Chapter Text
The landscape was like a blank piece of paper, imbued with cold sparkle, the snowdrifts like razor-sharp folds. It made a satisfying crunch under the horses' hooves as they picked their way across the frozen hills.
Joel's usual horse was stabled until further notice after throwing a shoe and cutting the underside of his hoof. It was only a small injury but with treatment scarce and allocated to humans first and animals second, he'd had to choose another mount for this run. He'd taken Tommy's usual; a beautiful chestnut Appaloosa named Ruby. These days with one child underfoot and another on the way, Tommy stayed inside the walls of Jackson more and more. Joel could tell he missed patrol, but couldn't fault his thinking. They still made time to take potshots at infected together from the spotters towers, tumblers of whiskey accompanying them.
When Tommy had finally taken himself off the roster, he'd asked Joel who he wanted to be paired with. Joel made it clear he had no patience to tolerate inexperienced patrollers, requesting someone who could ride long days, shoot infected without hesitation, and didn't talk his ear off. Someone who could do the job efficiently and would defer to him as the more seasoned of the pair, following directions when he gave them.
So, Tommy paired him with you.
You'd found out one morning as you arrived at the stables before dawn. Joel was talking softly to his horse as he adjusted the cheek strap of the bridle, his weathered knuckles brushing the animal's velvety nose. One of the grooms was bringing down your saddle to begin tacking up your steed. Joel had greeted you with a nod, handing you a packet of sandwiches.
“Lunch,” he’d grunted, swinging into the saddle. He’d touched the horse under the belly with his heel, and went to wait at the stable entrance for you.
Joel had been pleased that first morning to discover that you were his partner. He'd seen you on group patrols - your hand and body steady when shooting from horseback, no complaints when sleeping on hard floorboards or harder ground. He remembered you reacting with calm indifference when a rattler had slithered its way to curl near your pack on a sweltering summer's day. The snake had attempted to strike, but you were quicker, your boot pinning it down at the back of the neck before your knife impaled its squirming body. You joined in with the occasional joke around a campfire, and always had a battered paperback or two from Eugene's collection stuffed into your saddlebag. He thought the reading made you smarter than the other patrollers. He was pleased that Tommy had listened to him.
The two of you had done paired patrols for months now. Unsure of what to make of the initial decision, your instinct to let him take the lead flourished into a dependable team. You usually left at sunrise, meandering through your chosen route for the run. Talk was minimal; the only sound was the dull thud of hooves on terrain and the wind in the trees. You stopped at wooden hunting blinds built at strategic choke points all along the looping, criss–crossing trailheads, enabling easy pickings of infected. You would huddle side by side in them, exchanging a pair of binoculars with a cracked lens back and forth. The blinds worked best in summer, favouring the stalkers that blundered towards them, yapping at their buddies to join in. In winter, the cool air chilled their feverish blood, and they moved slower. At least, that was the prevailing theory. You could sit in a blind for hours and see nothing. It then became about intensive tracking, luring stragglers out of hiding to take them down. Everyone knew infected didn't breed, but they sure as hell multiplied somehow during the seasons. Any you could take out in the colder months meant less crawling all over the place in the warmer ones.
After the dispatching of infected, you would hole up for a night in a remote house along the route. It was clean and well stocked, with a large attached garage to put the horses in. Other patrol groups stopped here and left their own little touches. The library shelves were always rotated, and Joel had stashed one of his homemade guitars in a hall closet. Food was cooked over the fireplace inside, or in the fire pit out the back in summer. You and Joel would trade small talk - usually about Tommy's kids, a bit of town gossip. Favourite meals at the mess and war stories about prior patrols. Joel talked mostly about Ellie. You knew that a rift had developed between them. He didn't share why, but it hurt him. He's always been stoic; slow to warm up, but you liked to think you knew him a little better than most. These days, his shoulders were a little more stooped, his eyes a little more sad, his unctuous Texas accent a little more wistful. But he still talked about her with love and pride, even if the words sometimes hooked at the back of his throat and struggled to break free.
He needed to. He would never admit it, but if he couldn't talk to her, he'd talk to someone who would listen about her.
After dinner, Joel would spend the rest of the evening plucking at the six-string, while you read a book. At first, he played outside so as not to disturb you. On your third patrol, you stopped him.
“Play it in here, Joel. It's nice. I don't mind.”
