, UT)
Winston-Salem: Eric Poor, Age 14 (Cary Ballet Conservatory, NC)
Pittsburgh: Ela Sevillia, Age 14 (Ellison Ballet, NY)
Kansas City: Quinlin Maconachy, Age 12 (Dallas Conservatory, TX)
San Francisco: Fiona Wu, Age 13 (Yoko's Dance, CA)
Denver: Keenan Mentzos, Age 14 (Ballet Bloch Canada, BC)
Los Angeles: Kiera Sun, Age 13 (DKCBA, CA)
New York: Lisa Kamiya, Age 14 (Ellison Ballet, NY)
Nashville: Angelina Tan, Age 14 (Elite Classical Coaching, TX)
San Diego: Leon Yusei Sai, Age 12 (Southland Ballet Academy, CA)
Grand Prix
Los Angeles: Izzy Howard, Age 16 (DKCBA, CA)
Austin: Isabella Keesee, Age 15 (Elite Classical Coaching, TX)
Tampa: Crystal Huang, Age 15 (Bayer Ballet/The Rock Center, CA)
Philadelphia: Carson Willey, 17 (The Rock School for Dance, PA)
Atlanta: Miharu Kikuchi, Age 16 (International City School of Ballet, GA)
Pittsburgh: Kaitlin Natili, Age 15 (West Point Ballet)
Phoenix: Parker Rozzano-Keefe, Age 18 (Master Ballet, AZ)
Houston: Sophia Jones, Age 17 (Feijoo Ballet School, TX)
Los Angeles: Maddux Ellison, Age 15 (DKCBA, CA)
New York: Ivana Radan, Age 15 (Ellison Ballet, NY)
Toronto: Madison Bevilacqua, Age 16 (Timothy Draper Center, NY)
Indianapolis: Everly Nedza, Age 16 (School of Cadence Ballet, ON)
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Hail To The End Of The World~
(1-?)
Short story # 18
✨Fandom(s) - The Expendables (Movies) & The Walking Dead (Series)
💍Pairing - Gunnar Jensen X Reader
🕯Summary - While traveling with Gunnar in search of the rest of your team, you cross paths with a survivor group, who upon seeing your equipment practically beg you to stay and help them.
⚠️Warning(s) - None really. Except for an age gap between you and Gunnar if that's something that should be warned? And like zombies dying but that's to be expected.
📝Note(s) - This just kinda popped into my head the other day, so here we are. So firstly Tool is your dad in this story, and your described as having a bunch of tattoos, and quite a few scars, including some facial scars. Other than that I don't think I go much into detail about anything else to do with you, other than a troubled past. (But that comes with the territory.) oh and you can draw now, like really well because I thought of something cute like 3/4th of the way through this. Plus you're Tools kid, so it's fitting.
🗝Key information - Text in orange parentheses (EXAMPLE) is the translation google gave me for the quotes written in Swedish.
🌬Year posted - 2023
📖Reading Time - Roughly 23 minutes.
🙈Rating - SFW/NSFW
◈Pt. 1 | ◈Pt. 2 |
"Come on." Gunnar muttered quietly to his partner, (Y/n). Who was swift if advancing as he had instructed her, her rifle snug in her arms felt so natural, like a another part of her. "Knives only." He reminded her, despite not actually needing to, as they crept up on a small cluster of five walkers. They dispatched their targets without a hitch, and continued on their way, slowly carving their way through Atlanta. "Five minutes." (Y/n) tossed over her shoulder to Gunnar, before she slipped into the old tech store, Gadgets 9000. Stupid name for a store, but that didn't matter. Gunnar scanned the surrounding area once more before following the younger woman inside. She'd killed the one walker that was inside, and was scowering the shelves and floor for the items she needed. "Bingo." She muttered and quickly shrugged off her bag, tossing the necessary items into the bag, along with a few simple items that would be good backups. "Times up." Gunnar called as he neared her, tapping her shoulder with two fingers to signal that she needed to be on guard again. Wordlessly she finished up and slung her bag back onto her back, readying herself for a potential fight as she picked up her rifle.
"Through the back." Gunnar instructed, on the off chance someone might have followed them, and would be waiting to ambush them out front. (Y/n) nodded her head and took the lead, per the usual. Once outside and they'd started to make their way down the alleyway, (Y/n) spared a quick glance back to Gunnar. "Where to now?" She questioned quietly, knowing they couldn't go back to their old camp, which was now overrun by a hord. "West." Was all he said as he pointed the barrel of his rifle in the direction. (Y/n) nodded in understanding and kept moving, now to the west, realizing quickly that it would be the quickest way out of the city. The realization making her smirk a little, as impressed as always with Gunnars tactical observations. Wordlessly Gunnar tapped two fingers against her shoulder once more, having taken notice of another set of footsteps approaching them, precise steps of a living person. (Y/n) instantly dropped to one knee in front of him, bringing her rifle up and aiming at where he pointed to the source of the sound. Gunnar also quickly trained his rifle, taking a sturdy stance behind (Y/n) and waiting.
