Hello, friends! I had a dream about the Last of Us last night and... here we are. This is rated M for descriptions of rape and language. Potentially, this will be a longer story, but for now, this is what it is. Always seeking beta readers, as I have a serious problem with run on sentences and word order. Please forgive both, should you run across them whilst reading. Also, and it is apparently worth noting: Joel/Ellie will be written from a strictly father/daughter perspective. Enjoy!

The Crane Wife x

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3 things cannot be long hidden: The sun, the moon, and the truth.
-Buddha

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No. No. Please. No. Nonononononononono. Fuck, no. Not like this. Please.

Her eyes are pinched shut. Partly because there's fire raging around them, making her eyes water, and partly because she's afraid to look. Ellie's afraid this, this will be the last thing that she sees: David's bony face illuminated by a red glow, his dark, wicked eyes staring at her pale skin, like he's got some kind of claim over her. One of his hands is holding the hem of her shirt, edging it upwards, while the other just lightly touches the inside of her thigh. She knows the machete is nearby, she can feel it against her finger tips, and if she just stretches a bit further, she'll be able to pick it up, and maybe – maybe prevent the worst from happening. The world spins around her, from the panic about what will happen if she simply can't and the pain in her side where he kicked her. She worries this will never end. This will never be over. She'll live in this one horrible moment for the rest of her life.

A little more, c'mon, just- a- little-

Her eyes open just a bit, peering at the knife, centimeters from her grasp. She's so close, if only she could will her fingers to be a little bit longer, then she could pick it up, shove it right into his temple. She could leave this goddamn town and she could go back to Joel and she could start forgetting this ever happened. Just as she wraps her fingers around the handle, a self-satisfied yes leaving her lips without her consent, he realizes what she's doing, and slams his hand on her wrist. She cries out, something between ouch and a sob, trying to reach across her body to cradle her seemingly broken wrist out of instinct. He catches her hand and pins it above her head. Tears leak out of the corner of her eyes. She wishes in this moment David would just kill her. Even that is preferable to this.

Please, Joel, she thinks now, desperately, please, please help me. She says this like a prayer. She would even say it aloud, if she had the air in her lungs to, but David's body is so heavy over hers. And now he's got her bound to the floor, his determination unflinching. She pictures Joel, lying heavy on the shit-stained mattress, his skin pale, his body shaking involuntarily. He can't get up. He couldn't, even if he wanted to. She might've saved him, if not for this. She might've prevented his death with the penicillin she got and they could've gone on, living whatever semblance of a normal life they've been piecing together for so long now. Joel. Joel. A heavy sob escapes her. Joel, I'm so sorry.

"Don't worry, little rabbit," David says, his voice slamming into her ear drum like poison, despite the fact that he's not speaking in more than a whisper. He's undone the button on his pants, she can just barely hear the zipper of his fly slide down. A final struggle rises within her and she pushes against his body, just as he says, "This won't hurt at all." Blood from the wound she gave him drips onto her face and he smiles at her, pulling his pants down before thumbing at hers. His hands pinch at the button and as he reaches to undo the zipper, she heaves against him, her legs flailing as hard as she can make them. He winces in pain, taking in a deep breath, but it wasn't enough, he's still bigger than she is, and he recovers himself over her.

His voice is strained, as he tells her, "You'll wish you hadn't done that," and he roughly pulls down her pants. She's crying now, fearfully, without shame. There's nothing she can do and she's resigning herself to that fact. She feels a little more limp against his touch, she stops struggling with her legs. She's crying and crying, closing her eyes so tightly, it makes her head spin and spots appear beneath her lids. She lets out a scream, quiet at first, but it gathers momentum somewhere inside her, and she's yelling as loudly as she can.

"Ellie?" she hears her name, but it sounds distant, far away. Joel? Joel? Are you here? "Ellie!" Oh my god, Joel! His voice is quiet, soothing, and she wishes it was louder because that would mean it was closer.

