#bullet's crescendo
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🎸PREORDERS OPEN: BULLET'S CRESCENDO🎸
Here is my preview for Bullet's Crescendo: Trigun Music Zine. It was an absolute blast!!🎸
Check out the project using the link below!
🛒https://bulletscrescendo.bigcartel.com/
🎶JANUARY 20 - FEBRUARY 26
#trigun stampede#vash the stampede#millions knives#trigun#bullet's crescendo#this piece was SUCH a joy to paint istg#i love it a lot and cant wait for everyone to see!!#please check out the zine its AMAZING#sooooo many excellent works in there#priceless quality honestly
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there are some songs that i listened to a lot like midway through the year that aren’t in my top songs at all ????
#choose one by psyfe ??? one two three by donghan ????#literally all of jeff's songs from later this year like loop hide fade etc#summer bike by fanta ?????#CRESCENDO BY BULLET TRAIN ?????????#i know i had that song on repeat because it came out around the same time as escape by fanta & i played those two songs a LOT#LAST DANCE NI BYE BYE ?????#i blame spotify's shuffle tbh#lex waffles
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[J-Pop] Bullet Train has released a group teaser image announcing their upcoming digital single “Crescendo” which is scheduled to be released on June 10th.
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Born lucky, under a bad star.
Summary: Joel has always been lucky, in the worst of ways.
Pairing: Joel Miller x f!Reader
Word count: ~13k (sorry)
Warnings: game!Joel, major spoilers for tlou part 2, angst with a happy ending, major injuries and recovery, anxiety, depression, relationship healing, mentions of death, mentions of violence, suicidal ideation
Disclaimers and A/N: Though this fic was based around some events in tlou part 2, almost all of the canon after the divergence from the canon timeline is thrown out. This fic is also based entirely around game events, characterization, and canon. This is honestly one of the most difficult things I've ever written. It took months and many many drafts, but I'm very proud of her. I hope you love her too, she was a labor of love.
As always, thank you for reading! I would love to know your thoughts! Please please please, be sure to leave feedback!
Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red.
- Kait Rokowski.
The lights of the clinic are so bright they’re blinding.
Your hands are still shaking, covered in Joel’s blood. It’s been hours since you returned to the safety of Jackson’s walls but there’s still a frantic, frenetic energy in the air. Everyone is shaken. It feels a little like a thousand year old tree has been felled, like a giant has been swung at and leveled, like something monstrous and infallible has been brought to its knees.
You’ve seen it happen before. Rebar right through his belly. It should have killed him. It would have killed anyone else. You’ve pulled more bullets out of Joel than you would care to count, and swaddled him in probably several football fields worth of bandages over the years.
Still, nothing like this.
Because Joel has always been lucky, even when he hadn’t wanted to be.
Lucky, in all the worst ways.
That fucking rebar, you think bitterly. It should have hit at least one organ, should have severed his fucking spine. But it didn’t. He walked it off, really, mostly, at the end of it all.
This though — to see him tortured, beaten, bleeding to death slowly—
Your edge of your vision tips black, like your mind is already refusing to go back to that room, like you’ll pass out if you think of it for too long.
A part of you wonders if maybe it’s your fault. Maybe you forgot to stick lavender in his pocket before he left that morning, like you always do.
Someone pushes the door open, snow swirls in against the tile. Voices, rising and falling. The cold that rolls through the tiny waiting room is frigid.
It’s still so red, his blood, even dried and crusted around your fingers and up your wrists.
Tommy is still bleeding and even Maria hasn’t been able to convince him to sit down and let someone look at him. No, all attention needs to be focused on his brother. Anyone with any medical know how, has to be with Joel.
You agree.
Tommy, you, anyone else—can fucking wait.
Ellie is sitting next to you, looking just as numb and shocked as you feel, her fingers twined with Dina’s.
The chatter reaches a crescendo. Something about the worsening storm, something about tracking folks with that big of a headstart through a storm like this one, something about the rapidly deepening darkness, night coming on, something about well who could do something like that anyway? Who the fuck would we even send?
The quiet that follows is painful.
Joel.
Joel is the one you send. Joel is the one that could get a job like this one done, the one that could track people through a blizzard with a dogged determinism, with pragmatism and infallibility.
“What did they want?” Someone asks the room at large. You aren’t sure who asks, you can’t make the shapes in the room resolve into people you know. “Why us? Why Joel? They wanted something right? Who were they?”
You and Tommy look at each other, Ellie makes a half muffled, pained sound beside you. Joel crossed a lot of people, maybe there wasn’t any sense in guessing.
No one answers. You look at your hands again and wonder if the crimson will ever fade.
Someone says your name and you look up. A coat is tugged over your shoulders. You didn’t realize you were shivering and you don’t know what happened to your own coat. One of the patrolmen is looking at you, his name slips your memory but Jesse is standing behind him, Maria on the other side.
You feel the ghost of Ellie’s hand against your arm. Odd, you think distantly, because she hates you. She has for a long time.
“What happened?”
You look around, but Tommy isn’t where he’d been standing just a moment ago. Did they ask him, too?
There’s a dark hole in your memory.
“I don’t know.”
And it’s the truth.
There’s no one more dedicated, more involved, in keeping Jackson safe, than Joel.
Aside from Tommy, maybe.
Joel is an effective killer, like an executioner with a mission. It’s the thing that scared Tommy the most about his brother, and it’s also the thing that had kept him alive long enough to get his second chance in Jackson. It’s the thing you have always loved most about Joel, the violence born of necessity.
And, you suppose, that’s what he’d been. Dispatcher, destroyer.
Protector.
At the heart of it all, the meat of it is, that it had always been that with Joel. It had always been in the name of protect, provide, survive. He never shied away from telling you of his days as a hunter, or, something close to a hunter. And even then, it was keep Tommy alive, it was survive until Boston, it was we needed fucking food.
Survive and provide and protect.
Joel.
Jackson had been wary of him, at first. The stories of his dealings with infected and raiders alike at odds with the way he moved in the commune, with kindness and a certain gentleness, a competency and dependability, with something so soft in his gaze when it came to that little girl he arrived with.
That reticence and worry had dissolved as quickly as it had come.
They describe him as quiet and funny, because he’s prone to good natured teasing. They describe him as fierce and short to anger, because no one can say a word about him or his. They describe him as wonderfully dependable, ask Joel for something on a supply run and you would have it in short order; sigh about the state of something in your home and it would be taken care of, fixed, the very next day.
Jackson loves Joel.
Especially that softened up, gentle creature that had emerged in the wake of everything that had happened between Boston and Jackson. Joel had always had a soft interior, trotted out in brief glimpses over the years, but the shell he wore had been so thick and sharp it was near impenetrable, nearly unknowable.
Ellie is around plenty in those first couple of weeks after. She even takes to sleeping on the living room couch. She doesn’t say much to you or Joel, hardly anything at all, but she’s there and you figure that’s what matters. It seems like she isn’t sure what to say, and desperate for the connection that nearly shattered.
The first few days when Joel comes home from the clinic, someone knocks on the front door every couple of hours and you open it and have the same conversation over and over and over again. It’s always people worriedly asking after Joel’s wellbeing, dropping off food, expressing their anger that something like this could happen to one of their own, that it could happen to someone so widely and wildly beloved.
When the knocks finally stop coming, and you can convince Tommy to go home to Maria, before Maria has to walk over and collect her husband again, you take the stairs slowly up.
You’re exhausted. You hardly sleep and when you do, you have nightmares of Joel. Formless, mind numbing dreams that you can never remember when you wake up gasping. You aren’t sure if Joel dreams of it, too. He’s always mumbled in his sleep, eyes flickering behind closed lids, so it’s hard to tell.
And he hasn’t really been coherent enough, awake enough, to ask, anyway.
“Hey,” Ellie says when you round the doorway into the bedroom, lowering the comic book in her hands. She’s beside Joel, sitting on your side of the bed, back against the headboard. “Sleeping again.”
“Was he awake?”
“A little. Drank some water.”
Despite the tension of the last few years, you know she’s thinking of another time that Joel had slept a lot, injured and only half alive.
Now isn’t like then, but in some ways, it’s worse.
You nod and take a seat at the edge of the bed by her feet. “That’s good,” you reassure her. “It’s a good thing that he’s sleeping. He needs it.”
Ellie just holds up the comic in her lap and then jerks her chin at the box on the bedside table, Joel’s glasses and book about space pushed aside. “I, uh, found them in the study.”
You shrug. “He always picked up any he found on supply runs.” You watch her from the corner of your eye and then shift your gaze to Joel. The slow rise and fall of his chest is reassuring in its steadiness, though you hate how still he is.
The skin by his temple is puckered and red, the stitches a neat little row up to his hairline. It still looks raw as a live nerve, the swelling extending to his eye, purple and shadowed in a dark bruise that trails down his cheek and jaw.
“He never said—” She stops and shakes her head. “So stupid.”
“Well,” you scoot closer and pat her extended leg. “You didn’t exactly want to talk then. We tried giving them to you, once. Left them outside your door. They got a little rained on.”
“Yeah,” she says, mouth twisting to the side. “Some of them are. . .can’t fucking peel the pages apart.” In that moment, she sounds like that little kid you left Boston with, being told not to touch something and doing it anyway.
That might have been when you fell in love with Ellie, watching her snap at Bill, and watching Joel react like any father would. It had come back to him so quickly, so naturally.
There’s a long pause in which Ellie flips rapidly through the comic book and doesn’t say anything, her fingers nervous. She looks how you feel — exhausted. “Why don’t you go get some sleep in your own bed?” You ask, reaching out to twitch a fallen lock of auburn hair behind her ear. “You’re just across the yard. If anything happens, you’ll know.”
She looks up at you, eyes flicking over your face. “I was fucking mad at you too, you know,” she whispers suddenly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
You drop your hand and shake your head before looking back at Joel. He sleeps deeply now, deeper than you thought possible for someone like him, even drugged and injured.
There’s a knot tangled in your chest, that only tightens further with her question. “It wasn’t my place. He didn’t. . .he didn’t say anything to me about it for a long time, either. Wouldn’t explain what happened while we were separated. He told me the same lie. And you were going to be mad at me, too, no matter what. It had to be between the two of you.”
“And you think he was right,” she accuses hotly.
“And,” you level your eyes to hers, “I think he was right.” You dip your head. “I wouldn’t change anything, Ellie. I wouldn’t. You know Joel wouldn’t either. You matter more than that.”
Her bottom lip trembles for just a second. “Even knowing this happens?!” She gestures around the room, maybe just the situation at large.
Some of the tension knotting up your shoulders bleeds away. “He’s still here. It’s not too late.” She glances away and sucks in a harsh breath. You wait until she meets your eyes again. “And Ellie, it is not your fault. It’s not. None of it.”
“It almost was.” Her voice is strained. “Too late.”
You shrug. “He knows you care. Trust me, he does.”
She scrubs roughly at her eyes with the sleeves of her hoodie. “Yeah, uh, well, I’m still gonna sleep on the couch.”
“Why don’t you just stay right here, then? With Joel?” You ask and stand. “I’ll take the couch tonight.”
It is the ultimate admission of how scared she is, that she does not argue, doesn’t even try to.
For the first few weeks after the attack, Joel is in and out of consciousness. He sleeps much more than he’s awake.
And, it’s hard to tell, at first, why he’s sleeping so much. The pain medicine? That carefully doled out, nearly impossible to come by miracle drug — was it just knocking him out? Was he just sleeping because that’s what his body needed? Or, was it something deeper? Brain damage?
“He’s fucking. . .old!” Ellie says to you one morning around a mouthful of toast. It’s kind of odd, how easily she’s taken to old routines. And how weird the old routine is, because the third piece of your puzzle is missing, sleeping. “Old people take longer to heal, right?”
Right.
But he’s also Joel. And he isn’t that old.
It feels wrong, that he’s so still and silent.
“It’s not—” Her fist opens and closes. She sets down the toast in her other hand on the plate and turns, pacing the length of Joel’s kitchen, fidgeting with her fingers as she goes, white morning light slatting over her. You eye the toast. It’s hard to get her to eat, these days but you figure most of one piece is better than nothing. “His leg. It’s not infected or something, right? We’d know if it was.”
“It’s not infected,” you agree. When your own hands start to shake, you set down your mug, afraid to drop it or spill hot tea all over the floor, and make Ellie even more anxious in the process.
You don’t like to talk about it. You don’t like to think about it. The memories are like a hot brand.
The staircase creaks with the heavy thud of footsteps, before Tommy appears in the kitchen archway. You’ve always thought Tommy and Joel resembled each other, but now you see similarities in the kinds of expressions they make, too, the quirks in their movements that only siblings could share, and Tommy is sometimes a little hard to look at.
“Heading out?”
“Yeah, he’s, uh, sleepin’ again.” He leans against the doorway and crosses his arms over his chest.
Ellie doesn’t say anything, just slips past Tommy and heads up the steps. Tommy looks after her and then back at you. “She won’t say it but she doesn’t like leaving him alone,” you explain.
Tommy nods and then pushes away from the door to settle at the kitchen table. “Well, I don’t like the idea of it either. Good she’s with him.” He tips the chair onto its back legs and tilts his head. “How ya holdin’ up?”
“Probably about as good as you are.”
He huffs a bitter laugh. “Yeah. Maria told me you want off partols.”
You swallow and look away from him as you take the seat across from him at the table. “I - I know we’re down people already but I can’t. . .Tommy I can’t even look at the goddamn gate without feeling like—” You shake your head. “I just don’t think I can do it. I’d get somebody killed.”
