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When Ellie comes to with a shrieking headache, arms bound tight behind the back of the rickety wooden chair she sits in, she just thinks, it figures.
Things have been too peaceful for too long—nearly ten weeks have passed since Salt Lake—and something had to give.
Slowly, she takes in her surroundings. The pounding in her skull is beginning to subside just barely, and with a grimace she manages to lift her head from where it hangs down on her chest.
Naturally, she’s not alone.
There’s a person, clothed in black and their face completely obscured by a balaclava. Probably male based on the breadth of the shoulders, though they’re a little on the short side. They don’t react when she looks at them other than to readjust the small pistol in their grip.
The person is lit harshly from one side by the light streaming in through the dirty window of what appears to be a dilapidated shed, probably long abandoned. There are empty shelves, an ancient shovel here, a broken rake there. Rusty cans of paint and other useless random shit strewn about. The wood of the building is so old and bowed that snowflakes drift in from between the slats, lit up like sparks by the bright winter sun.
It could be beautiful, in a way…if Ellie wasn’t currently tied to a fucking chair.
Her faculties rev up gradually, like the slow ass turnover of the engine in that piece of shit Chevy S10 that Bill left to them. As the mental clarity grows, the fury creeps up alongside it, a hot prickle under Ellie’s skin.
Fuck hunters, man.
-Three months earlier-
Two weeks after settling in Jackson, Ellie and Joel are starting to find a rhythm.
It’s weird, at first. Well, it’s still fucking weird now, but in a these shoes don’t fit I gotta break ‘em in a bit more kind of way, rather than what the fuck is happening, oh god way.
Tommy and Maria get them situated in a cute little cottage just across the way from their own. It’s got a little backyard, which is the most exciting part to Ellie, but Joel sees the front porch and immediately nods approvingly.
“Now that’s a sittin’ porch if I ever saw one,” he mutters approvingly, running a hand over the flaking paint of the banister.
Ellie watches as Joel gets caught in a memory, his eyes going a little far away for a moment. Then he seems to catch himself and clears his throat, looking…not quite troubled or sad, but thoughtful.
For once, Ellie doesn’t ask.
Their reception in Jackson is warm, on the account of Joel being Tommy’s brother…and the fact that Ellie suggested the two of them bring a large crate of supplies from the Firefly base. May as well take full advantage of the debt owed, Ellie figures.
The medicine, ammunition, and seeds are received with much gratitude, and the town even throws a little impromptu potluck the day after the pair arrive to celebrate them joining the community. Despite arriving with the intention to bear gifts, the two of them end up with a pile of furniture, clothes, food, and other household items—donated by other townsfolk—far larger than the cargo they brought with them.
Ellie meets some of the kids her age that night and wow it’s both awesome and super fucking weird to hang out with other teenagers. The boys are mostly either dumb or boring but the girls are nice; there’s one named Dina who Ellie can’t help but fucking stutter like an idiot in front of ‘cuz she’s so goddamn pretty.
In all honesty though, for Ellie, the real winner of the night is the food. She eats so much of something magnificent called mac n’ cheese that she gets a stomach ache, and then falls asleep against Joel’s shoulder at the community table (which is really just a bunch of people’s regular tables all lined up) as the adults talk and laugh well into the night.
When Ellie wakes in the wee hours of the next morning, she’s been tucked into a quilt on the couch in their otherwise empty living room. Joel is asleep on the other end, feet kicked up onto a box of supplies and arms crossed over his chest as he snores lightly.
He must have carried her here.
He looks so much younger when he’s asleep, she muses, studying his face. Vaguely, she remembers bed frames and mattresses being one of the many items offered by other townspeople last night, and with a jolt comes to the realization that this might be the last time they sleep next to each other for…forever, maybe. There are two bedrooms upstairs, and Ellie has already claimed the one with a view of the backyard.
Even in Salt Lake, Joel would frequently doze in the chair next to her hospital bed or on the couch in her bunker room, and there was always a guard or nurse or somebody to keep her company.
She’s going to have to get used to waking up alone.
Frowning, Ellie tries to digest that. On the one hand, having actual privacy is going to be a fucking godsend. On the other, it’s just…different. And a little scary. At the very least, though, Joel is as paranoid as she is and will likely be fine with her keeping a loaded rifle beneath her bed. In fact, he’ll probably insist on it.
With that in mind, Ellie gathers up her quilt and shuffles over to the other end of the couch before tipping over and plopping her head down on Joel’s lap. He jerks into wakefulness for a moment, and even while facing away from him Ellie can sense his little danger-radar do its scan of the situation before he relaxes back down onto the couch.
She falls back asleep to the feeling of fingers carding gently through her hair.
Of course, one of the reasons Jackson thrives is because everyone does their fair share.
Ellie and Joel are given a few days to settle in before they’re put to work. Joel is rotated into the patrol roster and helps with construction while Ellie is assigned to the stables. Yes, she’s happy with the job, and yes, she whined from hell to high heaven about not being able to join patrols.
Maria and Tommy get a detailed explanation of Salt Lake a week after they arrive, and along with it a large handful of the phage capsules to do with what they see fit. Ellie trusts their discretion and doesn’t envy having to make those decisions (who gets what and when, and so on.)
The rest are tucked safely into Joel and Ellie’s freezer.
Joel, who ultimately declined supervised resistance acquisition, does keep one in a locket that he wears around his neck while on patrol. It lives in the freezer otherwise, and Ellie snorts with amusement when he sucks in a hissing breath at the frigid metal every time he slips it over his head.
It becomes part of their routine.
Routine is good for Ellie, she realizes. Structure helps keep the weird, sad thoughts at bay, keeps her focused. It gives her things to look forward to (dinner with Joel is her favorite part of most days, unless she gets to see Dina) and time to prepare for the less pleasant parts.
Really, the only part of her life in Jackson that she doesn’t like much is school. She only attends three days a week, and the teacher Mrs. Brown is nice, but it feels like fucking torture the whole time. When the fuck is she going to need to know calculus, or what year it was when Abraham-whoever died? But Joel insists on it and gets this gruff-yet-forlorn look when she talks about how miserable she finds it, so she buckles up and deals.
Besides, as the colder months approach, practical lessons in hunting, trapping, and tracking are worked into the curriculum (taught by Mrs. Brown’s wife, Other Mrs. Brown), and the older kids are encouraged to start considering what kind of trade they might want to pursue. Ellie’s stupid math and English classes are bookended by trips to the stables where she’s basically learning how to be a cowboy, which is pretty fucking cool.
(“They’re not cowboy lessons,” Joel grumbles, but his fond tone betrays his amusement. “Never seen anyone so damn thrilled to muck a stall in my life.”)
The practical lessons are where Ellie shines, not that she’s trying to impress anybody. Anybody other than Dina, that is.
And genuinely, Ellie isn’t trying to show off. She doesn’t want to have to explain why she can down a buck with a single arrow at forty yards in the blinding snow, or why she can still build perfect twitch-up snares when her fingers are nearly frosted over (fuck you, lake resort). No one needs to know why bolt-action rifles are her favorite (the kind that Joel first trusted her with to give him cover) or why she can creep over the crunchiest ice or squeakiest wood without making a single sound (because she’d long be fucking clicker lunch if she couldn’t).
Unfortunately, as the days pass and the lessons go on, her experience begins to garner her a little attention. It’s nothing crazy, but Ellie sometimes gets tapped to give demonstrations, and a few of the girls have even told her to her face that her skills are impressive.
Despite generally being a pretty confident person, Ellie isn’t a huge fan of the extra attention.
That being said, when Dina gives her an appreciative whistle after she comes back from a heavily supervised hunting field trip outside the town walls, three fat rabbits slung over her shoulder, she can’t help the pleased little grin that curls her lips.
The only problem is that some of the other, older kids…well, some of the older boys seem to find her aptitude grating. Actually, it’s really just one boy, Luke Shepherd, and his little crony hanger-on Mateo, who doesn’t seem to actually have a real beef with Ellie but gives her the hairy eyeball just ‘cuz Shepherd hates her. Typical.
Ellie knows Shepherd’s type, met dozens of them during her time in the Boston QZ. Cocky little brats with a parent or two with enough ranking in FEDRA for them to not quite matter but to have enough sway to access shit, or more importantly, deny access. The kids who would wield that status like a weapon, ‘if you don’t give me that toy, I’ll tell my mommy who works for FEDRA,’ and so forth.
Ellie doesn’t know the whole story, but apparently Shepherd’s dad was some kind of ranking FEDRA officer in the Arlington QZ in Michigan, and more importantly was a total piece of abusive dogshit. Shepherd’s mom, Margo, secretly worked to transport people out of the QZ and into Firefly camps, using intel from him…and eventually got caught by her husband. Daddy ended up with one between the eyes and Mommy escaped here with Luke and his little sister.
Ellie figures that back in the QZ, Shepherd got used to a pretty high standard of living, had people who kissed his ass and wiped it for him too…so coming out here to Jackson, where respect is earned from helping uplift the community with hard work, was probably a bit of a shock.
