Summary: Post-Part 1/ Season 1 AU where Joel lives. Jackson is thriving and survival has finally started to look like living again. A slow-burn Joel Γ Female Reader built on years of trust, new political tensions inside Jackson, and the quiet moments that make the loud ones matter. Featuring MC, Joel, Ellie, Tommy, & Maria, among others & OCs you'll (hopefully) grow to love, and an eventual romance that's earned, not rushed.
Series Rating: Eventually explicit; violence; gore; etc. (18+ only. MDNI)
WC: this chapter ~4,600 (full series TBD)
The first few afternoons pass without a single shot being fired. Marcus practices how to clear a rifle quickly before Joel lets him load one; how to check the chamber even when he already knows itβs empty; how to work the bolt until the motion becomes automatic; how to change a magazine with gloved hands or his eyes fixed somewhere other than the weaponβ¦ Joel makes him repeat each movement until frustration starts creeping into the younger manβs face. Then, he makes him do it again.
By the end of the first week, Marcus has stopped asking when they are finally going to shoot. And thatβs when Joel lets him.
Marcus shifts his weight from one foot to the other, the rifle hanging more comfortably over his shoulder now. That alone feels like progress.
Joel notices this but doesnβt say anything, he simply reaches for his own rifle as he steps to the firing line. You fall into place beside him. Marcus watches the both of you from a few feet away.
Joel works the bolt, checks the chamber and then closes it. Thereβs nothing hurried or flashy about it, just something that heβs done hundreds of times.
You mirror him, almost without thinking; years of routine together. Joel glances sideways towards Marcus. βWatch.β He says focusing back in front of him. Thatβs all, no lectures or grand speeches.
He settles the buttstock into his shoulder before he breathes one slow, controlled breath. The rifle cracks, the sound echoing off the nearby trees. A neat hole appears just left of center. Joel lowers the rifle and looks over at you.
You raise yours, aim, take a breath, and pull the trigger. Your shot lands slightly low and to the left on the target.
Joel glances over. βPulled it,β he mutters.
βI know.β You say already readjusting your technique.
βYes, sir.β You say in a stern tone.
Joel ignores the joke completely. You fire again. The hole appears next to Joelβs, but more centered than his. He gives one small nod. Marcus has been watching every movement. Not the targets but the motions, how each of you breaths and focusesβ¦ the rhythm.
βYour turn.β Joel says now facing Marcus.
He steps forward, raising the rifle, attempting to mimic you and Joel but not quite getting it.
Joel immediately reaches out. βPull it in.β
Marcus blinks. βWhat?β
Joel taps the buttstock and Marcus adjusts it to sit more snugly in the pocket of his shoulder now.
He starts aiming now, finger hovering over the trigger.
βFinger.β Joel says as he continues to watch Marcus.
Marcus immediately removes it from the trigger, still focusing on whatβs in front of him.
Joel nods once. βBreathe.β
The rifle wobbles slightly. Joel waits quietly for a moment before saying, βSoften your shoulders.β
Marcus exhales and the weapon steadies in his hold.
The rifle fires and the round strikes the berm several feet left of the target.
Marcus winces while he lowers the gun slowly, β...Not even close.β He slowly looks towards Joel who stands there, expression unreadable.
βAgain.β Joel says. He offers no encouragement but also no real criticism either. Just... again.
Marcus works the bolt, getting the next round in the chamber before trying again. The second shot catches the edge of the wooden frame. A small flash of hope crosses Marcusβs features. Joel says nothing except that word β again.
The third shot lands on the edge of the worn target paper. Marcus canβt help the grin that settles on his lips for a brief moment.
βYou did.β Joel acknowledges as he nods back at the target. βAgain.β
A small laugh escapes Marcus.
βI was wondering if Iβd get more than one word.β
Joel looks at him, βIβve said plenty.β
You chuckle quietly, grinning at Marcus. βTrust me, he has.β
Marcus shoulders the rifle again and this time, his stance is steadier and his breathing is slower. He pulls the trigger and this shot lands in the outer ring of the paper.
Joel studies the target for a moment. β...Better.β
Marcus lowers the rifle. That single word means more than any speech could have. You catch the wide smile he tries β but fails β to hide.
Joel pretends not to notice. Of course, he notices but he just doesnβt make a production out of it. Another magazine appears in Joelβs hand and he passes it over to Marcus who takes it automatically.
Joel gestures toward the firing line, βAgain.β
Marcus sighs dramatically.
β...I had a feeling you were gonna say that.β
For the first time all afternoon... Joel smiles. Just a little. βGood.β
The crack of rifle fire begins filling the training field most afternoons after patrols. At first, Marcus misses more than he hits, but then he starts catching the edge of the paper more and more. Then the center. Not consistently, but itβs progress.
Joelβs corrections, however, remain consistent.
βShoulder.β; βBreathe.β; βAgain.β
You fill in the spaces Joel leaves behind, making small adjustments to Marcusβs stance, explaining why he keeps anticipating the recoil. Showing him how to slow his breathing without holding it so long his arms begin to shake.
