Sad-girl-autumn-version - Sad Girl Autumn

Her confidence.

𝙷𝚞𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚖𝚎.

ill be sappy whenever i want. i dont give a shit. i love you. fuck off

the moments in between

Pairing: Joel Miller x Fem!Reader 

Summary: When Joel and Ellie arrive at the Jackson commune, his strong frame and intense gaze captivate you. But as the days pass, you lose hope that he might be drawn to you as well. That is, until the walls come crashing down and the truth finally reveals itself.

Word Count: 7.3k [slow burn]

A/N: I put a lot of love and time into this one. It's my longest fic so far but it didn't feel hard, which I like to believe is a good thing. Hope it resonates, hope you feel the feels and the yearning between these two—let me know! Hope you're well.

A breeze follows Tommy as he saunters in through the doors of the Tipsy Bison, the soft click of his boot heels echoing off the wood with each easy step. The cowboy hat on his head casts a shadow over his eyes until he takes it off, his dark hair cascading down over his ears. There’s a small smile playing on his lips that makes you narrow your eyes.

Cleaning the bartop suddenly loses its appeal, but you don’t stop, only slow down. The fresh, tangy scent of lemongrass continues to waft up from the motion.     

“We close early on Sunday’s, officer,” you tease as he climbs onto a stool. 

He frowns as he sets his hat aside. “I don’t look like a cop, do I?” You shrug, and he chuckles as his gaze roves over to the pool room. “Nate back there? Yo, Nate!” 

“Evening, Tom,” the older man calls back as he polishes a cue ball. 

“Joel’s made it into town.” There’s no overt emotion in the way he shares the news, but you can see that it’s all in his eyes as he waits for you to react.  

“Joel, Joel? As in your brother?” He nods, still in disbelief himself. “Oh my gosh, that’s amazing, Tommy—right? What the heck.” He used to talk about him all the time. 

His exhale makes way for a shaky smile, “I know. Made it in not too long ago with a young girl he’s looking after,” he tells you, voice thick with a mix of emotions. “He’s outside. Wanted to come in and see if you’d let us grab a drink.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Know it’s late. Promise I’ll make up for the trouble.” He knows it’s no trouble. Not when it comes to him. 

He turns around, barstool squeaking, and waves Joel in through the window. 

You move to start working on their whiskies. “Make it up by letting me be the baby’s godmother?” The glasses clink as you set them onto the bar and begin pouring the caramel colored liquid, smirking when you meet his gaze.

Tommy isn’t completely opposed to the idea. You’d been in Jackson since the beginning, a friend to him and Maria in every sense of the word. Arguably family. “If you can manage not to tick me off until the little one gets here.” Despite his words, his eyes are fond. 

The door creaks open, and Joel strides in, scanning the room. There are pictures on the walls of American icons and landmarks, and old Polaroids of commune members. There’s a guarded confidence to the way he walks, an intensity. 

Tommy quickly leans in and whispers, “He means well. It’s been a long day.” 

Joel takes a seat beside his brother and acknowledges you with a curt nod, tugging on the collar of his shirt.  

“Welcome to Jackson,” you greet, introducing yourself afterwards.

“Joel,” he says, taking you in with a steady gaze. 

“Tommy’s told me a lot about you.” You push their glasses closer to them in an encouragement to start drinking.

Joel takes his first sip and fights back a reflexive grimace. It’s been a while, but it's good. Good enough to make him feel pleasantly warm as it glides down. Tommy drinks off his brother’s lead, and you realize just how alike they look. Joel’s hair is a little shorter and accented with streaks of gray, but they both have those same dark, telling eyes. 

They fall into light conversation, but it’s clearly not what they'd talk about if they were alone. That’s when you sense the distance. The slight edge to the space between them. It’s why Tommy resorts to drawing you in, the two of you ripping off each other as Joel listens, fine with not having to speak until this whole little ordeal was winding to an end. However, he does sit up a little straighter whenever you laugh. You pour them more whiskey when their glasses get empty.     

Eventually, the remaining light outside fades away. Tommy hisses at the sight, standing. “I gotta get home to Maria,” he says, stretching his back. Joel moves to get up too, until, “At least finish off this glass, man. You’ve earned it.” Tommy squeezes his brother’s shoulder. He means it genuinely, at least. “I’ll catch up with you tomorrow, Joel. Thanks again for this,” he tells you. 

“Bye, sheriff,” you call after him. Tommy scoffs.  

Joel realizes just how quiet it is when you move aside to tinker with a bison trinket sitting on the counter, unsure of what to say with Tommy gone. He knows you can see him looking at you. “So, are you here by yourself?” he finally asks. 

A playful smile tugs at your lips. “That’s not a creepy question at all,” you tease, quickly gathering that he doesn’t find the implication funny. “Uncle Nate?” you call. 

“Busy!”  

You raise your brows at Joel. “Not alone.”

Nate was chosen family. The man taught you everything you know about shooting, fishing, and survival even though you gave him a hard time for it when you were younger. He was also the founder of the Tipsy Bison. He only came into the bar on the weekends when he wasn't on patrol. His time in the military all those years ago made it hard to step away from a life of service. 

“We were cleaning when Tommy came in,” you tell Joel. He takes in that information wordlessly. 

“You aren’t much for talking, are you?” Joel takes a sip from his glass. “Nothing wrong with that. Must mean you don’t miss much. Really observant.” When he doesn’t respond, you smile shyly, realizing he probably just wanted to relax after a long day. “Guess I won’t stand here and talk your ears off.” 

The floor creaks as you disappear into the recreation room with Nate, rounding the corner. Joel exhales, shoulders dropping from being drawn up. He almost misses your company. 

Nate sits hunched over a word search puzzle, using the pool table as if it's a normal desk. He doesn’t look up at you, even when you give an affectionate tug to his curly gray ponytail. It was something you’d been doing since the days you both were out on your own and had to stay quiet all the time. Back when there was no safety, no security, no commune. 

“Ouch,” he drones, unphased. 

“Are you gonna come out and meet Tommy's brother?” you ask, low so Joel can’t hear. “I feel like you guys have a lot in common: brooding and grumpy.” Pride flutters in your chest when the man’s lips twitch. 

“I’ll meet him… eventually. Gotta finish this puzzle.” You realize there’s a small hourglasses going, the sand swiftly filling the bottom portion. “There ya are—serendipity.” He circles the letters. 

Word searches were something he recently started doing. When you have a past as extensive as his, it’s always chasing after you in one way or another. Especially in those quiet moments that sneak up on you. He claimed that seeking out words from amid an ordered chaos keeps the racing thoughts at bay whenever they come rushing in. 

Joel is finished by the time you join him again, and you realize he’d waited instead of calling out. Already standing, ready to go. 

“Anything else I can get you?” 

He shakes his head. “I appreciate your hospitality.” 

Joel turns to leave but you keep talking, “So I reckon Tommy already squared you away with a house and a tour of the town?” 

He stops. “I’m across the street from him. Gettin’ the tour tomorrow.”  

“That’s great, I’m really glad you found us.” You sound so genuine that there’s a flutter in his gut. “We’re a pretty crazy bunch, but I think you’re gonna like it here.” 

“Hope so.” Those are the words he leaves you with.

Your eyes stay trained on his back as he makes his way towards the door, stride the same as when he first arrived. Perhaps a little looser. Before he exits the bar, his eyes catch a glimpse of one of the decorative license plates secured to the wall: Austin, Texas. 