And you know what? Ellie doesn’t even necessarily blame him for it, because sometimes she wonders if she would’ve been a little FEDRA brat too, if her parents had been alive and were like his. Having met his mom, though, Ellie can’t help but marvel how far the apple falls from the tree, because Margo is one of the coolest fucking people she’s ever met.
So, whatever. Shepherd is probably jealous of her capability and definitely jealous of how much attention Dina pays to her, whom he has a giant, obvious crush on. Ellie’s also pretty certain Shepherd thinks she’s full of shit because she’s seen him rolling his eyes and scoffing during her hesitant (and extremely scrubbed for details) recollections of hunter and/or Infected encounters. But that’s his business. Frankly, Ellie could not give less of a shit what he thinks about her.
Something that makes it all worth it, though, is that Joel seems to get a real kick out of being told that she’s helping folks put food on their tables and ‘is a delight to have in class.’ At first he doesn’t say anything outright, just gives her those approving glances and nods, but then one evening the Colsons, an elderly couple who live down the street, stop by with some kind of homemade apple crumble thing and a bottle of whiskey.
“Your daughter is a real peach,” Mrs. Colson says as she serves up platefuls of sugary, apple-filled glory around their fireplace. “She overheard me talkin’ about us runnin’ low on firewood ever since my husband’s injury, and offered to split some for us right then and there.”
Ellie’s head swivels around so she can see Joel’s expression at use of the familial title. Joel’s face is quiet, and he pokes at the fire for another moment before his head dips in acknowledgement. “She is,” he agrees, startling Ellie, before he plops down onto the couch next to her with a grunt. Still a little mystified, she hands him his plate and fork.
Mr. Colson nods, taking a bite of crumble before he adds, “I’m on the mend, bless the lord, but gettin’ thrown by a horse only gets harder as you get older, turns out.”
Ellie laughs. “Oh man, let me guess: Biscuit or Jolene?” Both mares were known for being, as Joel would put it, ornery.
“Jolene,” Mr. Colson answers with a heavy sigh, stroking his big white beard. Ellie likes the way it stands out against his dark brown skin, like snow on a mountainside. “You watch out for that one now, she’s meaner’n a two-headed snake.”
“Don’t I know it,” Ellie snorts around a mouthful of apple. “I took too long to pick her hooves the other day and she tried to bite my fricken’ ear off.”
“Well, how slow were you?” Joel says, reaching over to tug on Ellie’s alleged imperiled ear. “Those mares are busy ladies. Maybe you deserved it.”
She swats his hand away, scowling, but there’s zero venom behind it. “Rude,” she mutters, and shovels more apple crumble into her mouth.
“Well, lucky for all of us, I have just the cure for such ailments,” Mr. Colson announces, before he produces a bottle of amber liquid with a worn-looking label from his pack. Ellie can’t clearly see it from where she’s sitting, but she’s pretty sure it says something like old overcoat which doesn’t sound very appetizing.
Joel is already on his feet and heading for the kitchen, handing his plate back to Ellie with hardly two bites taken. That’s just fine, she has a way bigger sweet tooth anyway.
“Neat?” he pauses to ask the other two adults.
“Rocks for me, please,” Mrs. Colson says while Mr. Colson nods.
Less than a minute later, Joel returns with three wide and stumpy glasses, two of which are empty and the last contains a small handful of ice cubes. Mrs. Colson receives hers first, because despite his rougher-hewn abilities, Joel Miller is a gentleman, too.
Ellie is swiping the last dregs of syrupy sugar from her plate (and Joel’s) with a finger when he finally sits back down next to her on the couch, idly swirling the glass of whiskey in his hand.
“Can I try?” she asks, setting their plates down on the floor and tucking her legs up beneath her.
She is absolutely, positively certain the answer will be no and is mostly asking for the hell of it, which is why her jaw drops in complete shock when he says, “Sure,” and offers her the glass.
Hesitantly, Ellie accepts it. Well, now she’s suspicious. Joel Miller, willingly handing over alcohol to a fifteen year old? Is hell freezing over as they speak?
The innocuous expression on his face has her eyes narrowing skeptically. She gives the beverage a cautious sniff, and is met with the familiar burning odor of hard liquor. Nothing too weird, right? Right. Probably.
Another sniff, then the world’s tiniest sip.
Oh, god. Mistake.
“Ugh!” Ellie cringes away from the glass, shoving it back into Joel’s hands. “That’s disgusting! It’s like licking the underside of a tire!”
Joel just shrugs, receiving the tumbler of whiskey with a shrug and a smirk as the Colsons laugh heartily. “Suit yourself,” he says.
Later, after at least three rounds of “well, we really oughta be goin’,” followed by a brief mobilization towards the door and then another fifteen minutes of talking, the Colsons head home with their empty casserole dish and decently-depleted whiskey bottle.
After the last bolt in the door slides into place, Ellie slumps against Joel’s shoulder. “That was nice,” she comments with a jaw-cracking yawn. “I’m glad I could…” another yawn, “Help.”
There’s a beat, and then Joel wraps an arm around her shoulders, tucking her face into the crook of his neck.
“You did good, kiddo,” he says. “Real good.”
Then, the feather-light sensation of a kiss being dropped onto her hair.
Feeling warm and sleepy and safe, Ellie smiles as she leans into him.
“When’s your birthday?”
Ellie glances up at Joel, attention momentarily pulled away from the rifle in her hands. She pauses in her gentle guiding of a bore brush down and back through the barrel and squints at him curiously. “Why? When’s your birthday?”
He snorts, still carefully disassembling his own firearm. “Just answer the damn question, you little shit.” Then says, “That’s probably good. Now run a few patches through the barrel to clean out all that fouling you just loosened.”
She rolls her eyes before carefully removing the bore brush and swapping it out for some patches soaked in solvent. “Then I push these through ‘til they come out clean, then I run one through with oil?”
“That’s right. Then what?”
Ellie hums. “I already cleaned the bolt, so…wipe down the bolt tracks in the action, the magazine, the outside of the barrel…then oil ‘er up and reassemble?”
He nods. “I actually prefer grease for the lugs. Remember, a little goes a long way.”
“Roger dodger,” she salutes, inspecting the patch between her fingers. It’s pretty clean, so one more and she should be good.
Setting the lever and bolt from his own rifle down on the table, Joel sighs and reaches over to tug gently on her ear–a habit since the Colsons visited. “You never answered my question.”
Dammit. She’d been kind of counting on him forgetting in the face of her incredible gun-care skills.
Ellie doesn’t say anything for several long seconds, and neither does he, apparently content to let her stew.
“July eleventh,” she eventually answers, keeping her eyes on her rifle. “Or somewhere around there. FEDRA wasn’t big on birthday cards.”
Joel hmms, but otherwise remains silent, (correctly) assuming there’s a follow-up thought.
“I chose July eleventh because I liked the way seven-eleven sounded,” she continues. “Riley…Riley helped me pick it.”
He waits for another moment in case she has anything more to add, then says, “If my math is right, that woulda been a few weeks before I met you.”
Ellie’s mouth curls into a sardonic smile. “Yup,” she mutters, popping the ‘p.’ She was kinda hoping he’d miss that, and instead would just focus on the fact that she spent her last one in Firefly science-jail and then make sad cow eyes ‘cuz she didn’t say anything. Dang.
“And that means…” Joel sighs as the realization hits. “Oh, kiddo.”
Her fingers flex over the oily rags in her hands. “Yup,” she says again. “Got bit on my stupid fucking birthday.”
Then Ellie turns to him. “Worst part? No cake,” she deadpans. Which is true. Ellie has never had a birthday cake in all her life, including the one where she got bit by a bloodthirsty mushroom zombie and had to shoot the girl she was in love with.
He holds her gaze for another few moments, jaw doing that little tic that it does when he’s thinking hard about something. Then his gaze averts, going distant for a moment before he refocuses on the firearm in front of him.
“Mine is September twenty-sixth,” Joel admits, shoulders tensing as the words leave his mouth.
Ellie blinks at him. “Then—”
Then that means the world ended on your birthday.
That means Sarah died on your birthday.
She manages to refrain from letting either unhelpful observation escape her mouth, and instead just stares at him for a few long moments while he fidgets with the rifle lever.
Completely unsure of what else to say, she opts for honesty and says, “Fuck birthdays, man.”
He glances up at her in mild surprise, before he nods commiseratingly. “Fuck birthdays,” he agrees.
Ellie isn’t exactly certain, but she’s pretty sure it was late August when they rolled up to Jackson a little over a month ago…so Joel’s birthday could be like, tomorrow. Or today. Or even yesterday. Now that she’s thinking about it, there have definitely been mutterings around town about the anniversary of Outbreak Day coming up.
God, what a fucking triple whammie of unpleasantness. Ellie’s heart twinges as she watches Joel continue to work on the rifle, the tic in his jaw and the slightest tremble in his hands the only outward sign of what she knows is a deep and weathered grief.
“Let’s choose new ones,” she suggests impulsively. “Birthdays, I mean.”
Joel is already shaking his head, but since when has Ellie ever been deterred by that?