Two men then rounded the corner, both of them freezing at the sight of the rifles pointed at them. "Woah h-hold on." The shorter of the two instantly holds his hands up in surrender, even with the bat still in his hands. "Don't shoot." The second guy also held his hands up in surrender, a crowbar in his hand. "Who are you?" (Y/n) asked, her voice stern and stoic. "I-I'm Glenn t-this is T-dog." The shorter male explained. "You never saw us." Gunnar stated tapping at (Y/n)'s shoulder to signal their retreat. "W-wait!" Glenn called out a little louder than he intended, jumping when the pair quickly spun on their heel, guns trained on him again. "W-we have a group." He started, looking increasingly nervous about having guns pointed at him, which was fair. "We could use your help." T-dog cut in, having realized like Glenn that these two strangers were far more equipped for this new world they all found themselves in. (Y/n) and Gunnar shared a look. "I could focus on fixing the transmitter more with a group of people looking out for the geeks." (Y/n) stated casually. "Yeah." Gunnar nodded his head, the thought having occurred to him as well. "Let's go." He stated as he looked to the others, who both nodded then turned to lead them back to their camp by the quarry.
----
Initially when Glenn and T-dog showed up with next to no medical supplies, Shane was beyond annoyed, at least until his eyes cast to the newcomers. Now he was annoyed for another reason. "Deputy Shane Walsh." He introduced himself as he approached the two, the rest of the group crowding behind him to observe the new faces. "(Y/n)." She introduced herself before nodding her head back towards her partner. "That's Gunnar." She wouldn't offer their last names, what was the point in last names anymore anyways? Shane took in the sight of their gear. "You guys military?" He asked what everyone else was thinking. "Something like that." Gunnar stated without offering an explanation. "We just need somewhere to lay low for a little while, then we'll be out of your hair." (Y/n) explained as she propped the butt of her rifle against her hip. "We can offer a hand with setting up some defenses." She added, as she looked around observing that they had no defenses. Shane internally bristled at her words, hating that he hadn't thought of setting any defenses up in the first place. "Alright." Shane agreed with a nod of his head, stalking off to sulk about being shown up by the newcomers.
The rest of the group was quick to welcome the pair, well aside from the degenerates in the crowd, and the pair was quickly bombarded with questions. When (Y/n) realized they had originally sent Glenn and T-dog out to get medical supplies, she offered a helping hand to look at the minor injuries a few of them had sustained while doing odd jobs. "Thank you (Y/n)." Andrea smiled warmly, as (Y/n) finished tending to the burn Andrea had sustained to her hand. "You're welcome." (Y/n) smiled back, though it didn't reach her eyes like it had Andreas. "Who..." She started as (Y/n) was packing up the little supplies she hadn't used. "Who exactly are you guys?" Andrea asked in a soft tone, clearly nervous about asking that question. "Ghosts." Was all (Y/n) offered before walking off to assist Gunnar with a quick perimeter check. "Their gonna get themselves killed." Gunnar stated as they slipped into the woods. "Probably." (Y/n) agreed with a shrug. "This world isn't what their used to, not even that deputy." She added, her words making Gunnar chuckle. "He doesn't like us." The Sweed pointed out. "I have a feeling he doesn't like many people." She snickered softly.
"You met the rednecks yet?" Gunnar asked as they continued their task. "Can't say I have." (Y/n) shook her head, recalling that she'd seen them, but she hadn't met them. "Avoid the older one, he's trouble." He stated casually, and (Y/n) simply nodded in agreement, trusting her partners judgment. Once they'd finished their patrol they made it back to the camp, going over some ideas of defense plans with a few of the group members, the few who seemed competent enough to offer input. "Honestly your best bet out here would be to just set up noise makers." (Y/n) concluded, knowing it would take far to long to set up proper defenses in such a large place. "Noise makers?" Dale wondered aloud, pulling an almost inaudible sigh from Gunnar, but (Y/n) had heard, she always heard. "Yeah just some tripwires attached to something that'll make a bunch of noise, so if a walker as you all call them trips over the wire, you'll all be alerted to the noise. They're easy to make, and convenient." (Y/n) explained, and the older man nodded his head in understanding. "Right. Sorry." Dale chuckled softly. "Don't apologize, questions are good." The younger woman waved him off before casting her gaze to Glenn.
"I assume you all have a designed place you take your trash?" She asked him, and he quickly nodded his head in agreement. "Good. We need to gather all the cans and bottles we can, and we'll need fishing line, a lot of line." Dale quickly perked up at that. "I've got a bunch of extra fishing line in the rv." He stated. "Perfect." She nodded before turning to follow Glenn, only to stop when Gunnar placed a hand on her shoulder. "You go deal with the lines, I'll deal with the trash." He instructed, making (Y/n) smile softly. "If you say so." She mused before following Dale. As Gunnar and Glenn rummaged through the garbage pile Glenn couldn't help but glance at the larger man from the corner of his eye, unsure of how to feel about the brooding behemoth of a man. "So (Y/n)." Glenn tried striking up small talk, and Gunnar simply grunted in acknowledgement. "Is she... Single?" Glenn asked. "No." Gunnar deadpanned. "Oh." Glenn swallowed nervously, understandably intimidated by the older man. "You guys?..." Glenn wondered aloud before he could stop himself, mentally scolding himself as soon as he did. "Yep." Gunnar hadn't even spared the young man a glance, which Glenn was admittedly grateful for, he was already anxious enough.
