#back to texas | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hier--soir · 11 months

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okay hear me out…

joel and reader find their way back to Joel’s old house in Texas somehow. the angst. the drama. the COMFORT FROM READER TO JOEL MY HEART.

you’re breaking my heart here, kelp. this one hurt. i’m sorry it took me nothing short of a century to write, but i hope you enjoy this in some kind of way.

warnings/tags: set after tlou pt one timeline, established relationship, angst, grief, mentions of the death of a child, panic attack, hurt/comfort, the real birthday card sarah wrote joel from tlou game brb bawling. wc: 2.6k

Joel’s home in Texas sat at the end of a cul-de-sac.

The houses on the street were run down after decades of rain and sun making the wood deteriorate. The bodies of the buildings sagged as if they’d exhaled a breath one day, and never inhaled another. Your eyes wandered over them as you rode past, trying to imagine what the street had looked like all those years ago when Joel had lived there. Did your best to picture him cruising down the road in his truck, young and carefree, listening to the radio as he drove home from work. The idea made a small smile drift across your face, but it faded as you glanced back to him. He rode a few paces ahead of you, and his broad shoulders were tense, hinting that he was gripping the reins of his horse for dear life.

The pair of you had been travelling for something like a month, all the way from Wyoming, to reach this point. And for most of the trip, he’d remained the Joel you knew and loved. Quiet, and funny, with the warmest smile. But as you’d neared Texas state lines, he’d withdrawn. Started to shut you out; talking less and seldom laughing at your jokes. You knew it was hard for him, to return after so much time, and so you didn’t push him. But that didn’t mean your heart didn’t pang nervously as he pulled his horse to a halt outside of a house.

Closure, Tommy had called it.

“You gotta go back, Joel,” he’d said one night at the dining hall in Jackson. “Even if it’s just once. You owe it to yourself.”

It had taken months to convince his older brother. After three years living in Jackson, Joel had become so comfortable in his new life. He had come so far from being the man you’d heard stories about when he and Ellie first arrived in the settlement.

He’s dangerous, people would whisper. He’s killed people.

And at first, you’d feared him alongside the rest of your community. Until he wormed his way into your heart, and shared himself with you. Yes, he was dangerous, and yes, he had killed, that much you were aware of. But in time, he confided in you. Things about his past that he’d never been able to verbalise to anyone, whispered in your ear while hidden under the sheets of his bed. He trusted you, and you trusted him. And so when Tommy finally wore him down enough that he agreed to go back to Texas, he said he’d only go if you went with him.

“Just to see it,” Joel had said adamantly on the day you left Jackson, as the pair of you saddled your horses. “It’ll be nice just to see it.”

“Long way to go just to see it,” you’d said quietly, stomach twisting with an unfamiliar feeling. You knew what lay within his house in Texas. Knew what memories resided there, festering inside the walls. The ghosts of who he once was, of the life he was supposed to live. The memory of… her. The daughter he’d lost.

He talked about her more and more, the longer you knew him. Shared stories, confessed to you when things reminded him of her, and the way it made him feel. He dreamt about her often. A few mornings out of every month he would wake with a thin sheen of sweat on his face, muscles tense as he cried out for her, begged her to stay. And you would soothe him, brush the hair off his forehead and hold him, lulling him back to sleep with soft words in his ear and gentle kisses against his hairline.

Standing outside of the house, the thought flitted through your mind once more. Your eyes darted warily between the old property and him. Staring at the profile of his face, you tried to discern an emotion; tried to gage any hint of feeling there. But Joel’s face was blank, forehead smooth, mouth a thin line, as he tied the horses up.

Without a word, he was walking up the driveway toward the front door. Pulse quickening, you trailed behind on numb legs, hand gripping the gun holstered on your hip. If you hoped for anything, it was that infected weren’t holed up inside the house you’d travelled so far to see.