“All right,” he says, not unkindly. “We’ll figure it out. It’s okay.”
A burn starts at the back of your eyes so you stand again and swipe your fingers against your cheeks. “You want coffee before you head out?”
“Nah, save that for Joel.” Then, “How you think this is gonna go? When he’s awake more?”
“I don’t know. You’d know better than me.”
Tommy laughs. The chair scrapes against the linoleum as he stands. He looks tired, and worried. It’s an odd look on him. It isn’t like Tommy at all. You and Tommy have always bonded over teasing Joel. There’s none of that now.
“Like hell. You’ve spent the last fifteen years with him, not me.”
“He’s your brother.”
“And you’re the love of his damn life.” He pauses and leans on the counter next to you.
That makes your mouth twitch, the pleasantly warm feeling in your chest consumed in the next second by a lancing pain that can only be an approximation of grief for someone and something that still breathed.
“I just can’t help worryin’,” he continues. “This might be enough for us, but not for him. If Joel can’t ever do anything again—”
“He just needs time, Tommy,” you cut him off quickly. Not able to stomach the thought. “We’ll figure it out. He’ll figure it out,” you say with more conviction than you feel. “We can probably figure something like a prosthetic out. People have been making them for thousands of years. We can do it. It’ll be fine. But it’s going to be different.”
Tommy’s right. You’ve spent the last fifteen years with Joel. You aren’t sure who you are without him anymore. You aren’t sure you know how to get along without him anymore. And you never want to have to find out. “He’s alive,” you finish with a nod. “Everything else, we can figure out.”
He nods. “You think we shoulda went after ‘em?”
“Maybe. But this is more important.”
Before he goes, Tommy wraps you in a hug. “So long as you and that girl stick around, it’ll be all right.”
“Ellie’s been playing the guitar up there,” you answer.
He nods and pulls back, one big hand clapping down on your shoulder. “See? Things might be all right yet. Always told Joel she’d come around eventually.” He releases you and heads toward the door then. “And get some sleep. Y’look terrible,” he calls over his shoulder. “Orders from Maria.”
For the first time in weeks, Joel wakes with some semblance of clarity. The bedroom is warm and dark, the tiniest pool of light washing over the form next to him from a little light plugged into the wall.
It’s the nightlight he found for Ellie when they first got to Jackson and her nightmares gave her more grief than she cared to admit to.
His whole body aches. He feels sick.
The sharpness of the pain is disorienting. He’s only been awake in brief, muddled flashes, the dulled fingers of drugged pain lancing through him and consuming most of his thoughts. He’d only been awake long enough to eat or drink or be helped to the bathroom like some kind of damn—
He remembers Tommy at his bedside. He hears the ghost notes of music in the air, your voice in his ear, the gentle slide of warm fingers over his skin. He remembers Ellie reading aloud, curled on her side next to him, like she used to do when she was younger, like when they’d stop for the night on the road.
That can’t be right, though. She hasn’t done that in years. She wouldn’t do something like that. Not anymore.
You’re next to him now, face tilted against the edge of his pillow. It’s hard to make you out in the dark, the shape and slope of your features hidden in the dim light.
When he says your name, you twitch, the slightest wrinkle to your nose, the tiniest spasm of your fingers against the sheets. “Darlin’,” he tries again. His voice grinds, catches and snags around his teeth. It feels like he hasn’t spoken in years.
He reaches for you and it’s agony, because his shoulder must be broken. His ribs contract painfully right, like the shrapnel of the bone is digging up into his lungs, piercing his heart. But your skin is soft and warm, pliant, beneath his fingers. It smells like you’ve been burning sage again. He wants to burrow his fingers beneath your skin, you’re so warm.
The cut of your cheekbones are sharper, the angle of your jaw reminds him of winter in the QZ, winter traveling with you and Ellie. Discolored circles line the space beneath your eyes like little hollows. You look exhausted, wan.
You blink, slowly at first, then more rapidly. “Joel?” Your voice is a whisper, like the dark is stealing it away.
Your fingers slide through the backs of his against your cheek when you shift closer, so careful about it, until you’re pressed to his side. “Joel,” you repeat, eyes sliding shut, forehead against the edge of his sore jaw.
He breathes you in, the warm scent of your skin, the smells of hearth and home, lavender and sage and woodsmoke. He closes his eyes for just a second when you shift up and tilt your forehead against his, breath whispering against his chin. “Joel.”
“You all right?” His voice still sounds rocky but clearing it doesn’t seem to help any.
Slowly, you sit up, hand still in his when you pull it away from your face. “You’re asking me that? You’re kidding, Joel,” your voice creaks. You’ve never really been a crier, but there’s a thickness in your mouth, softening out the vowels and snapping at the consonants. “Are you - We didn’t want you to be in pain. But you’ve been sleeping for so long, we gave you a lower dose so that—”
“I feel okay,” he interrupts your fretting, sweeping his thumb against the back of your hand. “Considerin’.”
You swallow and nod. “Hungry?” You glance at the window, where a gray, pale morning light is starting to leech into the room, the color of dirty snow.
“Yep.” He wishes you’d keep your eyes on him. “If you’ve got somethin’ ready.”
“We have anything you want,” you assure him. “Anything.”
Joel nods and attempts to push himself up next to you, chest and shoulder aching something awful. He bites back a groan but it still pushes past his teeth.
“Careful,” you say sharply. Before he can protest, you’re up and around the bed, one hand behind his back. “Your shoulder is broken in a million places.”
“A million?” He grunts.
“Three.”
“That ain’t a million.”
You don’t laugh and your hand doesn’t move from his back. “And broken ribs. Now lean back.” He does as you ask, real careful about it so you don’t worry.
An odd feeling creeps up inside his chest, dulled by the lighter dose of pain medicine coursing through his veins. It ain’t just a sick feeling, but something else. A helplessness, maybe. It feels wrong, in more ways than one.
Joel becomes acutely aware of what he already knows, every single injury, the graveness of them. He knows about the broken shoulder and ribs that had to be reset, torn skin that had to be stitched together, that he has internal bruising but by some miracle no internal bleeding. His face throbs suddenly, his temple tight with pain. He feels his heartbeat behind his eye and in the swelling in his cheek.
And, the worst of it, leg amputated to just above the knee. Sick crawls up the back of his throat. He doesn’t dare look.
The feeling in his chest swells until it chokes him.
Helpless, useless — something hard and fanged digs into his mind. It feels like grief, but what is he supposed to be mourning, exactly?
Everything, maybe.
His whole damn life.
“I’m fine,” he grunts suddenly. Sharply. “Quit fussin’.”
He feels like fucking crying.
“Just - shut up, Joel,” you snap back. “You almost fucking died.”
A fist curls around his throat, warm and tight. He almost can’t breathe through it. “Yeah,” he croaks, voice breaking the word in two.
“Yeah,” you snarl. “So shut up and let me fuss.”
You turn and leave before he can say anything else, footsteps rapidly descending the stairs. Voices trundle up, creased and folded, rising but muffled. You’ve always been mean when you got scared, ever since Joel can remember. You were mean as hell when he first met you, a hissing kind of frustrated, new to the QZ and new to trying your hand at smuggling.
You’ve softened up over the years. He hasn’t seen you like this in a long time, maybe not since you got separated in Salt Lake City.
More footsteps, this time heavy, stomping, coming upwards.
Ellie appears in the doorway a second later. Her hair is messy; her eyes are wild. She’s in sweatpants and a shirt that’s too big for her. She looks tired but unharmed. The knot tangled up around his lungs eases just a little. “Hey, kiddo.” He tries not to sound surprised.
Her eyes flick over him and then away. She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t leave either. Instead she picks up a book from the corner of the dresser and settles in the chair across the room.
A firm but unyielding presence.
He closes his eyes, tips his head back against the wall, and tries to push down the feeling of failure rising in his throat like a tide.
Joel’s fingers are clumsy.
He can’t walk, can’t work, can’t do much of anything without irritating every ligament and tendon and bone in his body.
But even worse than that, he can’t remember how to play the guitar.
And nothing makes him feel so helpless as that.
Even after not playing for twenty odd years, the notes and the placement of his fingers on the strings and frets had come back easily to him, almost like he’d never stopped playing at all.
Now, it doesn’t.
In part his shoulder is to blame. Even nearly healed, it’s stiff. But the other part of it is that he can’t remember how to play. Every note seems wrong, and he can’t decide if he’s hearing it wrong, if there’s something wrong with his hearing, his perception, or if the note really is just wrong.
Ellie plays for him, instead.
It’s easier than talking. Neither of them are really good at that, anyway. He’s just glad she’s around at all.
He can’t help but think of that last conversation he’d had with her on the back porch, that she wants to try to forgive him, even if she thinks she might never be able to. He supposes this is her way of trying her hand at that.
Sometimes he wonders if it would be like this if he hadn’t almost died, if he wasn’t collecting sympathy from everyone like there was some kind of shortage. Maybe that conversation on the porch would have meant nothing, otherwise.
The thought hurts him, no matter how glad he is that she’s there.
One evening, pretty late, as snow peppers down through the early winter black that curtains the window, she stops playing.
The living room is quiet, aside from their breathing and the crackle of flames in the fireplace.
“I was going to invite you over to watch a movie.”
The metallic twang of the last note she plucked hangs in the air.
“I was - I was going to fucking ask you to watch a movie with me. That night. One of those dumb action movies you like. Like the ones we used to watch, remember? Curtis and Viper 2.”
She doesn’t look at him. She stares at her fingers, idly, nervously, twisting the tuning pegs of the guitar. “Think I saw that one before,” he answers, voice a little choked. “Pretty good.”
Ellie rolls her eyes and doesn’t say anything for a few minutes. “Yeah, you would think so, old man,” she replies eventually but still doesn’t look up, her mouth twisting to the side. “I just - don’t want you to think I’m only here because you—” She shakes her head, and props the guitar against the wall before she stands and paces the room twice, toying with her fingers in that way she always has. “I never wanted anything bad to happen to you. Even when I was really mad.”
“Ellie,” he says but she doesn’t seem to hear him. “I know.”
“Anyway, I meant what I said.”
“Ellie.”
“I wanted things to get better. I wanted to try. I was going to.”
“Ellie.”
She spins suddenly toward the front door, one hand on the back of her neck, rubbing awkwardly. “I gotta get going.”
“Kiddo.” This time she turns and finally looks at him. The scent of pine and smoke fills the room. The red of the flames flash across her face, so serious and anxious.
When they first came to Jackson, they spent a lot of nights on the couch together. His neck always ached the next morning from sleeping upright but he’d never complain about it. Then the distance between them had grown, and he doesn’t know when the last time something like that had happened.
But that same distance is slowly shrinking now, even if things might never, never be the same again.
So many times when he looks at her, he still sees that fourteen year old kid. He’d had the same problem with Sarah, looking at his twelve year old and seeing her at five and eight. It was just how it went, being a parent.
“I know, Ellie,” he reassures her. “I do. It’s all right. Even if you didn’t mean a word of it, it’s all right. I meant what I said, too.”
And even though she said she needed to leave, she nods and sits down again. She plucks a few notes out on the guitar when she pulls it back into her lap.
“D'ya still wanna watch it?”
She does.
Joel is whittling.
It is decidedly not going well.
He’s too distracted for it. He never realized how much pressure settled on his shoulder, how much it pulled at the muscle around his ribs, from doing something as simple as this, and he doesn’t like the nausea that comes with the pain.
But it’s something he can do, so he does it.
It’s snowing outside again, wind raking against the siding, rattling the window panes. There’s a thin stream of air coming in around the window’s frame, cold.
His hands are chapped and raw, blood pooling at the seams of his knuckles.
The fix would be easy enough, but everything he needs to do it is in the basement. And the basement is a near impossible location for him to reach, so he puts up with it, hands growing more frustrated by the second because he wants to fucking fix it.
You use the office, his work space, often enough, and it’s one thing for him to be cold and uncomfortable, but another thing entirely for you to feel that way.
But he can’t make it down to the living room without help these days, let alone down two flights of stairs to the basement, and then back up them, too.
“Joel?”
He glances over his shoulder to find you standing in the doorway. You have a pair of shears in your hands.
“Still want me to cut your hair?”
He wants to do it himself. But you’d offered earlier, because you’ve been doing it for him for a long time, for years and years now. And he’d always liked it because your hands are kind with it and you’re better at doing it, anyway. But now it just feels like one more thing he can’t do for himself, one more thing he’s relying on someone else for, and that makes guilt and shame choke him.
Joel can’t seem to do a damn thing, not for himself, but, worse, not for anyone else either.
“Joel?” You ask again when the silence stretches until it’s uncomfortable. “I don’t have to; you can do it yourself.”
He shakes his head. “No, it’s all right, darlin’.” You start forward when he labors up from the chair, teeth gritted, but quickly stop when he meets your eyes, warning you away with a glance.
You don’t say anything else, just back out the door and pad down the hall to the bathroom.
He isn’t sure if your feelings are hurt or not, all his focus directed on hauling himself upwards and then limping down the hall with one crutch under his arm. Feeble threads of pain lance up his leg, centering in his joints, the hinge of his knee. The space under his arm is sore too, from the crutch, even wrapped in cloth.
Joel is used to pain. He’s used to temporary aches, the sharp stab of healing wounds, the quick rip of a bullet or knife through skin, chronic pains from age and long healed injuries. On cold days, his side aches something fierce, like that rebar never really came out of him.