Shortly after he makes it outside, his heart rate ticks up in that impending way he wishes wasn’t so familiar, breath catching in his throat as if he’d forgotten how to breathe. There’s no escaping the panic as it sets in, surging through him. A few staggering steps allow him to brace a hand on a wooden directory board. 

You see it all from inside. At first, you think he’s trying to read the sign, but then he hunches over more and grips his chest. Without thinking, you jog towards the doors. 

“Joel?” You call once you’ve broken outside. 

It’s a cool spring night, a crescent moon shares its pale glow from above. Most of Jackson is already tucked away inside or at least halfway there. But in this sliver of time, it feels like it’s just the two of you outside. Joel doesn’t let on that he’d heard you, but the moment you’re close enough, you recognize what’s going on. You press your palm to his back to let him know you’re there. That he’s still here. 

“Concentrate on your breathing. In and out, just like that,” you encourage, settling on rubbing his back in measured passes. Then you go quiet on the off chance he needs that. 

In your newfound silence, Joel is forced to focus on the shaky breaths rising from his lungs. That’s when he accepts he’s not in control. Not in the grand scheme of things. There’s a whole big fallen world just outside the gates of this haven. A world that had taken people he loved and was cruel enough to let him be the one who lived to tell the tale. The heat that rises to his cheeks is made up of frustration more than distress, crackling like pop. Like coals. 

The ground takes on a vignette as he stares at it, his vision briefly closes in. You never withdraw your touch. 

When his breaths eventually begin to steady, you remember how to breathe yourself. With a tired exhale, he straightens back up to his full height, and you take a few small steps away. Maybe this wasn’t new, but a fact of life for the man who’d rode into Jackson in an air of mystery and a young girl by his side. Maybe he never wanted you to get a glimpse at this side of him. If he feels that way, he doesn’t make it obvious. He almost looks appreciative that you’d bothered enough to care. 

“Sorry to scare you,” he rasps, not meeting your gaze even though he can feel it. You want to tell him that there isn’t much that scares you anymore. At least that’s what you like to believe. “I’m usually alone.” 

Except, tonight, he wasn’t. And maybe that wasn’t such a terrible thing. 

•••

Howdy Stranger

This is Jackson Hole

The last of the Old West 

Joel reads the painted wooden sign as Tommy and Maria show him and Ellie around. There are people everywhere. Children playing outside, adults fluttering in and out of shops. All while the Teton mountains loom and watch over it all with their snow-capped peaks. He looks over at the girl when she nudges his arm, pointing to a Calico lounging on a porch. Despite her beaming smile, all he offers is a low hum. 

It was hard to be in the now when his thoughts were split between the past and future. Up until Jackson, there was no such thing as stability, and he couldn’t help but think about the day that the rug would be pulled from beneath the commune as well. Ellie’s smile fades when she notices the harsh squint of his face. He kicks himself for it.   

“Cat hater,” she mumbles under her breath.

Joel grunts and directs his attention back to his brother. 

When the tour comes to an inevitable end, Ellie sings Jackson’s praises after Tommy and Maria go their separate ways with a promise to reconnect later that day. He lets her talk as they make their way back to their new house, idly agreeing every once in a while. A few curious eyes fall on them as they walk, but Joel doesn’t pay them any mind. 

“Dude, are you even listening to me?” Ellie stops walking to give him a flat look. 

“I hear you,” he insists. “Been hearing you for the past ten minutes.”

There’s no snark in his tone, but Ellie still feels the slight sting of offense. “Well, sorry for being excited about having a nice place to live for once. It’s not like I was born into hell or anything—I mean the Boston QZ.” Sarcasm drips from her voice as she starts walking again, faster so it looks like they’re not together.

Joel swallows down guilt like it’s just another pill. His legs are long, so it doesn’t take much to catch back up with her.

“Hey…Kid…Ellie.” She keeps ignoring him. “This is new for me too, okay? Everybody’s got a different way of processing, can we agree on that?” It’s a fair enough proposal. He never had been forward when it came to sharing his thoughts. “Wasn’t trying to hurt your feelings.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” she murmurs, deciding to take a break from her rambling for his sake. The mutual silence isn’t so bad. 

Someone he isn’t expecting to see is you. You’re wearing a backpack and ushering a line of young kids into the community center. One of the little girls stops and stretches her arms up towards you, earning a playful eyeroll before being lifted onto your hip. Joel doesn’t miss the way the afternoon sunlight catches your face. 

•••

The next day, a faint thump against the door startles Ellie as she sketches in the dining room. Rather than getting up from the table, she remains still, pencil in hand and brows furrowed. Upstairs, the spray of the shower continues as Joel lets it drown out everything else. Three light knocks eventually sound, and she musters up the courage to scurry to the front. 

She peeks out the window first, spotting you. Someone she hadn’t seen around. An amused smile pulls at her lips at the way you’ve seemingly wrestled the big basket you’re holding into a better grip than before. 

When she opens the door, you let out a relieved sigh. “Special delivery,” you say before introducing yourself. 

“That’s a really pretty name,” she compliments, already warming up to you. “I’m Ellie—is all that stuff for us?” When you nod, she excitedly steps aside and ushers you in. 

“I’m not gonna say you shouldn’t have because that’d be a lie,” she shamelessly admits. “You can put it right over here.” You follow her into the living room and place the welcome basket on the coffee table. 

A few of the ladies you volunteer with helped you put it together after your shift counseling for the spring break camp. There were cookies, seeds, natural soaps, feminine hygiene products, and even a knit blanket that looked particularly soft and cozy. Ellie wastes no time reaching out to run her fingers over it. A laugh bubbles up your throat when her jaw drops. 

“This is literally what clouds feel like.” She haphazardly pulls the blanket out the basket, wrapping it around herself like a cape. “If Joel says anything, this was specifically included for me.” 

“I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt to share if he asked nicely,” you reason, amused. Ellie’s nose wrinkles. “But to be fair, we did think you’d be the one to really appreciate it.”

She smiles at being considered. “Who made it? This is, like, next level.” 

“A woman named Emilia,” you tell her. “She actually made me one back when Jackson was first being built up that I still have,” you tell her, taking a seat on the couch and looking around. The evening sunlight pours in through the windows, casting golden streaks onto the floors. “Now she’s always got a few on standby.” 

Ellie sits beside you, reaching out to dig through the other contents in awe. “They told us the commune's only, like, seven years old on our tour yesterday,” she recounts. Think you’ll have your blanket forever?” 

“Forever’s an awful long time. It might hold up,” you think aloud. Ellie nods, contemplative. “I can take you by to meet her sometime, if you’d like. She’s the resident seamstress, so you’ll probably end up crossing paths anyways.” 

“What about you? What do you do?” she asks, giving you her full attention. 

“I mainly help coordinate community events. Been stepping in to assist with the youth spring break camp for the last couple days, though,” you say. “Also bartend on the nights that I feel like it. Just for fun, you know?” 

Ellie's face lights up. “I’ve had whiskey before.” She puffs out her chest when she says it, and you play into her pride by raising an impressed brow. The first and last time you had a sip was when you snuck it from Nate as a teen. “But that’s really cool, though. The community stuff and all that.” You can tell by her tone that she means it. In more ways than one, you’re reminded of your younger self. 

“Joel’s gonna join the patrol. He says I’m too young, but that’s just bullshit.” She says the last part lower as if he’s somewhere listening. “I’ll figure out a way to make him cave.” There’s an air of confidence to her voice that suggests she’s done it before. The thought warms a tiny portion of your chest.