The front door gave way easily under his weight, and a cloud of dust exploded around the pair of you as you stepped past the threshold. And it was… a house. No, a home. No sounds came from within, no rustling or footsteps or clicking. It seemed uninhabited. Safe. You stood behind Joel, waiting for his signal.

Joel cleared his throat, peering around with a tense jaw. “Look around. See if we can find anything useful to take back with us.” You noticed he didn’t refer to Jackson as home.

He wandered slowly through the lower level of the house, not touching anything at first, as if he were hesitant to lay his hands over the things that had once been his possessions. You watched him silently, carefully, allowing him to take the lead. And when he ducked through a set of double doors into a different room, you couldn’t help but analyse the space, how things had been left, all those years ago.

The place was clearly well-lived in. A few plates and bowls rested in the sink, a mug on the counter. A DVD rested on a coffee table by the couch, some 80s action flick with two guys on the cover. Curtis and Viper 2, it read in bold red lettering, This time it’s a family affair. You smiled curiously but didn’t pick it up to read the back.

Rustling came from the doors Joel was behind, and you figured you should start looking around as well. You padded heavily up the stairs, dush and grime loosing into the air as your boots worked against the old carpet. The landing was large, and you could see a few doorways from where you stood. Peeking through the first one, you saw a large bed, a TV mounted on the wall, and a treadmill. You huffed quietly, trying to picture a world in which Joel would run on a machine while watching television. The image was difficult to conjure.

“Y’find anything?” Joel’s gruff voice carried up the stairs.

“Not yet,” you hollered.

“Check the bathroom,” he called. “Might be some painkillers in there. Old antibiotics maybe.”

“On it.”

You moved further down the hall, nudging your boot against a closed door before peering in.

Posters covered the walls, dusty and faded from years of sunlight shining in the window. A double bed with blueish green covers, two sets of drawers. And pictures… so many pictures, tacked against the pink walls, depicting smiling, happy faces. Some that you’d come to know well, and one that you’d never seen before.

Stepping further into the room, you stared at the photograph stuck above her bedhead. It was of Tommy and Joel, with a small girl tucked underneath his arm, her arms wrapped around his middle as she beamed at the camera. Sarah. You swallowed down the ball of emotion that had settled in your throat.

“Found some scissors and tape,” Joel hollered, and you gave a half-hearted shout of acknowledgement in return.

Your lungs tightened, and suddenly your breathing was shorter, the knowledge that you were standing in his daughter’s room almost suffocating you. You turned quickly, with every intention of leaving the room, until something on the dresser opposite her bed caught your eye.

A small, faded card. White paper that had yellowed and faded over the years, that had a cartoon drawing of a dinosaur wearing a party hat across the front. The word ‘CONGRATULATIONS!’ was scrawled in red print below it.

Your fingers ghosted across the paper, feeling the thinness of it; the delicate fragility of something that hadn’t been touched by another human being in over twenty years. Careful not to cause any damage, you opened it. Your eyes turned blurry as they trailed over the words scribbled on the card.

Dear Dad, Let’s see… you’re never around, you hate the music I’m into, you practically despise the movies I like, and yet somehow you still manage to be the best dad every year. How do you do that? Happy Birthday, Pops! Sarah.

A tear rolled off your chin and landed on your shirt, leaving a dark stain. You sniffled sharply, wiping the wet sensation from your face. The flimsy paper shook in your grip, and you found yourself anxious that it would disintegrate at any moment.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Joel’s voice was steely, low. You flinched, the card tumbling out of your hand and back onto the chest. Your partner loomed tall in the doorway, staring you down. His face was thunderous, expression a mask of fury that you’d never expected to have directed at you, in this lifetime or the next. Dark eyes glared at you, as his mouth twisted into a snarl, lip curled up to reveal gritted teeth.

“Joel,” you breathed, wiping furiously at your cheeks again to remove any sign that you’d been crying. “I’m sorry, I was jus-“

“Why are you touching her things?”