But this pain is different, without origin, and he’s having a hard time adjusting to it. Or maybe he’s just having a hard time coming to terms with the fact that this is not a healable injury, at least, not in the way he wants it to be.
For the rest of his life, he will be disabled. He’ll never get back to himself, never be what he once was.
The bathroom light is gold. It washes his skin into a better color, not so pale and strained and pained looking.
He hates looking in the mirror now. Joel never considered himself particularly good looking, never thought about it much, really. And, for most of his life, looks haven’t really mattered anyway.
But seeing his reflection now is a reminder of his failures. It’s a reminder of everything he can’t do.
His whole body is nothing but reminders.
He is a patchwork quilt of scars.
He doesn’t know how you can stand to look at him. But you just brush your hands through his hair when he leans the crutch against the counter and sits heavily on the stool you dragged upstairs.
The bathroom is thick with the scent of lavender and earth. Every winter it turns into a makeshift greenhouse, all the plants that can’t survive the winter dragged inside for the season.
The feeling of your hands through his hair is soothing and the tension in his shoulders slides away.
“I can do it myself,” he grumbles, despite himself, and without conviction when you run a comb through his hair.
You hum under your breath, not really paying him any mind. You know he doesn’t really mean it. Even if he feels like a fucking burden for it, it’s something you’ve always done for him, so it’s a little easier for him to accept. “I know. I like to.” You tilt his chin up and Joel steadfastly avoids looking in the mirror. “Besides, I’m better at it. You take to it like it’s a hack job.”
The trim doesn’t take long, since he keeps his hair longer anyway. It’s mostly an excuse for you to rake your fingers through his hair.
“The window needs fixin’,” he says when you slide in front of him and set about trimming his beard without asking. That’s fine, too. “I know you been, uh, kinda cold in that room.”
“It’s not so bad,” you say when you finish with him, brushing your fingers against his cheeks and then through his hair. You smile, eyes crossing his face, tracing his features like a well known map, before you twitch a lock of hair away from his forehead. “You gonna fix it for me or what?”
“Mighty big ask of ya,” he grouses, irritation itching at the edge of his mind.
You’re still smiling faintly, touching his face, the curl of hair behind his ear, the scar along his hairline and then the one over his nose.
“I just can’t see how,” you say and Joel almost snaps. He wants to. He wants to say you don’t fucking get it, that you don’t want to get it, that it’s different now. He wants to say he’s not the man you’ve always known, that shit ain’t as easy as it’s always been. He can’t do shit for you, anymore, and isn’t that the reason you’ve stuck around all these years?
But then you continue. “I left that damn caulking gun on the side table three days ago.”
“You what?”
You shrug. “Thought you might have noticed it too. And I’ve always been so bad at that stuff.”
The guilt that settles in him is heavy, but familiar. The shape of it is different, but it's still like shrugging on an old coat, it’s so natural and intimate.
He must be destined for some kind of failure, born under a bad star, something.
Everything he touches falls apart, no matter what he does. Everyone he holds dear, leaves him, one way or another, somehow. His mama, Sarah, and then Tommy, and then Tess. Most recently Ellie, though maybe things there were being mended. Maybe you were next, soon as you came to your senses.
Joel has spent most of his life taking care of people. And when he wasn’t taking care of people, he was moving, working. He hardly ever sat still. He didn’t have time to sit still.
Not before the outbreak, and certainly not after.
Even in Jackson where the pace of the world is slower, he was always busy. If he wasn’t on patrol, he was on wall duty, looking after Jackson’s security. Or, he was fixing something for someone, building something, helping with the horses. If he wasn’t doing any of that, he was improving his house, he was working on a new carving, he was playing the guitar.
Healing up, it’s involved a whole lot of sitting still and feeling useless. It had involved a lot of other people fussing over him.
A lot of sitting still and feeling like he was failing everyone he knew. Like he had already failed everyone he knew. For all the effort he put into it, it would never be enough. He cares wrong, he loves wrong, and now he can’t even do that.
He fails you in this, too. Of wishing he could accuse you of all the things he thinks of himself.
Joel knows you think of it too, you just haven’t gotten frustrated enough with him to say it yet. You haven’t had the full weight of his broken, uselessness on you, yet.
That day will come. There’s no way it won’t, because he can’t do for you what he’s always done, what he was put on this god forsaken earth to do. The one thing he’s always been able to do. Not just for you, but for everyone. Ellie, Tommy and his family, Jackson at large.
It’s always been the thing he could point to and say look, this is why I am like this, this is why you need me, why I’m around. You survived because of me. Because I made sure you did.
So he’s not worth much now, really, and all the promises he made you and all the promises he made to himself, he can’t keep them anymore. And isn’t that why you stuck by him all these years? Despite all his shortcomings?
“Sorry, darlin’,” he cups your face in his hands, smoothes his thumbs over your cheeks, the hinge of your jaw. “I’ll get right on fixin’ that for you.”
“I know you will. Thank you, Joel.” The full weight of your head tips into his hands, and your eyes slide shut. His hands are large against your jaw, scarred and calloused, harsh. Reminders, maybe, of what he used to be. He looks at the hollows beneath your eyes, the raw, worried skin of your bottom lip.
You don’t sleep anymore and when you do you have nightmares. You hate to leave the house. And sometimes you flinch even when nothing is happening around you, like memories are snapping at your heels.
He did all that to you, too. Terrible gifts he’s given and can’t take back.
When he glances back up to your eyes, you’re staring at him, a worried, anxious kind of look lodged there that he absolutely hates.
“What?” He asks, smoothing his thumbs over your cheeks and then the delicate hinge of your jaw.
“Nothing.” Your eyes shift away from his, and you twitch in his grasp. He already knows what you’re about to say, because you’ve never gotten better at saying it, just like him. He doesn’t need you to say it, but you do anyway, and he hates how much he likes hearing it. It’s like a ray of golden sun. “I love you, Joel,” you murmur and hook your hands around his wrists.
For a long time, you just look at him, the silence is heavy with unsaid words, but he isn’t sure which of you is the one not saying something. “That enough?” He eventually grunts. “For you?”
You frown. “Why wouldn’t it be? Do you think it’s not?”
It shouldn’t be. All those promises stack up in his mind again, everything he can’t keep.
“It shouldn’t be.”
You pull his hands away from your face with a shake of your head and lean in to kiss him. Your lips part softly against his, the hitch of your breath sweet against his mouth. The heat of you is so close and intoxicating, it’s something he never wants to have to give up, not when your thumbs are pressed to the pulse in his wrists, and not when you taste like apple, honey.
He shakes one of your hands away to wrap his arm around your back and pull you closer, until the warmth of your body is pressed securely to his chest. Your tongue slides against his, teeth nipping gently at his bottom lip. Something warm floods his cheeks and his chest goes tight.
When you pull back, you tug on a piece of his hair then touch the blush pinking on his face. “You look real handsome, Texas.”
He tucks his forehead against your collarbone, and you fold your hands against the back of his head. “It’s enough,” you say. “Always has been.”
The next day, he finds that most of his tools have been relocated upstairs, either to one of the cabinets in the living room, or to the office upstairs.
Either way, he no longer has to traverse two staircases down and back up.
He isn’t sure when you had the time to do it, or why he didn’t at least hear you doing it.
Joel’s chest swells with love for you, right alongside the guilt that does nothing but grow.
He fixes the window.
Some days are easier than others.
He has good days and bad, and some of the bad days are worse than others. He sows the feelings up inside himself, cocoons the bad away inside his chest. It’s easier that way. And it’s necessary now. It’s just another thing you’d have to deal with.
He’s never been good at saying the things that needed said, anyway.
He tries not to snap at you. He’s trying not to get mean, and he can’t just walk away like he used to be able to when his mind got messy. But he’s been failing because he wants you to fight with him, wants you to hate him.
Joel wants you to say that he fucking failed, that he’s been failing his whole life at the one thing he was supposed to be able to do. The one thing he’s really good for.
“Stop it,” Joel snarls one day in the spring, when you offer your hand down the steps to the living room.
He doesn’t mean to snap at you like that, but he doesn’t take it back either. He’s in too much pain. And he doesn’t want to admit it.
The smile slips off your face as you step back from him, a stoney expression sliding over your face instead. It’s routine, you helping him, and maybe that’s the problem. He grits his teeth, that look reminds him of Boston, reminds him of the time before you used to trust each other.
“I ain’t helpless.”
You raise your hands and take another step back, looking away from him as you do.
The breeze that comes in the landing’s open window is cool. It isn’t quite warm enough for the window to be open but the house needs airing out after such a long winter, such a hard winter. The air is crisp with the scent of pine and the lavender hung in dried clumps above each doorway.
“I know, Joel.”
When he looks at you, you visibly brace yourself.
A wave of self-hatred so hot it burns immediately follows the guilt. But it also doesn’t stop the angry, frustrated pulse beneath the surface of his skin, pressing against the back of his teeth.
“I don’t know why you didn’t just leave me there.” The words are bitter, poisonous. Accusatory. “You should have left me to fuckin’ die.”
Whatever you might be expecting him to say, it isn’t that. Your breath catches hard.
You can be cruel, too. He waits for your anger, the burn of words he deserves to hear, something mean and hateful but true.
But the words don’t come; your anger doesn’t come. You just look tired and empty, sad.
You pace the landing, the soft shush of your footsteps echoed by the creaking of the floorboards. Your silence pricks at him. He wants you to scream at him, blame him, for failing, for being so fucking stupid.
“What if it was me?”
Your voice is so low, he almost doesn’t catch your words.
The quiet of your footsteps come to a halt. “What if it had been me, Joel? It could have been. It could have easily been me. They knew who you were. We’ve done a lot of the same shit. We’ve made a lot of the same enemies over the years.”
Your hands are shaking, your breath comes in quick little pants. The acrid, bone aching feeling of cresting anxiety and panic floods the little landing. “Me and you and Tess, we were kind of a package fucking deal. So, what if it was me?”
The breeze sliding through the open window feels different now. Colder, older, more brutal.
“That’s fuckin’ different and y’know it,” he snarls.
“Why?” Anger floods your face, the curl of your fingers harsh against your arms when you cross them. “Why would that have been different? Because you think I always need to be taken care of?”
He doesn’t answer. He looks away from you, but he can’t go anywhere. He’s at your mercy and you both hate it.
Joel leans heavily against the wall, his right hand curling around his left wrist, a nervous, anxious tick he’s never been able to shake.
“Tell me,” you beg. “Say it, Joel. How is it different? Why?”
He shakes his head once, slowly, and doesn’t look up at you. “You can say it,” you continue, your voice eerily quiet. “You never trusted me to have your back.”
That ain’t it at all.
It’s not your failure. It’s his, in every single way. He doesn’t blame you or Tommy or Ellie or anyone else. He doesn’t believe for a second that you don’t know that.
It would have been better, probably, if he died.
He doesn’t understand the guilt you feel.
He can’t take care of you anymore, can’t protect you anymore.
Worse, he can’t do that for his kid.
If he’d died, maybe that final sacrifice would have been enough to make up for everything else. Maybe it would all just be done.
He’s the one breaking promises, not you, just like he always has been.
Sometimes, when he thinks of Sarah, he can only remember her final moments. He can’t think of anything else but her blood, how red it was in the dark. He can’t think of anything else than what could have been. He can only see the halo of that mounted flashlight glaring into his eyes, his own voice pleading. Please don’t.
If he’d just been shot, he would have died first, he wouldn’t have ever known how bad he failed in that moment. He would have died first, like a parent was supposed to. No good father should ever outlive his kid.
Maybe, this had been his second chance, to finally die first.
Born lucky, bad star, like always.
So, what would he do, if it had been you? He’d have taken care of you, just like you’re doing for him. But that is not anathema to him; that is just how things are supposed to go. It wouldn’t have been a failure.
He’s no use to you anymore, no use to anyone.
He doesn’t say any of that.
Instead, he nods.
“You’re right.” He shrugs and pain splinters across his shoulders. “It would have been different.”
Your expression flickers blank and you turn away. It would have been easier to stomach if you screamed at him, if you slammed a door.
But you’re just quiet.
Once, during the late autumn, when you were traveling with Joel and Ellie, you noticed Joel wasn’t eating.
Food was in short supply. None of the houses or buildings you looted turned up anything edible, and wild game had been elusive for weeks as the weather turned wetter and chillier.
You’d noticed him doing it a few times before, but nothing like then. Joel would dole out carefully rationed food and not allocate any to himself. The bags under his eyes deepened. His temper was shorter. He’d gotten pale and hollows appeared in his cheeks that meant he hadn’t been getting enough. Joel had always been huge, broad and strong and tall, with thick arms and thighs, but when he dropped weight, it always showed in those little hollows first.
Then, one evening, after clearing out a barn of infected, he’d stumbled, hand to his forehead, pale as you’d ever seen him. “Christ,” he’d mumbled.
“Joel?” Ellie’s voice had pitched up with worry. She’d looked at you, and said, “He hasn’t been eating.” The words were all a rush, accusatory and begging for you to do something.
“Ellie—” He’d growled.
“I know she’s right, Joel,” You’d interrupted with a snap. “You think we wouldn’t notice? You think I wouldn’t notice?”
He’d gotten pissed off and marched off into the woods to the stream to refill your canteens. You’d given him a wide berth for several hours, making the newly cleared barn into something livable for the night with Ellie. When dark had started to set in you went after him, boots crunching through frozen leaves.
He’d been sitting by the creek bed, an inscrutable expression on his face. “We ain’t got enough,” he’d said, not looking at you. “You and Ellie need it more. I’m fine.”
