Daylight
The windows are intact, so they will keep out the cold wind. They are also clouded up from decades of exposure and neglect, so they will block any view of the inside as well. The roof hasn't collapsed despite the weight of the snow on it either. All things considered, it's the best choice among the line of houses on that street.
It'll do, he decides. The rusted hinges of the heavy solid wood door creak louder than his grunts as he struggles to push it open, and the wind rushes through the frame of the door around him.
He doesn't want to travel at night. For one, there's no need to since they'd made good time all afternoon moving as far away as they could from that town. And besides, the bite of the wind is getting harsher in the fading sunlight.
"Ellie, let's call it a day here, okay?"
There's no answer. He turns back and sees that she's staring absently at the setting sun behind them, looking like she hasn't heard him. He hasn't noticed the sunset at all even if it has been a while since he's seen one – and it's a spectacular one as far as these things go. The sky is lashed with broad strokes of red, and the backlight of the sun causes bright yellow halos to form around the darkening clouds.
She's bracing her dark green backpack on her shoulder with one hand while she watches the view. She'd grabbed it back from him once they'd gotten clear of that town, replying to his protests with only a brief but firm shake of her head. He let her have it then, only because he wasn't able to bear the weight of both their packs for much longer.
They need to rest – he needs to rest, also because he can't walk any further with the increasingly acute pain in his wound.
"Ellie," he repeats, at last drawing her attention as she turns to look at him.
Her ponytail is flapping freely as the wind whips between them. It messes up her hair, causing her fringe to fall across her face, and she raises her free hand to tuck it away as he's seen her do so many times before. In that moment, standing between him and the light, she looks almost as if nothing has happened.
Almost, as the look of weariness on her silhouetted face comes into view as his eyes adjust. As do the bloodstains streaked across her face. Some of it is hers, but mercifully little, from some minor cuts that have already dried up.
Most of it has come from that man, still probably lying there with the machete in his face. At least that's how they left him; at least that's how he wants him to stay. He shakes his head a little, as if to purge his mind of the image.
"C'mon," he urges her. "We'll rest here tonight."
She does as he says without saying a word. Even if that's all she's done since they left that burning restaurant, he can't ask for more at this point.
The sun has long retreated, and he can barely make out her outline in the dark kitchen. They'll need to get a fire going; for light, for warmth. For melting up some water so she can get cleaned up.
The house isn't a big affair; just a single storey high, with two bedrooms, a bathroom and a small kitchen next to the living room. It's more of a sizeable holiday cabin than an actual domicile, and he figures that's what it probably was back in the day.
"Scrounged up some food," he says, laying out the cans from his backpack on the kitchen counter.
It may be the one in the best shape along that street, but the empty cupboards meant that he had to go next door to find those. He was deeply reluctant to leave her alone in the place, and he'd only done so after giving the rooms a thorough once-over to make sure that they were alone.
She's hunched over the floor with her back towards him. There's a scraping sound, and looking over her shoulder he sees that she's got a pile of twigs and leaves formed neatly on the tiles, and a bucket of snow beside her.
She's not wasted any time while he was out it seems, and a part of him is actually relieved that she's spared him from any further work for the evening.
"Hey, I'll do that," he says, as the other part is pretty much screaming in his ear. "You get some food in you."
"I've got this," she replies quietly.
She doesn't look up from the pile as she starts rubbing one of the twigs between her palms. If nothing else, it's the first time she's said anything since leaving that restaurant, so that should comfort him at least a little.
It really doesn't. "Ellie, you need to –"
"I've got this," she repeats.
He doesn't say more at the slightly sharper tone of her voice.
The rubbing quickens as she runs her palms up and down the length of the stick, and soon the pile of wood starts to smoke. He sees that she's gotten really good at it, despite his never having taught her how to do it.
He had small glimpses of consciousness through the winter – he recalls a dark storeroom, the sounds of a gunfight outside of it, and the clicking of infected, before the comfort of her voice. He recalls the snow hitting his face as he was dragged along the makeshift sled. He recalls that basement, far colder than the room they are in now, and the occasional moments of light when she woke him and fed him.
So it doesn't surprise him that she'd managed to figure out how to get a fire started on her own on top of it all. But the thought doesn't comfort him either.
He's laying out the blankets on the floor – another one of the items gathered by her while he was out – when he hears a metallic clank coming from the bathroom, followed by a yelp of pain.
Fuck.
He feels a jolt of panic. She must've been hurt worse than he thought. She didn't eat any of the food despite his prodding. And they'd been on their feet all day. She must've slipped and fell. Or something.
The possibilities multiply exponentially in the time it takes he sprints over. Or as close to one as he can manage, as he feels the stitches tearing at his abdomen. Wincing through the effort he wrenches the doorknob open.