You noticed his eyes never moved off you. He didn’t dare look around the room, her room. “I’m sorry,” you repeated feebly. “I didn’t- I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry.”

He diverted his gaze, staring down at what you had dropped.

“What is that?” he asked. His voice was quieter, softer. It was like every one of his features pinched together in the middle of his face, and he took a slow step into the room.

“It’s a card,” you told him, slowly reaching out to rest a hand on his shoulder. He met your gaze, silently asking you to tell him more without him having to ask. “The birthday card she wrote for you. I’m sorry, I know it’s personal and I shouldn’t ha—”

“She never gave me a birthday card that year.”

“What?”

“No card. Just the watch.”

Your eyesight blurred as you stared at him. He moved slowly, as if he had to beg his limbs to work and even then, they dragged along the ground. When he picked it up, the card looked so small in his large hands. Long, dirt-stained fingers gripped the withered paper, splaying it open so he could read it.

And for a moment, everything was still. No movement, no sound, nothing could interrupt the way his eyes danced along the messy handwriting, devouring every letter. A few minutes passed, and you realised he was reading it over and over again. His chest began to rise and fall faster, as short sharps breaths rattled in and out of his lungs.

“Joel,” you whispered, voice hoarse with emotion.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, and you shook your head and took a hesitant step towards him, but you were too slow.

His knees buckled, and he dropped onto the carpet with a heavy thud. You cursed, crouching beside him to get a better look at his face. Silent tears streamed from his eyes, rolling down the hills of his cheekbones before disappearing into his beard. His chapped lips quivered as he silently mouthed the words written on the card, not meeting your eye. You placed a hand on his back and stifled the sound of despair that worked its way up your throat.

“Joe—”

“My baby girl,” he choked out, finally looking at you.

“I know,” you hushed desperately, rubbing soft circles on his back. “I know.”

“N-never saw this,” Joel grunted. It seemed painful for him to speak, and his left hand reached up to press against his chest. Fear spiked inside you, and your hand tightened on his back. “She never—” he paused, upper body swaying.

His mouth was downturned, low breathy sobs escaping his lips as he tried to regain control of his body. But it was out of his control, and you could see the fear crawling under his skin as memories of Sarah wormed through his brain, and twisted his insides.

“I know,” you repeated gently. “I need you to breathe, Joel. Can you hear me?” he nodded faintly, fingertips crinkling the corner of the card where he held it. “Need you to breathe with me now. Slowly, in and out, like this. Don’t go passing out on me.”

He shook his head quickly, but copied the sound of your exaggerated breaths, sucking in air before expelling it heavily. “My girl,” he muttered, and you nodded, kissing his shoulder quickly. “I failed her, I—"

“No,” you said sharply, and finally he looked at you. Bloodshot, grief-stricken eyes stared at you as you shook your head. “You did everything you could. She said it herself, you’re the best dad. She loves you so much, Joel, I can feel it.” His chest shook, and he was silent, breathing heavily as he absorbed your words. You rested your hand atop the one on his chest, slotting your fingers in-between his. His heartbeat thudded aggressively against his sternum, vibrating against your hands.

He squeezed your fingers painfully tight, closing his eyes. “I wish I could just—” he gasped quietly, voice rattling. “Wish I could see her, need to see her.”

You dropped to your knees, pressing your back against his shoulder and cradling him in your arms as he shook. You pressed your hand firmer against his.

“Right here,” you whispered. “This is where it is – her love for you. She’s here, every single day, every second, you just have to let yourself feel it.”

“I don’t know how,” he said desperately. You soothed him quietly, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead as he leant heavier against you. “I don’t think I can.”

“You can,” you murmured against his hair, feeling the way his shoulders sagged with exhaustion. “I’m here, let me help you.”

For a while, the pair of you stayed like that. Resting on the carpet in his daughter’s bedroom, leaning against each other’s as a thick silence blanketed you.