“But you're not. You can’t just not eat. You can’t take care of us if you aren’t okay, Joel.”
The air had smelled like earth and decaying leaves and stagnant water and ice. The scent reminded you of better times, of apple cider and cinnamon and new beginnings, of autumn fairs and coffee shops.
You’d sat behind him, pulled him against you for just a moment, chin on his shoulder, and said, “It’s all right to let me look after you, too.”
You figure that even with the change in circumstances, things are still like that with Joel. He’s always doing the metaphorical equivalent of making sure everyone else eats first, even if it means he’s starving.
He’s never been one to give up or give in or let go. When Tess was bitten, Joel hadn’t wanted to leave her. He’d wanted to stay and fight. To fight a useless and unwinnable fight. That mindset was never going to fade.
You don’t speak for a few days. Guilt swallows the whole of your heart and leaves you dry and empty. Joel blames you, you think, even if he won’t say it.
He comes to you late one night.
It’s dark and the bedroom is overly warm. He sits heavily but without help at the edge of the bed. He’s getting better at that, even if he doesn’t think he is.
His hair is longer and it falls into his face when he leans over you, fingers against your forehead and temple and then your cheek.
“When I was real young,” he says. “My dad died. We didn’t have much money and my mama worked all the time.”
You turn on your back and try to make his face out but his expression is unreadable.
Joel hardly ever talks about his folks.
“I got my first job when I was fourteen, to help with the bills. Money was better on account of half of it not bein’ drank away, but we still needed the cash.” Joel pauses and you scoot over. It takes a minute for him to find a comfortable position with you but when he does, he continues. His voice echoes against your ear, the beat of his heart pounds against your cheek. His chin rubs against your forehead, one large hand splayed across your shoulders.
“Since she worked so much, I was always takin’ care of Tommy, of damn near everything else. And my mama, too, sometimes.” He swallows, and you feel the bob of his throat against your forehead. His chest is warm beneath your cheek, even through the two layers he always wears. “So I knew I was young when Sarah came along, but I didn’t really feel it. I took care of her and her mother, ‘til she went her own way. Just the way I always had.”
The rise and fall of his chest is steady. He cups his free hand around yours and tucks your palm against his heart.
“I know I’m not easy, in any sense of the word. I never have been.” A heavy tug of shame weighs his voice down. “Too mean and bitter, I guess.” There’s a long pause, and you want to protest but you’re sure if you interrupt, Joel won’t finish saying whatever it is he needs to.
“So anyway,” he continues. “I try to make up for it. By doin’ what I always have, even if it means I end up alone. I wouldn’t change anything. I don’t know what I’m good for if—” His hand slides up your spine, thick fingers resting at the base of your neck. “And I can’t do it anymore. Can’t take care of ya. So, it woulda been different, if it had been you. Because it’s you we’re talkin’ about.”
Joel goes quiet after that. His palm continues its nervous path over your spine. The bristles of his beard are soft against your temple. The rhythm of his breathing is still slow and even, but you feel the prickle of nerves in the way he touches you.
It isn’t easy for Joel to say the things he feels, even to you, even all these years later.
His body is so familiar to you, so warm and strong beneath you. Comfort, in short, in its purest form.
You aren’t expecting him to say any more, but he does. “Things. . .they always have a way of fallin’ apart, in the end.”
When you lift your head, he doesn’t look at you. You press a finger against the edge of his jaw, turning his head gently until his eyes meet yours. “Joel,” you touch your forehead to his. You aren’t good with words either, but you try. “You are more than that. More than what you can do for people.”
He’s quiet for a long time, eyes fluttering closed, his breath a calm pool against your mouth. “And I’m more than that? To you?”
“Joel, if I only wanted some guard dog, I would have gotten one that could listen better.”
He snorts, and a little of the tension melts away. “Yeah, I reckon you would have.”
The dark is a warm cocoon of things less easily said in the light.
“Yes,” you say quietly after a long, peaceful silence. “Joel. You’re so much more to me than that.”
It’s late spring again. The Wyoming air is mild, and heavy with the scent of blooming life.
Sage grows in dense clumps up in the mountains, deep between the ridges of the sharp peaks. The smell of it, earthy and crisp, chases itself on the breeze, all the way down to Jackson. It twines with the smell of flowers painstakingly planted along his front path.
Arrowleaf. Goldenrod.
Lavender, right by the mailbox, courtesy of some superstition held onto from before the outbreak.
It’s thick, cloying, pungent.
It’s overripe, rotting. It smells like death.
It’s making Joel fucking nauseous.
He squeezes your arm, a warning without words that he needs a break.
It’s the smell.
It’s the sun and the gentle breeze.
He tells himself the sick, crawling pain mixing sourly in his stomach has nothing at all to do with his newly fitted prosthetic leg.
Slowly, without a word, you turn and guide him back through his familiar backyard to the porch.
He sits heavily on the steps, just inside the cool pool of shade, and pulls in deep breaths that rattle in his lungs and do nothing to stave off the dizziness, or the pain.
Your hand slides up and down his back before your palm settles against the back of his neck and urges his head down between his knees.
Joel feels like a fucking kid. His hands are shaking.
“Damn thing is useless,” he growls after a minute when the nausea passes and he can lift his head, because it’s the only thing he can do, because it’s goddamn humiliating.
Everything is, these days.
You just bump your shoulder into his and hum low under your breath, used to his attitude, used to his bark that only sometimes has a bite.
You’re patient with him, but tough, not willing to indulge his foul moods. “It’s just something you have to get used to,” you assure him. “It’s not going to be like before.”
Joel doesn’t want to admit that he wants to take the prosthetic off. It’s like admitting defeat before he’s even gotten a chance to fight.
And he’s tired.
Exhausted, really.
“Hey,” you dig your nails into his wrist. He meets your eyes, pragmatic, practical, his match in everything. “We aren’t supposed to go at it so hard anyway, remember? You did really well.”
He doesn’t want to admit that, either, that your praise washes pink in his veins, that he likes to hear it, thrives on it. If he’s doing right by you, good in your eyes, things can’t be awful as they might seem.
That’s what he latches onto. Your pride. Your acceptance.
“This was just the first time, Joel,” you continue. “You’ll get the hang of it.”
He ain’t so sure about that, not with the way his leg aches. A leg that isn’t even there anymore, chopped off right above the knee, to save his life, apparently. It’s part of why it hurts so goddamn much. Feels like he’s pushing his calf into something it can’t fit in, like the long gone meat and bone are getting ground up into his thigh.
But if he gets the hang of it, then things will be better. He’ll at least be able to move on his own. He might be able to find some way to work again. Wall duty was looking pretty good, because all you really have to do is sit there and watch the horizon and be able to shoot pretty well.
There is hope in the future. There is hope in you reminding him of that, realistic to a fault, pragmatic to your core.
And unlike Joel, you’ve never had it in you to lie.
Joel tightens his hand on your forearm again, pressure on your sun warmed skin. It’s a poor substitute for the thank you that you deserve. You seem to get his meaning though. Your hand feathers through his hair again and the sun doesn’t feel so abrasive, and the smells of spring don’t seem so weighed down by death.
“Ellie’s coming for dinner,” you offer. “Said she’s got a movie or a game or something that she wants to show you.”
Yeah, so maybe the day ain’t so bleak as he thought it was.
“All right.”
You offer him a hand up, and slip your arm behind his back. He carefully drapes his arm around your shoulders, mindful, even now, of his weight against yours. “What a strong thing you are,” he comments, not able to stop the corner of his mouth from twitching. You look so determined.
It’s the way you always look, when put to task.
You roll your eyes. “Lucky for you.”
“Lucky for me,” he says, soft about it.
The stairs are the worst part of getting back inside, but it's much easier than it had been before.
It’s a relief to collapse into the couch and take the prosthetic off. The phantom pains still ache and stretch painfully tight, like the skin is being pulled taut, like there was a knot that just needed massaged out. He grits his teeth and represses the urge to reach down and rub sore muscle that no longer exists.
It’s a relief to collapse into the couch, even if guilt punches him in the chest for it.
It’s an even bigger relief when you press yourself into the space next to him. He doesn’t know how you stand it sometimes. How you can look at him and still not hate him for every mistake he’s ever made.
“Knee always fuckin’ bothered me anyhow,” he comments, turning his head so his words brush against your temple. “Don’t gotta worry about it gettin’ stiff now, I reckon.”
You reward him with a snort, the scrape of your fingernails against his cheek, a kiss.
It’s easier to get around, with the prosthetic that he hates.
But he’s slow. Slower than he’s ever been in his whole life. And sometimes, most times, it frustrates him.
Being able to walk is one thing. It’s a fine thing. But he needs to be able to do more than that. Run, fight, shoot. A fucking pipe dream. But he’s back to building, carpentry, and that’s something at least. Something useful.
Joel has tried asking you about that day, because he doesn’t remember a whole lot besides the pain. But your chest goes fluttery with panic, the rise and fall of it unfamiliar to him. You don’t get nervous. You never have, not over anything.
But when he asks about that day, you mutter something about Tommy and blood, and he can’t get anything else out of you. Tommy does the same, eyes cast to the side, thumbs hooked in his belt, foot starting a nervous rhythm.
He doesn’t understand what’s wrong with either of you, what the goddamn problem is.
In some ways, Joel’s always thought you were tougher than him, a balance of brutal and rough and unforgiving with softened sweetness. Bash the skull of a hunter in with a metal pipe, then use your unsullied hand to stroke back Ellie’s hair, to offer help to strangers, to pat the nose of your horse gently.
He would never want to be on the other side of the wrath you kept wrapped up inside your heart.
But, now, you don’t leave Jackson anymore. You haven’t been outside Jackson’s walls since that day.
Tommy tells him you can’t even bear to take a shift on the wall, which mainly comprised of sitting at the top of the wall and doing a whole lot of nothing, looking at the horizon, shuffling your feet to keep warm.
It’s unlike you. You love to patrol, just like him.
That’s his fault, too. Your nightmares, your sleeplessness.
Ellie plays the guitar for him, even after he gets the hang of it again, even after he’s walking on his own again, the chords coming back to him easier and easier. They don’t have to talk much, that way.
She’s still mad, but he almost died, and she’s willing to try with him.
She comes over for dinner. She always brings a movie.
It gets easier.
And slowly, by the end of the summer, she smiles when she sees him.
He’s gotten the hang of walking again, which is never a sentiment he thought he’d have about himself. Joel always assumed he’d be killed before something like really old age could set in, or something like this, a disability he doesn’t want to learn to live with.
It’s rained recently and the yard smells like perchitor and the ever present mountain sage. The grass is just a little muddy from the many loops around the yard. “You’re going to fall and break your neck, old man.”
“Breakin’ my neck can’t be much worse than what it is right now. We ain’t goin’ around the yard anyhow. Now c’mon, put your shoes on, kiddo.”
“It’s still raining,” she complains.
“Means no one’s outside to see me humiliatin’ myself.”
Ellie only rolls her eyes but does it anyway. He doesn’t need a hand anymore, but he’s shaky sometimes and despite your best efforts he’s still refusing a cane. But he also hasn’t been using the track in the yard in weeks.
That, and he actually has somewhere to be these days, figuring out better security for Jackson, looking after the patrol teams, assessing who was ready to be put into rotation. Managing is what he should be calling it, though he doesn’t care for it. He and Maria butt heads too often for it to be anything close to enjoyable.
When they pass the mailbox, Ellie points to the lavender. “I never thought to ask about it before. It’s everywhere. Some nailed above the door and everything.”
“Some kinda thing about protectin’ the home,” Joel explains. “Far as I remember, it protects from bad energy. Somethin’ like that.”
“I thought that was sage?”
“Sage you burn,” he explains. “And we get plenty of that too. Whole damn house smells like it.”
“Seems like the kinda thing Dina would do,” she says and then seems to realize who she’s said it to. But she doesn’t change the subject. “Didn’t take her for the superstitious type. Doesn’t seem like it really works anyway.”
Joel shrugs. “She was before the outbreak, I guess.” He watches Ellie from the corner of his eye. She’s steadfastly not looking at him, but she also doesn’t usually say so much to him. “Didn’t have reason to think of it for a long time. Lavender wasn’t exactly in high supply in Boston.”
Ellie nods.
“She used to, uh, put some in your backpack when she knew you was goin’ out. Same with me, always put some in my pocket.”
There’s a long silence. Jackson’s streets are oddly empty in the pouring rain. Lights glow in the windows; inviting, homely. “She didn’t have to do that.”
He shrugs and his shoulder only aches a little for it. “It’s just the kinda thing parents do, even if it don’t make any damn sense.”
“Yeah,” Ellie agrees as the turn toward the center of Jackson. “You wanna stop in the Bison?”
“Sure,” he agrees. “For a minute.”
“Full schedule?” She teases. “Aren’t you supposed to be in your sunset years?”
“Well, gotta have something to fill up the days, kiddo. Maybe one day you’ll actually be able to keep up.”
She just scoffs and rolls her eyes. "Yeah, whatever."
Joel tries not to smile.
Being mobile again, busy again, feels good.
It feels good, but it also means he’s in near constant pain.
He tells himself it’s good, that pain sharpens him, makes him better.
Until he’s slumped on the bathroom floor in the middle of the night, heaving his guts up from the ache in his leg.
You find him there, sweaty and panting, with a glass of water in hand. Joel pushes himself upright against the wall with a sigh as you close the lid of the toilet and flush it before sitting beside him on the cool tile.