Between the two of you, Marcus learns quickly. Not gracefully, but quickly.
The next several weeks settle into a rhythm. Patrols in the mornings, training in the afternoons. Rifle drills give way to moving targets. Moving targets become shooting from behind cover.
Then comes riding. Marcus already knows enough to saddle a horse and stay seated at a walk, but the mountains demand more than that. You teach him how to distribute his weight over uneven ground; how to let the horse choose its footing instead of fighting every step; how to mount and dismount quickly with a heavy rifle slung across his back; how to keep the reins from tangling; how to watch his surroundings without forgetting the animal beneath him.
The first time his horse shies sideways at a flapping tarp, Marcus nearly ends up in the dirt but catches himself against the saddle horn at the last second.
Joel watches from Phoenixβs back. βComfortable?β
Marcus straightens with what remains of his dignity. βVery.β
By the end of the second week, Marcus no longer grips the reins like they are the only thing keeping him alive. By the third, he can trot without looking personally betrayed by the motion.
He still talks too much. Still asks questions faster than either of you can answer them sometimes. He still keeps a small notebook tucked inside his jacket where he records nearly everything. Routes, distances, weather patterns, Joelβs clipped instructions and what they mean, your notes on terrain, etc.
He even sketches the different patrol markers used at the checkpoints, carefully labeling each one as though there will be an exam later. There will not be, but you donβt tell him that.
Whenever you are not on patrol or training Marcus, another hour seems to find its way into the map room. Zeke never demands your time. He simply asks, usually in passing. Sometimes itβs through a short note left with one of the council aides, sometimes catching you in the dining hall.
Would this crossing still be usable after heavy rain?
How long can horses reasonably travel before they need rest?
Which roads look safe on paper but offer too little visibility?
Most answers take only a few minutes. Others turn into longer conversations over maps stretched across the table. You begin recognizing Zekeβs handwriting and the spaces he begins leaving beside certain routes for your notes. Neither of you comments on the habit that forms.
The map room changes quietly around you. More colored pins appear along the eastern roads. New lengths of twine stretch beyond Jacksonβs established patrol routes.
A second map is mounted beside the first, older and more worn, with sections redrawn in darker ink. You notice the changes without asking about them. Trade has always required planning. Jackson is simply doing more of it now.
The first time you hear the name Riverside, it is spoken over lunch.
The two men that sit a couple tables away are arguing over the origin of a replacement truck battery. You eat your sandwich alone, quietly observing the interaction, but not staring.
βCame outta a settlement near Cody.β One man says confidently.
βNo, it didnβt,β says the other.
βThat little settlement east of here.β
βWhat little settlement?β
The second man says the name like everyone should already know it. βTheyβve been talking over the radio for months, apparently.β
His friend tears off another piece of bread.
βThey got batteries?β
βThey got people who know how to rebuild βem I heard.β
The conversation moves onto something else shortly after that. You look out the window and down the streets of Jackson, enjoying the peaceful solitude of your lunch alone for once.
A few days later, someone else mentions that Riverside has trained medics. Another person claims they have goats that produce more milk than any animal reasonably should. Someone else says they have fewer than a hundred people and barely enough wall to call themselves protected. The details rarely match but the name remains: Riverside.
One afternoon on your way to the barn, you catch Zeke standing on the road that leads to the council building. He is talking with another council member. You only hear part of the conversation. ββ¦Iβve been talking with them, if Riverside keeps growing, theyβll need more provisions before winter.β
βI know,β Zeke begins, you canβt quite make out the rest, but you think you hear him say something about the routes.
Spring settles more firmly over Jackson. The grass coming in gets greener by the day, rainstorms rather than snowstorms come through, the children count down the final days of school with an enthusiasm their teachers also share. Morning patrols still begin under cool skies and return beneath a warmer sun. The days grow longer but the new routines hold firm.
At some point during the month, you and Joel meet with Tommy to discuss Marcusβs progress. Tommy takes notes and quietly plans the next steps.
On the last day of May, Tommy finds the three of you at the barn after youβve finished training for the afternoon. Marcus is cleaning mud from a saddle while Joel sits on a hay bale cleaning his rifle. Youβre not far from the two of them as you run your hand down a horseβs forelimb, checking that the small swelling above the fetlock is improving.
Tommy clears his throat as he moves to rest a shoulder on one of the wooden support beams.
Marcus looks up immediately, but Joel does not.
βWhat about it?β Joel asks.
Tommy tips his head toward Marcus with a smile on his face. βHe goes out.β
The rag in Marcusβs hand goes still and for once, he says nothing. His eyes are wide and a grin forms almost instantly across his lips. He looks quickly between Joel and you then back at Tommy.
You wince as you push yourself up, the muscles in your back tight. You stand beside the horse looking at Tommy now.
βWhich route?β Joel asks, still cleaning the rifle.
βGood one.β Tommy replies as he folds his arms, βElk Creek.β
Joel finally looks up, βWeather report?β
βNothing unusual reported.β
Joel gives one measured nod before looking over at you. You give him a small nod back. Marcus still has not moved.