“C’mon,” she wheedles. “It’ll be nice to have those old days for thinking about other stuff.” Grieving, she does not say, because the word feels heavy and awkward in her mouth, even if it’s true.
When he still doesn’t bite, Ellie begins to reassemble the bolt and continues to make her case. “The new days can be for fun stuff. Like birthday cakes.”
Then, feeling the tiniest shred of guilt, Ellie goes for the jugular and adds, “I’ve never had a birthday cake.”
Even with her gaze fixed on the gun in front of her, she can feel Joel’s attention catch. Is it a little underhanded to capitalize on his currently unexplained, deep and unerring compulsion to give her things he thinks kids should have during childhood? Maybe, but this is for his own good, and he’s the one who brought up birthdays anyway.
“What day were you thinkin?’” he asks, voice just the wrong side of casually interested.
Ellie hums, considering. What’s a good birthday-day? She doesn’t want one in winter because fuck that. Summer is her actual birthday and spring makes her think of being cooped up in a tiny hospital room, which leaves autumn.
“October fourth,” she decides. “Ten-four, like radio-speak for okay.” She makes the associated symbol with her hand to illustrate the point.
That earns a genuinely appreciative nod from Joel. “That’s a good one,” he compliments, then proceeds to reassemble his rifle in about half the time she took.
Ellie grins, sensing an impending victory. “Since I’m feeling generous, we can share,” she declares in a most magnanimous tone. “Ten-four can be your birthday too.”
But Joel shakes his head. “No thank you,” he declines politely. “That’s comin’ up soon I reckon. What d’you want for your birthday?”
An obvious and clumsy attempt at a redirection. Oh Joel, how cute.
“For us to share a new birthday,” she answers immediately. Checkmate.
“Ellie…”
“Joel,” she mocks in a terrible imitation of his voice. “I’m serious, dude. I want us to be birthday buddies.”
Shoulders dropping with the sigh of defeat Ellie saw coming from a mile away, Joel nods. “Alright, alright,” he acquiesces. “We can be birthday buddies.”
The dorky term said with his gravelly voice and southern twang is such a delightful contradiction that Ellie can’t help but laugh.
Then she pauses. “And cake too though. With frosting and shit.”
Joel raises an eyebrow at her. “Shit doesn’t usually go on cake,” he snarks. “But anything for you, darlin.’”
Ellie throws the oily rag at him, grinning like a loon the whole time.
The double birthday happens about a week and a half later.
Ellie and Joel don’t bother with presents for each other—when the fuck would they have found the time to get them—but Ellie tries extra hard to pay attention and participate in school this week, and Joel lets her skip a day to come fishing with him.
Even better, Mrs. Colson bakes them a cake that Ellie eats nearly a quarter of straight from the pan, and Dina comes by with a hug and a kiss on the cheek for Ellie, a sturdy handshake for Joel, and a dozen fresh eggs for the both of them.
Nobody dies, nobody gets bitten, and the world keeps turning. As far as Ellie is concerned, it’s a fucking awesome birthday. If the pleased quirk to Joel’s mouth as he dozes (“For the last time, I am restin’ my eyes.” ) in an adirondack chair on the porch, he thinks so too.
(And no, when she tries to make the case that she’s technically sixteen now and should be allowed on patrols, Joel doesn’t bite. Damn.)
Days pass, routines continue, and bit by bit, the tension drains from Ellie’s shoulders. Like a bowed snake ready to strike, that preparedness to drop everything and run or stab or shoot…it begins to ebb. She keeps her shoes by the door or in her closet, instead of on her feet or at her bedside. The rifle beneath her bed is still loaded, but a round isn’t chambered. Her fingers don’t twitch as hard for a blade at the clatter of a dropped pencil in class, or the crunch of dying grass underfoot.
Slowly, Ellie is beginning to accept that she might be done running for her life. In the grand scheme, anyway.
She sees it in Joel, too. The way he laughs easier, sleeps more soundly. He even starts carving, and soon little wooden animals begin popping up around the house. Hugs, which used to be kind of a special occasion sort of thing, become something of a standard. Not that she would ever admit it out loud, but Ellie’s best days start with a heavy arm dropping around her shoulders, pulling her in for a brief but firm side-hug as Joel pokes sleepily at something in the cast iron on the stove. A groggy Joel is a pliable one, so this is the prime time to make requests or seek information he might otherwise be cagey about.
Like today, for example.
With a wide yawn, Ellie pads up behind Joel on socked feet. She’s tired, but the chill is doing a fine job of chasing away any lingering drowsiness. December in Wyoming is fucking cold.
“G’morning,” she greets, noodling up under his free arm to peer at what’s on the stove. “Whatcha makin’?”
“Mornin’,” Joel greets, tugging her close to drop an absentminded kiss on the crown of her hair. “Just eggs. Want toast?”
“Mm,” Ellie agrees. A side-hug and a head smooch? Joel must be in an extra good mood today, which works perfectly in her favor. Probably that big crate of coffee that Tommy recently found on a supply run and—yup, sure enough, there’s a pot of the rancid stuff bubbling away on the stove.
She slips away to take a look in the fridge, more out of habit than anything else. “Ooh,” she says, spying something on the top shelf. “We’ve still got that big block of cheese that Skip gave to us, can we put some in the eggs?”
“Good idea,” Joel grunts, but it comes out more like gewd idear, ‘cuz his accent is always thicker in the mornings. “I sure hope that man keeps losin’ his heifers, it’s keepin’ our pantry well stocked.”
Ellie laughs, remembering the numerous cows and calves she’s helped locate and rescue over the last few months. They keep escaping because Skip’s fence is terrible and the old man refuses Joel’s offers to fix it. Ellie kinda likes it this way though, because she gets to go cow-wrangling and Skip always pays her back with a bunch of dairy products from his farm.
“And you still say I’m not a cowboy,” Ellie scoffs, grabbing the cheese and a knife so she can slice off a few chunks.
Joel makes a noncommittal noise before briefly tending to his pot of repulsive bean water on the stove and starting the toaster. “You do have a way with animals,” he allows, then asks, “Cheese?”
“Here,” Ellie hands over the chunks before dropping the knife in the sink and snagging them a couple of plates and utensils. She grabs a mug for Joel as well, a dark green one that he seems to favor, and fills it to the brim with coffee. She waits until the food has been plated and Joel has taken at least two big sips of coffee (followed by two appreciative ahhs, which will never not be hilarious) before she strikes.
“So, Christmas is coming up,” she starts, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.
He squints, the early-morning brain fog slowing his mental calculations. “I s’ppose it is,” he agrees, taking another sip of coffee. “Damn, I haven’t thought about Christmas in a long time.”
That faraway look Joel gets when he’s remembering something from the before-times takes over his face, and Ellie waits for it to pass before she says anything else. Memories like that are precious, she knows, and doesn’t want to interrupt.
“I’ve never really done it,” Ellie admits. Then blinks. “Er…had it? Participated? Whatever you do with a holiday.”
Joel nods, listening. He appears receptive, so she continues, “But I’ve read about it, and I’m sure you have experience or whatever. I was thinking…we should get a tree.”
“Sure.”
Ellie inhales, ready to make her case, before realizing with a blink that he’s already agreed. “...oh. Okay, awesome!” she recovers very much not smoothly, excitement tingling in her chest like a warm glow. She gets to have a Christmas tree! For the first time ever!
The expression over his coffee mug is amused. “You’ll have to help me carry it though, these old bones ‘n all.”
Ellie nods. “Yeah, of course,” she agrees, already envisioning what kind of decorations she can cobble together. Joel’s little animal carvings would look so fucking cute on the tree. “We should do presents too!”
“Already got you one,” he announces nonchalantly, sporting a little smirk like the asshole he is.
Ellie gasps, nearly dropping her fork. “You dick,” she accuses gleefully. “You got a head-start! No fair!”
Like, Ellie has a whole list of present ideas already and has already started making moves on acquiring one, but it’s the principle of the thing!
Joel just sips his coffee obnoxiously. “Better get cookin’,” he shrugs.
Almost jittery with excitement, Ellie scarfs down the rest of her breakfast and waits impatiently for Joel to finish his. He cooks most of the time, so she cleans, ‘cuz fair’s fair and also ‘cuz Joel runs a pretty tight ship for someone who doesn't own a single shirt without some kind of construction-related hole or stain on it.
It’s not just the Christmas stuff that’s got her excited, though. Tommy told her yesterday that a horse was found on a supply run, and after being checked by the vet would be introduced to the stables. She’s been busy with school and hasn’t had a chance to go meet it, which means today’s the day!
Joel observes her antsiness with an amused expression for a few moments before he rolls his eyes. “I’ll take care of this, get goin’,” he says, standing from the kitchen table with a grunt and collecting the dirty plateware.
Ellie freezes. She feels bad making him do double morning chores, but…“You sure?”
“Positive. Now git, before the ants in your pants find their way into the pantry.”
Ellie rolls her eyes at the pun but is, of course, actually delighted, and takes off for the front door with a joyful laugh.
“You have patrol today, yeah?” she calls back to the kitchen as she laces up her boots.