“I’ve gone out with my uncle Nate a few times. It can be a lot,” you admit. “He just wants you safe, Nate’s the same way.” 

As Joel stops at the top of the staircase, freshly showered, he catches those last words. He’d know your voice even if it’d been forever. His footsteps are quiet as he descends the stairs, but you hear him coming nevertheless. Ellie’s too busy sniffing the pine soap as you straighten up and glance his way. Joel’s eyes are as observant as you remember when they land on you, seeing into you, it seems. His damp hair is combed back in a way that makes him look more distinguished. 

“There you are.” You stand up with a smile. You’d been wondering how he was doing since the panic attack.

He wishes your warmth wasn't so compelling.  

Ellie whips around to look at him. “I know you said not to open the door to strangers—which is practically everybody at this point—but she’s really nice and brought us gifts so you can’t be mad at me,” she rushes out. He clocks the blanket around her shoulders. 

He hmphs. “That’s how they get you.” He’s not being serious, but Ellie frowns, trying to read through his eternal poker face. “Treats and a friendly smile.” Your lips twitch in amusement as Ellie narrows her eyes. 

When Joel starts walking your way, she consoles herself with the fact that he would've already asked you to leave if he sensed your intentions were off. The commune wasn’t filled with questionable people like that anyways. The two of them didn’t have to be apprehensive of every soul they came across anymore. 

He’s close enough now that you can smell the cedar soap on his skin. “I’m not a stranger,” you lightly defend. “Not entirely.” You look from Ellie to Joel. 

A wall rises in real time, shutting you out right along with the night you met. It happens in his eyes just like everything does. He hadn’t mentioned you to her, and it was your mistake for believing he would’ve at least passed on a name. 

You swallow back a small lump in your throat that may not be entirely just. “Anyways, hopefully you guys will be able to put this stuff to use.” 

“Of course we will,” Ellie pipes up. “Are you leaving already?” She hadn’t missed the finality that had crept into your tone. 

You nod. “Don’t wanna take up too much of your evening. I actually meant to come by sooner.” 

“Well, are you going to the dining hall for dinner?” Her gaze flicks to Joel. “Maybe you can come with us.” 

Joel knows he’s in trouble when he hears the fondness in Ellie’s voice. It’s the same sentiment he was straining to tamper down within himself. Every time he opened his mouth or looked at you, it tried to claw its way to the forefront. The last thing he needed was another person getting close enough to see that he was a million tiny pieces being held together by the glue of whatever god was keeping him alive. 

You decline her invitation, expressing plans to go to your uncle’s place. But you give her a rain check. When you go to leave, Joel allows his eyes to flitter down the rest of your body. 

That wouldn’t be the last he saw of you. But it was always from afar, lingering on the outskirts. Wishing there was a seamless way he could fall into your orbit without sending everything spiraling out of control. 

You were always looking right back at him with hope in your eyes, holding space. Waiting for your world to be shaken. 

•••

Laughter, chatter, and music drown out the insects that usually take precedence at night. Weeks of planning had finally come into fruition. All of Main Street is lined with fairy lights that cast their warm glow down on the summer festival. There was no shortage of entertainment, games, and food. It was a time to let loose and relish the sweetness in the air along with that of life. 

Nate plays his harmonica for a group of children around the bonfire, all clapping and stomping along. A smile graces your face as you walk by, waving at him. The fullness of your heart almost overrides the ache that has settled in the arches of your feet. You’d barely sitten down since earlier that morning when preparation began. There was a sense of responsibility that came along with the orange vest you were dawned in. The pressure to assist, and guide, and answer questions wasn’t all on you, but the other volunteers were better at taking breaks. 

Tommy’s grainy voice breaks into the air through a megaphone, “Thirteen-and-up three-legged races starting in five minutes, this is your last call. Grab a partner and make your way over to the east lawn,” he says. “Again, this is the last call.”

Joel and Ellie already happen to be seated at a picnic table that gives them a perfect view of the race setup and Tommy facilitating in an orange vest of his own. Ellie had already worked through her first honey cake and was eyeing Joel’s. He pretends not to notice until she looks up at him all wide-eyed.  

“Can I—” he slides his plate over to her. “Thanks.” 

“Your eyes are bigger than your stomach,” he lightly accuses, shaking his head. 

“What does that even mean?” She takes a bite. “Weirdo.” 

Joel just grumbles and tosses a napkin her way. She wipes her mouth and keeps staring at him. Not because she’s waiting for an answer, but because there’s amusement sparkling in his eyes. Which happens more often now that they’d had a couple months to settle into Jackson. A laugh was coming, she could feel it. 

“Quit gawking at me and eat.” There’s a tell-tale waver in his voice. 

“No.” Ellie lightly kicks his shin beneath the table and that’s what sets him off. 

He tries to bite back a chuckle, but he gives in when it doesn’t work out, shoulders shaking. Ellie starts grinning at him from across the table, and he kicks her back with the tip of his boot. 

“Hey!” She breaks into giggles and retaliates. He lets her have the little victory. 

A small smile lingers on his face when he regains his composure. They sit in a comfortable silence as Ellie finishes the rest of her dessert, taking in the festivities around them. 

It isn’t long before a girl with dark hair approaches their table. She’s a ball of masked nerves. “Hi,” she greets. “Ellie, right?” She says it as if it’s possible for her to have forgotten. As if after they sat together at last week’s movie night, she hadn’t been thinking about her since. 

Ellie get’s uncharacteristically squirmy. “Oh. Hey, Dina.” 

Joel can’t believe it.

Dina tucks a flyaway behind her ear. “My old partner bailed, so I was wondering if you’d maybe wanna do the three-legged race with me. I think we’d make a better team anyways.” Then she glances at Joel. “If you wouldn’t mind me stealing her away for a bit.” 

“Take her,” Joel quips, making Dina laugh. 

Warmth rushes to Ellie’s cheeks as she stands. “Sure, let’s go.” 

The two of them jog over to get prepped for the race. Joel watches the whole while, warmth kindling in his chest at the fact that she was slowly finding her tribe. The race doesn’t start for another couple minutes, and when it does, Ellie and Dina burst off into first. It’s intense. The whole ordeal is a mess of laughter, stumbling, and flailing limbs. In the end, the duo end up placing second, crossing the finish line only to fall into a heap of giggles with their legs tied together. 

Joel stands from the picnic table with a grunt to throw away all the empty plates. He has every intention to sit back down, but notices a few frazzled volunteers carrying mops and towels. Then his eyes rove over to the long line standing at the drink stands. Adults check their watches, children fidget. A woman in an orange vest is talking to another woman managing the stand. He doesn’t realize is you until you turn away from her and beeline towards the community center, looking stressed. 

“Hey,” he calls out to a stout man wearing an apron. “Do you know what’s going on?” 

He’s surprised Joel caught on. Everyone else was carrying on as usual, carefree and unaware. “There was a spill at the community center. You know Mr. Robertson’s special Summer Fest punch?” he asks in a thick Brooklyn accent, Joel nods because he’d heard the rave. Apparently it was made especially for the festival. “Kitchen’s flooded with it. I didn’t have time to build an ark,” he jokes.  

Joel wrestles with himself. “I’ll go see if I can help.” 

By the time you exit the community center, gaze fixed over your shoulder, you crash into Joel. He instinctively reaches out to steady you, touch firm but gentle. “Whoa, easy there.” The low timbre of his drawl is enough to draw your mind away from all the noise. “You alright? Here, let’s get out of the way.” You let him pull you aside by your elbow. 