"S-she uh... She mentioned something about a transmitter?" Glenn tried changing the subject. "Doesn't concern you." Gunnar quickly shot him down, and Glenn took that as a sign to just stop talking. Gathering what they could into a few boxes, Gunnar lugged the majority of it back, while Glenn carried what he could. "Perfect timing as always." (Y/n) mused at Gunnar when he placed the boxes by her feet. When he straightened his back he allowed (Y/n) to tug him down to her height by his vest, smirking when she planted a quick peck to the side of his mouth. But before she could pull away, he quickly pulled her back, kissing her properly, his large hands splayed out on her lower back. (Y/n) chuckled softly as she pulled away from the kiss, staying close enough that when she spoke their lips brushed. "Someone askin' 'bout me?" She wondered with a playful glimmer in her eyes. "Just making sure they all know what's mine." The large Sweet murmured back before pecking her lips once more and straightening back up. A ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips when he noticed just about everyone was staring at them.
"You're impossible." (Y/n) mused before snatching up the first box, setting to work on making the noise makers part of the trap. "Probably." Gunnar shrugged casually before moving to assist her. By the time they'd finished that, and properly set up a perimeter with the noise makers, the sun hung low in the sky. "I'm gonna go down to the quarry and clean up a little bit." (Y/n) informed Gunnar, patting his shoulder affectionately before walking off. "Hey." He called to her before she could get to far, smirking when she turned to him without argument. "Yeah?" She tilted her head a little. "Just in case." He stated before tossing her his knife, still in its sheath she caught it with ease. "Careful." He added. "Always." (Y/n) mused before walking off, tucking the knife into her back pocket, after popping the safety strap in case she needed to grab it quickly. Satisfied Gunnar turned his attention back to her rifle, having offered to clean it for her a short while ago. Lori, Andrea, Amy, Carol and the kids tagging along with (Y/n) as she made her way down to the quarry.
----
"So you and Gunnar huh?" Carol asked with a smile as the group of women huddled knee deep in the water, cleaning up a bit as best they could while the kids played on the bank. "Yeah." (Y/n) mirrored her smile. "How long?" Lori asked kindly. "Since long before this all started." (Y/n) shrugged a little. "Maybe five years, give or take." She thought about it for a moment, shrugging again with a small chuckle. "How did that happen?" Amy asked, the others all perking up at that question. "Oh well I've known Gunnar for, hell half my life. He and my father worked together, well he worked for my father on occasion. Eventually my dad got me in the same line of work, and when the team noticed how much I mellowed Gunnar out they'd team us up all the time. My father pushed us to get together, and well eventually we took his suggestion, and we've been inseparable since." (Y/n) smiled fondly. "The first time I realized I loved him, he'd saved my life for the first time, he nearly..." She cut herself off realizing she was about to reveal more than she intended. "He what?" Amy pried, completely enraptured by her story.
"Doesn't matter now, that was a long time ago." (Y/n) shook her head with a small smile, going back to the task at hand. Amy was about to pry further until Andrea nudged her side, her younger sister taking the hint she bit her tongue. "It's sweet." Carol mused aloud, the others all nodding in agreement. "You have an awful lot of tattoos (Y/n)." Lori stated casually, her eyes raking over the ink covering a good deal of the skin (Y/n) was now showing, after having striped down to a tank top and her underwear earlier. "Oh yeah my father was also a tattoo artist, he'd been tattooing me since I was sixteen." (Y/n) smiled fondly as she looked to her arms. "Sixteen!?" Andrea gasped in surprise. "Yeah... Um well something had happened when I was sixteen... I was left with a whole bunch of scars because of it." (Y/n) licked her lip, lightly tracing the scar that ran over her lips. "My father felt guilty... Because... Well because in a way it was his fault. And he saw how insecure I had become because of the scars, so he offered to start tattooing over them, to make them beautiful, to make me beautiful. And well... I took him up on that offer." (Y/n) shrugged a little, the others feeling rather saddened by her story.
"They are beautiful." Lori smiled, despite never really being one for tattoos, or really understanding why anyone would want any until now. "Thank you." (Y/n) hummed with a small smile. The group quickly turning to the bank at the sound of approaching footsteps. "Hello ladies." Merle smirked as he waved his fingers at them, an anxious atmosphere washing over the group aside from (Y/n), who simply observed him. "Get out of here." Andrea hissed at him, the kids running into the water to be shielded by their mothers. "Well that's not very nice." Merle mocked with a small frown. "I suggest you listen to her." (Y/n) moved to place herself between the women and Merle, who shamelessly looked her up and down like she were on display for him. "Or what sweetheart?" He wondered tauntingly. "Or I'll crush your fucking windpipe you creep." (Y/n) hissed, her threat making him chuckle darkly. "Oh you're feisty." Merle grinned. "I ain't playin'." She stepped onto the bank, Merle hadn't noticed the sound of rapid footsteps.