You didn’t move a muscle until he said he wanted to leave, and watched him pack the things he’d found into a bag, keenly aware of the way he slid the card between the pages of a thick book and tucked it into the bag as well, careful not to crease it.

Joel was quiet as you left the house, quiet as you untied the horses. Quiet as he rode down the street, with you a few paces behind, heading away from the cul-de-sac, the broken-down houses, Curtis and Viper 2, and the pictures on Sarah’s bedroom wall. For a few days, he didn’t say much at all, and most nights on the trip back to Jackson, as the pair of you settled in your sleeping bags to rest, he would look. He would wait until he thought you were asleep, and then you’d hear him take the book out of his bag, flipping through the pages until he found the birthday card, so he could read her words once more.

And you weren’t naïve. You knew that a part of him would forever be broken, after Sarah’s death. A hole in his heart that nothing and no one could mend – not a second daughter, nor a relationship. But so long as you lived, you knew you would be there, right behind him. To hold him and remind him to feel that love; to breathe it in, to savour Sarah’s love and kindness in his heart, in the hopes that remembering the light would help shut out a little of the darkness.

#joel miller #joel miller angst #joel miller hurt/comfort #joel miller fanfiction #my writing #back to texas #request

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hedgehog-moss · 4 months

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Look, friends.

Do you think this is a post about my adorable baby succulents? No. Look harder.

It's about the GIANT HOLE IN MY FENCE that I had to patch up with cardboard.

I can't blame Pampérigouste for this one; the brutish nature of the damage is not consistent with her usual modus operandi. Pampe outsmarts locks like Arsène Lupin; she doesn't charge at fences like a bull who saw a red cloth. This is Pampe Pondering A Fence Problem:

No, the damage to my fence looked a lot more mindless this time. Boorish. Boar-ish. I'm blaming a boar. A deer would have destroyed the whole thing rather than just the lower half. Note that there is not a single tuft of llama wool on the damaged wire mesh.

(Note no.2: the boar's smile was originally meant to be a tusk but it really just looks like a sardonic smile)

I brought some chicken wire to patch up the hole—but there wasn't enough of it. Then it started raining and I felt persecuted and decided to just cover the hole with cardboard and go have my morning coffee and get back to this later.

This is not an Innocent Pampe post; there is no such thing. My temporary cardboard solution lasted 8 to 10 minutes. I'm not sure exactly when she got out, but by the time I went back outside to repair the fence there was a Pampe-shaped hole in the cardboard.

(Not really; she just kind of lifted or ate a corner then wormed her way through the very small opening. I think.) (See, this is how you recognise a Pampe escape: you're not entirely clear on what went down, you just know there was a llama inside and now there is a llama outside.)

It was still raining and I didn't feel like going after her, plus it felt pointless to bring her back in her pasture before the fence was repaired, so I went in the barn to look for my tools and rummage through leftover pieces of previously-destroyed fences, hoping to find something the right size.

Then I heard Pampelune's hyena shriek, aka the llama alarm call. It was followed by:

horrified chicken screams and frantic feather noises; the soundtrack of a violent fox attack

infuriated barking from Pandolf

very loud panicked braying from Pirlouit

basically, chaos.

I ran outside just in time to see Pampe emerging from the woods at a full gallop, pursued by a bear. I didn't immediately identify the animal that was chasing her as the giant dog that he was, because he was running with a weird gait, with his legs going everywhere like he was frolicking at top speed (I now know that this dog is a puppy that has learnt to run just a few months ago, but that didn't occur to me at the time because this puppy is the size of a calf.)

Pampe was running towards the cardboard through which she had escaped and she managed to squeeze through her small corner hole again (I assume—there were trees blocking my line of sight and I only saw her again once she was in the pasture, running for her life along with the other 2 llamas + donkey.) Meanwhile, the dog didn't see the corner hole and tried to power through the cardboard much like a boar, or was carried away by his momentum and didn't brake in time; I don't know. In any case, when I reached him, he was stuck.