After that, his playing underscored whatever book you were reading. You almost wondered if he snuck a peek at the back blurb before you got started. Despite saying he wasn't a big reader, he always seemed to play something that matched the cadence and rhythm of the story. Thumbing through a tattered copy of Wilbur Smith's River God one night, Joel's picking was reminiscent of drifting down a lazy river, and you imagined yourself on a sun-drenched barge making its way down the Nile. The cold nipping at your toes in the draughty house was easily forgotten with a book and a soft soundtrack.
Occasionally, you'd catch him looking at you. If your eyes drifted above the pages, his burnt-honey eyes would flick back at his fingers, tuning your presence out to concentrate on his playing.
Eventually, you rolled your sleeping bags out in front of the fire - with no electricity, the living room was the only warm place in the house. Joel always made you take the couch. You would fall asleep to his rumbling snores, and occasionally wake to him muttering to the ghosts in his dreams.
When patrol was finished and you returned to Jackson, you would part ways. You lived in one of a set of attached terrace houses at the back of the gated community, whereas Joel had a large house on Rancher Street not far from the cemetery and horticulture area. You would see each other in the mess, or bump into Ellie in the greenhouses where you moonlighted while not on horseback. She always asked you what you were reading, and chattered about her comic books. She read some of your recommendations, and you had an impromptu book club while sorting and packing produce. Whatever was going on between her and Joel, she didn't let it interfere with being friendly to you.
It’s been a cold, clear night, no wind or snow. A noise wakes you. Straining your ears, you hear it again. A scrabbling, like claws against metal. A bark, hyena-like. Almost a giggle.
You slide off the couch, grabbing your boots off the floor with one hand and shaking Joel's shoulder with the other.
“Joel. Wake up.”
He sits up quickly, rubbing his eyes, his hair tangled in coarse strands.
“What? M’up.”
“Listen.”
The word is barely out of your mouth before you hear the horses shriek from the garage.
“Fuck,” Joel swears, rushing to his feet and snatching up the rifle from the floor. “The horses.” He runs barefoot across the front room to the internal door, you at his heels. He yanks the door open to find two stalkers taking down your horse, a third stuck in the small broken skylight in the roof.
He swings the rifle around and blasts the one struggling in the roof. The blood and chunks of flesh mist down onto the carnage below. The corpse twitches and stills, hanging half in, half out of the small opening. Furiously, you charge towards your horse and the two stalkers sinking tooth and claw into the animal’s glossy hide.
“No!” Joel shouts. Ruby is cowering at the back of the garage, all rolling white eyes and distressed squeals. He sees you slide your knife into the first stalker. The second, scenting fresh human meat, loses interest in your horse, clawed hands locking onto your arm. Its fingers rake down your bulky sweater, ripping the fabric. Its bloody, fang-filled mouth makes a go at your neck.
Joel reaches you, the butt of his rifle cracking into the skull of the stalker grabbing your arm. A second blow and it lets you go, backing up enough for Joel to point the rifle at its head. He shoots it clean through the right eye and it drops in a heap next to the first.
“Goddamn it,” Joel says, dropping the rifle onto the concrete floor with a clatter. “Snowdrift must’ve been high enough for them to climb to the roof.”
Your ears are ringing from the gun blasts in the confined space. You look at your sleeve, covered in blood.
“Shit. Shit! Is that my blood or theirs?” You start pulling the sweater over your head.
“Wait…”
“Joel, is it mine or theirs?” you shout, tugging the sweater away.
“Easy, easy! I’ll check you. But first, I-”
He's pointing down at the horse. Your horse. Arrow. His sides are heaving, pink froth on his lips and in his nose. The stalkers managed to rip open his belly. The air is acrid with the smell of his stomach contents, and blood.
So much blood.
You kneel down, a small cry lodged in your throat. You run your fingers down the bridge of his nose, and he snuffles.
“Go inside,” Joel says quietly. “I'll do it.“
“No,” you choke out. You pick up the rifle at Joel's feet. He backs up, giving you room, as you press the muzzle to Arrow’s head, just between his ears.
You pull the trigger.
Joel's checking for teeth marks back inside.
“Shirt up,” he says, and you lift the hem. Modesty dies a quick death when you start doing paired patrol. Checking for bites is mandatory if you get too close. He does a quick inspection, eyes not lingering on the small soft round of your belly, the curve of your breast under your bra.
“You're clean,” he says gruffly. You yank the clothes back in place.
“You're usually smarter than that,” he throws over his shoulder as he straightens the sleeping bag on the floor. You sit heavily on the couch, rubbing the back of your neck.