When you look into his eyes, there’s so many things you wish it was the appropriate time to say. It’s been cordial between the two of you, but it always seemed like he was in a constant state of backing away, like an animal scared of giving into a primal craving.  

There was always a reason why he couldn’t stay in your presence longer than he did. He had to get back to Ellie, or turn in early for his patrol shift the next day, or some other excuse. Even during the game nights you hosted, he would always leave before his belly was full and the real fun was about to begin. When everyone was finally free of the day’s worries and truly ready to talk, laugh, and let everything ride on the toss of a dice. 

He’d resigned himself to enjoying you in the little here and there, the moments in between. So much so that even Ellie had begun to notice. It was in the way he never allowed himself to lean in too close whenever you were at his side. Or never fully crawled out of his shell no matter how many times you smiled sweetly or let your fingertips brush his forearm. 

“Does anything hurt?” He asks more intently. As he scans you over, he notices your clothes. The lower portion of your vest and the thighs of your flared jeans are stained with a wet, dark substance. 

“I’m fine, Joel.” You pull away from him with more force than necessary, feeling guilty for the way he swallows and takes a step back. “Sorry.” You release a heavy exhale, tears welling in your eyes with a dull sting. “I’m ruining everyone’s night.” 

Joel frowns. “No you’re not. Tell me what happened.” 

“I was trying to transfer the extra beverage dispenser onto the wagon so I could wheel it out to the drink stand, but it slipped out of my grip,” you explain. “The lid came off and the punch spilled everywhere.” You wipe your tears away quickly, as if they’ll stain too. 

“Accidents happen,” Joel’s tone is steady like scripture, tenderness peeking through just enough to cling onto. “Everybody’s fine. The world's still turning.”

Nobody had reacted in an extreme manner. There were gasps and startled jumps, but assurances came rushing in as the janitorial volunteers insisted that they’d get everything cleaned up. Everyone in that kitchen knew that there were worse things in life than spilled juice. Sure, it was upsetting, considering the time Mr. Robertson spent and the people looking forward to drinking more, but it was a small mistake in the grand scheme of things. But when your heart is already heavy and your mind is tangled with other concerns, those little mishaps feel like the most devastating ones. 

There was a directness about Joel, though, that eased away the guilt crawling beneath your skin. It was like he understood what screwing up truly was and this was many light years from it. 

Dina spots Joel in the distance and points him out to Ellie. “There he is over there.” 

Their smiles fall from their faces when they get closer and realize you’re crying. “Holy shit, what happened?” Ellie looks between you and Joel, worry etched onto her face. 

“I just made a stupid mistake.” You sniffle, trying to regain your composure, not wanting to worry them.  There was always something unavoidably daunting about seeing adults cry. 

“You girls stay here with her for a second. I’ll be right back,” Joel instructs. 

A new song starts up by the live band that’s playing. It’s an instrumental rendition of Every Breath You Take. A decent crowd has gathered, nibbling on sourdough and nodding to the melody. Some people are wrapped in each other’s arms. Joel soaks it all in as he navigates back to the racing lawn. 

Tommy claps him on the back when he makes it and Joel returns the gesture. “You enjoying yourself, man?” Tommy asks. 

“Yeah,” he says distractedly. “There was a spill at the community center, so no more punch. You think you can get everybody on the same page?” 

“Copy that.” 

Tommy’s voice carries through the megaphone as Joel makes his way back to you, the announcement fading with each step. 

“Howdy, folks. Some of you may have already heard, but in case you haven’t, there’s been a little spill and we are unfortunately all out of Mr. Robertson’s world famous punch for the night. We apologize if you didn’t get the chance to try it, but I promise we’ll figure out a way to make it up to y'all. In the meantime, I heard the lemonade and ice tea ain’t half bad.” 

His words blur into the background as Joel makes it back to you. There are a few disappointed groans, but nobody is completely devastated by the news. They keep carrying on just as he knew they would. 

Tears no longer streak your face when Joel makes it back, Ellie and Dina seeming to have lifted your spirits a little more. 

“Do you wanna go get cleaned up?” Joel suggests. 

Now that you’re thinking about it, the feeling of your clothes sticking to your skin is beginning to grow uncomfortable. You take a deep breath at the thought of walking home, away from Summer Fest, all the energy, all the fun. Joel sees the disappointment on your face. 

“I can go with you,” he offers.

•••

The walk to your house is quiet, the sounds of the night's festivities now distant. The porch steps creak gently under your weight as the two of you ascend them. Joel watches as you unlock the door, but finds himself cemented as you step inside. Confusion, appreciation, frustration, and want are all amalgamated into one look directed at right his way. Without saying a word, you head further inside, leaving the door open. 

Joel’s hands twitch at his sides like he’s a live wire wrought with energy. Bugs would fly in if he didn’t do something—that’s the justification he creates. You’re halfway to the laundry room when you hear the front door shut behind him as he follows after you. 

The living room is illuminated by dim lamplight as he walks through. A quick glance into the kitchen gives him sight of one of Ellie’s more recent drawings stuck to the refrigerator door with a smiley face magnet. It's a portrait of your face that you agreed to sit for one lazy afternoon while Joel was away on patrol. 

The air smells like you. Understated and sweet, floral and earthen. Small plants line multiple windowsills despite how convinced you were that you couldn’t keep anything alive. The whole commune would be worse off without you and he’d be the first to wilter away. 

At the sound of a zipper and clothes brushing against skin, he stops his pursuit of you. Miles away even though you’re mere yards apart. All he has is your shadow, dancing in the dim light pooling out of the laundry room and into the hall with him. He backs himself into the cool wall and closes his eyes, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. Up and down and up again. An SOS in the middle of a sea when salvation was right within reach. It gets quiet after a while. No more running water, or cabinet doors, or shuffling around. 

“You can let me in, you know?” comes your voice, so light it’s almost nothing. Joel releases a shaky breath and opens his eyes to the sight of you, dawned in old shorts and a graphic tee. You wish he would say something, anything. Share a fraction of what’s going on in his mind. “I’m right here, Joel.” 

“I know. I see you.” There’s a defensive edge to his voice that’s wounded around the edges, as if he’s trying to accommodate the truth that burns within his ribcage, his stomach, beneath the entirety of his skin. 

“So now what?” You swallow your nerves, studying his face, his neck. “We’re just gonna keep seeing each other for the rest of our lives and that’s it? No knowing, no feeling, no experiencing?” You ask. “No loving?”  

One by one, the walls close in, until it feels like you’re standing toe to toe with nothing but words as weapons and honesty being the only way out. It’s not a fight he’s ready for. He can trek through the harshest winters, fight off monsters and all manner of men, but he’s defenseless in front of you.

There will be no victory, no rising from battle with a bloodied fist or blade, or immediate relief akin to the coming of spring. The only way out is to dig within, and he already knew what resided there. It was a matter of carving it out and laying it on an altar for you to see as you did the same. It’s not a fight at all, it's a sacrifice. All risk with probable reward. 

“I don’t want that to be all that we do.” You’ve never heard Joel speak so quietly. It’s as if there’s Infected lurking nearby and he doesn’t want to be devoured. “Think about you too much.” 

“I was starting to think you didn’t like me at all. Not like how I like you,” you say. 

Joel swallows thickly, warm all over. “How do you like me?” 