"I don't believe you." He got in her face, still grinning. "Can't say I didn't warn you." (Y/n) hummed before suddenly headbutting him. Merle cried out in pain as he fell to the ground, clutching his bleeding nose. "Merle!" Daryl called out, him and half the guys all rushing down the hill, Gunnar included. "Fucking bitch!" Merle hissed as Daryl pulled him to his feet. "I'll fucking kill you!" He yelled as he fought his younger brother to let him go. "You can try." She taunted defiantly, feeling even more confident with Gunnar at her side. "You stupid bitch." Merle hissed, having broken from Daryl's hold, only for Shane to snatch him by his coller. "Fucking let go of me!" He shouted. "You need to cool it." Shane shoved him back. "She broke my nose!" Merle hollered. "You're lucky that's all she did." Shane shot back, fully aware she could have done far worse. "Let it go." Daryl muttered to his brother, who shoved him away before storming off. "You all okay?" Shane asked, looking to Lori. "Yeah." She nodded her head, and most of crowd that had formed retreated.
"Vill du att jag ska döda honom?" (Do you want me to kill him?) Gunnar asked in his native language, making (Y/n) grin softly. "Nej." (No.) She shook her head, kissing his cheek before walking off to get properly dressed. "Thank you (Y/n)." Lori embraced her after they'd all gotten properly dressed. "Of course." (Y/n) patted her back, and smiled softly as they broke away. "He's going to have it out for you now, you know?" Andrea pointed out as (Y/n) moved to walk beside Gunnar. "Doesn't matter, I've dealt with far worse." She shrugged before leaning into Gunnars side, while he wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "He has no idea who he's dealing with." Gunnar mused aloud, his words only making the others that much more curious about the pair. Once back at the camp, Gunnar led (Y/n) to the main fire, sitting down first then pulling her down to his lap. "Eat." He instructed as he passed her the MRE he'd prepared for her earlier, chili and macaroni. "What about you?" She questioned, taking note that he hadn't made two like he normally would.
"Just eat." He instructed before kissing the side of her head, more interested in taking care of her than himself at the moment. "Är de borta?" (Are they gone?) She wondered softly, knowing he wouldn't want the others to know what they were talking about, even though she doubted any of them spoke Swedish. "Nej." (No.) He rest his chin on the top of her head, his hands encasing her waist. "Okej." (Okay.) She accepted his answer, knowing better than most just how odd Gunnar can act at times, especially when he feels the need to protect her. So she did as he instructed, and ate the food, though only about half of it. "Here." She offered it to Gunnar, who glared down at her softly. "You need to eat as well big guy." (Y/n) pointed out, turning around in his lap as she stuck the spoon down into the bag. "Open." She instructed as she held the spoon out for him, he rolled his eyes playfully but complied anyways. Biting down hard enough to keep hold of the spoon when she tried to pull it back.
"Don't be like that." (Y/n) scolded playfully, giving the spoon another small tug, and smiling when it came lose. "Atta boy." She hummed softly, a giggle escaping her when Gunnar snatched the bag from her hands. Turning back around in his lap, (Y/n) reached for her bag, which lay beside Gunnars. She retrieved her precious leather bound journal, and charcoal pencil, then flipped to an empty page. "What are you up to?" Gunnar wondered as he watched her from over her shoulder. "The usual." She mused as she began drawing the sight before her. The warm fire, surrounded by some of the folks of this little survivor group. Lori, Carl, Shane, Andrea and Amy, Carol and Sophia, T-dog, Glenn, and Dale. They seemed happy in the moment, and (Y/n) wanted to commit this moment to memory. Who knows how long they'll stick around, or how long these people will survive. But tonight the world feels normal, calm and safe, and she didn't want to forget that feeling.
←Previously | Next→
*I had thought about writing this one with Joel Miller, but ended up deciding that he's getting enough attention, and my baby Gunnar needed some so I went with him instead. (^_^) And it's admittedly playing out better that way anyhow.
#short story#gunnar jensen#gunnar jensen x reader#Gunnar Jensen x you#Gunnar Jensen x y/n#crossover#The walking dead#the walking dead x reader#The expendables#The expendables x reader#the walking dead x you#The expendables x you#the walking dead x y/n#The expendables x y/n#The walking dead crossover#The expendables crossover#reader insert#dolph lundgren#twd#twd x reader#twd x y/n#twd x you#gunner jensen#The expendables gunnar#The expendables gunner
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"The Most American Thing That Has Ever Happened
A man set himself on fire outside the Israeli embassy in Washington today. He said he did it in protest of the genocide in Gaza.
Independent journalist Talia Jane reports that she was able to obtain footage of the incident, which the unnamed man apparently recorded himself. Jane reports that the man said he is “an active duty member of the U.S. Air Force” and that he “will no longer be complicit in genocide.” After igniting he repeatedly yelled “Free Palestine.”
According to Jane, a police officer showed up pointing a gun at the man’s burning body; I guess that’s just what American cops do when they aren’t sure what to do. Someone who was actually trying to save the man reportedly yelled “I don’t need guns, I need fire extinguishers!”
This just might be the most American thing I have ever heard of. It’s more American than the fake bald eagle cries they put in Hollywood movies. It’s more American than monster trucks and mass shootings. You simply cannot fit more America into a single incident than a man dying a horrifying death in protest of war crimes while a first responder screams at cops to stop pointing their guns at him and go get fire extinguishers. If you were to pick a single moment in history to sum up the essence and expression of the US empire, that would be it.
The New York Times reports that the man “was taken to a nearby hospital with life-threatening injuries and remains in critical condition.” A spokesman for the US Air Force has reportedly confirmed that the man is an active duty member.