"Ellie?"
Pushing the door open, he sees that she's bent over the basin in the bathroom. The pail lies beside her, and the water that was in it is now spilled all over the floor. Beside it is the washcloth that she'd clearly been using to wash up.
She's clutching at the sides of the basin, and her knuckles are almost white. Her arms are shaking, and her breaths are quick and short. Her head is bowed, her eyes are tightly shut, and her face is wet – though he's not entirely sure if it's wet from her cleaning up only.
"Hey…" he says, walking in and placing his hand on her shoulder.
She pushes it away and stoops to reach for the cloth. The spilled water from the pail now surrounds it, and it has turned the same sickly shade of pale red. She pauses at the sight, and it becomes rapidly clear that her face is no longer just wet from her cleaning up.
"It's okay, it's okay..." he hushes, crouching down to pull her up from the floor. She turns toward him, and her sobs are muffled in the sleeves of his coat as he wraps his arms around her. "Just leave it."
He'll help her get cleaned up. Just not tonight.
He isn't entirely sure of where he is at as his eyes open. His heart is racing, and even under all his layers of clothes he can feel the back of his shirt soaked with sweat. He's feeling terribly cold, and he can't focus on anything else for the moment other than that he's not back under that highway in Austin.
He hates bad dreams.
He makes to get up, but his legs and back aren't cooperating much. He's loath to admit it, but his body has seen better days. His knees testify to the fact; he groans more than a little as he forces himself off the floor. The stabbing pain in his gut also bears witness to this, and the stabs get worse with each shiver.
A quiet noise beside him distracts him. It's a really tiny snore; little more than a loud exhale. He looks over and sees that it's coming from Ellie, curled on her side under the thick blanket, with her head resting on her backpack.
It's really cold in that bedroom, but that's the only worry she'll be having tonight. He watches as each of her mini-snores is followed by a small cloud of vapour, like a little steam engine idling away. She's gotten to sleep easily enough despite all she's been through that day, and her sleep is peacefully deep.
It doesn't surprise him; he knows from experience that the bad dreams don't come so soon.
He buries his head between his knees as he sits himself up against the wall across from her. He doesn't want to disturb her sleep – and it's all he can do to stop himself from yelling out loud or punching it.
He's angry, so angry.
Angry with that railing that gave way back in the university, and at that piece of rebar on the ground. Angry with Tommy who told them to head there, and with the fucking Fireflies who abandoned the place. Angry with those cannibals back at that town, and with that particular one in the restaurant for whatever it is he did, or tried to.
He's also angry that while he has some notion of how she kept him alive, he hasn't any clue of what she went through to do it, all on her own.
Christ, I don't even know where Callus has gone…
The thought of the horse sparks a memory. They're back on the outskirts of Jackson, and she'd gotten on it without any hesitation, right after he'd almost abandoned her. He'd promised himself then one thing; the same implicit promise she'd given him after she jumped back down the truck before the bridge at Pittsburgh, when the ladder broke off leaving him stranded.
We stick together.
He knows she held up her end all winter, and he finally realizes exactly who he's angry with.
He looks back at Ellie and notices now that she's shivering, ever so slightly such that it doesn't wake her yet. He doesn't know how it's possible beneath that thick woollen blanket, that green overcoat of hers, that maroon hoodie under it, and god knows how many other layers of clothing she has on.
He couldn't care less about the how for this bit – he gets to his feet, removes his brown jacket, and places it carefully over her. The cold of the room assaults his senses immediately, but that's the only thing he wants now.
And he sits back down and does something he hasn't done for a long time. Not since he was under that highway in Austin.
There's no more sleep for him, and he gets to cooking up some breakfast as the sunlight starts entering through the windows of the house.
She stirs awake just as the pot with the modicum of ingredients in it that together pass for a stew comes to a boil. He lifts it off the flame, and a groan escapes his lips as he stands up. He's really feeling his age, and the wound still isn't helping.
She's already rummaging through her backpack before he can even set the pot down. Before he can tell her it's nothing to worry about.
"Here…" she says, handing a bottle and syringe over. "There's enough for one more shot. That oughta do it."
He reads the label and sees that it's some form of antibiotic – another how answered, but with it another question of what she had to go through to get it.
She rubs her eyes and walks over to the pot, giving the contents of the pot a sniff. "Missed your cooking...still smells like shit though."
He can't help chuckling, despite himself. "How long was I out for?"
The words escape his mouth before he could think them through. She looks a little thrown by the question as her eyes dart around, seeming like she has to think about it. He's already beating himself up for raking it up, and is about to tell her to forget the question when she replies, with a wan smile on her face.
"Long enough, Joel."
A/N: I can't write a summary to save my life, it seems. Either way and as always, thank you so much for reading!