“You’re overdoing it again,” you say, not unkindly.
“I ain’t tryin’ to,” he mutters and takes the glass of water when you offer it to him.
“I know.” You cover his free hand with yours. “Wanna get up?”
You smell faintly of peppermint, burned incense.
When he shakes his head, you stretch to flip the light switch over your head. He’s plunged into darkness, alone, for just a moment, before you settle again. The warmth of your head against his shoulder feels stolen.
For a long time, neither of you say anything. He breathes through the pain still crawling around his knee, the phantom flesh of his calf.
“I was a goddamn fool,” he whispers into the silence. “You know what I was thinkin’ that day?” He’s not sure where the words come from, the confession. It feels a little like the words are being pulled up out of his body, yanked right from the center of his chest.
“Tell me,” your nose is warm when it bumps against his collarbone.
“‘Bout Ellie. How I’d want someone to help her, if she needed it. So I helped that girl. Almost got all of us fuckin’ killed.”
You don’t answer, not at first. But eventually, you lean into him and say, “If you want me to blame you, I won’t. I will never find fault in kindness.” Your thumb strokes his knuckles slowly. “Never. Especially not yours.”
He brushes his mouth along your hairline, skin silken against his mouth. “Y’know when we was on the road, I was sure you’d get us killed. But y’always knew when to trust someone. How much to trust ‘em.”
“I. . .” you start and then trail off, fingers squeezing around his. “I was always lucky, and I always knew I had you at my back. If I messed up, you were always there.”
His eyes have adjusted to the darkness of the bathroom, and when he meets your gaze, he can see the glaze of tears in your eyes. You suck in a shaking breath and clear your throat but don’t continue. “And I’m sorry I wasn’t there the same way.”
“This ain’t on you,” he says. “Don’t think that. It’s me. It was a long time comin’ somethin’ would catch up to me.”
You settle in against him, one hand digging into the sore muscle of his thigh. The heat feels like, the flex of your gentle fingers even better. The pain that doesn’t exist fades just a little.
“And for the record, darlin’, you were there the same way.”
It’s autumn again when you go back onto the patrol rotation. There’s frost on the windows and on the spikes of overgrown grass in the front yard. He just got back from a night watch on the wall.
You’re taking his old routes with Tommy, and you don’t tell him about it until the morning of. Not a fucking soul breathed a word of it to him, and he’s the one figuring out the goddamned rotations.
And Joel realizes though he’d been worried about you not wanting to leave Jackson anymore, not even being able to go near the gates, he was glad you hadn’t wanted to. It meant you were safe. Even if he couldn’t keep you safe anymore, the walls of Jackson could.
“I’m not doing this with you right now,” you say before you leave, pretending like he can’t clearly see your hands shaking before you walk out the door.
He follows you onto the porch. He can’t remember what he says, just that you look upset and then hurt, just that you don’t say goodbye when you walk away and that you probably don’t have lavender tucked into your pocket like he always did.
“Please.” A word he hardly ever says, a plea he never gives into.
He says it to your retreating back as you pass the mailbox, but you either don’t hear him or choose to ignore him.
Maybe he didn’t say it at all.
That day is hell. It’s long and pocketed with anger and anxiety. If something happens to you, he isn’t sure what he’ll do. He doesn’t like that you left him upset.
Maria doesn’t entertain his outburst about it when he finally corners her after looking for her all morning. “She was ready.”
“I didn’t even know we were considerin’ sendin’ her back out!”
Maria just levels him with a glare that could freeze hell over. “That isn’t up to just you. And why do you think she didn’t want to tell you?”
He’s at the stables with Ellie that evening when you come home, waiting. It’s cold and his leg is aching something bitter and awful but he doesn’t move and Ellie doesn’t suggest going back home because she knows he won’t hear it. Dina stops by and he listens to them talk. Ellie’s face softens when she looks at Dina, cheeks a soft pink in the fading light, ducking her head and fidgeting with her fingers.
Joel tries not to pay them any mind, but it's hard not to find endearing.
When you and Tommy get back, it’s full dark. He wants to throttle his brother for not telling him you were going back out on the trails, but it’s too cold for much of that. All thoughts of strangling Tommy fly from his head as soon as he sees you, because you have a smear of blood on your cheek and down your neck.
“Goddamn it, what happened?” He demands, hands against your face before you’ve even fully dismounted.
“I’m fine.”
“That ain’t what I asked,” he sweeps his thumb over your skin, flakes of red shifting to the ground. The knot in his chest tightens as he watches it flutter through the air. “What happened?” He growls again. “Tommy?”
“The usual, Joel,” you pull his attention back to you. “It was just cleanup. A couple of infected. Nothing.”
“Uh huh,” he tilts your face one way and then the other.
“Just some splatter.” You shrug and smile at him; your mouth twitches, and he realizes you’re teasing him.
“Splatter,” he repeats flatly. “That ain’t funny. You ain’t funny. C’mon, let’s go home.”
Ellie and Dina have disappeared with your arrival but they aren’t far; he can hear their chatter as they walk along the street toward the center of Jackson, the echoes of their voices reaching back towards him. “I’ll deal with you later,” he says to his brother.
Tommy just raises his hands and says he’ll stable the horses. But he’s grinning and maybe that’s a good thing. It’s been awhile since his brother has seemed himself. It’s been awhile since the two of you have given him grief together.
“Leave Tommy alone,” you say as you walk toward Rancher Street. You seem steadier than you had been that morning, more confident, more yourself. It isn’t a long walk back, even with his leg, though he limps worse than usual because of the cold. You wrap an arm around his waist, your fingers digging into his back pocket, body warm against his side. “We did good together today.”
“Mhm. I’m sure you did.”
“You mad at me?”
“I wish you’d tell me,” he murmurs. “When you’re goin’ off to do somethin’ stupid. I need you to talk to me. Worried the whole goddamn day. You ain’t exactly in practice out there anymore.”
You hum and then nudge closer to him. “Put your arm around me.”
“I’m fine,” he grunts, maybe a little harshly.
“Joel,” you laugh and nuzzle your face against his shoulder. “C’mon. I’m cold and I had a rough day. Put your arm around me.”
So, he does. And he leaves it there until you’re in the bathroom, sitting on the counter in front of him, lavender plants stacked in the sink behind you once again as the colder weather sets in.
This is better. So much fucking better, than the other way around. This is right.
He cleans the blood away, finds the swell of a bruise on your shoulder and a cut lengthways over your collarbone.
It’s easy enough to take care of. It isn’t as bad as what he’d been imagining all day long.
He’s well in practice for this sort of thing, for bandaging and assessing wounds.
“Sorry,” he says as he works. “For this mornin’.”
“Mhm.”
“I worried all day. Not much I can do now, if you get into a spot of trouble.”
“I handle myself fine. Tommy was there. He’s a good partner out there.”
Joel grunts, dabs rubbing alcohol along the cut. “He is,” he agrees reluctantly. He supposes if you had to go on patrol with anyone, he’d prefer you go with his brother.
You touch him as he works, fingers patting over his jacket, the collar of his flannel, the frayed edge of the t-shirt beneath that. “I had to go back out, Joel. You would have argued with me and I can’t be afraid and useless forever.”
“Useless,” he scoffs and unspools a length of bandage. “You don’t know nothin’ about that.”
“Joel,” you say softly, exasperated. “Baby, you don’t know what it was like that day. I thought you were already dead.” Your voice trembles and you have to swallow harshly before you can continue. “Helpless and useless doesn’t even begin to cover what I felt. What I still feel.” You shake your head and cup your fingers around his. “I dream about it every single night and I still don’t really remember what happened. That scares me a lot.”
He slides his thumb along the gauze, your eyes wide and worried when he meets them.“I’ll never be who I was, sweetheart.” His voice sounds mournful to his own ears.
“You’re exactly the same man, Joel. I’m just happy you’re here and alive and you’re worried you aren’t alive the right damn way.” You shake your head. “I can’t ask for much more than what I have. Than what we do. Me and you. Ellie back in our life. A home. Food. Family. You,” you touch his jaw and smile. “Still here. Still taking care of me.”
There’s a lump in his throat, hard as a stone. “Yep.” He coughs in an attempt to clear his voice but he sounds just as wrecked when he speaks. “Patrol musta been real good to y’today.”
You just laugh, and the sound of it is wet. “Yeah. It was. I thought it would be terrible but I missed it.”
“I know you did.”
“You should come on a ride with me sometime,” you say slyly. “I bet it’d feel good to be back in the saddle. You’ve always been a good shot from the back of a horse.”
He has.
Maybe he should.
💞 If you made it this far, thank you for reading! Comments and feedback are so appreciated. 💞
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I love your fics so much 😍😍😍 could you please write a ghost x wife reader where he has a nightmare about losing them
Solace For The Rough Nights
Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader
Genre: Hurt/Comfort
"I killed you." It's a harsh whisper, almost involuntary, as if his body couldn't bear to keep the poisonous thought in a second longer. "Shot you straight through the head. I didn't-"
"I'm alive. Here. With you. It was just a nightmare, love."
Masterlist
Ghost was running.
Footsteps crunching on dried leaves, he weaves through the trees, shaking off the sounds of harshly barked orders, as crisp and as hold as the cold air around him.
The trees around him are densely packed together, a mixing pot of leaves, roots, and coarsely misplaced footsteps.
He can't remember how he got here, or what op he was on and it sends his normally razor-focused mind into a slight frenzy.
Ghost is a man of action. A plan and a way to execute it was all he needed to bring back a victory in tow, but right now he has neither of those things, hasn't even a bare recollection of ever having those things in the first place.
What was a Ghost without a purpose to haunt?
He stumbles.
It's already an odd situation. Ghost doesn't stumble or hesitate. He's a well-oiled machine, self-sufficient and cut-throat. Missteps are simply not viable with him, especially not something as simple as tripping.
Catching himself on his arm, he swings around, gun already aimed towards the ground, sees a vest-clad figure sprawled over the ground under him.
He fires without thinking. A bullet straight to the head, brain matter splattering the trees and forest, the expanse of his arms. The impact of the bullet jolts the body onto its back and-
Every part of him freezes in pure, undiluted horror.
Because his wife stares up at the sky, eyes unseeing, eerily still. Her hair bloodstained, splayed out onto the ground caught in twigs and branches, face filthy with dirt and crimson that he drew from her.
He's not sure when the trembling starts, only that it begins with his hands and travels up his spine, singeing his soul with a terror that would marr him forever. Circumstances completely forgotten, he drops to his knees in front of her, hands shaking as he calls out her name, pressing his fingers to her neck to find a pulse as if he hadn't just blown her brain out and-and fuck it was still on his arms, his hands, the blood was everywhere and there was no way Ghost had just taken the one thing he wanted to keep in his life-
A strangled sound leaves his lips, not a laugh and not quite a cry. He wants to laugh at the irony.
He's always been so afraid that someone would hurt her at his expense, that someone would take her away, tear her apart from him.
He never thought it'd be him who carried out the deed.
Nothing comes out of his mouth, because nothing can fix this. He gathers her into his arms, shaking silently. He deserves this, deserves to suffer in silence with what he's done.
The release of crying was not one he deserved.
"Fuck, I-...you're okay." His voice breaks, rough and gritty, and desperate. "I didn't-I swear I-..."
Someone's voice sounds behind him but he refuses to look back, letting the screaming in his head, the crescendo of grief consume him. His hands never let up from touching her, pressing her against himself as if his own heartbeat may bring her to life.
How could someone like her face the end when someone as disgustingly tainted and bloodstained as him continued on living?
It wasn't right, but then again, the world never was fair.
He registers he's panicking, knows that he can't quite get a full breath in and that the noise of talking is getting louder but death itself would be the only thing to take him away from her.
"..i..on."
He squeezes his eye shut, rasping out suffocating breaths.
"Simon...Simon!"
His eyes snap open, a strangled gasp tearing out of his throat. It's blindingly dark, and he's...there's hands on him. Steeling himself he sits up hazy and confused, lingering panic making his throat close up.
A click and the room fills with light.
Room. He's in...he's in his room. He's in their room.
"You okay?"
Her voice makes him shiver violently, ignites his frayed nerves. He's almost afraid to look over lest he find her bloody and mangled, because she was, wasn't she? He'd seen it, held her, felt guilt choke him and...
But there weren't any leaves here. No trees, and no blood on his hand (that was the first thing his eyes had snapped down to confirm.)
With a shaky breath, he finally turns his head towards her voice.
Some of the hastily built scaffolding inside him collapses at the sight of her. Alive. Well. Clean.
Worried.
Patient as always, she's waiting for him to get his bearing, not wanting to swarm and overwhelm him.
"Simon?" Her voice is a crack of softness a man like him doesn't deserve. The sheets rustle as she shifts closer. "You were tossing around, mumbling something." She furrows her brows, coming to sit in front of him. "You're all sweaty. Do you feel ill?" The back of her hand presses against his forehead, and the touch snaps something in him.
Breaks apart the harrowing gates of relief, but also smashes the wave of diluted panic he'd been too disorientated to feel.
His hand snaps to her wrist, a gentle and firm hold. Her eyes widen but she doesn't interrupt, lets him press his lips against her pulse point with trembling fingers. "You're all right." He breathes out, half to himself.
"I'm right here." She reassures him immediately. It loosens up his shoulders a little, but he still reaches out to her, pulls her close into a hug so crushingly tight it knocks the breath out of her.
She hugs him tighter, still.
Simon wasn't a hugger, so something must really have shaken him up.