“I’m about to engage in an extreme act of protest,” the man reportedly recorded himself saying before the incident. “But compared to what people have been experiencing in Palestine at the hands of their colonizers, it’s not extreme at all. This is what our ruling class has decided will be normal.”
The nameless protestor is correct. People in Gaza are being burned alive, are suffocating to death under collapsed buildings, are having operations and amputations without anesthesia, are starving to death, are watching their loved ones die in front of them, are experiencing suffering of a degree that very few of us here in the west can even imagine. And our ruling class is absolutely attempting to normalize this for us.
This isn’t even the first self-immolation we’ve seen in protest of Israel’s US-backed atrocities after October 7; back in December an unnamed protester with a Palestinian flag self-immolated outside the Israeli consulate building in Atlanta.
And as I reflect on this I can’t help thinking, how many Israel supporters have self-immolated in protest of October 7? How many Israel supporters have self-immolated in protest of the super serious antisemitism crisis they claim is making Jews feel unsafe in their communities? Surely their claims are just as serious and sincere as those of Palestine supporters, no?
Of course not. This has not happened and the very idea is laughable. Israel apologists insist that it is they and their favorite ethnostate who are the real victims in all this, rather than the population of Gaza who has seen tens of thousands of Palestinians annihilated while Israeli soldiers openly celebrate their mass displacement and death. But you don’t see them self-immolating; you see them cheerleading for ethnic cleansing and genocide. They wouldn’t do anything to cause themselves pain or inconvenience to promote their pet agenda. They wouldn’t even miss brunch for it.
It’s a horrific thing, burning alive. I suspect that pretty much everyone who’s ever self-immolated has had serious regrets about it within the first few seconds. There’s simply nothing one can do to prepare oneself for the experience of that kind of pain, or for how long it can take them to lose consciousness after it’s started. At that point the only comfort they could possibly offer themselves is that it can’t go on forever.
But the fact that anyone would ever take such a measure at all shows how profoundly urgent they recognize this issue to be, and how much more sincere they are about it than those on the other side."
https://twitter.com/caitoz/status/1761939039937335584
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Union Station in Downtown Atlanta is now a parking deck
First image: 1895 photo of Union Station in Downtown Atlanta, on the east-west rail line (that rail corridor is still used today for freight, and partly for MARTA too). You can see the grand Kimball House hotel to the left.
Second image: what stands today where the Union Station was -- it's a lot of parking that continues underneath the viaduct streets. There's also a parking deck where the Kimball House was.
This sits immediately east of the Five Points MARTA Station, where transit struggles to compete with car trips following the intense redesign of the area's land and streets for cars.
Too many people have the idea that transit service in Atlanta is failing to take cars off the road purely because it doesn't reach enough places. But the metro area reaches too far due to car-centric sprawl; meanwhile, the city bends over backwards to accommodate car trips in its urban fabric.
We can address this problem of car-oriented land use near transit lines successfully, and we can address sprawl too; but only after we all take that first crucial step of admitting that things are broken. That this is wrong.
Archival image source:
georgiainfo.galileo.usg.edu
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THE ‘STRANGER THINGS’ BOYS ARE OUR ‘NYLON GUYS’ SEPTEMBER 2017 COVER STARS
If anyone understands the sudden shift from “not fitting in” to “one-million-plus followers,” it’s these guys.
The following feature appears in the September 2017 issue of NYLON Guys.
Finn Wolfhard just couldn’t resist. Despite needing to be camera-ready for his NYLON photo shoot, the 14-year-old star of Stranger Things decided to suck on a blue Warhead anyway, and now he’s paying the price. “All these sets have candy on them, and I can’t help myself. It was a mistake,” he admits, sheepishly trying to scrub the cerulean stain from his tongue with a miniature toothbrush. To his right, Gaten Matarazzo wears a gray T-shirt that reads, uh oh! did my sarcasm hurt your feelings?, a slogan worthy of Dustin Henderson, the lovable wisecracker he plays opposite Wolfhard on the hit Netflix show. Matarazzo, also 14, is getting his trademark tangle of curls straightened, much to the delight of Noah Schnapp, who, at 12, is the youngest in this group of breakout stars that has helped make Stranger Things the most obsessed-over show in Netflix’s boundless roster of original series. Missing is Caleb McLaughlin, the energetic 15-year-old who plays Lucas Sinclair, but he’s on his way over in a black car, having just arrived from Los Angeles, fresh off an appearance at the BET Awards.
It’s the first time the boys have been together in several weeks, and none of them can pinpoint exactly when they were last in the same room. Ever since Stranger Things became a cultural phenomenon last summer, they’ve been swept up in a whirlwind of red carpets, talk shows, and fan conventions. And as the premiere of the sci-fi and horror fantasia’s top-secret second season nears, this summer has been overtaken by a flurry of promotional duties. Next week, while most kids their age are cooling off in pools or testing out the latest in roller coaster technology, Matarazzo and McLaughlin will be at Denver Comic Con, signing autographs and posing for selfies with wide-eyed fans. A few weeks after that, all four will find themselves inside the hallowed Hall H at San Diego Comic-Con, where they’ll premiere the thrilling trailer for Season 2 to rapturous applause.
