The walk home feels like it's taking longer than normal. He's walked this exact route hundreds of times, and it isn't lengthy, Tommy and Maria's house being just up the street. But tonight it's painfully slow. Probably because of the high concentration of alcohol pumping through his veins. Feet stumbling and tripping over themselves through boozy steps. Speech slurring while he mumbles and curses himself for all of his wrongs. Vision blurry and the whole world around him spinning like a top because holy fuck his head is pounding.
Everything is still within earshot, too, the sounds of the party, the sounds of people living life. Indecipherable voices clamoring far behind him, clinks and clanks of glasses, people being happy, and that howling, boisterous laughter of his fucking brother remind him that he's the one trudging home. Drunk. Angry. Depressed. Alone.
Getting away is necessary, though. He can't let her see him in this state, knows it only leads down a dark road and leaves collateral damage in its wake; damage to her.
Ah. Right.
That's why the short walk home is taking so much longer, because she's not at his side. There's no pair of small hands and skinny forearms wrapped around the crook of his arm as she leans into him. No stupid jokes he's come to love so much. No "fucks," "shits" or "bitches" rolling off that sharp but playful tongue of hers. Nope. None of that. That good half of him is painfully absent. And it feels like he's just lost a limb.
When he bailed she was having a good time, though. Smiling, bouncy, light on her feet and uncorking those wonderful laughs he loves to hear so much. And he knows Tommy will put his life on the line, keep her safe, if anything happens. Maybe out of respect for him, like Tommy still owes him something, or maybe just for her. He's not sure which. Doesn't matter, though, because she's safe. And that's what matters. Always. But she's not the safest, since she's still... away from him.
That thought makes him wince, fingers running through his hair and harshly scratching at his scalp as some form of punishment. It all causes him to stumble, and he barely catches himself before falling face first into the dirt.
He drunkenly pulls himself up, still zigzagging and weaving forward as he's hardly able to stay in a straight line. He rubs his brow and drags a palm down his face, whiskey scented breaths fluttering against it. Christ you're a wreck, because he misses her already, as much as he doesn't want to admit it.
Too bad. And it hurts a lot more than he originally thought.
He looks up from the imaginary line he's drawn in the dirt and sees the vibrant light they left on in the living room as he approaches their home. That's right, their home. Not his. Not just hers either. Fucking theirs.
He heaves a guilt ridden sigh, because yeah, he's staggering back to their home in a drunken stupor without her. And hell, it's like he can already feel the panic that's probably pumping through her as she searches every corner of Tommy's place for him, asks every person at the party where he's gone, what he's gotten up to. And all in that frantic state she gets when she's worried he's in trouble or has... disappeared. Her stomach is probably churning. She's likely on the verge of throwing up, having an anxiety attack, hands shaking and brain having those thoughts again that he's abandoned her. Even though he's promised more times than he can count that he never will. Ever.
But she knows he gets like this when he's been drinking. All sentimental and horribly cruel to himself, every word that leaves his tongue palpable with self-loathing. A mere hallow shell of Joel Miller. And he knows she detects the whole thing like a military caliber radar; usually sniffs it out within minutes.
That thought doesn't bring on a sense of improvement, though. And he's grimacing again, teeth gnawing at his lower lip until it's bleeding a bit and face shifting into that look he gets when he knows he's just fucked up... again. You're a real piece'a work, you know that?
"Shithead," he snaps to himself through an exhale.
His stomach is tingling, or churning, probably from all the booze or the absence of her. He's not sure which, but admits it's some combination of both, definitely more one than the other though. For years his nerves have been dead, numb to pretty much anything and everything, but leave it to her to reignite feelings within him; reignite what it feels like to be human.
He swallows hard, and tries to ignore the pit forming in his gut as he approaches the porch. It's no more than thirty feet away, and he takes a deep breath, sets his mind on something different to distract him.
A broken, drunken smile creeps across his lips, and he snickers to himself. "You've got D.U.I written all over your wasted ass," he says, words stumbling through his drool covered lips like his feet through the dirt.