You push out of the laundry room doorway to step closer to him, placing a gentle hand on his chest, feeling the warmth beneath his shirt, the beating of his heart. You let it thrum against your palm until a shallow breath slips past his lips, then you move to cup his stubbled jaw, lightly brushing your thumb over his lower lip. The urge to touch you back grows so great that he finally gives in and lets both of his strong hands settle on your waist.  

Joel can hear his heartbeat in his ears as he leans in towards you, studying your face, searching for any sign that this might be some elaborate ruse. Instead, he finds something so poignant that he doesn’t have the words to define. It’s as terrifying as it is wonderful to, for once, be unable to size up what he’s up against. 

You close the space in between you with a softness that takes his breath away. Bared heart meeting bared heart. Joel’s lips are gentle and unhurried, every second savored and not a single one missed. You try to focus but it feels like you’re falling and flying all at once. Then his fingers dig into your waist a little harder, a silent plea to stay there with him, the warmth of his kiss, the firmness of his body as he pulls you closer. 

Your hands find their way to the back of his neck to play with the hair curled at his nape. The kiss deepens not in urgency but a shared understanding. A promise sealed in the way your bodies fit together. And then, slowly, deliberately, Joel eases back, lips lingering on yours for a heartbeat longer until there’s a slight space in between again. Your breaths mingle as he rests his forehead against yours, thumb stroking tender circles on your waist. 

When you open your eyes, he’s already looking at you, wondering if you can feel that two worlds having converged into one, buzzing with a newness that’s as beautiful as all the words you’d kept bottled inside. 

•••

It hadn’t taken much. Just a hug and a few soft kisses pressed to the underside of his jaw. When Joel’s grumbling finally subsided, it made way for the soothing ripple of the river. You’d settled along the bank and stretched out a few blankets when you first arrived. An hour seemed to pass in the matter of a few seconds, laughter, conversations and all. Now the sun creeps closer and closer to the horizon up in the ombre sky. 

It wasn’t any fault of your own that you’d asked Joel if the date could extend a little longer. It’d been a month of getting to see him in this light, open and unguarded, generous with giving those slow, easy smiles. Willing to lay down across your lap like this when you asked sweetly enough. 

The small mouth of a fish breaks the surface of the water as you trace along his hairline, disappearing by the time you run the pad of your finger down his nose. His lips twitch as he continues to ward off sleep. This time, there’s no stopping a soft laugh from rising up your throat. That’s all it takes for his eyes to flutter open, blinking until they’re able to focus on the soft upturn of your lips. No sooner do they avert to the sky, assessing the fleeting light. 

“We gotta head back now,” his voice is gruff. When he moves to sit up, you place a delicate hand on the center of his chest and he settles back down with a sigh. “C’mon, sweetheart, the sun’s setting. I don’t want you out here in the dark.” 

Packing up and riding back to the commune meant this moment would be resigned to a memory. “A few more minutes won’t hurt,” you insist. 

Before Jackson and before you, every second was about enduring to the next. Life was an endless onwards, onwards, onwards reverberating through his veins. Slowing down was always a risk until you showed him that sometimes life’s most worthwhile moments were in the stillness. Somedays that was easier to remember than others, but he sure did put in an effort. 

“I think you’re enjoying this more than I am anyways,” you tease. The corners of his lips quirk upwards before he can stop them. 

You continue on like that, tracing his face, occasionally glancing up at the snow-capped peaks of the mountains. Then an animal catches your attention across the way, lean and tall with short antlers protruding from its head. You suck in a breath of pleasant surprise, and Joel startles upright thinking the worst. His shoulders relax when he sees the creature. It bends its neck down to nibble at something in the grass until deciding to gallop away. 

“Just a mule deer.” He gives you a look. 

“I know, sorry. I get excited.” You offer an apologetic smile and he's reminded of how beautiful you look in the light of the setting sun, features aglow. He doesn’t say anything, just soaks you in here and now. An airiness fills your chest. 

He stands with a groan, extending a helping hand back down to you. When you’re steady on your feet, he takes your chin in one gentle hand and tilts your head back so he can align his lips with yours. The kiss is brief, and he follows it up with a soft peck.  

“Will you let me take you back home now?” he questions. “Ellie’s gonna have our heads if we’re late for game night. Especially when she’s choosing the line up.” 

•••

No heads roll that night. Plenty of dice do, while Uno cards are slapped onto the coffee table, and Jenga blocks fall. Tommy, Maria, Dina, and your uncle Nate, eventually file out of Joel’s house, leaving the three of you alone. Ellie feigns sleep on the couch as soon as it’s time for cleanup, and dozes off for real as you and Joel start taking care of everything yourselves. 

He steps up behind you as you’re standing at the kitchen sink, snaking his arms around your middle. A curious hum rises up your throat as you lean back into him. 

“I think somebody cheated during Jenga tonight,” he hushes against the shell of your ear, relishing the way you shiver at the warmth of his breath.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  

Joel noses at the back of your head. “So you weren’t the one touchin’ me during that last round?” he asks. “Scratching my back, squeezing my thigh.” 

“It was innocent,” you insist. “It's a stressful game, I was just trying to ease your nerves. How was I supposed to know your hands would get all shaky?” 

A sudden chuckle shakes his chest, sending a ripple of warmth through you. “Ease my nerves? We weren’t even on the same team.” His fingers squeeze your hips in quick, gentle pulses, making you arch into him in a spell of helpless giggles. Joel evades your attempts to grab his wrists, but shows you mercy when you turn around, looking up at him through your lashes like you could do no wrong. 

“You’re lucky I happen to like you an awful lot.” He places both hands on the counter behind you, effectively caging you in. 

You smooth your hands up his chest, admiring the soft lines by his eyes, the handsome bump of his nose. “I know. I’m the luckiest person alive.” 

“No, that’s me,” Joel whispers. 

He’s certain of it. 

- 

Thank you so much for reading. I’d love to hear your thoughts, it’s my favorite thing.

every month it's a new goddman setting On Here that makes a blog default to mobile view. when will the horrors cease.

Jon Bernthal bts of Those Who Wish Me Dead (2021)

the bodyguard

[status: in progress]

summary: after a series of terrorist attacks in new york, an article you wrote calling out the cowardice of the organization's leader causes you to become a target, and frank castle is assigned to be your bodyguard. the resurgence of former flames and shocking sinister revelations will test just how far frank is willing to go to protect you. divulgences of his mysterious and convoluted past will make you question just how much you can actually trust him. will frank be your savior? or the reason for your demise?

a/n: a HUGE thank you to my love @thyme-in-a-bubble for that incredibly breathtaking header. this series was inspired by the absolutely lovely @lowkeythor's genius request for a bodyguard!frank x reader fic. it is a slow burn-so get comfy. this is a punisher series friends, so there will be mentions of violence and gore, as well as other mature themes. (there will eventually be spiciness bc i can't resist) if you'd like to be added to the tag list for updates, please let me know!

»— anything marked with an astrik contains explicit content. minors dni.