But on this day, even though they’re technically at work, the boys still find time to goof off. They are, after all, best friends—like brothers, even, they say—and there’s a lot of catching up to do, memes to be shared, and jokes to be cracked. “We used to call Noah ‘Señor Biebs,’” Matarazzo offers at one point, due to Schnapp’s Season 1 bowl cut and its resemblance to the former haircut of a certain Canadian pop star. “He hates it!” he says, just before he sticks his finger into Schnapp’s ear (playfully, of course).
Inside the bright and breezy photo studio on Manhattan’s West Side, publicists abound, but because these budding stars are still minors, there are also parents. It’s an unusual sight, and a reminder that despite having very grown-up jobs, they’re still not old enough to drive. Wolfhard, the Vancouver native who plays Mike Wheeler, is here with his father, as is Matarazzo, who hails from Little Egg Harbor Township, New Jersey. Schnapp and his parents came in from Westchester County, north of the city. When McLaughlin, who grew up in Carmel, New York, finally arrives lugging a suitcase that’s almost as big as he is, he’s accompanied by his father, a burly man in an Atlanta Braves cap who goes around the room with his son hugging the other parents, a reminder of how tight the makeshift family has become since this odyssey began more than two years ago.
Stranger Things premiered as an underdog. Its creators, the twin brothers Matt and Ross Duffer, were unproven talents who had previously written for the Fox sci-fi series Wayward Pines. Except for Winona Ryder’s comeback as a grieving mother searching for her missing son, the cast was composed largely of unknowns and newcomers. But thanks to its double dose of supernatural intrigue and a nostalgic ’80s-tinged glow, along with a miraculous performance by a young British actress with a shaved head, Stranger Things quickly commandeered the pop-culture conversation in a way that few shows have done. In July, the show received a staggering 18 Emmy nominations, including Outstanding Drama Series.
Created by the Duffers in the spirit of the Amblin-era entertainments they were raised on, the eight-episode first season is set in 1983 in Hawkins, Indiana, and unravels the mystery surrounding the disappearance of Will Byers, played by Schnapp, who vanishes in the first episode after an encounter with the show’s resident boogeyman, the otherworldly creature known as the Demogorgon. As Will’s three misfit best friends—Mike, Lucas, and Dustin—embark on a quest to find him, they uncover an alternate dimension they dub The Upside Down, and a sinister government conspiracy that may be responsible for opening it. They also befriend Eleven, the feral girl with telekinetic powers embodied iconically by 13-year-old Millie Bobby Brown.
Stranger Things began filming its second season under very different circumstances than the first. What once felt like a scrappy production free of scrutiny from outside sources suddenly had the mood and atmosphere of a major Hollywood blockbuster. “Netflix knew it would be a good show,” McLaughlin says, “but they didn’t realize how big it would be and that the whole world was going to freak out about it.” Because of that intense interest from both the network and the public, the set suddenly had a noticeable security presence shielding it from nosy onlookers and paparazzi, while network executives showed up to make sure their prized racehorse was galloping along. Suddenly, there were expectations. “We raised the bar pretty high with the first season,” says Matarazzo. “There was a lot more tension on set, in that we really needed to make sure it was good.”
When Season 2 premieres on October 27, a year will have passed since Eleven sacrificed herself to defeat the faceless Demogorgon and save the boys, in the Season 1 finale. Trying to squeeze spoilers out of Wolfhard, McLaughlin, Schnapp, and Matarazzo is useless. Extensive media training, including detailed notes on what they can and can’t discuss, have transformed them into a rare breed: teenagers who can keep a secret. What they can say: Season 2 is bigger, darker, and scarier. There’s also a new character in town, played by Sadie Sink. (According to the Duffers, Millie Bobby Brown was “relieved” to have another girl on set.) “She’s a skater, sort of a punk girl, and she slowly becomes part of the group,” says Wolfhard, who also says his character will be depressed and “a loner” in the wake of Eleven’s disappearance. What they can’t say: pretty much everything else. But it’s not just scoop-hungry journalists who harass them for info. “Whenever you get recognized by fans, most of the time they ask you if you’ve got any spoilers for Season 2, and I’m like, ‘No, none, not at all,’” says Matarazzo. “It’s definitely kind of stressful.”
One of the biggest changes for the new season is the expansion of Schnapp’s screen time. Because his character spends much of the first season trapped in an alternate dimension, Schnapp spent a good deal of time at home in New York while everyone else filmed in Atlanta. “Last year I would drive up to the studio and everyone would be like, ‘Hey, Noah, we’ve missed you! How’ve you been?’” says Schnapp. “This year was a lot easier because last year, I’d have to go in and out of school, and that was hard. This year I could focus.”
Although he’s rescued from The Upside Down, we last saw Schnapp removing a slithery creature from his mouth, a telltale sign that not all is well with Will Byers. For Schnapp, whose character mostly communicated through Christmas lights in Season 1, the new episodes meant new challenges as an actor. “Shawn Levy, one of our directors, was telling me, ‘Noah, you have something really big this season. We have a lot in store for you, and you should get really excited,’” he says. Schnapp felt the added pressure, and would sometimes text his TV mom, Ryder, for extra help with particularly emotional scenes. “We knew we needed a strong actor in case the series moved forward into a second season, because we knew he was going to be a centerpiece,” says Matt Duffer. “We needed not just a good actor, but a really, really good actor.” Schnapp rose to the occasion, according to the Duffers. “Shawn [Levy] was like, ‘We’ve had a Ferrari sitting in the garage all of Season 1, and now the fucking garage doors are open.’”