He comes to a stop, clears his throat and fixes his posture, straightens up. A crisp, midnight breeze kisses his face, and it's just refreshing enough to make him speak clearly. "Why hell no officer," he drawls, Texas accent thick as ever. "I ain't been drinkin' tonight. Swear it." Both of his arms stretch out at shoulder height, elbows locking into place, hands taught, fingers pressing together and pointing horizontally.
He chuckles, sort of. It's light, stupid and drunk, backed by a couple of hiccups as he remembers some idiotic run-in with a police officer before the outbreak and realizes how trivial and pointless that was given the current state of the world.
"Reckon I can p-p-prove it too," he says, breath rife with alcoholic heat. The words come out slow, barely understandable through his intoxicated state. But it's enough to make him start walking again, tiptoeing in the straightest line he can manage with both arms still stretched out for balance as he enacts some distant memory from his youth.
In his head he's a fucking tight-rope walker. Graceful as ever. Agile as a cat. Walking the straightest goddamn line the world has ever seen. But he's done this enough times to know he's swerving like an eight-year-old behind the wheel of a Ferrari, hardly able to keep himself upright as he lumbers towards the porch steps.
And that... well, that's just him. That's Joel. Never able to accept the truth within, regardless of how short or long it's been whispering into his ear.
It happened in Boston, the day fate brought him and his redheaded sprite together. He sure as hell knew the truth then, knew what would happen, but ignored it anyway. Moron.
The thought of her causes him to wince again, and that broken, liquor induced smile falls to a frown because he thinks he's just let her down. Asshole.
"Oh Christ. Fuck me," he says under a purposefully forceful exhale. With blurry eyes he fumbles around for the doorknob, finding it after far too long, then swings open the door and steps inside.
He's home. Finally.
He kicks the door shut behind him with the sole of his boot, slams it way harder than necessary. The flimsy wooden thing sends out a thundering crack that reverberates around the house and echoes down the hallway. Other than that, it's dead silent, aside from his breathing. It's the only sign of life in the house. There's no Ellie. No petite, grinning, bubbly girl trotting his way for a bear hug and big wet smooch on the cheek that says far more than just "hello."
Nope.
It's just him. It's quiet, nothing but a ticking clock, the buzz of a light fixture and his breaths. It's just how he wants it. At least he thinks so anyway, since the emptiness that fills him when he realizes she's not in his arms right now saying hello hits him like a ton of bricks and his eyes start to burn. Goddammit...
He clears his throat again, swallows hard, face tensing as he fights the burning sensation into retreat; he's always fighting. A frustrated sigh bellows from his gut as he glances around the room, mind wandering again. It's been ages since he's been this fucking drunk and he knows nothing good can come of it. But right now just the simple act of walking to the kitchen table without aid seems impossible.
So he begins, slowly, and meticulously makes his way across the living room to the kitchen, grabbing a hold of the coffee table, television stand, then the armrest of the couch for support and balance.
The chair he's been eyeing since walking in is almost within reach, and his eyes widen as he lunges for it like it's some sort of oasis that'll cure all of his problems. C'mon, almost there, you got this Miller. He stumbles into it, the weight of him and everything else decompressing as he sinks down.
Pleased he's made it to his destination somewhat intact, he exhales in relief. It's slow and full, as if the inhale before it has been stuck in his lungs for ages, like he's been crushed. He lifts an elbow onto the table and rests his head against a palm, lets his weight fall to one side.
It's far too quiet, far too lonely for any living being that shares his current state, and he's not sure what the fuck to do. So he begins tracing the scratches and patterns on the table with a finger.
The finger's old, has been through hell and back and pulled one too many triggers. And it's scarred and callused, much like the table. That makes his lips do... something. Something that borders a frown and damaged smile all at the same time.
He lifts his gaze from the table, takes note of the mountain of dishes strewn across the counter and piled into the sink from Ellie's most recent culinary disaster. He remembers the incident fondly, though, even smiles a bit and nods like he's okay with it all. He can still recall how eager she was to cook for them, can still see the dimples carved into her face as she sat there smiling, watching him enjoy the meal.
The short-lived smile across his lips fades though. It wilts like a flower in the smothering summer heat, never to grow again until spring returns, until she returns... Ellie.