“Wake me in the morning to move Arrow,” you sigh, stretching out on the couch, kicking your feet into your own sleeping bag.
“I can-”
“Joel,” you interrupt, more spit in your voice than you intend.
“Okay,” he says softly, holding up his hands. He rolls onto his side, lying on his bad ear. You listen for the sound of his snores.
They're a long time coming.
He stirs a few hours before sunrise, his bleary eyes noting the bunched sleeping bag on the couch, you missing from it. He wriggles around in his own, craning his neck to find you standing in front of the large windows in the front of the room.
He quickly unzips the bag, his knees and hips protesting as he scrambles to his feet. He makes it to the window.
“More of them?” You shake your head, eyes on the white landscape ahead.
“No. Couldn't sleep.” You press a finger against the cold glass, tracing the spider web of frost on the other side. Behind you, Joel shuffles and clears his throat.
“We've lost horses before. Patrol, I mean.”
“I know.”
“Ruby will get us back tomorrow.”
“I know, Joel.”
He shuffles again, a hand reaching awkwardly to touch your shoulder.
“You should sleep-”
You lift your hand to cover his, turning so that it loops around your neck and draws you close. He's warm, a contrast to the cold window. The moonlight highlights the deep planes of his face, his eyes inky black. Up close, you can peer into the sadness he carries, a rock tied around his waist. It sucks the air from your lungs.
Your skin itches and burns, feeling cracked and dry. A feeling of something burrowing at the base of your spine, gnawing angrily. You want to run out and throw yourself into the snow, as if the cold powder can quell the gnashing under your skin.
Fuck. You almost got yourself killed. You almost got Joel killed. You acted impulsively over a fucking horse. You scared him. You disappointed him. It's all there, swirling in his eyes.
Those eyes drop and focus on the hollow of your throat. You see the dart of his tongue on his plush bottom lip. You ease your hands over his hips. The fingers on your shoulder begin to knead the muscle and bone underneath.
Joel is surprised, though he realises he probably shouldn't be.
Tommy had even talked about it. Something about adrenaline, the threat of danger, feeling fear, all that stuff. When he was furloughed in Germany during the Gulf War, Tommy would screw any woman with a heartbeat. The adrenaline cascade he felt being under enemy fire would dissipate, replaced by a twitchy feeling like bugs under his skin that he couldn't shake. He’d chase some bit of Bavarian tail back to her apartment, fuck her until she could barely walk, then sleep off the beer and cigarettes hangover in his Army-sponsored accommodation, ready for the next night. He did the same in the Boston QZ too. Blow shit up, then head straight down to the speak-easy - dubbed Antidote by those that frequented it - and find some little thing to blow off some steam.
Your hands are on his belt, pulling the cracked leather strip from the tarnished buckle. You fumble it at first, but become emboldened as he doesn't pull away.
He knows he should stop this. You're young - half his age - and his patrol partner. It's not right. He’s angry and sad, the feeling a thick sludge he carries around in his gut. It punishes him. It threatens to punish you.
Your hands, cold from the window, are under his shirt now, pulling at the button on the top of his jeans. His hand is still at your shoulder, squeezing, his eyes slipping shut with a groan as your fingers stroke the soft hair peppering his stomach. His eyes dart under the lids. You’re gripping the zip now. The sound of the metal teeth giving way is loud inside the quiet house.
The quiet snow-covered world.
He feels the crushing grief in his belly being replaced by something else, as your fingers slip under the worn elastic of his briefs.
Fire.
Fuck it.
His hands grab for your shirt, interrupting your slower seduction. He yanks it over your head, fingers grabbing at and successfully unclasping your bra. He turns you, pressing your bare chest against the freezing window. The cold bites into your nipples and your breath hisses between your teeth. His hands pull at your jeans, rolling them down your hips.
Your hands and forehead are pressed against the cold glass, breath hitching in your chest, heart hammering. He’s silent behind you. You feel his calloused hand squeeze your hip. You feel his other hand dive between your legs, fingers prodding at your soaked cunt. He huffs a breath behind you and withdraws, and you hear the sound of him running his slicked hand down his cock.
You hop ungracefully, kicking at the jeans pooled around your feet until you successfully free yourself. You stand wider, leaning your forearms against the glass. You feel Joel’s arm snake around your waist, the tip of his cock prodding at your swollen sex.
He sinks inside, inch by agonising inch, until he’s buried to the hilt in you. His forehead rests between your shoulder blades, and you hear a breathy "fuck" bloom against your skin. He stands there for a moment, sheathed within you, arm holding your hips against his.