Her eyes barely open and she sees a face above her, unsure of whom it belongs to. She says, "Joel?" but her voice comes out strained, breathless; she's not sure he hears her. Her eyes open a little wider and she realizes first there's no fire. In fact, it's completely dark where they are. Pitch black – How long has she been out for? David could still be here. "Joel?" she says a little more frantically. She sits up, backing away from whatever figure sits in front of her, "Joel!" David could be anywhere and he could be coming back. Hell, he could the person talking to her. What if he tries to– What if he finds her again and he–

She balls her hands into fists and starts swatting at the body next to her. "Get away from me!" she shouts, followed immediately by, "Joel! Help me!" Powerful hands grab onto her shoulders, shaking her gently. She continues to swing wildly, calling out, "Joel! Please, help me, Joel!" Her eyes are wide open, but she still can't really see, still can't quite place where she is. Oh god, no, please help me.

And then she hears it, sweetly and quietly, a rumbling voice she's come to love, cutting through her fear like – well, like a well placed machete: "Baby girl," Joel says. You're here, thank god, thank god, fuck, I'm so glad you're here, "Baby girl, I'm right here. You're dreaming. I'm right here."

She feels herself bolt upright and somehow, she's on her feet. She's dreaming, she's dreaming, it's okay. "Joel," she whispers, her eyes fluttering, as she regains her senses. The world becomes less blurry, the moon make the room glow bright and silver, and she confirms is that it is indeed Joel sitting on her bed. Following the attack from David, they moved on immediately, kept to the road for what felt like days before they stumbled across another town and settled in. For a few days, Joel said initially, because they had to keep moving, but that might have been a week ago now and she knows, she knows that they can't go anywhere while she's, well, like this. "I'm sorry," she says, her hands touching her face, the sticky, lingering wetness from sweat and tears. Her body feels heavy from moisture, as if she weighs more as a result of this new burden she's holding on to. She clears her throat and stands a little straighter, "Just a nightmare. It wasn't as bad this time," but at this, Joel looks skeptical. "I swear," she punctuates.

Before he can say anything at all, in the new, nonjudgmental tone he's adopted when speaking to her, she sits back down on the mattress. When he says anything now, it sounds like he's trying too hard. Like he thinks she'll break under the weight of the wrong words. She hates it. She genuinely, seriously hates it. She doesn't want his pity or his sympathy. Although, she's not sure what she wants instead, either. "I'm okay, really," her head is hitting her sweat-soaked pillow and she's nestling in, swinging her feet up, like she'll be able to go back to sleep after that.

Joel maneuvers himself so she can get comfortable. He's quiet for a moment before he says, "We have to talk about this eventually," in the least accusatory way, like he really means it.

"We don't have to talk about shit. Remember? I'll be fine," and with this, she rolls over onto her side, facing the wall, away from Joel. He doesn't say anything else and she feels his hand hesitate over her before it rests gently against her cheek. She closes her eyes and chokes on a sob. "I'm fine," she says again, but this time, she's saying it more for herself than for him. If she says it out loud, to the world enough times, maybe it will become true. She will feel fine. The boulder sitting on her chest will disappear and she'll sleep without screaming, breathe without wheezing, eat without the accompanying feeling of nausea. Eventually, maybe.

Joel shifts on her bed, sitting so his back rests against the wall. "I'll be right here," he tells her. She sees him looking right at her. His hand falls from her face and rests on top of her hands. "Go back to sleep."

"Night, old man," she says half-heartedly, her voice thick from her tears and exhaustion, but her eyes stay open and she stares pointedly at the wall in front of her. No, there's no more sleep in store for her now. Not with the image of him and his face and the way he tried so hard to hurt her. Not just with his fists, but with the careful way he touched her, like he knew exactly how to make her feel terrified and empty at the same time. She's crying again, tears pooling at her cheek. It should be a relief to get rid of these complicated feelings, but instead, it only stands to make her feel numb.

Joel sighs and squeezes her hand, "Night, baby girl."

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