His eyelids droop, due to some combination of sorrow and his inebriated state, he's not sure which one's stronger than other. The deep, aged and weathered dark-browns they cover fall back to the table and resume tracing the invisible trail his fingers leave as they glide across its surface.
Before he's even drawn his next breath his thoughts are running back to her, because fuck he misses her. And for some reason that feeling of loss, that feeling of missing a crucial part of him, is renewed. Like it's just been rediscovered after twenty years of learning to attach himself to nothing.
That's how he learned to survive; attach himself to nothing and he's good. But surviving now has a whole new meaning with her in the picture, because you can't live without her an' you know it.
A sigh, some injured sound escaping from the depths of his stomach, leaks through his hardened but breaking shell. His normally sturdy frame bows and seems to crinkle like paper under the weight of... something. His head dips, eyes squeeze shut, posture becomes flimsier and less rigid than before as he rests nearly all of his weight on the elbow atop the table, fingers curling into his hair so tight the whites of his knuckles show. And he lets out a muffled groan, like he's in pain, because a string of words are repeatedly running through his head as if he's counting sheep jumping over a fence. You don't deserve her you don't deserve her you don't deserve her you don't fucking deserve her...
And why should he? What the fuck does he deserve? Nothing, really. Life doesn't owe him a drop of anything after all the men he's killed, lives he's ruined, people and... precious things he's destroyed or failed to protect and keep safe. He's done deeds only the devil knows, and the memories of them still plague him like a sickness without a cure, a cancer. And even when he's tried to do right, tried to do what he feels is right, he's screwed it up; rescuing his little redhead a prime example of it. Because even though they've gotten over it, moved past his lie and everything, he still knows he's ultimately made a decision that wasn't his to make. Knows he's taken away a sense of meaning in the poor girl's life.
He likes to think she's found meaning and purpose in him, though, like he has in her. Really fucking wants to believe it. And maybe she has, since she's eased his worry that she'll run off and sacrifice herself at the first chance she gets. She's said it enough times to fill an entire day's worth of conversation. She's promised she won't do that to him. And maybe that and only that is all he does deserve. That no matter what happens, no matter where they are, close or far apart, even after he's gone, she'll always have something to fight for. Him.
That kicks him in the gut. Hard. It hurts, but it's a good hurt, because at least he's feeling something.
And, well...
It doesn't take long. Because even though he's been sitting at the table wallowing in a puddle of remorse and self-loathing for only five minutes, he can already hear the lovely, familiar patter of someone's little feet against the porch as she darts up the steps.
Both of his eyelids slowly close, and he sucks in another deep breath, mulls over exactly what to say when she walks in. It's useless, since thinking through the soupy mess of alcohol, anger, self-hatred, remorse and love his brain has become is nearly impossible. He comes up empty, figures he'll just let her give him the tongue lashing he probably deserves. Whatever he's robbed her of, she deserves at least that much.
The door swings open and she stumbles inside, panting, hands on her knees. Her eyes are wide, filled with fear and worry. But she sees him sitting there, still in one piece. "Oh thank fucking god," she says, the airy cry of relief pushing through thick layers of panic and exhaustion. She gradually straightens herself up, breaths still heavy. From the sound of it, she's sprinted home as fast as her body will permit.
He shifts in his chair. It squeaks and groans under his weight, and he doesn't turn his head or mutter a response, can't bear to look at her right now because he's so goddamn ashamed of himself it hurts.
There's a part of him that wants to tell her to leave, to go back to Tommy's and enjoy herself until he's sobered up, knowing the only thing that can come out of this is him finding a way to hurt her. You're such a fuckin' idiot Miller. Reckon you should'a just sucked it up an' stayed.
But there's also a part of him, from deep within, that's on the verge of begging her to stay. A part of him that's on the verge of admitting how much he needs her like he needs oxygen to fucking breathe. To live.
Luckily, he doesn't have to beg. They both know she's already made her decision. The rest of the world's hurt her enough; there's nothing he can do it hasn't already.
She places both hands on her hips, lungs still sucking air, eyes dancing in their sockets as they take everything in. But she's smiling, because he's here and holy fuck she's so inexplicably happy to see him.