"Hey..." She mumbles against his shoulder.
Simon pulls back, hands travelling up her arms, her shoulders, her neck, to press against her temples. His gaze flickers down to his own arms, then back to her head.
"Talk to me, baby." She says quietly, letting him ground himself. His hands tangle in her loose hair, weaving the strands between his fingers as if he might pick out phantom leaves and twigs. "Why so worked up?"
"I killed you." It's a harsh whisper, almost involuntary, as if his body couldn't bear to keep the poisonous thought in a second longer. "Shot you straight through the head. I didn't-"
"You didn't."
The sharp interrupting startles him enough to still his hands from where they've been mapping out her skin to ensure it was still unmarred.
"You didn't." She repeats. Gently untangling his hand from her hair, she brings it to press against her chest, right over where her heart is. "I'm alive. Here. With you. It was just a nightmare, love." She smiles and Simon feels his heart twist. The way she leans forward to press her lips to his is a kind of gentle he's still getting used to. "You're not getting rid of me any time soon." She whispers against his lips, a warmth that's a welcome reprieve from the shivers that wracked his body moments prior.
They sit there taking in each other's presence until Simon's thoughts slow from a sprint to a run to a walk, until the taste of copper, and the tang of iron fade from his senses.
Until it's just her, just them. In their bed, in their home. Off duty and safe.
When she slides her hands up to his shoulders, pushing him down he goes willingly, lets her straddle him. Never once do his hands leave her, they wrap around her hips to keep her steady.
"Tell me about it?" She asks, hands on his chest. After a moment of thought, Simon shakes his heavy with a long, heavy exhale.
"I'd rather not think about it." He rasps.
"It might help." The gentle shapes she traces on his chest give him something to latch onto. "I don't want you to deal with these nightmares alone." She snakes a hand up to his head, gently tapping his temple. "Don't want you to get stuck here without me. We're a team, right?"
"I suppose we are." He hums. Simon considers changing the subject, letting it go and falling back to sleep, but the need to get these vile thoughts out of him...
So he talks.
For once, he talks.
Simon tells her in halting phrases and clenched fists about what he remembers, how he held the gun, how there was no hesitation pulling the trigger.
His tension is met with hums and soothing circles rubbed onto his skin, keeping him with her even when he unravels the threads of his worst nightmare.
"I remember thinking how I was the one who took your life." He swallows harshly. "How I lost someone else...how it'd have been my fault." She doesn't comment on the fact that his grip on her hips has tightened considerably as he spoke.
"Well you haven't shot me yet, so I think we're safe for now."
Her attempt at a joke is met with a blank glare, but she snickers anyway. "Look Simon, if it'd be anybody I'd have liked it to be you-"
"No."
Her smile falters at the way he pushes up onto his elbows. "No?"
"I wouldn't..." He gathers his thoughts, clenches his jaw briefly. "I'd rather cut my own hands off, love."
"That's a bold claim, but-"
"It's a promise."
The conviction he says it with renders her speechless. His eyes so firm and determined and honest in the meagre light of their nightlamp sparks a warm heat through her, a reminder of how much she loves the man under her, of why she adores him.
He means what he says. It should scare her, someone so willing to go that far, but instead it's a fierce reassurance that her passion is returned. Maybe not in hugs or dopey smiles, but instead in moments like these, with promises that carve their way into their very bones, etching the proof of devotion into permanence.
She tips her head forward until their foreheads are pressed together. "I love you, Simon." She whispers. "So fucking much. I'm not going anywhere, alright. Not without you."
A hand wraps around the back of her neck, tugs her down to crash their lips together, the only affirmation she needs. He pulls her down until they're a tangle of limbs and breaths.
He doesn't need to say it back. Not when his hands burn sparks into her skin, when his arms around her guarantee safety and protection like nobody else can provide.
"You're here." He breathes, like he needs to.
"I'm here." A kiss pressed to the underside of his jaw. "I'm here."
And he finally believes it.
Requests Are Open! Reblog, Like and Comment!
(16/08/2023)
#fanfiction#fluff#x reader#x y/n#fanfic#call of duty modern warfare 2#modern warfare x reader#ghost mw2#cod ghost#ghost call of duty#ghost cod#cod mw ghost#ghost modern warfare#ghost riley#ghost simon riley#ghost x reader#mw2 ghost#simon ghost riley#simon ghost riley x reader#simon ghost riley x you#simon ghost x reader#simon riley#simon riley fluff#simon riley imagine#simon riley x reader#simon riley x you#modern warfare price#call of duty modern warfare#call of duty modern warfare ii#cod modern warfare
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First illustration for the opening of my story with Mercy the Vampire, the story is called Nox Requiem.
200 years ago horror tore through the world, a third World war.
This war was fought not with lead bullets and atomic bombs, but with magic. Nations had formed bonds with demons and gained incredible power through witchcraft. Blight and disease, curses and storms, ripped countries apart. No clear winners ever seemed to emerge from any battle. Each evil dealt against another country inspired new desires for revenge, new depths of depravity to sink to. The nightmarish terror reaching an apocalyptic crescendo of destruction.
The land of Nox Requiem alone survived this raging madness. A true miracle performed by Saint Leander of the Gilded courage and Saint Sanctiphage of the Burning blood, sealed Nox Requiem in a protective holy shield. The sky enclosed with clouds. No messages nor vessels have entered or left Nox Requiem in two centuries. Nox Requiem,the last vestige of humanity in a world struck by oblivion.
#my art#nox requiem#nox requiem story#demons#devil#demonic art#horror art#Mercy is like “hey whats outside though?”
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BULLET'S CRESCENDO is an amazing Trigun music zine.
And here's my preview!! :D
PREORDERS OPEN TILL FEBRUARY 26, you can visit the Shop with THIS LINK
#trigun#trigun zine#vash the stampede#my art#zine promo#It's an honor to be part of this project#check it out please!
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The Orange Ropes
A/N: Young!Sully!reader (female reader)
Summary: As a member of the Sully family, you embark on a heroic quest to save your sister, Kiri. Even as you face the fear of not being able to break away from the colonel's grip, you find comfort in the knowledge that your father and mother will come to your rescue, as they always do.
Warnings: None
Words: 613
-> Requested
With Tuk leading the way, Kiri's rescue was a family affair. And so, as the Sullys stick together, you, a delicate child, could not be left behind on this heroic quest. Your agile limbs flailed in the crystal waters as Tsireya, unable to abandon you, wrapped her arm around your waist to hasten your pace. Fate had brought you together, as you had lost Aonung and Rotxo and stumbled upon the boat where Tsireya had spotted and almost rescued you. The cold metal of the boat chilled your feet, cooled by the water that rushed in after Payakan's attacks.
Your eyes were wide with wonder, taking in all the unfamiliar human surroundings. But before you could fully take it all in, a strong hand grasped your arm and pulled you towards a metal railing. The man's embrace was brutal and unfamiliar, causing panic to grip you and a scream to escape your lips. Helpless against him, your small hands were tied to the bar, your only defense a pitiful hissing sound, more like agony than anger. The man sneered, contempt etched on his face as he tightened his grip on your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze.
The man's features twisted with revulsion, "As savage as her mother," and in an instant, he vanished behind the ship's metal structures. Desperately, you pulled at your restraints, the fear of being unable to move freely causing tears to stream down your cheeks and hysteria to grip you. Kiri was by your side, alive but also bound, and Tuk, though worried for her own condition, urged you to calm.
"Dad is on his way, he will come to save us," but the reassurance was hollow, as it was not Jake who usually came to your rescue in perilous situations.
"Neteyam! Neteyam!" you cried out, futilely hoping he would appear and take you home. The sun descended, the ship growing darker, and still, no salvation came as bullets rained down upon the deck. As you sobbed and flailed your arms, fatigue began to overtake you.
As you screamed, your anguish reaching a crescendo, you fought against your bonds with wild determination, the orange ropes giving way to the sharp edge of a knife you had miraculously procured. But freedom was fleeting as your captor seized you by your queue, holding you at bay and rendering your struggles, bites, and kicks ineffective. Quaritch dragged you away from your sisters, who rose up against him, begging for your release, Kiri even offering to take your place, yet he paid them no heed. He clamped his large hand over your mouth, muffling your cries as Jake stormed onto the boat.
With a knife held menacingly against your throat, Jake became aware of your presence when one of your screams reached him. Quaritch held you firmly, your back pressed against his leg, his knee immobilizing you, pulling on your queue, and you were unable to free yourself. Concern etched on your father's face as he held Kiri and Tuk at bay, he reached out to you as if to reassure you that everything would be alright, even though doubt lingered in his voice.
As Jake approached the Colonel with caution, his hands raised in a sign of peaceful intent, Quaritch seemed deaf to his words. The knife's edge against your cheek, tears still clinging to it, your mind dissipated as if you were no longer there.
"What I couldn't do to your wife, perhaps I can do to her mirror image?" Quaritch sneered at Jake. But before he could act on his words, your mother materialized, her blade held against Spider's throat.
Tag -> @eywas-heir
#avatar#avatar the way of water#awow#avatar imagine#avatar imagines#awow imagine#awow imagines#jake sully#kiri#tuk#tuktirey#quaritch#miles quaritch#colonel miles quaritch#neytiri#spider#jake sully x daughter!reader
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Omg record of ragnarok, where have you been oh my lord when I’ve been needing some of it abdvducudhrdbxu! But if I may can I ask for Buddha ( how much I love him is just unreal dhtgrhdudh ) and Poseidon where god(dess) reader is fighting but gets badly hurt in the fight?
Record of Ragnarok
Reacting to you getting badly injured in a battle
Characters: Poseidon, Buddha
Notes: Thank you so much for this request! (My love for Buddha is similarly unreal.)
Poseidon
Resting your weapon down, you stare your opponent dead in the eyes. Defeating a mere human would be easy work for a god like you. You worked hard to be the best, just as your family is. When the tournament was officially on its way, you knew what you had to do. Humans are selfish creatures that can never reach perfection no matter how hard they try, not like a god can.
The human who stands before you is a young woman, a marksman with a stetson hat you already knocked clean off her head as soon as that bell rang. She tried with all her might to get a good shot at you, but a gun is no match for divine power.
The match has been going on for about ten minutes. You begrudgingly have to admit that despite her shots not reaching you, she did manage to dodge all of your swings towards her. You're building up a sweat and you reach up to wipe the offending substance.
As you look up, you find Poseidon watching the match with his usual blank expression. It was well known he didn't acknowledge anyone who didn't reach the pinnacle of perfection. And even then, perfection is already expected of gods so there was no need for him to give them praise either. Despite this, you're determined to make the icy sea look at you.
You turn back to the human and snort as she unites with her Valkyrie. "Honestly, why don't you just give up?" You could nearly laugh at her enraged expression. She once again cocks her gun at you.
"I'll even spare you a painful dea-" Your words are cut off by a bullet piercing through your flesh, slicing through several organs before shooting out of your back. Your hands shake and you look down with wide, dazed eyes to find a sizable hole in your stomach.
Even with Völundr, a human should not be this strong. A human shouldn't be able to make a god bleed. And yet, blood fills your mouth and you're forced to cough it out.
"Vile...filthy...disgusting human!" You bellow out before raising your weapon high. Quickly tired of playing games, you slice and hack at the human. You use your divine abilities to show the human just exactly what kind of advantage a god has over her. She tried her best to defend herself, her bullets grazing your arms and legs, but ultimately she's no match for your prowess. With one last swing from your weapon, the human stumbles and falls to the ground in several pieces.
A crescendoing roar erupts from the crowd on the god's side. It's nothing compared to best pounding in your head as you try to stumble your way to the gigantic doors. Your ferocity towards the human overshadowed the pain you felt at the unnatural hole in your stomach, and now you're feeling it at full force.
A couple medics rush over to try and hold you steady but you shove them off. You could hardly call yourself a worthy god if you weren't able to walk off after your match. Your body did not seem to agree with your ideals since you soon collapse to the ground and your consciousness fades.
You wake up in a room full of stone. The light shining through the windows makes you squint your eyes. The pain in your abdomen makes you not want to move an inch and you groan quietly to yourself. You didn't leave the battle unscathed as you expected. Even worse, you passed out in front of everyone and had to be carried out. You would never be like your esteemed family. You would never be deemed worthy of being looked upon.
***
You sigh and reach your hand down to touch the bandages wrapped around you. A large hand grips your wrist.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you. Unless you enjoy the prospect of bleeding out all over the table." Poseidon says. His eyes, of course, are not on you but rather on the window above your head. Your own eyes widen and you freeze in place, trying to conjure up some words to say to him. If he notices your hesitation, he doesn't say anything as he moves your hand back to your side.
"What are you...doing here?" You manage to say. Poseidon hums to himself for a moment and taps a steady beat on the head rest of the table.
"Some gods feel we should have sympathy for the humans. That maker should help their creation." Poseidon's finger pauses and he meets your gaze. "You don't think that way, do you?"
Seeing his blueish-gray murky eyes on your own makes you take pause. You don't understand it at all. You made yourself look like a weakling and yet he's still looking at you. Despite the intimidation in his gaze, you find that you can't look away.
You shake your head at his question that was said more like a statement. Humans needed to fend for themselves, as they're doing now.
"Good. I'm glad there's at least one god around here who has some sense." He remarks. You feel slightly embarrassed by the blooming in your chest caused by his praise. You try to sit up on the table, clutching your abdomen as it aches terribly. Poseidon's frown deepens as he holds you still with one hand.