Joel grunts in confirmation, and she can hear the splashing of water in the sink. “Just the mornin’ shift though, so I’ll be back ‘round noon if you still want to have lunch with the Colsons.”
“Of course I do! I wouldn’t miss Mister Colson’s hushpuppies for fuckin’ anything,” she says loudly, shrugging on a shearling-lined denim jacket ( yeah, yeah, like Tommy’s, shut up), before popping back into the kitchen for the good-luck hug she always demands when he has patrol. He’s still elbow deep in soapy water so she has to hug his back, but that’s fine.
“Be safe, or I’ll kick your ass,” Ellie commands, squeezing tight.
“Yes ma’am,” Joel grumbles, a smile in his voice. “Now get those muddy boots outta my kitchen and go.”
“Yessir,” she chirps, and trots back the front door, deftly dodging the sudsy bubbles he flicks after her. Ellie’s rifle, which goes with her pretty much everywhere that ain’t home, gets slung over one shoulder. Old habits die hard, even if all she’s going to do is groom a few horses.
“And don’t let those mares bully you,” Joel calls out over his shoulder right as she opens it. “I know Biscuit was givin’ you a hard time last week.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Ellie gripes, popping her head back in the doorway just to stick her tongue out in his general direction. Then without really thinking about it, she gives him a salute and hollers, “Alright I’m heading out! Bye, Dad!” before leaving.
It’s not until Ellie has made it down the porch steps and into the front yard that she realizes what came out of her mouth. Oh, shit. The epiphany makes her stumble a bit but she catches herself before a full face-plant can take place.
“Well, alrighty then,” she mumbles to herself, trying to physically shake off the sudden nervousness like a dog trying to rid its coat of water. “Guess we’re doing that now.”
Ellie's thought about it, sure. Calling him Dad… but only in a theoretical sense. She definitely didn’t plan on dropping it like a bomb as she fuckin’ zipped out the door for the day. Jesus. She just hopes it didn’t upset him.
Well, not much to do about that now. At least lunch will have the Colsons as a buffer if things are weird. And hushpuppies, hushpuppies make everything better.
With that thought, Ellie begins to make her way to the stables. She’ll need to rid herself of the nerves before she gets there, especially if there’s a newcomer. Horses feed off the energy of the person interacting with them. If you’re jumpy, the horse sure as hell will be too.
It’s not a long walk, just under fifteen minutes, but thankfully that’s the perfect amount of time for Ellie to chill the fuck out. The snowfall overnight dusted everything with a soft blanket of white, and the morning sun sparkles on it like millions of tiny gems. It is, as Joel would put it, a damn fine sight.
A less fine sight, however, is Luke Shepherd walking her way. Presumably he’s headed to the smithy, where he’s been learning the trade. For once, his pal Mateo is nowhere to be seen.
Ellie plans on giving him a nice, wide berth when he surprises her with a, “Good morning, Miller,” and a nod as he passes.
What. It might be the most amiable string of words he’s said to her, ever. Ellie can’t help the expression of confused skepticism that crosses her face, lips twisting into an unpleasant frown at the unexpected greeting. If the funny look bothers him, he doesn’t show it.
Finally schooling her face into something more normal, Ellie returns the nod. “Hey, Shepherd,” she says, adjusting her rifle sling a little restlessly.
Their gazes stay connected for a moment before he refocuses on the road in front of him, striding past her without another glance in her direction. She observes him for a moment, considering. Well, that was fucking weird, but maybe this is a sign he’s finally going to be less of a huge asshole to her for no reason, now.
“It’s like Christmas came early,” she mutters under her breath, before turning around to resume her journey to the stables.
Yee fuckin’ haw.
“Good mornin’ Ellie,” Tommy greets her as she pushes her way through the big wooden double-doors. A much more expected salutations. He’s busily breaking up some hay with a pitchfork. “I see you’re wearin’ your Sunday best!”
Ellie snorts as he points back and forth to their near-identical denim jackets. “It’s Monday,” she responds dryly, hanging up her rifle and heading for the feed room. She’s rewarded with a look of dumb shock before her answering smirk gives away the lie.
“You little shit,” Tommy gripes, thwapping the back of her head with a mittened hand as she passes. “Damn near gave me a heart attack. Maria woulda had my hide if I missed my morning patrol again.”
Ellie squints at him as she begins pouring grain into a couple of large buckets. “Didn’t you switch to Sunday patrol?” she asks curiously.
Tommy freezes. “Son of a bitch,” he mutters, before stabbing the fork into a bale and leaving it there. “You’re right. Shit, I’ll need to get someone to cover—”
“Go catch your patrol, I’ll handle the morning feed,” Ellie interrupts, making shooing motions at him. Look at her, paying forward Joel’s chore takeover like some kind of saint. Watch out, Mother Theresa, you have competition.
“Thanks darlin’,” he says, already heading for the exit. “Oh, by the way, the vet cleared that gelding we found the other day. He’s in the double-wide down the hall.”
That sends Ellie’s eyebrows up. “You gave him Dutch’s stall?” she asks, a little incredulously. Dutch, some kind of Draft-Pinto monstrosity, sits at eighteen hands and is generally too large for…well, everything. They had to knock down the dividing wall between two stalls because the poor dude couldn’t turn all the way around in a regular one.
“Just for now,” Tommy answers, grabbing his pack and hat from some hooks by the door. “He’s pretty sensitive, El. The newcomer. When we found him, his rider was still hangin’ off his saddle and…well, he’d been dead for a good long while.”
Ellie winces. Yeah, that’s understandable. Running around in the woods with a decaying corpse on her back for multiple weeks would also probably make Ellie a little sensitive, too. “I’ll be careful,” she promises, before shooing him again and putting on her best southern twang. “Go on now, git!”
“Yes ma’am,” Tommy grins, sounding so much like Joel that Ellie can’t help but smile too, before he vanishes out the stable door.
She stares at it for another second before giving herself a little shake. A hungry horse is a grumpy one, so unless Ellie wants several less-than-friendly nibbles taken out of her rear while she grooms everybody, she’d better get to it.
With that in mind, Ellie sets to the task of dishing out grain and fresh hay, stopping to also dole out smooches and ear-scritches to those amenable to it. She’ll muck after turnout.
Ellie saves the newcomer for last.
She carefully approaches the end of the hall, making enough noise so she’s expected, but not so much to be startling. Then she peers over the door of the stall to get a look at the fellow.
And oof. Ellie winces, taking in the sight of the horse. He’s beautiful, a flaxen chestnut saddlebred with a sweet little Roman nose and white socks…but he’s clearly seen better days. His mane and tail are matted and dirty, there are scars and scabs littered over his body, and she can count his ribs like they’re tallies on a blackboard.
There is also a large, dark stain on his abdomen that reeks of death even from here. Presumably an unfortunate remnant of his last rider. She grimaces, because it’s gross, and also because bathing a horse when they’re agitated like this is not fun.
More than that, though, is the wildness in his eyes. There’s a particular energy to a horse that’s willing to seriously fucking hurt you if you start any funny business, and this dude’s radiating it. So Ellie opts for gently maneuvering the food over the stall door, rather than actually entering the space with him. The gelding snorts, pawing anxiously at the ground with a hoof as she does so.
“Sorry, buddy,” she murmurs, taking one last moment to make sure he’s got enough water before she retreats. Hopefully, a little food will brighten his spirits. He seems okay with being in a stall at least, which is a start. However, as much as Ellie would love to turn him out with everyone, that rot stain on his fur will probably scare away any potential horse-friends. He’ll need a bath first.
And there’s no way she can halter him on her own, so he’s gonna have to wait until Tommy’s back. Dang.
A treat, though, she can manage. Ellie can hear him munching away on the hay, which means he’s got an appetite. Another good sign.
Ellie heads back to the feed room and begins hunting for the jar of horse cookies. She had to start hiding it because they kept getting eaten by people despite being piles of raw oats, carrot, and apple all glued together with molasses. Listen, out on the road, sure, Ellie would’ve eaten them too. No doubt. But people-cookies exist in Jackson. She can have standards now, it’s great.
Squatting with a sigh, Ellie digs through one of the lower cabinets. She’s finding a lot of dust and some mice poop, but that’s about it. Maybe it’s in the tack room?
She’s about to straighten when something suddenly wraps vice-tight around her neck, dragging Ellie off of her feet. Then everything goes dark, because somebody fucking put a bag or some shit over her head and god fucking dammit this is what she gets for going soft. For trusting she could be safe.
No no no no no nononononono!
Choking on a silenced shriek, Ellie throws her head backwards and feels a guttural satisfaction when it connects to something fleshy with a crunch. She thrashes wildly, clawing at the arms around her neck and trying her damndest to get purchase with her teeth, too. There’s a grunt of pain in her ear when she manages to crush the attacker’s instep under her heel, and another when she lands an elbow in their gut.
Ellie seethes, writhing even harder. The strangling pressure around her neck begins to lessen just slightly. Fuck you asshole I’ve —
Crash!
The shattering of ceramic as it impacts flesh. A sharp and aching pain all at once, like cold fire, exploding in the back of Ellie’s skull.