He expects a shout, a guffaw, thinks he's about to hear the stampede of a little girl suddenly running across the floor to sock him in the shoulder as punishment for leaving her there.
Nope. He gets none of that.
Instead she huffs, tries to catch her breath, and prepares herself to uncork a typical, cocky and sportive prod. "Pssht - you ass, think you can fucking hide from me?" she says through labored breaths, still grinning like this is all just some fun and stupid game of hide-and-seek he's concocted to entertain her.
For some reason the lighthearted tone behind her playful quip makes it worse. At least if she were pissed they'd both be pissed. They can deal with that. But this is so much fucking worse, since given the circumstances he's gonna be the one to ruin this rare, yet wonderful good mood of hers. Asshole.
So he doesn't respond, doesn't turn his head, can't bring himself to push even a few words across his tongue. Fingers still tracing some pattern on the table that she can't see through his hunched-over frame.
She's just about to start again, lips opening to prod him again, but she stops and collects herself. It only takes a moment, then her eyebrows rise as she realizes exactly what's transpiring here, takes note of his slouched posture and subdued demeanor. Her eyes widen a bit, and the gigantic smile across her lips gradually washes away until hardly a shred of it remains. Like the faint outline of a fragile doodle that was once carved into wet sand on a beach.
She gulps. It's loud, the sound of it clearly audible in the silence between them.
"Oh."
Her voice is airy and soft as velvet, brimming with empathy, the polar-opposite of a few seconds prior. And there's a tone underneath it that says she understands, like she's just encountered something as recognizable and familiar as her own face in the mirror.
Yeah. Oh.
They've danced to this song more times than they can fucking count. She's mastered it, too, probably can do it in her sleep if she has to.
He finally emits a response, a muffled grunt and nothing more. It's progress though, a primitive acknowledgement that the girl's simplistic observation is dead on. Keen and sharp as an arrow she is, always has been.
But before he has a chance to shift or fidget again, or even grunt once more like the drunken ape he's become, she's already making her way across the room.
He hears her shuffle towards him, in that timid and breakable way she does when yearning to be pulled into his arms, and feels her sidle up against his much larger frame. Within seconds, two bony hands are on his shoulders and she's standing at his side, so close to him, but just out of range of his peripheral.
Those french-fry fingers give his shoulders a gentle rub, and she takes a deep breath. He hardly reacts, merely twitches under her palms in a way only she can detect. It's a response she's learned to interpret as a subtle "watch yourself." But she won't watch herself. Nope. Doesn't need to, because he never scares her. Knows he won't - can't - ever hurt her.
She drapes her tiny self over him, chest arching to perfectly align with the shape of his broad shoulder blades and upper back, their forms snapping into place with the other as if the two of them are matching pieces to a jigsaw puzzle. A pair of skinny forearms hidden within her thermal fall over his shoulders and wrap around his neck, dexterous hands and fingers dangling just below his chin. And to round it all off, she rests her head against the side of his, closes both eyes and exhales, lips brushing against his ear.
"So, what're we fighting this time?" she softly asks. And her tone is anything but belittling, demeaning or dismissive, doesn't contain even the scantest amount of annoyance as if she's suddenly fed up with all of this.
No. Never.
It's more just... acceptance, if anything. Acceptance like she's done this a million times and it's old-hat. Like she's ready to go to war for him and do whatever's necessary to make him happy. Like she's digging through her arsenal to find the right weapon that'll send all of this scurrying away.
Because oh. Yeah. They have danced this dance more times than they can count.
Bringing him back to life has been a slow process, the slowest of burns, and there's no way in hell she's about to give up now. No fucking way. She's ready to fend off all of his demons, no matter how dark, evil or cruel. She's ready to fight, regardless of their manifestation or abundance. And fuck the lord knows he's got a whole lot of them, enough for the entire population of Jackson, probably even the world. And some are just stewing under the surface and waiting to rear their ugly heads without warning.
But she's... she's here. With him. With him and his demons. She could be down the road, still enjoying herself at Tommy's party, but no. She's here. At his side. Prepared to face it all with him.
That alone sends a tickle through his gut, but it hurts at the same time because holy god girl, she doesn't deserve any of this. Yet, she also seems to not give a single fuck in the slightest.