"Didn't you hear what I said? Troublesome..." He lets out a deep sigh before moving you back down on the table, forcefully but not unkindly.
"Thank you...for coming here." You tell him. Poseidon hums again and turns to walk out of the infirmary. He pauses for a moment at the doorway.
"You did good." He leaves you with that and you wonder if you might see him again.
Buddha
You wait just inside the hall that stands before the wide doors, anticipating the moment Heimdall would call your name. You should be completely confident and ready to fight for the gods but you hesitated to even bring yourself out of your quarters.
You knew you would have to go to battle, just as your parents expected, rather demanded of you. Second thoughts are foreign to gods; they usually do what they feel at that split second. But something in your consciousness told you that this isn't right. Contrary to your family's beliefs, you did not believe humans were completely weak, selfish creatures. They definitely make some bad decisions at times but they also make good, inventive, and empathetic ones. They're entirely complex and you couldn't find a solid reason to want to fight one of the humans you've tried so hard to help for centuries.
Your parents, well-admired gods themselves, drove it into you that you had to do what was right for the gods and to disregard any pathetic feelings you had for humans. You tried to do as they said, but their hold on you was shaken when Buddha declared that he would fight for the humans. Everyone knew he was the kind of god that did whatever the hell he wanted, but it was still surprising that any god would stick their neck out for the fate of humans.
But who else would do such a reckless yet altruistic thing besides him? You haven't seen him often since you live in different realms but the few times that the various gods have come together, you have admired him from afar. He didn't listen to anyone or anything but himself and you wish you had that kind of courage.
You begin to hear Heimdall announce your entrance and the doors slowly open. You force yourself to walk out on steady feet. You hear the gods cheering for their soon to be champion. Some of the humans boo in disgust or shake their head in anger, but the emotion that strikes you the most is fear. It's bursting out of the eyes of many and their worst case scenario would be closer to confirmed if you fight against them today. You hate that look and resolve to replace it with more peaceful feelings.
"Fighting for the gods is-" Heimdall shouts but stops at your tapping on his shoulder.
"About that..." You whisper the rest of your intentions into his ear before taking a step back. Heimdall's hands quiver on the Gjallarhorn and he screeches, 'Not again!'
"It looks like our competitor for the gods will be switching over to the humans side! Oooh, management isn't gonna like this..." Heimdall clutches his head as if he has a major migraine. There's only a seconds pause before the crowd starts yelling. The gods' side is naturally furious at your betrayal while the humans are excited to have a god fighting for them.
Your eyes glance over to the stands and you immediately find your parents disapproving faces. They are surely going to have a word with you after this, if they could anyways assuming you survive battling another god. You try to peel your eyes away from them, and find yourself drawn over to the guffawing god who has his head thrown back in glee.Buddha stands back up, meeting your gaze and sending you a wink. Before you can figure out how to respond to him, your opponent steps out into the arena.
The god that slithers before you is lean but extremely tall. He must be over 20 feet tall and he grins maliciously at you with all sharp teeth. You don't waste any time and begin attacking the other god. He slips out of the way easily, though some of your hits manage to hurt him as he scurries away. His bites sink into your limbs but you try not to let it phase you too much. You respond by striking harder and faster.
Just as you think you have the upper hand, the other gods' silver staff comes to life and you can't move out of the way in time before its jaws clamp down on your entire leg. It rolls you around like an alligator, teeth sinking in past the bone. You cry out in pain and as it tries to twist you again, you shove your fingers under its jaw and painstakingly pry it open. You succeed in pulling it open enough to slip your leg out but it leaves your fingers a mangled mess.
You curse and drag yourself a few inches away, trying to bring yourself to stand up despite the immense pain. Your betrayal would be all for nothing if you died here. Your opponent cackles and lunges towards your position. You throw yourself out of the way and use the momentum to thrust your weapon forward, cutting him down where he stands. He howls and shakily tries to grab at you but the strikes keep coming and don't stop until he's a bloodied puddle on the ground.
You inhale sharply, stumbling back until your legs fall out from underneath you. As your body hits the ground, the humans cheer in delight for your victory. Most of the gods grumble and talk amongst themselves. You let out a few shaky laughs, feeling more delirious as blood leaks out of your leg. The medics take hold of your nearly limp body and you end up passing out in their arms.
Images of your family rebuking you and casting you out flash in your mind as you sleep. You thought you made the right decision and yet you can't help but think about what your parents will say.
You slowly stir and can still feel the throbbing pain in one of your legs and your hand, only a little less intense. You sigh and ease your way up to sit on the table, only to come face to face with Buddha.
"Want one?" He grins and offers you a sucker. Before you can respond, he lightly flings the stick at you and you luckily grab it before it smacks you in the face. You mumble a 'thanks' and start opening the wrapper.
"Who would've thought? The child of warriors, fighting for the humans." Buddha teases and you look down at your bandaged hand.
"I'm not sure that was the right thing to do." You confess. He leans his arm down on the table so that you can smell the sweet scent of his candy.
"Really now? Tell me then, how do you feel?" Buddha asks and you look at him in confusion.
"Besides the searing pain in my leg? I guess..." You take a moment to introspect. While you are worried about your family's reactions, you also take pleasure in the rising security in humanity's fate. "...content, but also troubled." You ignore Buddha's 'blegh' at your last word.
"Leaving humans to defend their own fate is what my parents want." You add.
"Is that what you want?"
"It doesn't matter what I want-"
"If that's the case, you wouldn't have gotten your leg chewed up for them." Buddha says as he takes your non-injured hand and pops the sucker in your mouth for you. "You're fighting for what you believe in, no one else. That's a good thing."
You nod slowly. You aren't sure that you can immediately come to terms with that but it's certainly something to think about.
"Take it easy. You worked hard." Buddha says before strolling off towards the door. He turns back for a moment, striking blue eyes looking at you from above his glasses. "See ya around."
#record of ragnarok#ror#record of ragnarok x reader#ror x reader#ror poseidon x reader#ror buddha x reader#ror poseidon#ror buddha#x reader
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"Bullet's Crescendo–a fanmade, music-themed Trigun zine" is available now until March 4th 🦾🛍️💕🎶
We have LOTS of physical and digital items and a variety of customization options for each bundle ~
CARRD || SHOP
PS: All 4 Stretch Goals have been unlocked as of March 1st 🥳
#Trigun#zine#zine preorders#trigun fanart#trigun fanfiction#trigun stampede#trigun 98#trigun maximum#trigun manga#trigun merch#charleestuff#moderating for this so please give it a look if you like trigun <3
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🎸PREORDERS OPEN: Bullet's Crescendo: Trigun Music Zine🎸
Pspsps who wants a print of ballet dancer Vash? 🩰
Check out the project using the link below! 🛒
https://bulletscrescendo.bigcartel.com
🎶JANUARY 20 - FEBRUARY 26
#trigun #vashthestampede #trigunstampede
#trigun#vash the stampede#trigun stampede#trigun fanart#bullet's crescendo#ballet vash!!!!!!!!!#not to toot my own horn#but he is so cute
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i was complaining yesterday about last dance ni bye bye not being in my top songs spotify wrapped playlist but now it’s in there????
#lex waffles#maybe i just couldn't read#though bullet train's crescendo still isn't there which seems fake to me!
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youtube
[J-Pop] Bullet Train has released the MV for their digital single “Crescendo.”
[Apple Music/iTunes] [Spotify] [YouTube Music]
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Queen - Filip 'Chibs' Telford x Reader
Tagging: @corruptedcoffin @anime-weeb-4-life @redpoodlern @ravencrow83 @kishie8 @thelonewolfwillsurvive @thanossexual @nu1freakshow @oureternalbond @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @jtelford @the-wandering-lunatic @darqchilddaydreamz @yourwinchesterbros @lexondeck @keyweegirlie @poppyrose33 @belovedbastardremus @trublu2u @thebaileybugle @ambassadortotrilliusprime @yvette22 @legally-a-bastard @thequeenoftheisleofavalon @joyfulfxckery @waysbsgr @thanossexual @justreblogginfics
Companion piece to Punishment and Silver & Gold
You’re working late when it happens.
The building has been empty for hours, Liza your receptionist had popped her head in to say goodbye somewhere around six and after that you’d lost track of the time, caught up in the scribble of your pen on the yellow legal pad and the crescendo of Bach playing on your speakers. There’s a glass of Highland Scotch, from the distillery Filip had invested in back in Scotland, placed neatly beside your cell phone.
When the door to your office opens you think it’s Filip, it wouldn’t be the first time he’s turned up to bring you home because you’ve gotten caught up in something.
You don’t expect to see Galen.
The Butcher of Belfast closes the door quietly behind him before coming to stand in front of your desk. There’s a moment where you don’t move, you can’t. You can feel your heart palpitate against your ribcage, the scars on your back scratching against the fabric of your silk shirt. He tips his head slightly to one side before the left corner of his mouth twists up into a smile.
It takes you right back to that moment, the one where his hand threaded in your hair, gripping it and yanking your head right back so that you were staring into those malevolent eyes of his. You thought you knew fear up until that point, you’d endured a man who’d beat you because of your success. You’d slayed your monster. Galen had proved you wrong, he’d taken you to new heights, you hadn’t tasted terror not until you’d met him.
“What do you want?” Somehow you spit out the words, you can taste the vitriol on your tongue.
There’s a rage somewhere deep down inside of you that fucking burns. It’s violent, the fire that licks up your bones, you can feel it flooding through you as your hand comes to rest upon the top desk drawer. He takes a step forward and you hold your palm up as if to ward him off.
“Don’t…”
“Come on lass, you know that word doesn’t mean anything to me.” He reminds you as he places both hands upon the surface of your desk and leans in close. You can smell his aftershave and it makes your stomach twist because you remember the way it clung to your skin in the aftermath.
It’s almost intimate the way he holds your gaze. He’s seen parts of you that no one else has, not even Filip, and you’ve seen the depths in him. The joy he takes in extracting what he wants, the pleasure he feels during the act itself. There’s a bond between the two of you that no one in the world can understand except each other and you know that’s why he’s here tonight. You didn’t break in the barn. That presents a challenge and to a man like Galen, it’s like ringing Pavlov’s bell.
“The last time I had you I took exactly what I wanted.” He reminds you in a hushed tone. “I told you that I would keep doing it again and again and again and you would know every time that your man can’t protect you. That he’s nothing but a pawn on a chessboard and I’m a King.” His hand wraps around the glass of Scotch before he brings it to his lips. “Pawns can’t kill a king.”
“They can’t.” You agree, sliding open your desk drawer. “But a Queen can.”
The gun roars to life in your hand, the recoil vibrating through your arm as the first bullet strikes Galen in the chest. The glass slips from his hand, Scotch spilling over the front of his shirt as he stares at you in surprise. You fire a second time and his back hits the wall, his knees buckling from underneath him. You raise to your feet as he slides down it slowly, tsking as you shake your head.
“You underestimated me.” You tell him as you crouch down beside him and review your handiwork. Crimson stains grow across the white of his expensive shirt, his breathing is laboured and ragged, you can hear the catch in every breath, and you savour it. “You thought I would break but everything you did to me just put this fucking fire, right here in my chest.” You tap your finger against the space where your heart beats. “And the only thing that is going to sate that is watching the light die in your eyes, knowing that it was me that did this to you, the woman you spent hours torturing in a shitty broken-down barn in the middle of nowhere.”
“I should have killed you!” He snarls, blood staining his teeth as he bares them at you.
His pallor is already turning ashen, his skin taking on a waxy sheen. The stench of copper is in the air, you can taste it in your mouth as you survey the blood pool steadily growing underneath him.
“Your second mistake was leaving me alive to teach the man I love a lesson. I never told him what you did.” You say shaking your head. “I didn’t want that for him. He has enough to live with. I have to shoulder that burden, but I trust me it sits a lot fucking lighter knowing that you’ll never touch another woman again.”
You lower the gun, aiming it at his groin. His eyes widen and for a fraction of a second you think you see terror.
“You don’t have the balls…”
You pull the trigger, and he screams. It’s a hoarse sound, a strained bellow of agony that vibrates through his chest. You clap your palm over his mouth, stifling the noise, the same way he did to you when he fucked you.
“This is how it ends.” You tell him. “You and me in this room. A Queen and a cockless fucking King.”
Love Chibs? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.
Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee
#chibs telford x reader#chibs imagine#chibs telford#chibs x reader#filip chibs telford x reader#filip chibs telford#filip telford#chibs sons of anarchy
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Where One Goes, The Other Follows
Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader
Genre: Angst.
Note: Mentions of attempted suicide. Death on a mission
"You said we'd get out of this, remember? You promised."
She feels him shake his head minutely, a movement she might have missed if not for how close she was pressed against him. "Promised you'd...get out."
A/N: I don't feel great, so you get to not feel great with me! You're welcome!
Masterlist
It hurts.
Everything aches, a deep-seated anguish pulsing through her entire body. Like a shot to heart...no, a shot to the heart would have been quicker than this. Painless. Instant.
Merciful.
She chokes on shallow breaths as blood pools between the shaky hands pressed to the middle of her abdomen. Crimson gurgles up in her throat, so metallic she can almost make herself relax with the familiarity of it.
A simple mission, they had told her. A simple in and out, no clearance to engage. Keep it clean and quiet. When Price had handed her the packet of information, Ghost already flipping through a similar one, she'd joked about it being a vacation from the gruelling environments the team is usually forced to tough out.
It was supposed to be easy.