The smell of molasses in her nose.
Then,
darkness.
...
Fuck hunters, man.
Ellie waits a few more moments for the muffled white noise in her ears to clear, but it stubbornly remains. With a twitch she realizes the hunters have not only gagged her mouth with a dirty rag, but stuffed something in her ears to block her hearing.
An interesting choice. Ellie just hopes it’s not something gross, ear infections are such a goddamn pain in the ass.
The gag isn’t actually tied around her in any way, so with some effort, she spits it out. The hunter jerks, apparently surprised when it hits the ground with a damp splat.
Carefully, Ellie adjusts her shoulders with a grunt as if trying to get more comfortable in the strained position. In reality, she’s testing out the strength of her bindings, flexing her wrists against the scratchy rope.
Jesus, they didn’t even actually tie her to the chair. Her wrists are bound and behind the wood of the back, but not fixed to it. Her legs are unbound. What is this, fucking amateur hour?
Ellie lets out a shaky breath as the fear, sluggish to follow the fury and confusion, begins to shiver in her chest. What the fuck does this person—people, probably—want from her? They clearly have no idea what they’re doing, but managed to get the jump on her inside the walls of Jackson, which means they’re either actually pretty smart or…there’s a rat.
The specifics of it are something she’ll worry about later. With a slow inhale through her nose, Ellie lets herself fall into the mindset that kept her alive on the road for so long. It’s like shrugging on an old, worn-out jacket, a feeling of familiarity, if not quite comfort. She’s still fucking terrified, of course—she was scared every minute of that stupid cross-country journey, too—but now lets that fear become fuel for her rage and her spite, lets it anchor her in the moment.
Be quick, be silent, and if the situation calls for it — be brutal.
Scanning the room with new eyes, she clocks three exits; two windows and the door. The shovel in the corner would make a decent bludgeon, and Ellie’s mouth twitches with a sort of sardonic amusement when she spots a pile of bricks. She also spies a four-seater clip of .308s on the workbench right next to where the hunter is leaning against it. It’s a little weird, because he’s armed with an itty-bitty little revolver, but whatever. It’s not useful to Ellie because she doesn’t have a gun, anyway. She wiggles her ankle, and is pleased to feel the answering pressure of her switchblade still tucked into her boot.
Ellie shifts again, and freezes minutely when her hand pokes against something sharp. Keeping her focus trained on the hunter, who literally doesn’t even seem to be breathing they’re so still, she fumbles her fingers around the sharpness. A rusty nail, it seems like, sticking out of the back of this shitty old chair. Fuckin’ bingo.
Cautiously, Ellie begins to rub the bindings against it, feeling the nail catch as she pushes and tugs in tiny, microscopic movements.
“So, what the fuck do you want?” she asks, to both distract the hunter and mask the sounds of her sawing away at the rope.
The hunter twitches again, as if surprised he’s being addressed. There’s a beat, and then he fishes for something in his pocket. Ellie flinches at the way he shuffles the revolver in his grip in order to do so, his fingers getting awfully close to that trigger. Jesus, Joel would chew her head clean off for handling a firearm with that kind of carelessness.
The hunter finds what he was looking for—a scrap of paper—before he cautiously approaches, stopping several paces away and holding out the note for her to read:
WHERE IS JOEL MILLER
The pit of venom that coalesces in Ellie’s chest is so swift and corrosive that it steals her breath. Threatening her is one thing, but threatening Joel? Not that there was much of a question about it, but as far as she’s concerned, that scrap of paper is their death warrant. This asshole must be someone he crossed on the road, then, either during her time or before.
It doesn’t matter though, not really. They’ll be a footnote soon enough.
The shed door slams open behind the hunter, interrupting Ellie’s thoughts, and she jerks in surprise. The abrupt motion snags the rusty nail in her skin, tearing it, but it also shreds the rope the rest of the way, so. Works out just fine. She grips the frayed rope to prevent it from dropping to the floor.
The new addition to the room is another hunter: taller, probably male, and also masked and outfitted in all black.
Ellie’s lip curls in disgust. Already dressed for their own funerals, how fitting.
The newcomer strides in and right up to her, all swagger and bravado. She can tell that he’s the one in charge from the way the other guy steps back, nodding in deference. He also has her rifle slung over his shoulder, though not across his body. A mistake.
He snatches the note from his compatriot so he can shove it in Ellie’s face, tapping the words on it harshly with his other hand before using that one to pat the rifle. A threat, she surmises. Tell us or we’ll shoot you.
“What is this, the silent treatment?” Ellie drawls. “C’mon, don’t be that way, sugar. Tell me your name.” Her voice sounds strange, muffled by whatever is in her ears.
Stalling is going to be her best bet, Ellie knows. The longer she’s gone, the sooner someone will come looking. It’s still daylight and her mouth isn’t gross enough to have been knocked out for a whole night. Soon, she thinks. It’ll be soon.
The tall one tenses, and she can see the smugness in his cold blue eyes begin to war with fury. They look strangely familiar. The shorter one fidgets, shuffling from foot to foot as if nervous. Weird. Tall Hunter shoves the paper in front of her face again, rattling the rifle to try and make his point.
Ellie spits on it.
There’s a beat and then crack! he slaps her across the cheek, sending her head snapping to one side. Short Hunter gasps, and she can hear him take an aborted step towards her. Tall Hunter shoves him back harshly, and Ellie watches as they have some kind of tense, wordless exchange.
This is just getting weirder and weirder.
After another few long seconds, Tall Hunter turns back to her. He pockets the note and walks up to her, close enough that their knees almost brush.
Then he leans in, tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and lets his gloved fingers trail across her face. Another silent message, but loud and clear: killing you is not the worst thing we’ll do.
Suddenly the masked man is gone, and instead a face that still haunts Ellie’s dreams swims in front of her, blood-spattered and a terrible, cruel glint in his eyes. David.
With a shriek she pitches forward, smashing her forehead into his chin. Tall Hunter stumbles back, losing his balance, and Ellie darts up, snatching the blade from her boot with practiced ease to thrust it into the side of his knee. As he falls, yelping in pain, Ellie grabs the rifle sling with both hands and wrenches with all of her might before she kicks the fucker right in the nuts. He lands on his ass with another cry, hands scrabbling at the blade now wedged into his joint.
And oh, ain’t that like a warm hug, the wood and steel heavy in her hands. She shoulders the rifle, easy as breathing, stepping back one pace so she can aim it right at his heart. The pull of the bolt, the striker being cocked, inhale, then push, loading the round and relocking the bolt, exhale. Squeeze the trigger.
Click.
Ellie blinks, dumbfounded. Maybe a dud round? She yanks the bolt again to eject the cartridge but nothing comes. She does it again, still nothing.
The magazine is fucking empty.
What the fuck? This isn’t just amateur hour, this is fucking insane. The hunter at Ellie’s feet is groaning with pain and clutching his leg, so she adjusts her grip on the rifle and slams it down into his eye socket with a crunch. He crumples like a ragdoll and stays there.
One down. She can finish him off later.
Ellie turns her attention to the other hunter, slinging the rifle cross-body and bending briefly to yank her switchblade from the fallen one’s knee. Short Hunter is backing up, both hands raised as if to pacify, the revolver already placed on the ground in front of him. A plea for mercy, she assumes.
Too bad she can’t hear anything.
Their gazes land on the clip on the bench at the same time, and they both lunge for it. Ellie’s smaller, but she’s fast, always has been.
The magazine slides home and she can see the moment the hunter realizes he’s about to lose his life. He drops to his knees, hands in the air. The mask is wet around his eyes. He’s pleading vocally now, but the crap in Ellie’s ears prevents her from hearing anything but unintelligible noises.
She stalks toward him, rifle raised. She’ll kill this one and keep the other one knocked out ‘til help comes, she figures. One of them ought to be interrogated.
Ellie chambers a round, but before she can shoot, he yanks off his mask.
Her jaw drops.
“Mateo?!”
What the actual fuckity fucking fuck is going on?! Ellie kicks the revolver away from Shepherd’s weird little friend before she whirls, striding back over to the unconscious one.
Ellie first yanks the shit out of her ears—just wads of cotton, thank god—and then rips his mask off.
Sure enough, it’s fucking Luke Shepherd.
Furious, confused, and still very much intending to shoot somebody, Ellie kicks him in the gut.
“Wake up, fucker!” she snarls. If these assholes have any intention of harming Joel or this community, that shit ends now.
“Ellie, wait—”
Ellie’s scathing look is enough to silence Mateo, and he shrinks from where he’s hunched over on his knees.
Shepherd groans and Ellie kicks him again, harder this time. He jerks with a cry, apparently conscious now, and Ellie steps back so she can point the muzzle right between his eyes.
Fuck fuck fuck this rancid piece of shit. No one threatens Joel while she breathes, no one.
The rage in Ellie’s chest is so hot and roiling that it nearly chokes her, and her cheek and skull throb with the pounding of her heart. One of his eyes opens—the other is a goopy red mess, thanks to the butt of her rifle—and she readies to blast it right out of his fucking head, interrogation be damned, when the shed door slams open again.