Besides, here and now, it's them and only them. It's just the way she likes it. So much so that it scares her and makes her afraid to let him in on the secret. But he knows, though. Because he always knows his Ellie. He's Joel.
He reaches a hand up, curls it around the soft, frangible one currently clinging to his neck. Whether he knows it or not, he's already rubbing it with a thumb; a rare, gentle touch from him that's been reserved for her and only her.
A soft peep with a puff of air escapes her nose, a sound of satisfaction that lets him know whatever he's doing is good and he shouldn't stop. She's finally learned what real affection is like, his affection, grown accustomed to it in fact, and he knows she can never get enough. And even if he's currently crumbling to pieces under her slender little frame at least he can still give her that.
Feeling her draped over him seems to pull the reins on the drunk-induced spinning of the room. The warmth of her breath against his neck. The beat of her heart against his back. The tender touch of her hands and forearms as they clutch around his neck. She's ready to endure with him, and it all gives him a sense of familiarity, a sense of coming home.
He clears his throat, relaxes under the featherweight, bean-sprout-of-a-girl cloaking his shoulders, then finally responds after what's felt like an eternity. "Same as always." He gives a slow nod, blankly stares forward like his mind is only half here, half somewhere else. "Ain't gonna be quick either."
She nuzzles his hair, the freckled button of her nose burrowing into the grayish strands, and closes her eyes as she presses her lips against his temple; a way of tethering herself to him. "Well, thanks to you I now have all the time in the world," she whispers. Her tone is nothing but happy, and she's smiling against his rugged skin as she says it.
Jesus fuck...
He chokes on that, gives his all to restrain it though. But a sliver of it still slips through the cracks, and his chin jolts towards the table due to the uncontrollable flinch that rolls through his body. And he quickly, but not too quickly so as not to startle her, raises a hand to his brow and attempts to hide his watery eyes which are now squeezing shut. The burning of tears returns in full force, his throat coiling around the lump forming within because holy fuck hearing that truth is just short of enough to break him down completely.
She notices, feels all of it happen beneath her, but makes no mention of it, bless her heart. And it seems she knows what's now tumbling around in that dense head of his, knows he's about to break, because without saying another word she slinks down into his lap, all delicate and fairy-like. Her small form nestles into him, legs outstretching perpendicularly across his, and arms still clinging around his neck as if her life depends on it.
Out of habit, since it's pure instinct at this point, he encases her in his arms, lifts them off the table completely for the first time since plopping into his chair. His fingers interlock across her waist, and he holds her, and she wiggles closer into the affectionate contact as way of saying "good boy." Those kissable nose and cheeks adorned with freckles are a mere inch from his bearded chin, and she looks up at him with a smile like she's finally come home to her nest; as if walking through the front door just wasn't quite enough.
He averts his eyes, still can't look at her dead on. It's nothing to do with her, though. No. Never. It's all him. It's some bottomless pit of guilt and shame that he can't get over when he's in this type of mood.
Regardless, she's plastered to him like butter on bread and won't let him hide from her. Her hands interlock on the back of his neck, forearms stretching up his chest and over his shoulders.
The arm with the scar is dangling just below his jawline. He can't see it underneath her thermal, but he knows it's there. He sets his eyes on the exact part of her sleeve that masks it. It's easier to focus on that than her face, her eyes, knows those round greenish-blues of hers will dig into him in ways only she knows how.
He lowers his lips to her sleeve. The scar is concealed beneath it, like a precious piece of treasure hidden from the world. It doesn't matter, because he knows its exact location as if it's some secret stash he's marked on a mental map he'll never forget. And he kisses it, gently, and can already see the whites of her teeth in his peripheral as she grins so fucking wide like a goddamn clown.
She loves when he acknowledges it. Loves when he kisses it. Touches it. Rubs it. And oh yeah, he knows that.
He closes his eyes, lets his lips rest on her sleeve.
He's still being... distant. And it hurts, so her smile wanes, eyes wilt, head dips a bit, because she wants to say something, wants to tell him to talk to her. But she doesn't. She's done this enough times, knows this is just his way of slowly crawling back to her. And she knows he'll always eventually crawl back, knows he'll never hurt her like that; shutting her out completely. It's simply a question of when, not if.