My large piece of cardboard was tied to the fence posts and still holding strong, but the middle was a bit soggy with rain and not too solid, so the dog's head went right through it. The rest of his body didn't.

He could have probably finished breaking the cardboard quite easily, but for some reason he instantly gave up. On life. By the time I got there the dog was half-in and half-out of the pasture and he looked defeated. Which made my piece of cardboard look like a mediaeval beheading apparatus with just a hole for the head.

I went to lock an angry Pandolf in the barn and checked on the chickens along the way (ruffled & offended but fine); I was hoping the dog would figure out how to extricate his head from the cardboard in the meantime. He did not. I tried to call him in a friendly tone (from behind) to encourage him to free his head by stepping back, but the concept of taking a couple of steps backwards in order to extract his head from the hole might as well have been advanced engineering. He clearly had no idea where his head was, where his body was, how to make the two a coherent whole again, and he started whining pitifully.

I untied the rope I had used to attach the cardboard to the fence posts, then wriggled the piece of cardboard a bit to try and free the dog's head. The dog was alarmed by the wriggling and took several steps back—but I didn't manage to hold on to the cardboard so it just moved with the dog. He clumsily ran away, taking the cardboard with him, wearing it around his neck like the world's largest cone of shame.

He immediately got stuck between two trees.

I was starting to find the situation hilarious, but the poor dog did not—he lay down and started making sad broken noises like a malfunctioning dog-robot. He didn't look very threatening but he was still a very big (and stressed) dog so I felt a bit wary of touching his head to help him, and decided to run home to get a box cutter. I figured I could easily rid him of most of the cardboard and leave him with just a soggy cardboard collar that would soon fall apart. I heard my landline phone ringing from afar and ran faster, and it was one of my nearest neighbours, the retired lady who lives on the plateau.

"I've been trying to reach you!! I saw your llama in my garden earlier, I was going to give her a little treat—" (she loves Pampe, for some reason) "—but then my dog saw her too."

I know this woman's dog—he's a tiny thing with fragile nerves who thinks the whole world is out to get him, so I asked anxiously, "Did Pampe scare your dog?" and she said "Oh no! Domino is here with me; but I have a new dog. His name is Texas."

I thought of the gigantic puppy currently sobbing in my woods, held prisoner by two trees, a self-inflicted cone of shame and his total lack of reasoning skills.

"Yes", I said. "I've met Texas."

The old lady asked worriedly if he'd scared Pampe ("Il est un peu zinzin" she said—he's a bit crazy. "I wanted to call him Rex, but then I met him and thought—Texas!!") I told her I was pleased with her dog for scaring Pampe, because she needs to learn that her pasture is her only hope for safety in this cold uncaring world and as soon as she steps out of it she returns to her lowly status as a prey animal. Then I ended the phone call because I was worried both about Texas and about the large hole in my fence. Thankfully all my animals were still terrified and hiding far, far away from Texas.

Texas actually managed to free himself before I attempted to cut the cardboard, but he still thought of me as his saviour and was very happy to follow me through the woods back to his owner's place. Before we left I propped up the cardboard against the damaged fence, and despite the hole in the middle no llamas escaped in my absence; I think the whole area still smelled like Texas and fear.

I'll admit I was initially tempted to leave Texas with his head stuck in the cardboard in a more permanent capacity in order to patch the hole in my fence with this amazing anti-Pampe Cerberus. Like this

(I know this artistic rendering makes my llamas look like frightened carrots and my donkey like a bunny but I will not be taking constructive criticism at this time)

#crawling along #llama drama #i spent an hour at his owner's place eating biscuits and being told all the reasons why texas is ''a bit zinzin''#for example he runs away to the nearest farm to steal the cow feed (pellets) at feeding time #he was caught red-pawed by the farmer and just. stole the entire plastic tub that contained the pellets #and ran back home. holding this very large tub in his mouth and sprinkling cow feed everywhere along the way #this time around his owner must have feared he would come home dragging a bag with pampe inside or something

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