»— all work is my own. please do not repost anywhere else without my consent.

chapter one: it's my job

chapter two: take the day off

chapter three: trouble

chapter four: it's like that

chapter five: conflict of interest

chapter six: invasion of privacy

chapter seven: checkmate

chapter eight: sorry

chapter nine: stakeout

chapter ten: pancakes

chapter eleven: we got a problem

chapter twelve: confession

chapter thirteen: desire*

chapter fourteen: i got you

chapter fifteen: teach me*

chapter sixteen: an adjustment

chapter seventeen: a favor

chapter eighteen: first date*

chapter nineteen: personal

chapter twenty: secrets

chapter twenty one: a little more time

chapter twenty two: fade to black

chapter twenty three: revelation

chapter twenty four: i love you

chapter twenty five: promotion

chapter twenty six [coming 9/20]

the bodyguard soundtrack

A House in Nebraska

pairing: frank castle x f!reader

word count: 3.8k

warnings: gore, violence, minor character death, amy bendix (lol), language, angst!!, eventual smut

summary: He was afraid of you. Afraid that you had made up your mind and had enough of him, that this was the final straw. But the worst thing, he decided, was the possibility that this, that he, was enough for you—that you would pledge your loyalty to a man like him. To a life like this.

a/n: hey! I’ve been sitting on this idea for months and finally ready to work on it :) this will definitely be a two-parter(maybe more), but I’m selfishly enjoying this little AU loosely following season 2!!!!

next chapter

comments/reblogs/likes are so appreciated, I love to hear your thoughts <3

“So… how did you guys meet?” “Stay still.” The strong stench of rubbing alcohol burned your nostrils as you leaned over, her foot tapping mindlessly beneath her crossed legs. “You didn’t answer my question.” “Amy,” you interrupted, her blue eyes baring right back into yours. “If you want me to paint your nails, sit still.” She huffed at that. You were used to it by now, never taking her attitude personally because being sixteen was hard enough, so you paid no mind. It was almost reminiscent, a painful familiarity with the way she embodied your sister, but you chose to forget the feeling like your life depended on it. In a way, it did.

Her nail disappeared beneath a glossy black polish, the surrounding skin also falling victim to an unsteady hand. She let out a sigh and continued to count the number of stripes on her socks.

“We met in Nebraska.” “Nebraska?” She sounded disgusted, and the small room filled with laughter. “What the hell is in Nebraska?” “Absolutely nothing.”

Ghosts. Distant memories. Everything was in Nebraska.

It’s where he found you, hiding as some housekeeper in a shitty motel. You were both running from things neither of you cared to talk about while sober, so you didn’t, but he kept looking for reasons to come back.

He blamed it on the esteemed breakfast, a vending machine honeybun, but you saw through him like he was an apparition haunting your strained heartstrings.

Come with me, he asked. Where to? You didn’t really care.

You were in too deep by the time you made it to Michigan—you both were, and yet neither one of you would admit it. There was something sacred about the secrecy and inability to label what you both knew was love, or something like that; it was too precious, and you avoided any chance at jinxing it.

“But you two are together, though, right?” Amy was obsessed with knowing everything. You think it’s her way of pretending that everything was fine. Fine.

“No.” “Oh.” She straightened a bit, and you didn’t miss the way her brows furrowed. “That disappoint you?” “A little.” “Good,” you smirked. “You’re too nosey.” “I call it a healthy amount of curious.” Her back hunched again, and she watched the way your eyebrows scrunched over her fingers. “You guys are shit at hiding it, anyway.” You chuckled at that, manually manipulating her hand to inspect your work. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Oh come on,” she says matter-of-factly. “You guys fuck.” “Amy!” You could feel your eyes bulging from their sockets. “I knew it!” She clapped her hands before jumping from the mattress. “You don’t know anything.” “Oh come on,” she searched your face, expecting to find any confirmation to her assumptions, instead finding your lack of eye contact disappointing. “Not even once?” “No,” you lied. “Happy?” “Not really.”

The mattress failed to hide the sound of her disappointment as she threw her body onto the spare bed. You allowed yourself to find amusement in her attitude long enough to sift through a dirty duffel bag, keeping your mind occupied with something other than Frank’s absence.

Gaining Amy meant losing Frank. Hour by hour, piece by piece, chunk of flesh by chunk of flesh. The waiting never grew easier, but you adjusted, just like you always do, ending up in motels that smelled like damp polyester and cigarettes.

“I’m starving,” she groaned, pulling you from your thoughts. “We’ll get something soon.” Your stomach gurgled in agreement.

Static crackled throughout the room, momentarily stunning you, before being replaced by a weather report.

High of 89 today with an 80 percent chance of rain, folks! Grab an umbrella and stay dry!

You laughed to yourself at that—stay dry—like you ever left those shitty rooms.

It was bittersweet with Amy. You missed the sun. You missed the late night diner runs. You missed waking up to forehead kisses and soft touches. You missed the easiness of it all, pretending to be two normal people that had two normal lives, and now you were confined to a room that reeked of nail polish and gunpowder. A prisoner and caretaker.

“What do you want for dinner?” you asked, attempting to lighten the mood. “Huh?” “Dinner,” you stated. “I’ll go when—“ A knock at the door ended your conversation. “Amy,” you locked eyes with her, “get in the closet.” Your voice dropped to a whisper as you pointed the gun towards the door. “No, it’s fine!“ She practically leapt from the cheap mattress. “Closet. Now.” Your arm aches almost as much as your stomach as Amy reaches for the door handle. She was so far away, it seemed, and your legs felt cemented to the floor. “I ordered food,” she smiled, opening the door to reveal a woman holding a box. “See?”

It felt like you were staring at one of your polaroids; Amy looked pleased, beaming at you with a sense of accomplishment that she got dinner. That she could do things. That she didn’t need your help—Frank’s help. Her smile was radiant, and for a moment, you almost felt sorry for her.

“You can keep the change,” Amy offered the woman a handful of cash before turning to you with that same naivety.

Stupid, stupid girl.

You knew it was coming, and yet your stomach still dropped when her smile faded and her eyes bulged from their sockets. Amy’s lips moved frantically, but you were too focused on the way the woman’s gun left imprints against her temple.

Stupid, stupid girl.

The woman looked satisfied, puffing out her broad chest while Amy tried to talk her way out of it. “Kid,” you commanded her attention, ignoring the way you could hear Frank’s voice in the back of your head. She stared back at you, tears welling in her eyes, and you hoped to God that she would understand what you meant as you meticulously cocked your head towards the closet.

The stranger wasn’t an idiot, and she shuffled backwards, somehow digging the gun further into Amy’s head. “If you try anything funny—“

Point. Shoot. Kill.

Amy flinched as warm blood decorated her cheeks like a crimson blush.

You wish you could embrace her and muster out a lie—that it’s all over, that everything is okay now, that things can go back to normal, but you can’t, so you pull her into the room. “Closet, now.”

She listened, for once, ducking her head and hurrying to the small space Frank had designated as hers. A part of you selfishly wished she had fought back against your order. Maybe then things would feel normal, and you could pretend that the brain matter surrounding the door frame was some maximalist’s creative direction. Maybe then you could imagine that the body below you was just a rolled up carpet that was being discarded because it was too much of an eyesore for the motel regulars.

You pretended, ignoring the corpse’s vacant gaze as you patted its body, shoving any remaining bits of your humanity down as you pocketed a wallet and fully loaded gun.

Point. Shoot. Kill.

It was one of the first lessons you had learned while on your own, and one that Frank never let you forget. He was right, unfortunately, and heavy footsteps reiterated the importance of the mantra as they approached your temporary home.

There weren’t many places for you to hide, but you made it work, you had to. The bathroom was small and smelled like mildew, but you couldn’t care about the dangers of black mold when you had a target on your back. The gun felt lighter in your hand this time, and your posture felt natural as you crouched against the bathroom wall.

Time didn’t exist in moments like this. The moments where the world sounded like warm, rushing blood and high pitched screeching. Moments where you become reduced to your primal state, clenching jaw and eyes blown wide as they study the mirrored motel room. Moments where you held your breath, watching and waiting in anticipation of who would barge into your temporary sanctuary, noting the constant footsteps..