She scoots towards him, denim sliding against denim as she wriggles an inch or so up his lap, the side of her pelvis jutting into his stomach. She rests her head on his broad chest, the tip of her ponytail tickling his forearm. A happy sigh ripples out of her as she relaxes into his embrace, and she closes her eyes while feeling his nose dig into her scalp.
They both take a deep breath, in unison, both taking in the scent of the other like they need it to keep on living.
He mumbles something unintelligible into the mass of flyaway, auburn hair smothering his lips. It's quiet, barely audible, but it's enough to make her pull back and reattach her eyes to his scarred, wrinkled, worn and exhausted face.
He preps himself, and she watches his Adam's apple bounce in his throat as he swallows.
He opens his mouth. "Oh... Jesus. Ellie, I - " he stops, jaw slightly dropping, tongue tying itself in a knot and eyes finally meeting hers. The dark-browns seem to nearly break when they meet her gaze, because dear god he loves her so much it terrifies the shit out of him and he's got no idea how to say it.
She doesn't say a word, senses there's more to come, knows him well enough that he won't keep her waiting long.
He clears his throat. "Christ Ellie, I... I don't deserve you."
His eyes close again, head turning to the side to stare at some random spot on the wall as he can't help but look away from her. And a wounded noise, like a yelp as if she's just been shot, like she's just been hurt, bursts through her lips, and her eyes are already beginning to water.
The sound is loud enough, sharp enough, painful enough, that his eyes snap back open to immediately search for danger, strong arms squeezing her tighter in some protective habit because he's always ready to put to rest even the slightest of maladies that affect his Ellie. They've been off the road for a year now, here in Jackson, but that part of him is still humming like a well-oiled machine.
She swallows hard, tries to push into her gut the lump growing in her throat. "Joel. Look at me."
He doesn't.
A small hand finds its way to his cheek, fingers clasping around his face as she tugs it back towards her. "Joel. Look. At. Me," she demands, voice sharp, and with an edge, yet somehow also gentle.
He resists initially, but it only takes a few seconds for him to oblige and let his eyes gradually pull up to hers. She locks in on him, won't let him look away again as soft, small hands hold his tough-as-leather face. And he doesn't look away, won't even try at this point. Like always, she's found her way inside, through his emotional walls, has him on the hook.
"Yes you do. You deserve me as much as I deserve you," she says, voice cracking like a window on the verge of shattering.
And she deserves the fucking world. So that has to count for something, right? Maybe he does deserve her. Maybe he doesn't.
Before he can respond, she ropes in a quick breath, swiftly wipes her eyes of the tears pooling at the base of their lids. "Joel," she starts, voice a bit sterner than before, but still pained and soft as ever.
He doesn't speak, simply looks into her eyes just like she's asked him to, "go on."
"Don't ever fucking say that. There are a million reasons why you do deserve me and more." She pauses, scrunches her face, nose crinkling as her brain tries to construct exactly what to say next.
It's obvious when she's found it, because her face goes stiff, aside from the slight tremble in her lips, brow furrowing just a bit as she takes another breath. "But the only one that matters is that you hurt me when you talk about yourself that way."
Holy fuck...
It sounds selfish, yet it's anything but. Because, goddammit, this girl knows him too fucking well. Knows the only sense of a moral compass he has is her. Knows the only way he'll stop hurting himself is to let him know he's hurting her when he does; smashing her well-being like a wrecking ball. Clever little thing she is.
That pesky burning sensation is coursing through his eyes again, and his face twitches in a way she's only seen a few times. The way it twitches when he, Joel Miller, is actually about to break down and cry.
And she knows it, too, because now her eyes are filling up as well, going glossy and wet. And fuck she's looking up at him in a way that pushes him this close to the edge of shattering completely and weeping like a baby into those reddish strands of hair while he clutches her against him.
He clenches his teeth. The muscles in his neck visibly tense up as he struggles to stave it all off, the normally reserved Texan so clearly trying to hold himself together, hold himself together for her. God knows what kind of heart-thrashing sounds will escape from that tiny frame of hers if he actually cries...