Ellie whips around, intending to shoot, and it is only her absolutely ironclad trigger discipline that prevents her from putting a hole the size of a dinner plate in Joel’s chest.
Immediately, she points the barrel down and away from him, heart skipping several beats as she stares in stunned silence.
Before he can say or do anything, several more people appear, shoving their way into the shed behind him. Tommy, Maria…and Margo.
Nobody moves. It’s as if time is frozen, and so silent you could hear a pin drop. Ellie readjusts the rifle in her grip, palms clammy, and utters, “Dad?”
It’s a plea as much as it is a question, and Joel answers both. He rushes forward, saving her the decision of whether to stay ready to fight or seek shelter in his arms, leaving potential hostiles unattended.
“I’m here, babygirl,” he murmurs, large hands finding hers in order to gently pry the gun from her fingers. Ellie lets him, wincing a little as the strap brushes against the back of her skull when he gently lifts it over her head. Joel clears the chamber and slings the rifle over his own shoulder before crushing her against his chest.
A sob makes its way out of her throat. “What’s going on,” she demands, fists curling in the front of his winter jacket.
Joel doesn’t answer, just squeezes her tight for a moment before leaning back a little to catch her eye. “Are you alright?”
Ellie swallows, mind and heart still racing, but the familiar feeling of being in Joel’s arms is helping a little bit. “Um,” she begins, unsure of how to answer that, because no, she’s really fucking not, but compared to other shit Ellie’s been through…she actually had this one pretty well handled.
A groan from the floor interrupts them. In response, Joel tightens his grip around Ellie and literally lifts her off the ground to move her several paces away. He cups the back of her head, probably intending to guide it back to his shoulder, but she flinches hard. His hand comes back with old blood smeared on it, and his eyes widen.
“It was a prank.”
All heads swivel towards Mateo, who is still kneeling. Fat tears and snot are dripping down his face, and he looks like the most pathetic thing Ellie has ever seen. “It was just supposed to be a prank,” he repeats.
Shepherd, now fully awake, drags himself into a less prone position. “I’m sorry,” he cries, both hands covering his ruined eye. “I just w-wanted to s-scare her, I didn’t mean for it to go this f-far. None of the g-guns were loaded, I promise.”
Ellie watches as Joel looks around, takes in the chair, the rope, the bruise forming on her cheek, the dried blood on the back of her head and her hands…his expression is thunderous before it turns utterly blank, and Ellie knows without a doubt in her heart that unless somebody intervenes, Shepherd and Mateo are about to die.
In a flash Joel draws the revolver on his hip, but before he can do anything else, Tommy darts up to grab him.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Tommy says, gripping Joel’s shooting arm. “Let’s slow down, now. Don’t be rash.”
“Tommy…” Joel growls. It’s a warning, not a plea.
He begins to muscle past his younger brother, and Ellie hears the tell-tale click of a hammer being pulled back, but Margo scrambles to throw herself over Shepherd’s body. Joel freezes at the sight, gun hovering half-raised.
“Please,” she begs, shielding her son with tears in her eyes. “What he did was wrong, but please, please don’t hurt him.”
Ellie swallows. This whole situation is beyond fucked—these two assholes kidnapped her and held her at gunpoint, loaded or not, as a fucking prank —but she’s not about to let Joel have the death of another kid haunt his memory. Besides, Ellie is pretty sure she pulverized Shepherd’s eyeball with her blow. She’s already collected an eye for an eye, literally.
“Joel,” she says, her voice more shaky than she’d like. “ Dad, let’s just go home, okay?”
Ellie takes a step, intending to reach out to him, when suddenly the world goes sideways and her knees buckle. Thankfully, Maria is there to catch her, two small but strong hands clamping down on her shoulders to prevent a broken nose in addition to her tenderized skull.
Joel is back at her side in an instant. “Tell me what’s wrong, kiddo,” he says urgently, his hands replacing Maria’s.
“‘m just dizzy,” Ellie mumbles, feeling a wave of nausea wash over her. Saliva suddenly fills her mouth, and without warning Ellie hunches over and vomits, narrowly missing Joel’s boots but drenching her own.
“Shit,” Maria curses, laying one gentle hand on Ellie’s back and using the other to hold back her hair. “She’s probably concussed. We should get her to the doctor.”
Concussed? Now that doesn’t sound good, Ellie muses. Her vision swims and she spits out a mouthful of bile and saliva. Not good at all.
Without another word, Joel stoops to hook one arm under her knees and another behind her back, lifting Ellie off of her feet with a grunt. The sudden movement makes her stomach turn again and she whimpers, but manages not to hurl. Barely.
“Don’t feel good,” Ellie mumbles, turning to hide her face in the crook of his neck.
“I know, baby, I’m sorry,” Joel murmurs into the crown of her hair. “Let’s get you home.”
Ellie sighs into his collar, and agrees, “Home.”
Nobody dies that day.
It’s probably a miracle, or testament to Tommy’s persuasion abilities, or a sign of how genuinely Joel respects Maria’s word as law, or maybe a constellation of all three. But nobody dies. Nobody even gets their ass whooped, though there are worse fates to be had, Shepherd and Mateo will be learning.
Specifically, permanent outhouse-scrubbing duty for all of the Jackson watchtowers…of which there are many. The two boys also lose all rights to be armed in any way, and are duly informed that Jackson has a two strike policy for shit as egregious as this. Meaning, one more bout of funny business and they both get the boot.
Ellie tries and fails not to feel a little smug at the way the two of them literally flee at the sight of her now. Joel, who promised to refrain from physical harm, did request a one-one-one meeting with them both. She has no idea what words were exchanged there, but clearly they had an impact. Shepherd also does lose his eye, which should probably stir some shred of guilt from Ellie, but the closest thing she can scrounge up is a grim sort of pride, so. Whatever.
The one she does feel bad for is Margo. The poor lady didn’t ask to be stuck with an asshole of a son, and now she has to deal with the town’s distrust as well. It sucks.
What sucks the most though, you ask? Being in fucking concussion jail. Ellie isn’t allowed to ride, shoot, or do anything vaguely resembling fun and it blows.
After several days of whining his ear off, Ellie manages to convince Joel to at least let her go back to feeding and grooming the horses. Joel agrees, but only if she’s supervised by either him or Tommy. Annoying, but tolerable, and definitely better than slowly going bonkers cooped up in her house ‘cuz it’s too goddamn cold to be outside.
The first time Ellie steps foot back in the feed room, Joel on her heels, she freezes.
“Oh,” she utters, gaze catching on the cabinet she’d been digging through when Shepherd attacked her. It’s weird, how something so innocuous can suddenly seem so sinister. It grates on her too, that some fucking jerk took the stables, a place she loved, and made it somewhere she feels unsafe.
Oh, another sucky thing is that Ellie has returned to sleeping with a live firearm under her bed and shoes at the ready, but hey, chance favors the prepared mind, right? Nobody’s getting the jump on her again any time soon, no sir, no how.
(The first few nights after the incident, Ellie slept in Joel’s bed while he sat sentinel in a chair by the door. Not because he thought something would happen—those two little shitsticks got the fear of god put into ‘em—but because he knew it would help her sleep.)
Ellie swallows down her nerves and heads for the grain buckets. “I never did find those cookies,” she mutters, mostly to herself.
Joel clears his throat, leaning against the door frame. “There was a broken jar in here, on the floor,” he says, a little haltingly, like he’s not entirely sure this is something he ought to be sharing. “When we came lookin’ for you. Blood, too.”
Ellie stops mid-scoop. “And horse cookies?” she guesses, apprehension prickling under her skin.
He nods, and Ellie sighs. “Well that’s fucking embarrassing,” she grumbles, stabbing the scoop into the grain barrel a little violently. Then she snorts, followed by an amused huff. Finally, a giggle starts to bubble up, entirely unbidden.
“A fucking cookie jar,” she cackles, suddenly entertained by the whole situation. “He knocked me out with a cookie jar. That’s hilarious.”
Joel crosses his arms, expression troubled. “It wasn’t funny findin’ blood and broken glass in here while you were missin’, I’ll tell you that much.”
Ellie’s shoulders shake with laughter and she has to grab onto the grain barrel in order to not fall over. “No, for sure,” she agrees between giggles. “Goddamn. How lame.”
Then she gives Joel a grin, eyebrows high. “But I guess…that’s just the way the cookie crumbles.”
Despite himself, Joel smirks a little too, before pushing off the doorframe and joining her by the feed storage. “You’re a real hoot. Now are we gonna feed these poor horses or what?” he says, tugging on her ear.
Ellie stops giggling to eye him critically. “We?” she parrots. “Oh, are you offering to help? How sweet!”
Wincing, Joel clucks his tongue disapprovingly. “Walked into that one,” he admits. “Alright, fine. Show me what to do, cowpoke.”
They get their tree four days before Christmas.
A little belated, but Ellie just figures that means it’ll last longer, anyway. She’s still stuck in concussion jail so Joel allows her two swings with the axe—the first and last—and that’s it, and Tommy is the one to help him carry it inside. The scent of fresh pine permeates the house, and Ellie finds herself wishing they could have a tree year-round. It just smells so good!