The footsteps never stopped, not even as they stepped over the limp body and pooled blood. You foolishly hoped you would have been met with the familiar darkened gaze, that he would lift you by your shoulders and tell you that you did good, but the man that barged into the room was ruthless. Cold-blooded.

His gun was already drawn, spraying the mattresses and walls with bullets and fury, sending drywall crumbling and flaking onto your head and shoulders.

Point. Shoot. Kill.

You inhaled, not even considering it could be the last time your lungs expanded to its full capacity, before glancing in the mirror a final time.

You looked like a version of yourself you had buried long ago—a version that hadn’t emerged since you had left home. It was reminiscent of something you fought to avoid, but you couldn’t run this time, not as the pang of gunshots echoed throughout the motel room.

He moved quickly, and you wondered if he was trained on the same basis: shoot first, ask later. He wasn’t the first one you had encountered, trigger-happy and determined, and you knew they always ran out of bullets quicker than they should.

Your golden opportunity sounded like a few seconds of silence followed by a huff of air leaving your lips before you reached around the corner, catching the man off guard as you unleashed three rounds towards his rigid frame.

“God damnit!” he shouted as a bullet ripped through the meat of his thigh.

His eyes were black, rolling into the sockets like a blood hungry shark, and you genuinely thought his teeth would crumble under the pressure of his clenched jaw.

The bathroom was no solace; you were cornered, backed into a cage like an animal waiting for its turn to be brought to the slaughterhouse. Surrendering wasn’t an option. It didn’t exist for people like the one hunting you—for people like Frank.

The thought of Frank coming back to your makeshift home, littered with blood and bodies, made your stomach churn. It meant you failed, that you weren’t capable of keeping up with him, and it was embarrassing. You failed him; you failed Amy, and you failed yourself once again, though that mattered little anymore.

Your golden moment was quickly interrupted by the sound of grunting and a continuous stream of popping inching towards your hiding place. The wall exploded and ceramic tile flew towards your face before you realized what was happening, and you instinctively receded towards the small spot between the toilet and cabinet.

“Come on out, honey,” he called. “Can’t hide forever!”

You could tell he was hovering outside the remnants of the doorframe, probably waiting for you to crawl out so he could pretend to be merciful by putting a bullet in your head, but his labored breathing told you everything he wasn’t. Your guess was a severed artery, and although he should be down by now, you learned to never underestimate a man with nothing left to lose and steadied your gun on the edge of the counter.

“Just tell me where the girl is and we can figure this out like adults!” “Like adults?” You called out, scanning the bathroom for anything that could help your situation. “Sure,” he huffed out. “We can play house after this. What do you say?”

The toe of his boot peeked around the corner, and your body moved before your mind could catch up.

The man let out a guttural scream and folded in half, instinctively grabbing his bleeding foot. You wasted no time yanking the cheap plastic shower curtain from its holdings before leaping towards the assailant.

He looked like a beached shark, thrashing beneath the fogging curtain, but felt more like a mechanical bull as you held onto him with your thighs, tightening your grip around the curtain.

It happened quickly. So quickly that you hadn’t registered the throbbing pain in the base of your skull as you crashed into the already crumbling drywall. You weren’t sure how he stood, how he gained enough momentum to fling you off of him, but your mind and body remained disconnected as he towered over you.

“I’m gonna ask you one more time,” the man coughed, failing to cover his mouth. “Where’s the girl?”

This wasn’t supposed to be the end. This was humiliating, and yet there you were, blinking away stars and choking on dust. You attempted to sit up straight, regaining your dignity, before your knuckles hit the familiar carbon steel.

There was only one shot, and you prayed Amy had made it out and ran as far away from you as she could—this wasn’t a place for young girls, yet you felt small enough in that moment. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to be.

Point. Shoot. Kill.

He fell with a great thud, nearly landing on top of you. His mouth and eyes were still open, completely unsuspecting of his demise, and you were hypnotized by the crimson dripping from the bullet-sized hole in his forehead.

It was seamless, and you think Frank would have been proud had he walked in through the blown out door, but he doesn’t. Nobody was coming.

“He talked too much.” Her voice startled you, and you instinctively reached for the gun. “Whoa,” she warned, “it’s okay, it’s just me.” She showed her palms, emerging fully from the small closet.

“Amy,” you whispered, afraid that she was just an apparition.

“You okay?” She knew it was a stupid question the second it left her mouth, but she asked anyway—she at least meant it.

“Fine,” you huffed, pushing yourself to your feet. “We have to leave.”

“Leave? What about Frank?”

You had already limped across the room, adding the new guns and wallets to the duffel bag, and didn’t need to see the confusion on her face to know she was skeptical of your plan. “He’ll find us,” you tried to believe yourself, but you knew he would understand.

You’d had this conversation before; if anything were to happen to him, you and Amy were to find a Madani somewhere in New York. It was a 10 hour drive, but you were confident you could make it in six if you left now.

The room felt smaller with two bodies and crumbled drywall littering the floor. You could ignore the claustrophobic feel, but Amy stood frozen in place, studying the tread marked puddle of blood beneath her feet.

“Hey,” you started, “look at me. Look at me, Amy.”

She was pale, her eyes sunken into their sockets. It was impossible to make sense of how she looked so young, yet so hardened at that moment, but there wasn’t enough time to wonder. “Amy, we have to go, okay?” Her cheeks were soft beneath your palms. You tried to pull her from her trance, begging her to come back to the shitty motel room of death, but she stayed tucked away in the safest corner of her mind.

“You’re bleeding,” she muttered. “What?” “Bleeding. You’re bleeding.”

Her eyes led a trail to the soft curve of your waist. Your shirt stuck to your skin with an uncomfortable warmth, and you pretended it didn’t ache when you placed a few fingers over the gash.

You wanted to laugh at the irony, deluding yourself with a false sense of accomplishment. It was always too good to be true, and you were reminded of the cruel fact that things could always be worse as the sound of heavy footsteps pulled you from the pain. Amy ran towards the familiar hiding spot without being told, and your heart broke into smaller pieces.

It was getting old, the pointing and shooting and killing. It was getting old, and you were tired of calling the shots—you were tired of waiting for Frank to come back.

Fuck him. Fuck him for leaving you. Fuck him for leaving Amy. Fuck him for making you add two more heads to your roster.

Your arm ached as you leveled the gun, and you let out a sharp cry as your skin pulled in separate directions, the cotton of your shirt peeling from the wet wound. It was a matter of seconds before you would claim your next victim, but all you felt was the burning rage towards the man that left you in this position. It was automatic at this point; all you saw was a threat, so you acted, unloading rounds until all that remained was a busted door frame and tear stains against your grimy cheeks.

“Shit,” he whispered, not even acknowledging the body that he stepped over. “No no no, what happened?” He strung a hand behind your neck, forcing you to watch the way his eyes scanned your face. He meant well, you think, but you couldn’t look at him, especially as he thumbed through the tears that escaped your waterline. “Where’s the kid?”

God damn him. “Closet,” you choked out.

He was gone as quickly as he came, and your knees took the brute of the fall with a thud, masking the sound of the closet doors falling as Frank ripped them from the hinges. The stars in your eyes glistened, your peripheral shrinking, and you weren’t even sure if he was real. If he had actually come back, if he had actually left you on the floor, face to face with your bloody work.

