A/N:Thank you all SO MUCH for the encouraging feedback on the first part of this series. I am going to be responding to some of the comments and reblogs that I didn’t get to in the next few days, but for now I want you to know that I truly appreciate anyone who has read and will read this story. This one doesn’t have a ton of Joel, but I promise you the next chapter does. ;)
Warnings: language, weapons, discussion of illness, death and loss, general canon-typical apocalyptic hell. A close up of Joel Miller’s face.
Word Count:5,304
Summary:When Tommy and Joel said that they would bring you back to “Jackson”, you had no way of knowing what would be waiting for you once you got there. Finding the town to be far more than you ever imagined, you are faced with a major decision - after so much time on the road, are you ready to try to put down roots?
Joel had told you the truth - the ride back with him and Tommy hadn’t been longer than an hour. You hadn’t encountered any more infected, the cluster of them that you’d put down earlier seemingly the only ones currently wandering these woods, and the two men and their horses were extremely familiar with the route, so you’d reached the main gate just as the sun was starting to make its way behind the mountains. And though you’d seen the time-ravaged and weather-beaten sign about a mile back, though you’d read the chipped, barely legible words, you were still stunnedat what you were looking at.
This wasn’t a settlement. Or a camp. It wasn’t a rogue group of survivors huddled together in an abandoned building. This is a whole goddamn town.
The way you paint a picture with words is amazing. Simply amazing
Letting out a long breath, you slowly opened your eyes. When you tilted your head back to look up you found that Joel’s were waiting. In the dying light of late afternoon - at arm’s length - his eyes were a softer shade of nutty brown, not quite as dark as they seemed behind the barrel of his rifle. You noticed the accordion fold of crows feet that fanned out from the corners of them, and the deep ravine of an old scar cutting across the bridge of his nose. At this distance you saw the patches in his beard and the windburned skin of his cheeks directly above the line of his facial hair, and despite the way your mind was blown to bits by everything you’d seen since the town gates had opened, you couldn’t help but wonder what he was noticing about you for the first time. The exact color of your eyes? Or the silvery strands that muted the original tone of your hair? Was that little hike of his eyebrow caused by the fact that he’d just found the thin scar that struck top to bottom through both of your lips? Was he following the creases in your skin the same way that you’d involuntarily done to his?