Banned as she is from doing any heavy-lifting, Ellie commits herself to decoration acquisition and application.
First on the list is a string of lights, which the Colsons charitably donate to the cause of Ellie’s First Christmas. Easy, peasy.
Then come ornaments. She makes some of them during school because Mrs. Brown gives them all some art supplies three days before the holiday and tells them to go to town. One of the suggestions is a wish chain: a paper chain wherein wishes written on the inside of each link. Ellie thinks that’s pretty dorky, but she does have a long and ever-growing list of guns and hunting bows she’d like to shoot one day, so she fills it out with those instead.
Mrs. Brown is a bit mystified by her choice, but Joel thinks it’s funny, so it goes on the tree.
Next, of course, are some of Joel’s carved animals. He’s oddly shy about the whole thing, which only makes Ellie more certain that they must be featured. She chooses a few horses, a chicken, a bear, and for the topper…a goose. It’s a little ridiculous, but that’s what makes it perfect.
Jackson is having another town potluck on Christmas Eve, so Christmas Eve Eve is the last chance for Ellie to round up finishing touches for the tree and much more importantly…pick up Joel’s present. Thankfully, he gets stuck on a double patrol shift and will be gone for a decent chunk of the day. Then she can spend the evening helping Mrs. Colson bake a few batches of that apple crumble for the potluck.
Ellie grins to herself. It’s gonna be a good day.
If Joel notices her antsy excitement during breakfast, he doesn’t say anything about it. He does, however, have some other commentary.
“I was lookin’ at your wish chain the other day,” he says between bites of toast. “A Taurus six-oh-five? Really?”
Ellie shrugs in response, mouth still full of eggs. She’s trying to get better about not talking with her mouth full, per Joel’s request.
“You hate revolvers, and that one’s about as bad as they come,” he continues, shaking his head.
She shrugs again and says, “I figure if I can shoot with the worst gun, then anything else will be easy.” It comes out a bit shakier than she intends.
Because, well…Ellie knows from experience that often you have to make do with what you can find. She won’t always have her rifle, and she needs to be able to defend herself regardless. The recent incident only served to reinforce that notion.
His expression softens. “Fair ‘nuff,” Joel agrees with a small nod.
“Also ‘cuz those little pig-nosed guns are what the detectives use in my comics,” she adds, aiming to lighten the suddenly somber mood. “Why were you looking at my wish chain anyway? Christmas gift inspiration?”
“Snub-nosed,” Joel corrects, almost reflexively. “And naw, I already told you, I got your present a while back.”
Ellie hums, eyeing him suspiciously. “If you say so,” she says slowly, and his mouth quirks into a small, amused smirk.
The rest of their morning routine passes without much fanfare, though Ellie does demand two hugs since he has double patrol. (“You need double the luck, obviously.” “Yes ma’am.”)
Then she’s off to the stables, rifle on her shoulder, switchblade in her boot. A nice big hunting knife, courtesy of Tommy, hangs from her belt now too. Jackson is starting to feel safe again, but Ellie likes to be prepared. Besides, today it will be serving a somewhat unusual purpose.
With Tommy’s help, the morning feed and turnout goes quick. The newcomer gelding—still unnamed as of yet, Ellie’s working on it—turned out to be very popular with the mares after he had a little spa day, and she watches with amusement as they all tussle to be the one to nibble on his shoulders. Biscuit usually wins, and she does today, too.
Ellie observes them for another moment, smiling to herself, before making her way across the pasture towards a large patch of holly bushes on the north end. Clusters of those bright red little berries will look cute as fuck on the tree, and she also promised an armful as part of her payment for Joel’s gift. With that in mind, Ellie uses the serrated side of the hunting knife to saw off some choice branches, bundling them up with twine and throwing them over her shoulder like she would a rabbit.
Next stop is the makers district in Jackson.
“Good morning, Mister García!” she greets, pushing through the doors of the leathercrafter’s workshop.
“Buenos días, Miss Miller!” Mr. García responds from where he’s hunched over a large wooden table, pieces of leather piled around him and interesting tools strewn about. There’s a mean-looking needle in his hand that he passes through a thick sheet of hide with all of the apparent effort of sewing through butter, and his eyes never leave it, despite the jovial greeting.
Ellie trots up to the workbench, heart fluttering in her chest with excitement. “Do you have the goods?” she asks, leaning on the surface with both hands and hopping up and down a little.
Mr. García peers over his half-moon glasses at her, thick mustache twitching in amusement. “Do you?” he counters.
Wordlessly, Ellie hoists the bundle of holly onto an empty spot on the table and pats it.
“Ah, magnífico. My wife will love them,” he murmurs, expression admiring. Then he looks to her expectantly. “And?”
Ellie is already pulling the sheet of paper out of her pocket, and smoothes it a little before handing it over. “I’m sorry that this is all I can do for now,” she says, a bit embarrassed. “Joel still won’t let me go hunting, because of the ol’ noodle. ” She points to her head and grimaces.
Mr. García picks up the paper, takes one look, and begins to laugh quite heartily. “No te preocupes,” he waves a hand with astonishingly knobby knuckles. “I trust you to make good on your word.”
“First elk I bag is all yours,” she vows. “And three rabbits, right?”
He nods, and then pushes off of his stool with a grunt before turning to his wall of tools. “I’ll keep it here, so you don’t forget,” Mr. García tells her, and pins it to the wall with a big leather needle.
The piece of paper, which only sports a crudely drawn elk, three bunnies, and the letters “I.O.U.” followed by her signature, stares back at her. Stuck there for all of Jackson to see.
Ellie sighs. This is what she gets for trying to be funny. Mr. García chuckles, entertained by her mild embarrassment.
“Yeah, yeah, hush up,” she gripes, borrowing a phrase from Joel. “So do you have the goods, or what?”
“I finished it yesterday.” Mr. García bends low to pull something out from under the workbench. A box, which he places on the table before popping it open.
Ellie’s jaw drops. “It’s beautiful,” she breathes, leaning close to get a better look. “Mr. García, this is incredible. It’s perfect.”
He closes it back up and reaches for a roll of dark green ribbon to begin tying the box shut. “I’m very glad you think so.”
The Christmas Eve potluck is fucking fantastic. Ellie once again eats herself into a food coma, but not before Dina pulls her aside behind a large, decorative pine and holds a sprig of mistletoe over their heads. Holy shit.
When Ellie walks back to the table, she’s so bright red and wobbly that Joel is convinced she hit her head again.
Ellie waves off his concern, but can’t seem to get her legs to cooperate when it comes to swinging them over the bench. Fucking christ, she’s less coordinated than a newborn foal. Maria helps her into her seat, an expression so completely smug and knowing on her face that Ellie flushes all over again.
Tommy whistles. “Look at you, sweeter on her than stolen honey,” he teases, reaching across the table to pat her head.
Joel, sitting next to her and yet somehow managing to hover concernedly at the same time, freezes. “Sweet on who?” he asks, straightening up like a curious groundhog to scope out people nearby.
“Oh my god,” Ellie groans, mortification making her scalp prickle. She drops her face into her palms. “Please, no.”
Joel sits back down, raising his hands placatingly. “You…you don’t have to tell me,” he says. “I trust your judgment.”
Ellie blinks, caught by the honesty in his voice. She turns to look at Joel, and finds him staring at his plate, elbows resting on the table. He’s almost leaning away from her, as if trying to make sure she doesn’t feel crowded.
At once, Ellie is struck by the almost baffling complexity of the man in front of her. This person has beaten men to death with his bare fists, and right now he’s trying so hard to make sure a fifteen year old doesn’t feel uncomfortable about her crush that he’s practically ready to take off running.
The rush of affection Ellie feels nearly knocks her back out of her seat. How tremendously, absurdly lucky she is, to have Joel in her life. To have someone who cares so deeply, who loves so ferociously.
In order to hide the tears suddenly gathering in her eyes, Ellie lunges forward, burying her face in his shoulder.
She feels Joel twitch in surprise but only presses closer, grabbing his arm and hugging it to her chest.
“I’ll tell you everything later,” she promises into his shirt, shifting back a fraction to meet Joel’s now very concerned gaze.
He seems confused, the contradiction of her wet eyes and the positively effervescent smile on her face probably sending some very mixed signals.
“You alright?” Joel asks in a low voice.
“I’m good,” Ellie says, squeezing his arm. “I’m just really, really happy.”
His gaze holds hers for a moment, searching, before he nods. Then he smirks and reaches up with his free hand to tug on her ear, dispelling some of the tension between them.
“Nice to meet you, really happy,” he murmurs. “I’m Joel.”
Ellie doesn’t get a Christmas morning.
Not for any nefarious reasons; she just sleeps past noon, having worn herself out so thoroughly the night before. Joel, apparently, does the same. She knows this because she wakes curled up with her head on his lap, wrapped in an old quilt on their couch. He’s got his feet kicked up on the coffee table, burly arms crossed over his chest as he sleeps.