“You okay, kid?” He crouched to her level, but she quickly uncurled herself, practically jumping from the small space to push past Frank and joined you on the damp carpet. “Are you okay?” she asked, her brows furrowing as she studied your face. “I’m fine," you whispered, bracing yourself against the mattress to hoist yourself to your feet. Frank hovered, like he usually did, unsure of his place between the two of you. His anger was palpable, and you made yourself as small as possible, limping towards the disheveled duffle bags. He watched you, noting the way you winced with each step. It killed him, knowing that his shit would eventually catch up to you, too, but he gulped it down, turning his attention towards Amy.

“I’m sorry,” Frank started, grabbing Amy’s shoulders before bending to her level. “I’m sorry this happened. I shouldn’t have left.” “I’m fine,” she mumbled. “Seriously. It could’ve been worse.” “Yeah, you coulda been killed. I shouldn’t have left you alone.” He regrets it as soon as it leaves his mouth.

Alone. The bile rose from your stomach and burned the lining of your throat at the indirect insult.

“I wasn’t alone,” Amy snapped at Frank before sinking into the mattress. “Look, this is all my fault. I was the one that ordered food, she didn’t know.” It was humiliating having Amy come to your defense like that, even though she was right. Frank’s stare burned, and your feet involuntarily took you to the destroyed bathroom to escape his attention. “What?” He spat. “I mean, really. I probably would have died but she handled them.” She crossed her arms against her chest. “It was actually kinda cool.” “There’s nothin’ cool about this,” Frank hissed. “C’est la vie, I guess.” “C’mon,” he ordered. “Pack up.” “Everything’s already ready.” She motioned towards the perfectly lined duffle bags that you had assembled.

He didn’t have much to say. He was almost relieved at the fact that you were ready to leave him. You could make it on your own, he knew that much. You were strong enough, but a part of him wished you didn’t have to be—that you didn’t have to deal with his shit.

Amy watched as he shifted his weight outside the bathroom door, his fingers flexing and clenching in anticipation.

His heart broke as he caught a glimpse of your reflection in the busted mirror, your head hanging low as you sat on the edge of the bathtub.

He was afraid of you. Afraid that you had made up your mind and had enough of him, that this was the final straw. But the worst thing, he decided, was the possibility that this, that he, was enough for you—that you would pledge your loyalty to a man like him. To a life like this.

“Time to go,” he finally knocked against the remaining wall. You were quick to listen, pretending that you hadn’t been crying, and you pushed past him. The carpet squelched beneath your stride, and you ignored it long enough to pull Amy into your chest, focusing on the sweet smell of her shampoo. She stayed there for what seemed like forever until she became cognizant of her flickering facade. “You okay?” you whispered, nodding your head as if you could somehow convince her she was. She followed suit, swallowing down any trace of emotion that threatened to spill over, but her eyes betrayed her. Frank had seen enough.

It was too much—too much of a reminder that he had failed again, that his perpetual failings would always result in the loss of a life. Your commitment to Amy’s safety was evident; it was a continuation of what you couldn’t give your sister, and he was ashamed that he brought you back to the place where he met you. “Let’s go,” he cleared his throat. You listened, as you always do, breaking your moment of respite with Amy to shove two heavy duffle bugs over your shoulder, not caring to look behind you as you head towards a bulky van. Amy watched you disappear, shuffling her feet in frustration. “You really should take it easy on her.” Frank said nothing, instead sifting through the empty pockets of corpses. “Hey,” she kicked the limp hand, forcing Frank to stop his search. “I mean it. Lighten up.” “You done?” He stood, completely towering over Amy. His jaw clenched against his will, yet she held his gaze. “Be nice.”

“Time to go.” He didn’t wait for her, so she watched her footing as she tiptoed over the broken bodies.

She lingered in the doorframe, committing the bloodbath to memory. It was fucked that she had to—that the motel room reeked of blood and guts instead nail polish remover and pizza. But that’s how these things went, and you watched from the safety of the van as she slammed the door shut on that dirty fucking room.

You pretended that her clumpy mascara was still intact as she climbed in the van's backseat. She pretended you didn’t jump at the sound of Frank slamming his door closed as he slid into his seat. He pretended that this wasn’t his karmic debt catching up to him.

A caravan of fucking liars.

“Where are we going?” Amy broke the uncomfortable silence, and you held your breath. “New York,” he said with a sigh.

New York, a Madani, and a caravan of liars.

There was a poetic moment of silence and anticipation, and then the engine roared to life.

next chapter

Frank ‘ 😍 😍 😍 ’ Castle.

Summary: You become a regular at the restaurant and catch Richie’s eye.

You walk into the restaurant during the dinner rush. This is your fifth time coming in since you discovered this place. It’s a bit chaotic but in oddly weird way it’s comforting. You go up to the counter to place an order for a beef sandwich when someone cuts in front of you. You’re not really one for confrontation so you’re just going to leave it be.

Richie however noticed what happened and points to you and says, “Sweetheart, you want your usual?”

The person who cut in front of you starts to protest saying they’re next but Richie cuts them off. He looks at you and says, “Beef sandwich right?”

You nod. “Yeah. Um, yes please.”

Richie then looks at the person who cut you, “I don’t like people who think they’re more important than others. Now what can I get you?”

You move to the side and pull out your phone as you wait for your order. After Richie is done taking a couple more orders he leans on the counter by you and smirks. “You’re becoming a regular here. Is it the food or my charm?”

You put your phone away and look up at him. “A little bit of both.” You smile as you watch his reaction, which is a bit surprised and impressed.

Richie nods. “I knew it.” He slides your bag across the counter. “Enjoy.”

You take your bag and find a seat. As you eat, you steal some glances at Richie who seems to be doing the same thing to you. When you stand to head out Richie calls out to you, “See you later darling.” You give him a smile and a short wave as you walk out the door.

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The time you stop by next you show a bit of your clumsy side. As you walk down the sidewalk heading towards the restaurant, you trip on an uneven part of the sidewalk. You go down hard. “Ow.” You look at your elbow, which has a trickle of blood.

“Hey! You good?” You look up to see Richie walking up to you. When he reaches you he holds his hand out to help you stand. “You pick a fight with the sidewalk?”

You let out a short laugh. “Something like that.” You hiss as you straightened out you arm. Richie sees your elbow and frowns.

He takes your arm and inspects the damage. “Doesn’t seem too bad, but we need to clean this up.”

“We?” You say as Richie leads you to the restaurant.

“Yeah, we. I take care of my regulars.” He leads you to the back of the restaurant and takes out a first aide kit. “This might sting.” He takes some antiseptic spray and sprays your elbow. You try to hide your flinch but Richie catches it. “Sorry. Almost done sweetheart.” He takes a bandaid and places it on your elbow. “There. Good as new.”

“Thanks. You didn’t have to help, but it’s appreciated.”

“No problem. Anything for one of my favorites.” Richie leads you to the front of the restaurant. “Want your usual? It’s on the house since you almost risked your life getting here.”

You laugh. “Sure. That’s sweet of you.”

He waves you off. “Keep that to yourself. I got a reputation to uphold here. Find a spot I’ll bring it out to you when it’s ready,” You nod and find a booth in the corner. A few minutes later Richie brings you your sandwich, “Enjoy.” He goes back to work behind the counter, glancing over at you several times making sure you’re good. When you stand to head out you hear him call after you, “Stay safe out there. Don’t want to dig out the first aide kit again.” You shake your head and wave as you walk out of the restaurant.