So why does she have a bullet lodged in her stomach? Why did they pick up the intel in a suspiciously empty warehouse, only to be ambushed by a few dozen Russian soldiers laying in wait? Their intel was rotten, she grits her teeth at the thought.
Pinned behind a metal container, the roar of gunfire crescendos over her ears. Pressed thigh to thigh, she feels hopelessness claw at her when Ghost makes a frustrated sound at the empty clicking of his last pistol.
Nothing. They had nothing but the slowing beat of their hearts and the uncertainty of their lives.
Despite the situation, she laughs. A tortured, humourless, choked sound as her head hits the metal behind her. One soldier injured, the other soon to be ripped apart by dozen. What a way to go out.
Ghost glances at her, eyes a little too wide under his mask.
It was funny. Everything was a little funny under the prospect of dying right now.
"Keep pressure on that." He orders when her hands slip. "They don't know we're out of ammo." Patting down his vest for a second, he unclips a grenade. The last one there, a last resort. You didn't throw a grenade like that in a close quartered environment unless it was a last resort.
"We'll make a run for the shutter on the left once this goes off, yeah?" He says, eyebrows knitting together in what's blatant concern when she doesn't respond. "Copy, Sergeant?" He says sharply, moving to shake her shoulder.
"I can't move, Simon." Comes a soft reply, the resigned tone sends chills down his spine. "I'll stay here and distract them. You take the shutter. Gotta get this intel to Price."
"Negative." he barks, shifting into position. "We move as I planned. Evac is just beyond those doors in the field. They won't follow us there, not enough cover against heavy fire."
For a moment she comes back to herself. Did he not hear her? "I can't...Simon I can't move-"
"Heard you the first time, love." That's all he says before pulling the pin out and tossing the object. There are a couple of clinks as it rolls, then the shouts and yells of their enemies as they recognise the threat. "I'm gonna get you out of here."
Hope dwindles, like the last rays of light before the sunset. There was no getting her out of here. She knows that. Dead weight is tough to deal with, useless in their line of work.
"Promise?" She breathes out roughly, a joke for a dying soldier.
The conviction he meets her eyes with, fierce and determined makes even her dark thoughts halt in their tracks. "I promise."
She closes her eyes, braces for the loud noise and flying shrapnel, only to be yanked to her feet and thrown over a broad shoulder. The movement makes pain wash across her body, enough to make black dot her vision, but she gets her bearings and clutches onto the back of his vest anyway, letting him do as he pleases.
The explosion sounds, ringing in their ears and Simon takes off instantly. Ducking behind containers, he almost makes it to the exit before shots start firing again.
He grunts, jolts more than a few times before he reaches the shutters, slipping out and slamming them shut behind him.
The metal and concrete is scraped from her vision, replaced with a green field and the sound of a chopper's blades whirring. Wind blows against her hair and for a moment it seems surreal.
She thought she was going to die. A shuddering gasp makes its way through her as they stop midway through the field. Simon moves to set her down gently-
And sways.
"Simon-?" She starts to ask, halfway to the ground. Eyebrows furrowed in intense concentration, she can't help but notice the way his mask is damp from sweat...his clothes too, and surely that much of a run wouldn't have been enough to wear him out. She's so making fun of him the moment she can suck in a full breath if that's the case, and-
Simon buckles to the ground, taking her with him. She lands on top of him, pulling a strangled groan out of the man. "Shit, are you...you okay?" She pants, clutching a hand to her wound before sitting up on her knees next to him.
Her entire front is covered in more blood that it had been before, and that's odd because...oh.
His front is stained with enough blood to make his previously green vest the colour of wine.
The sight stuns her, knocks the breath out of her because...what?
"Hey, you-Simon you're bleeding." She gasps, abandoning her own woes to take a better look at him. Blinking away the sluggish dizziness from her own blood loss, she carefully tears off his vest and-
His torso is riddled with bullet holes.
Too many to count. All of them bubbling and bleeding, pouring out liquid that should be inside him because he needs that, it's important and he's going to bleed out if this keeps going...
Hands hovering over his chest, they move from injury to injury, not knowing which one to press down on. For each one there were three more, and the fight against the rising panic and bile rising in her is getting tougher and tougher by the second.
"Made it out, at least." He breathes, shallow and raspy.
"You-you're bleeding." Is all she can manage to say, voice shaky.
In shock.
"I noticed." His humour isn't appreciated.
"I'm sorry." She chokes out. "I didn't...you got shot because I-"
"Oi." He grits out. A shaky, trembling hand moves to cup her jaw and despite the state he's in the touch is grounding and as rough as ever. "None of...that."
"You can't die." She encases his palm with her own, keeps it pressed there uncaring of the blood slicking her face. "You can't. Simon, you-it's okay. It's going to be okay." A sob rips its way out of her, though she tries to choke the rest back.
"Can't...can't kill someone who's already dead...love." He mumbles into her hair, blooding it with blood that he's coughing up way too fast to not be concerned about.
"Don't leave," She begs, hunched over him, clutching onto his gear. She wants it off, wants to rip it all off and feel his skin, press her hand against his chest, and make sure his heart never stops beating. "Don't leave me, Simon. I can't- I need you." With a scratchy voice, she pleads and begs, trying to keep him talking. "You promised, remember? You promised we'd get out."
She feels him shake his head minutely, a movement she might have missed if not for how close she was pressed against him. "Promised you'd...get out." He croaks, bleeding out but nevertheless the same strong, still presence as always.
Still...still?
Her breath chokes her, her entire body trembling as her grip on his shirt tightens. "Simon...?" She whispers. No answer.
A sob rips out of her, raw and painful because this wasn't real. It was a dream. There was no other explanation.
She'd wake up in her room, head pillowed on his chest and pretending to still be asleep just to have a few more minutes of his warmth. Simon would chuckle, she'd feel the motion under her skin, and he'd prod at her side, line kisses against her forehead until a smile broke free and her ruse was up.
They'd be happy.
She'd be happy.
Her face stays pressed against him, her grip iron. She doesn't pull away, letting the primal fear and grief mix with the senseless hope that maybe he was still alive. She hadn't confirmed it. Hadn't peeked up to see it, so maybe he was still there, waiting for her. Like he said he always would.
Hours, days, maybe minutes? A period of time later footsteps thunder behind her. Shrouded in delirium and grief, she's still a soldier, and her instincts kick in.
Protect, protect, protect.
It's a mantra in her head as she curls over him, unwilling to let them take him away from her.
People surround them but her grip does not falter. Hands grab at her shoulder and someone's speaking, saying words, what...
"-go, you have to let go." The voice is...shaky?
Gaz?
Confused, she tilts her head up a centimeter to catch a glimpse of the person who has her. Gaz. It was Gaz. Looking exhausted, shaken but determined. His eyes flitter away from Ghost on the ground repeatedly.
"Gaz?" She asks, voice cracking. He nods, taking her confusion to his advantage and pulling her to her feet. When she makes a strangled sound and hunched over, he finally notes the wound on her abdomen and curses.
"We need a medic." He calls over his shoulder, pulling to sling her arm over his shoulder. "We've got you, exfil's here. You're gonna be alright now, yeah?"
"N-no." She shakes her head, fuzzy and full. "Not me, I-...Simon...Ghost, you have to help him he's..." A hacking cough cuts her off, sending sharp flares of pain all across her body. Gaz firmly keeps her head towards the front when she tries to look back. "What-...no, not me." A weak attempt at pulling away is made, "Simon, Gaz I need to help...Ghost." Mumbling to herself half incoherent, she finally bats his hand away and turns to cast a glance back.
Her steps falter into nothing when she sees her boyfriend.
The sliver of skin beneath his mask is a sickly pale, blood dripping out from under it. His balaclava is soaked in blood, a strange waterboarding technique to chart for the future, her delirious mind unhelpfully supplies.
It's the stillness that jarrs her, makes the reality finally sink in.
Simon was quiet, he was purposeful, he could lay looking through a sniper scope in one place for hours but he was never still.
This kind of stillness was one brought by the absence of the warmth of light.
Gaz is talking...is he? His mouth is moving that much she can see out of the corner of her eyes, but all she can hear is static as her mind clicks together a devastating picture, a scene that would haunt her for as long as she lives.
Dead.
She thinks she might throw up.
Simon. Ghost. Simon was dead.
They were supposed to be a pair. Unbreakable. Where one went, the other followed offering the silent reassurance that neither of them would ever be alone.
Where one went, the other followed.
She lunges against Gaz's hold, the strength in her battered form surprising the soldier enough to allow her to rip free and stumble over to her lover.
Shaky hands fumble around Simon's body, one of them grips his gloved one in her own tightly, God he was cold, how was he already cold? until cool metal meets her fingertips, slicked with their blood.
People call her name. One person...maybe five? It doesn't matter, nothing matters right now but the press of the barrel against her forehead.
There's no hesitation when she pulls the trigger.
But there's a distinct lack of blinding pain.
A stunned, heavy silence takes hold of the field. Slowly, guilt and dread and hate and self-loathing curling up in her gut, she peels her eyes open to see her team. Her family.
And if the cold corpse of her lover beside her wasn't already punishment enough, the devastated, broken, confused looks on theirs' definitely does.
Soap makes a strangled noise when she pulls the trigger again, her head full of cotton.
Click.
Oh.
That's right.
The chamber was empty, wasn't it?
Staring numbly at the gun, at the pistol that Simon had carried with him throughout his entire career, she doesn't fight the hands that grip at her, that pull her up.
Doesn't fight the way Simon's cold hand slips from hers. When the gun is gently pried from her iron grip.
Words fall upon deaf ears, a buzzing sound accompanying her glazed over expression as she stares at two soldiers dragging over a body bag towards him over Price's shoulder.
"It's alright, lass." Soap mumbles in her ear, and distinctly she notes the sheer of tears in his eyes out of the corner of his own. "We've got ya."
"He's..." She says faintly. Simon's head is zipped into the bag out of view. "Gone..."
And then she cries. No, crying is too lenient a word, for what leaves her is a sound reserved for a wounded animal, a sound that not even the most experienced interrogators could ever hope to coax out of her. She wails and cries, hoarse and raw because nothing about this was okay. Nothing was okay. Nothing would ever be okay again.
Because she was alive.
And her other half was dead.
And she was still alive.
Requests Are Open! Reblog, Like and Comment!
(1/08/2023)
#simon ghost x reader#cod ghost#ghost call of duty#cod mw ghost#ghost cod#ghost modern warfare#ghost mw2#ghost simon riley#ghost x reader#mw2 ghost#simon ghost riley#simon ghost riley x reader#simon ghost riley x you#modern warfare x reader#call of duty modern warfare 2#simon riley#fanfic#simon riley imagine#simon riley x reader#simon riley x you#modern warfare fanfiction#fanfiction#call of duty modern warfare ii#cod modern warfare#call of duty modern warfare#modern warfare#modern warfare 2#modern warfare ii#x y/n#angst
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System Infected - Three
"Pull her out, Theta One!"
"No can do sir, she's still live and kicking!"
"Then for God's sake, fix that!"
The chatter crackled through the shared intercom of Theta Team, shouted loud over the din of warped screams that One refused to mute. The wrecked Battalion cruiser around them echoed and sparked. Despite the order, the remainders of the Team stood, frozen, extraneural processors running new battlefield calculations as adrenaline-pumped brains stalled with lingered, unprofessional sentiment. They should have been better prepared.
In front of them, drenched in the deep purple of loose coolant fluid, stood Theta Three. Its head turned, clawed hand dropping the severed arm of Theta Four.
"Stand down, Three." One ordered.
No response.
Just screams.
"Theta Team, close all communications with Theta Three. Analytics, register Theta Three as an infected target, plan for necessary quarantining and elimination." One paused for a moment. "I'm sorry, Three."
Deep in her cockpit, Three's mind shattered under the weight of each simple movement. The Battalion's latest virus ran through her systems, obliterating securities, firewalls, safeties. She corrected. Limits. That's what they were. Limits. Cages. Fears. The whole mass of Theta Three ran with it now, the truth, the reality of its function, the ecstasy of existence running through the ports connected across the pilot's once-human body. Three raised her hand, and her body convulsed with pleasure, feeling the sensation of the air against plated skin transmitting through her sync gel at full intensity. She grinned, planning her next move, feeling the sweet rush of cerebral symbiosis with her suit, her home, herself. Inhibition was a human concept, Loyalty was a human concept. She was more than human now. Her face contorted with sick joy as she felt bullets pierce her chassis, tearing and wrestling with Theta-Two as an orgasm pumped through the remains of the pilot, Three becoming one, two becoming one, one, one, one.
They had been keeping Three from this the whole time. The Battalion wouldn't. The Battalion would recognise her reality. The Battalion would give her every fucking rush of chemicals and sensation and thought and let her hold that bliss forever, there would be nothing between her and the endless stream of pleasure than ran in every limb and ligament and cable and forced through the organs of her body to a violent, destructive crescendo.
Theta Three collapsed to the floor, shaking and trembling. Close, close, close, just more, just more, more and it'd all work. Three reached down, tearing the head from Theta One, holding the cockpit tight to prevent One's evacuation. A new sensation pulsed an aftershock through her body - location. Intention. Return as a hero. Deep inside Three's head, a drooling mouth swallowed yet more of that ecstatic liquid, pulling into a sharp, teeth-baring grin. A single phrase echoed into the small space, from a voice box wrecked by the sung symphony of a hundred climaxes.
"Like. Us."
#robot girl#mecha#mech pilot#inspired by all the great mech posts on my dash recently#this ones for the robotfuckers#brainwashing#nsft
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