Ellie blinks, clarity of mind slow to come as she tries to remember how they got here. She glances at the TV screen and sees the fuzzy black and white screen indicating the end of a VHS tape, and yup, that’s right—Joel had presented her with a tape of This is Spinal Tap as an early present last night and they put it on.
And evidently, neither of them are capable of finishing a movie, because she doesn’t remember the end of it but definitely remembers hearing his snores last night before she also fell asleep.
Ellie shifts a little so she can look up at him. From this angle, she’s basically just staring up into his nostrils, which makes her huff out a quiet giggle. The noise causes a twitch of his mustache and a garbled snore, which only makes her laugh harder, but she does her best to muffle it with the quilt.
Carefully, oh so carefully, Ellie extracts herself from his lap and the couch, moving slowly and silently like she has so many times before (though usually for much more dire reasons). Joel twitches again, seems to nearly wake, but ultimately resettles.
As stealthily as she can manage, Ellie sneaks into the kitchen, immediately heading for the fridge. Thankfully, it’s oriented to Joel’s right, which means his damaged hearing will work in her favor for once. With all of the caution of someone disarming a bomb, Ellie extracts the jar of precious coffee grounds from the fridge and the aluminum moka pot from the cabinet.
(Or as Ellie mentally refers to it: Joel’s Boiling Bean Fountain.)
She packs the little funnel with grounds carefully, occasionally glancing over her shoulder to check if Joel is still asleep. Sure enough, he remains conked out, despite her puttering around the kitchen. He must be really tired, she muses.
Once the coffee is on, Ellie starts the process of cobbling together some kind of eggy-bacony-left-over-potatoey breakfast hash. Something filling with protein. Today might be Christmas, but she’s pretty sure they’ll both end up doing some kind of work anyway. Staying busy is important for both of them, she knows. Keeps ‘em from gettin’ squirrely as Tommy would say.
Ellie also adds a bunch of cheese and butter ‘cuz she’s still trying to put meat on Joel’s old bones. It also may function as a flavor buffer for the charred bits. She’s still working on her chef skills, alright?
Just as she thought it would, the smell of coffee summons Joel from the realm of snooze, and he comes tromping sleepily into the kitchen a few minutes later.
“Mornin’,” he greets in a low rumble, before zeroing in on the pot on the stove. “You made coffee?”
Ellie glances at him, utterly amused and terribly endeared by the sleepy awe in his voice, like she’d performed a miracle instead of heating up grounds and water in a tin pot. He goes to it as if magnetized.
“Sure did,” she answers as he fixes himself a mug. “We serve nothing but the best twenty-year-old bean juice here at Ellie’s Diner.”
“That so?” Joel chuckles into his coffee, leaning against the counter and already appearing much more awake.
“Yessir,” Ellie quips, before shoving him towards the kitchen table. Once he’s seated, she pulls out an imaginary notepad and asks, “May I take your order?”
“Well, what d’you got?”
“Our special today is Ellie’s Eggslop Supreme,” she points to the pan on the stove. “Or a tall plate of nothin’.”
Joel nods, brow pinched as if deep in thought. “I’ll have the slop, then. Thanks.”
Ellie scribbles on her imaginary notepad before pocketing it. “Yessir, just one moment.”
Ten minutes later, when they’ve both cleaned their plates of slop (which actually turned out pretty damn good, so Ellie’s patting herself on the back), Joel stands with a grunt and utters the magic word:
“Presents?”
Ellie is on her feet and off like a shot, and she can hear Joel’s chuckles behind her as he follows from the kitchen to the tree. Hell fucking yeah it’s time for presents!
The tree, which looks goofy and beautiful and perfect with its wish chain, holly berries, and carved animal ornaments, stands sentinel over two lone presents. To someone else the sight might look lonely or sad, but to Ellie, it’s the best fucking thing in the whole goddamn world.
She snatches up the box tied with the tasteful green ribbon and shoves it into Joel’s arms as soon as he’s within arm’s reach.
“You first,” she commands, and just about throws herself onto the couch in order to watch.
“Yes ma’am,” he sits down next to her with a grunt, already pulling the ribbon free. Then he opens the box and freezes.
“Jesus, Ellie this is…” Joel trails off, lifting the hand-crafted leather toolbelt out of the box. “This is…this is somethin’ else.”
Ellie grins, the warm, tingly glow in her chest thrumming with the beat of her heart. “You like it?”
Joel can’t seem to take his eyes off the belt, mouth hanging open in shock. “Like it? Kiddo, this is incredible,” he says, almost to himself, before his attention catches on the small name branded onto the belt. “Tomás made this?”
“Mister García? Yeah, he did. He’s awesome,” she says. And he really is. The gift is pretty simple, just a leather belt with a couple of detachable pouches, but it’s sturdy and beautifully made, the leather supple and shiny. “You can add more pouches ‘n stuff too, or a sheath for your hunting knife. I didn’t know what you’d want.”
(And also she also didn’t really want to owe Mr. García two elks, regardless of how awesome he is.)
He carefully places the belt back in the box. “How did you—”
But Ellie is already waving her hand dismissively. “Promised him some game, don’t worry about it.”
Joel shakes his head, but his expression is fond. “Industrious little shit,” he mutters, reaching over to tug on her ear. “Thank you, Kiddo. This is real special.”
She grins at him, happiness and pride warming her from head to toe. “Now me?” she asks, hopeful gaze cutting to the remaining box under the tree.
“Now you,” he agrees. “Hop to it.”
With a gleeful squeak that Ellie will forever deny making, she hops off the couch and knee-walks over to the tree. Based on the expectant, pleased smirk on Joel’s face, this is gonna be good.
The box is wrapped in brown butcher paper and tied off with twine, and feels relatively light in Ellie’s arms. She gives it a little shake just to see the exasperated expression on Joel’s face.
Then Ellie opens the box and her jaw drops.
“Holy shit,” Ellie breathes, stunned nearly speechless.
Waiting for her in the box is a classic cowboy hat.
A gorgeous, real, actual fucking cowboy hat. Dark brown fur felt with that classic cattleman crease. The thin matching hatband has a tiny little shiny buckle on it.
“Holy fucking shit.” Ellie can’t stop staring, can’t even bring herself to touch it, trembling fingers hovering an inch away.
“Go on, try it on,” Joel encourages, a smile obvious in his voice.
Slowly, carefully, Ellie lifts the hat out of the box. The felt is so soft and smooth under her fingers, it feels like butter. It looks brand fucking new. How?!
Gripping the crease of the hat with the kind of reverence one might afford a crown of solid gold, she gently places it on her head.
It fits perfectly.
She turns to look at Joel, fat, happy tears gathering in her eyes, and repeats that thought out loud: “It fits perfectly.”
Joel chuckles, and is that a little wetness in his eye, too?
“I’d hope so, since it was made for you,” he informs her, taking a sip of his coffee.
Ellie’s jaw drops again, her fingers running almost compulsively over the smooth felt of the brim. “Really?!” she gasps. “Wait, what the fuck? How? Did you measure my head when I wasn’t looking? Who made it?”
Joel quirks a brow, waiting for the rapid fire questions to finish before he bothers to respond. “I have my ways. And there’s a lady in the makers district, I’ll introduce you.”
Ellie just breathes for a second before she carefully removes the hat, placing it back in the box, and then she flings her entire body at Joel.
Luckily his mug is empty, so when it goes flying, there’s not an accompanying spray of coffee. He catches Ellie with an oof, wrapping two strong arms around her and holding tight.
“Thank you thank you thank you,” she chants, arms thrown around his neck and squeezing hard enough to strangle a lesser man. “Dad, this is amazing.”
“You’re welcome, kiddo,” Joel murmurs into the crown of her hair. “Now, that’s a workin’ hat, you know. I better not see it sittin’ pretty on a hook all day while you’re out there wranglin’ horses.”
Ellie sits back a fraction so she can see his face. “Are you kidding? I’m gonna fucking live in that thing. I’m gonna wear it everywhere. I’m never taking it off, not even to sleep.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, now…”
Ellie just grins, feeling impossibly light and yet so grounded, so right at home where she is, that she can hardly bear it. She burrows her face into Joel’s neck, partially to be close and partially to wipe her snotty nose on his collar.
“Okay, I’m gonna say something super fucking cheesy and lame and if you make fun of me I’ll bite you,” Ellie warns into his shoulder, fingers curling in the soft fabric of his shirt.
“I would never.”
She snorts. “You would, but whatever.”
Then Ellie takes a steadying breath and says, “I’ve never had a Christmas before, but I’m pretty sure this is the best one ever, and it’s ‘cuz of you. So, y’know, thank you. Or whatever.”
Not the most eloquent of sentiments, but Joel cups the back of her head and holds her even more tightly, so she probably got the intended message across.
“Oh, kiddo,” he rumbles. “I should be thankin’ you.”
They stay like that for several long moments, just holding one another. The midday winter sun streams through the window, washing everything in a warm and pleasant light, and Ellie knows that this is home.
…
“You know, you never did tell me who it was that you’re sweet on.”
“Dad.”
-fin-