The Duffers knew that casting child actors, who have a tendency to favor exaggerated performances over naturalistic ones, would make or break their show. “There’s really nothing worse than a bad child performance,” Ross Duffer says. “You couldn’t have any weaknesses, or the eight hours would be excruciating.” Along with their casting director, the Duffers saw what they estimate to be 900 kids, an undertaking they say was easier than it sounds because they could tell within the first few minutes if the actor had what they needed. “You’re looking for something authentic, and most kids don’t have it,” says Ross. “There are the ones that are obviously well-trained, but they feel too Disney, like they’re winking at the camera.” What the Duffers found with their four young male stars were kids who seemed like actual kids.
Matarazzo was the first one cast, his audition so impressive that he found out he got the part on the way back from the airport. “We didn’t really even know who the Dustin character was until we found Gaten,” says Matt Duffer. “He was sort of a generic nerd with glasses. He was a stereotype.” Matarazzo, whose sense of humor inspired the Duffers to transform Dustin into the show’s primary source of comic relief, has grown up with a condition known as cleidocranial dysplasia, which stunts the development of bones and teeth. “We wanted to make a show about outsiders, about kids who didn’t fit in and who were bullied and made fun of,” says Matt. “Gaten was really able to tap into all of that.”
McLaughlin and Matarazzo had known each other from their days as stars in two of Broadway’s biggest shows. Matarazzo portrayed Gavroche in Les Misérables, and McLaughlin played Simba in The Lion King. They’d often see each other in a park frequented by “Broadway kids,” as Matarazzo calls them. “When I found out Caleb had gotten Lucas I was like, ‘Caleb? Where do I know that name from?’” he recalls. Wolfhard and Schnapp established an early connection, too—sort of. “He doesn’t remember me, but I remember him,” Wolfhard says. “Because I asked him what other projects he had done, and he said, ‘I was the voice of Charlie Brown in The Peanuts Movie.’ I was like, ‘What?! You’re Charlie Brown?’ I was so pysched about that.”
Although they had all crossed paths during the audition process, usually around the hotel pool or at chemistry reads, it wasn’t until they arrived in Atlanta to begin production that all four boys, along with Millie Bobby Brown, found themselves together in the same room for the first time. If there was a first-day-of-school feel, it made sense: They met in a classroom, which is where the young cast of Stranger Things still spend most of their time when they’re not filming. That grueling schedule means the only opportunities they get to really mess around are between takes, and sometimes during them. “We have laughing problems,” says McLaughlin. Matt Duffer elaborates: “We definitely have an issue, where we can’t get through a take without someone busting up. They’re always making each other crack up—the number of takes ruined by laughter is in the hundreds.”
Schnapp was at summer camp when Stranger Things dropped on Netflix. He wasn’t allowed to have his phone, but shortly after the series premiered, one of his counselors happened to check his Instagram account—80,000 followers. The next day it was 85,000. “I was like, ‘Wait, what’s going on?’ I think I was at one follower before that,” Schnapp says. Wolfhard also remembers that odd rush of watching his followers skyrocket and realizing his life was changing right in front of his eyes. McLaughlin felt his anonymity evaporate the first time he was recognized. “In L.A., this kid came up to me and was like, ‘Hey, are you Caleb Reginald McLaughlin?’” he says. “And I’m like, ‘What? You know my middle name? That’s nuts.’”
The connection between the boys is strengthened by the surreal turn their lives have taken, circumstances that most kids their age can’t relate to. When Matarazzo, McLaughlin, and Wolfhard met Barack Obama last October, as guests of the White House’s South by South Lawn festival, the former president, who’s a fan of the show, told them he especially enjoyed their on-screen camaraderie. That bond exists offscreen, too, and has only gotten stronger with every award show and panel. “They really are my best friends,” Matarazzo says. “We can relate to each other a lot more than other people can. People try to understand everything that goes on, but they can’t unless they’ve been there.”
“I don’t think any of the kids would say that our friendship is similar to the friendships they have back home, because it’s not,” says Wolfhard. “No kid has ever really had an experience that I’m experiencing right now—it’s a unique sort of friendship.”
Wolfhard is careful not to bring his work home with him. “If you go home and all you talk about is acting, then you’re a douchebag,” he says. “Your friends don’t want to hear about your professional life, they just want to mess around.” Plus, when you’re 14 years old, talking about work is never cool, even if it involves facing off against a faceless interdimensional demon. The boys are also learning that with a great number of Instagram followers comes great responsibility. “We have to be more cautious with what we say on social media and in public,” says McLaughlin, who was shocked to lose followers after he openly rooted for the Golden State Warriors during the NBA playoffs.