He lifts a hand from her waist and cradles the back of her head, fingers rubbing and intertwining with the soft tuft of hair at the base of her ponytail. "C'mere baby," he says, voice cracking a bit like hers, but it's quiet and soft, brimming with a sense of yearning she rarely hears from him.
It's another term of endearment she's come to love. And she doesn't resist in the slightest, simply lets the large, callused hand holding the back of her head guide her brow to his lips. He needs her in his arms to keep his heart beating, just like she needs him in order to breathe.
He kisses her on the forehead. Long. Tender. Loving. Nose burrowing into her hair. It tastes a bit salty from sweat, but it's wonderful. And sweet, too. And unique. Just... Ellie. And Jesus holding and kissing her is more soothing than anything else the entire goddamn universe can possibly provide.
She closes her eyes, smiles and sighs in content, leans into the kiss and takes it all in as she enjoys the feeling of actually being... close to and held by someone. No, not just by someone, by him, her Joel. And when he finally lifts his face, lips sticking to her scalp a bit as he pulls away, she draws back and smiles wider. She cocks her head to the side, sticks out her tongue, crosses her eyes and makes some stupid, funny face to cheer him up, wants him to smile with her. Everything is always better when he's doing it with her.
It works, even if only slightly. And he snickers, quiet, short, gravelly. "You keep stickin' that thing out an' you're gonna lose it someday there missy," he says, tone still a bit wounded, but there's finally a sense of familiar full-bodied playfulness to it.
"I'd like to see you try," she says, eyes still crossed and goofy expression more exaggerated than before as a way to taunt him.
He snorts, rolls his eyes. "Tssht. Cute." Yeah, cute is right. Hell, cuter than cute, but there's no way he's telling her that. Not yet, anyway.
It's not a whole lot, but it's enough for her, enough to show she's making progress when it comes to pulling him out of whatever dark hole he's crawled into. And she accepts it as a minor victory, the redheaded girl already arming herself for the next battle.
Her face corrects itself, head goes straight, eyes recenter, pink little tongue retreating behind her lips. And she smiles. It's hesitant and fragile, and she shrugs, barely, a timid thing. "Well, you still have me. That counts for something right?"
Good god girl...
Yeah, it counts. It really fucking counts. It counts for more than she can possibly imagine. And the way she's looking up at him with those big, round, watery doe-eyes makes him want to hold her forever, fiercely guard her from all horrors of the world and smother her with whatever scraps of love he has left. Makes him want to even tell her that he loves her...
Oh boy.
His brain comes to a screeching halt, as if every atom and molecule around him has frozen in space and time.
He knows those three special words, I love you, have never once been cooed into her ear. Knows those words and that moment for Ellie Williams are... well, they're something indescribable. Something that should be put on a pedestal and not taken lightly. And he sure as hell will make sure that when he does say them, everything will be just right and special in every way. So special that she'll hold onto and cherish it like it's the world's rarest gem, because he knows that moment for her will - should - be the ultimate and most precious of all things, especially coming from him. He'll want her to know exactly what it all means; there should be zero room for debate.
And maybe it's just the booze, or the current moment, seeing her in his arms still gazing up at him with a pair of crystallizing eyeballs that are like... fuck, he doesn't even know how to describe them. Something he can only guess isn't from planet Earth. Or maybe it's just the cumulative effect of tonight, the party, this, him, her, their demons, because he's dying to say it.
He cups her cheeks, cradles her face in his palms as if it's a precious baby bird and opens his lips. His voice comes out soft, still rough like sandpaper as usual, but also sincere, "Ellie." He pauses, and her face lights up like she's anticipating what he's about to say, beams of light radiating out of her head, eyebrows rising and jaw dropping to unveil a wide-open smile.
He gulps, mouth quivers a bit. "I lo-"
"Shh," she softly interrupts, a small finger quickly planting against his lips and stopping him dead in his tracks.
"I know."
He smirks, all goofy and crooked, a thumb affectionately gliding over the scar above her eye. And there's a silence wedged in the narrow space between them, yet it's anything but awkward or strenuous.
She sniffles with watery eyes, shapes her lips to match the smirk across his. "I want it to be perfect."
So does he. And yeah, she knows that too.