There are kids Ellie's age in Jackson. Not that they're really kids, since they've all grown up in the same world-gone-to-shit, but most of them haven't been through everything Ellie's been through yet. She gets taught how to laugh again, how to lose herself in the small things again (like finding fireflies, real fireflies, the kind that light up the dark with more than words or false promises).
One of the other kids calls them lightning bugs and that sticks with her, weasels into her skull like the cordyceps and from then on that's what she calls them. She leaves the fireflies behind her.
She calls him Lightning Bug, too, but she doesn't realise the significance of that until they're both a little older.
The first time Joel meets him, she's got him pressed up against a wall in an alley, and his hand's up her shirt, and she's all breathless gasps as her fingers fumble with the buckle of his belt. She knows how this goes even if she's never done it before, and yeah, sure, an alley isn't the most romantic venue but it's not like she was gonna let him fuck her right there, Joel—
That's the first and last time Joel slaps her and Ellie doesn't talk to either of them for two months.
The second time Joel meets that dipshit kid what put his hands all over Ellie they're going on a supply run, and Joel doesn't give him the time of day. He's trying to figure out why he gets saddled with babysittin' duty when shit, Tommy, he's been across the country on that detail; so preoccupied with the notion that he only sees the pack of Clickers at the last second.
In the flurry no one misses a beat, and they make it out unscathed. Joel accepts a hand up without looking at who's offering, but he doesn't have any acknowledgement for the kid who probably damn near saved his wrinkly ass.
When they get back to Jackson with their haul, Ellie runs to Joel first, with a hug and then a right-hook to his bearded jaw for not telling her he was going out because who's gonna watch your ass if I'm not there, damnit Joel, and he rebuffs her and tells her that he's got his own ass covered and he don't need no kid lookin' out for him, but if she's still got some strong words to go around she'd better go give some of the green boys who went with them a good shake down.
A lightning bug better learn not to be so damn flashy or it'll get him killed.
Joel still isn't ready to admit he likes the kid by the time his luck apparently runs out. Routine hunting run; something for the younger generation to take on to hone their aim, their tracking. Ellie doesn't need any of that but she goes with them because she's still the best shot with a bow or rifle they've got and she intends to stay that way.
Except this time only two-thirds of the horses are riding back and Ellie's got blood all over her (not hers) and fire in her eyes, the kid propped in the saddle behind her only because she's tied him to her to keep him there.
She hands him off and when she's asked what happens she says bandits and all Joel hears is dead men.
She doesn't have to ask, doesn't have to say a word, and Joel's slinging his pack over his shoulder and mounting up a horse. They get offers to help and Ellie tells them you'd only slow us down before Joel has a chance.
They creep into the bandits camp at dusk, and the sun rises through a red sky at dawn and Ellie is stonefaced and merciless. He knows that feeling all too well. He stays out of her way.
It's only when they get back to Jackson to the words he's gonna make it that she cracks; she doesn't cry, though, big girls don't cry.
Go on, he tells her, and she goes.
It isn't marriage, she tells him. Joel's hair is more silver than the salt 'n pepper it was, he replies with something about how she's gonna drive him completely white she keeps pullin' this sorta shit. She's damn right it ain't marriage; there hasn't been a preacher since near a few months after the cordyceps started making it's way across the country. That whole God will save us spiel goes out the window when you've watched half a dozen people you care about either get torn to shreds, or are the ones doing the tearing.
In the end, though, what matters is she's leaving. Not far, just the other side of town. He's not losing her, but as much as he tries to tell himself that, he is. She won't just be his daughter anymore, his baby girl, she'll be with that boy (not a boy anymore, either, wears a beard thick as any of the men), that lightning bug, who hasn't really learned not to be flashy so much as learned to be real good when he is.
It ain't marriage and he ain't losing her, but it is, and he is, and he's not ready, but he takes a shaky breath and squares his shoulders, still broad and strong as she remembers, and leans over to give a kiss to her head.
Go on, baby girl, I'll be right here, he tells her.
I know, dad, she tells him. She leaves so he doesn't have to let her see him cry.