While Netflix has yet to make an official announcement, a third season of Stranger Things is a given, meaning the boys are all but guaranteed to live out their teenage years on one of the most popular shows on television. The Duffers, then, will have to follow in the footsteps of long-running properties like Game of Thrones and the Harry Potter franchise in making sure their child actors don’t grow up faster than their characters. “It’s terrifying,” Matt Duffer says. “I shouldn’t even be highlighting this, but if you watch Season 2, they’ve grown from Episode 1 to Episode 9. I’m terrified one of them is going to have a major growth spurt basically in the middle of shooting. But as long as they’re growing outside of the course of our shooting, I’m not too worried about it, because we just have to build it into our story. As much as you would like to keep some of it more continuous, every time we take a break between seasons, we have to make a year time jump at least.”
All four actors say that they want to remain in show business into adulthood. Wolfhard, who obsessively studies the filmmaking process while on set—he’ll star in the remake of Stephen King’s It, in theaters this month—is eyeing a multihyphenate career as a director, actor, and musician. Back at the photo shoot, Matarazzo and Schnapp gather around his iPhone to watch a video Wolfhard co-directed for a friend’s band, Spendtime Palace. Earlier this year, McLaughlin, who is a trained dancer, played a young Ricky Bell on the BET miniseries The New Edition Story, an experience he describes as “historic.” Matarazzo wants to continue acting, but not forever, and is keeping an open mind about other aspects of the industry. Schnapp, who took his first acting class at the age of six, describes winning the Screen Actors Guild Award for Outstanding Performance by an Ensemble in a Drama Series as one of the greatest moments of his life, and is doing exactly what he wants. (The boys, who describe the awards as “very heavy,” keep them in their bedrooms, except for Matarazzo, who has been meaning to retrieve his from his grandparents’ house. )
“They all love what they’re doing,” says Matt Duffer. “They love coming to set, they love working, they love acting. In terms of the fame thing, it’s a side effect that I think some of them are more into than others. You’re worried about, ‘What if they realize this isn’t their true passion?’ They’re so young. But this year those fears went away. They’re all very committed to this. That’s the important thing, that they enjoy what they’re doing. And that they’re passionate about it.”
#noah schnapp#will byers#finn wolfhard#mike wheeler#caleb mclaughlin#lucas sinclair#gaten matarazzo#dustin henderson#st articles#byler#<target audience
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Eclipse Trip 2024 || Burlington, VT
Burlington is one of the few places I think Ken and I could agree to move to. (I love Atlanta and would move back in a heartbeat but Ken won’t go south of here; I don’t really want to move time zones and go west.) My uncle and his husband live here (I always say “my uncles” but then people think it’s a big chunk of my family, but no it’s just the one couple) and we visited them once pre-pandemic. They showed us around and I talked for ages about moving up there. I still love it.
We originally planned to go to Ohio and do Cedar Point, but it’s not open this early in the year. So last April, a year out, we paid like $300 a night for a holiday inn express in south Burlington. It was completely booked, along with everywhere else. It was hands-down the busiest I’ve ever seen a hotel breakfast. Every seat at every table full!
I convinced Ken to agree to a glass blowing class and it was a highlight for sure! We made cups! It’s one of those crafts that I just don’t know how anyone gets into unless they have a family member who does it. Like, the entry into it just seems so tough. But a one-hour class was a really good insight into it.
On Sunday we scoped out potential viewing spots. We picked a park on the lake 3 miles from our hotel so we could walk there and back and not deal with parking. We were there around 4:30, so later than the eclipse would be the next day, but could still get an idea of where the sun would be in the sky when thinking of potential spots to sit and watch. It was funny, us and everyone else walking around, whispering because we didn’t want to share our thoughts about where we planned to be.
Ultimately, it was busy but not insane. We were still quite a bit south of downtown and the university campus, which I think was much more packed. We picked up bagel sandwiches to bring with us and had little portable camp chairs. We got there a bit before noon, and totality was at 3:26. I loved seeing all the dogs. The feeling of community during totality was really cool.
Now that we’ve experienced it, we both say we’d travel under 3 hours to see it again (not the 10 hours we traveled this time), or further if it was somewhere we had family or otherwise already wanted to visit. But we wouldn’t plan more eclipse vacations just to see more eclipses. We’re both really glad we did this one though!
The drive home took 12 hours instead of 10. Since the eclipse was a Monday, travel in was spread out between some people coming in Saturday and some on Sunday, but basically everyone left Tuesday and it was bad traffic. Then we stopped at Panera and discovered they changed the menu and no longer have any of Ken’s favorite items!
Overall a fantastic trip, even with the tough journey home. I’m not allowed to send Ken Zillow links to Burlington homes for a month - he’s convinced the vacation excitement will wear off, and with it my desire to move. But I have a vision of myself in Chelsea boots boiling sap from a tree in my yard to make maple syrup and I will not let go of this imagined Vermont Katie.
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Drew Ferguson
Born: November 15, 1966, Langdale, Valley, AL
Physique: Husky Build
Height: 5′ 9″
Anderson Drew Ferguson IV is an American politician who is the U.S. representative for Georgia's 3rd congressional district. The district stretches from the southern suburbs of Atlanta to the northern suburbs of Columbus, including a sliver of Columbus itself. A Republican, Ferguson previously served as the mayor of West Point, Georgia, a city between LaGrange and Columbus.
Handsome, husky and quite possibly hairy. He’s married with six children, but all that tells me is he likes to nut in things. So I’m liking him even more. He’s also real shady or dumb as fuck. But he’s a politician, so it’s to be expected.
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