You feel so full.
He drags back and snaps his hips forward, forcefully, holding you steady. He leans into the curve of your back, chest blanketing you. He’s hot, and the glass is cold, and your head spins as you feel him settle into the rhythm. Hips slapping against yours, he cups a hand around your breast, teeth sinking into the flesh at the juncture between your neck and shoulder.
The slick, hot fist of your cunt squeezes him, pulling him impossibly deeper as he thrusts. He rolls and pinches your nipple in his fingers and you can’t hold in the moan that claws itself from your chest. The arm slung across your belly moves, and his hand is pushing down where he’s sheathed in you. The change in angle has him hitting something inside you, and your knees start to shake. Your fingers curl against the glass in front of you. You lift your forehead and spot your reflection. Your cheeks are flushed, dewy with sweat, your breath panting in rhythm to his thrusts. Joel slams harder, faster into you, and you feel your orgasm unfurl. You watch as your face contorts in the window, your insides melting, shuddering on Joel's cock as he holds you steady, his thick, rough fingers digging into the meat of your waist.
”Fuck,” he groans against your skin, hips stuttering. He tries to pull out, but it’s too much - the drag of his cock against your slick walls, he’s too far seated when he feels his balls tighten, the lick of fire up his spine, and he empties into you. His breath fans against your back, and you feel his arms cross over your chest, holding you to him. He thrusts again weakly, and you feel his spend trickle onto the inside of your thigh.
He sways against you, his damp cheek, rough with his coarse beard resting against your back. You can feel his heart thumping through his shirt, matching your own. He tugs you from the bent position against the window to a straighter one, his softening cock slipping out.
You snatch your shirt up from the floor, bunching it in your hand and pressing it between your legs. Joel is tucking himself back into his jeans.
“I’m sorry,” he says, gesturing weakly. “I should’ve-”
“It’s okay,” you reply. “I didn’t stop you.”
“At least let me get a towel or something…”
“It’s fine, Joel,” you say, grabbing your jeans from the floor. “I have another shirt in my pack.” You walk to the couch, lifting your backpack and make for the downstairs bathroom, closing the door behind you. There's no running water to wash up, so you clean yourself as best you can before slipping the fresh shirt on. You tug your panties and jeans over your hips. Bracing your hands against the sink, you take a few deep breaths.
Joel’s in his sleeping bag when you come back out, hands folded over his middle, eyes focused on the dark ceiling above him. His eyes flick towards you as you carefully smooth out your own sleeping bag on the couch before wriggling into it. You pull the quilted material to your chin, burrowing into the threadbare cushion under your head.
You don’t exchange any more words, but once again, you wait to hear Joel’s snores. You fall asleep before you do.
The next morning, after dragging Arrow’s body away from the house and up into a small thicket, Joel pulls you up onto Ruby's back behind him and sets off for Jackson. It’s slower going - with two on her back, Ruby couldn't be pushed as fast as usual. She plods in the deep snow, and when you stop to rest, she seems listless, aware that she is now responsible for the both of you.
The wedge of silence between you and Joel grows. You didn't really have anything to say. It wasn't a mistake, just a moment in time that’s passed. What was there to talk about? Best it was left there, back at the house. A little slip. It didn't mean anything, you tell yourself, as you shift on Ruby's hard rump. You didn't want it to. You feel the burn between your legs, where Joel had been just a few hours ago.
For Joel's part, he was preoccupied with being back in Jackson. He'd always had a hard time lying to Tommy. Lies fell off his tongue easily, but not with Tommy. He'd figure it out. It played on Joel's mind. More potential complications. As if things weren't bad enough already. The only mercy was that with Ellie not speaking to him, he didn't have to try lying to her again. He'd done enough of that already.
He curses his selfishness. His weakness. He let his fractious relationship with Ellie lead him to do something stupid. Patrol was work. He couldn't be dropping his guard like that. It was dangerous.
You were both deep in your own heads when the high gates and walls of Jackson slid into view. Joel pulls the red bandana from his throat and holds it aloft. You see the glint of sunshine on glass from the spotter's tower, the scope of a rifle bearing down on you. There was a shout, and the gates began to grind open.
You drop down from Ruby's back, booted feet kicking up snow. Joel turns in the saddle.
“I'll walk from here,” you say, hefting your pack and striding for the gate. He watches you walk away, before kicking Ruby into a trot, following you.