Tommy studies him now, βYou ready?β
Marcus glances first at you. Then at Joel. Whatever answer he finds in your faces seems to settle something in him. He sets the rag down carefully.
βI think so.β He says finally, trying to sound confident.
Joel returns his attention to the gun in his hands. βThat ainβt an answer.β
Marcus takes a breath. βYes,β he pauses for a second, βIβm ready.β
Joel finishes reloading the rifle before saying, βWeβll find out.β
Tommy smiles at this. Marcus looks as though he has forgotten how.
Outside, evening light stretches across Jacksonβs roofs and fences, warming everything it touches. Beyond the barn, the town continues its duties for the evening. Construction noise is heard in the distance, an aroma comes from the dining hallβs open windows, somewhere in the council office, more pins are being added to the eastern map, and in the morning, your three horses will leave the gate together for the first time.
You wake up the following morning feeling a bit more tired than usual. You work the muscles on your back and shoulders with your hand before making your way downstairs.
The knock at your door comes right on cue as your clock reads 6am. You open the door to find Joel standing there. Today, he wears a denim button up with a light brown jacket over it.
βMorninβ.β He says as he passes you a mug.
You take the coffee from him and meet his gaze with a soft smile. βHi,β you say, taking in a deep breath of the steam. βThanks.β
Joel nods. You step out of the doorway, gesturing him to come inside for a second. He steps into your entryway, taking a sip from his cup.
βSorry,β you begin to say, grabbing your boots and making your way to the kitchen table to put them on. You sit down, ignoring your muscles as you do. βIβm just a couple minutes behind today.β
βSβalright.β Joel says as he watches you, taking another sip. He looks around at your place. A manilla folder with some papers spilling out of it sits on your coffee table. Several post-it notes are stuck to the pages and a couple pens are scattered around. Some empty cups litter the living room. A few dishes are in the sink. He doesnβt comment on any of it before he looks back over to you.
You bring your hands down on your thighs with a small clap. βOkay,β you say as you stand. βIβm ready.β
Joel studies your face for a fraction of a second as you approach him. You swing your jacket on in one motion. You hadnβt noticed that he had picked up your rifle and pack from the floor but he hands them to you now.
You smile at him again. βThanks.β
Joel hums a reply, expression not quite readable.
You grab your coffee and the both of you make your way to the barn where Marcus waits.
The morning air carries a cool dampness as the three of you gather at the gate with the other patrol groups distributed in small pockets.
A handful of townsfolk cross the street toward the dining hall, coffee mugs warming their hands. Somewhere farther down the road, a horse nickers from the nearby pasture, answered by another. Jackson is beginning to wake.
Magnolia stands patiently beside you while you tighten her cinch one final time. Joel adjusts Phoenixβs saddle with practiced efficiency, too. Done, thereβs no wasted movement, no second guessing. Routine.
Marcus, however, is still checking Smokeβs tack. The older, dappled gray, gelding waits with saintly patience while Marcus inspects every buckle on the saddle. Then, checks them again. He then tugs lightly on the breast collar. He pauses before checking the cinch one more time, running a hand beneath it. He then looks thoughtfully at the stirrups.
Joel watches for a moment before speaking.
Marcus looks over, βHuh?β
Joel gives a small nod toward the saddle.
Marcus blinks, βI just wanted to make sure.β
βYou did.β Joel confirms, his expression isnβt harsh though.
Marcus glances back at Smoke, β...Right.β He drops his hand. Smoke sighs heavily, as though grateful someone had finally intervened. You smile to yourself as you finish inspecting Magnoliaβs bridle.
βNervous?β Joel asks.
Marcus lets out a sheepish laugh. βA little.β
βGood.β Joel watches Marcus before continuing, βYou should be.β
That seems to surprise him. Marcus looks at you quickly, then back at Joel.
You gather Magnoliaβs reins as you look at Joel now.
βNervous means youβre paying attention.β You tell Marcus. His shoulders seem to relax a bit at this.
Joel swings into Phoenixβs saddle with ease, βJust donβt let it slow you down.β
Marcus nods, βGot it.β
You glance toward Smoke, who has already lowered his head in search of a patch of grass.
βHeβll help.β You say.
Marcus follows your gaze, βHe seems... calm.β
βThe calmest horse in the barn.β You say as you reach over to scratch Smokeβs neck. βHe doesnβt care if itβs your first patrol or your five hundredth.β
Marcus smiles. βI think I like him.β Smoke flicks one ear back toward the sound of his voice before returning his full attention back to the grass.
βYou will,β you say, βheβll take care of you.β
Joel looks over, βSo long as you donβt give him a reason not to.β
Marcus nods seriously, now. βI wonβt.β
A few minutes later, the gate groans open. Sunlight spills across the path beyond the walls. Joel nudges Phoenix forward first. You follow. Marcus takes one last glance back toward Jackson before gently asking Smoke to move. The older gelding steps through the gate without hesitation.
Elk Creek begins as a broad game trail winding through gently rolling foothills before narrowing beneath a canopy of lodgepole pines and Douglas fir.
Morning light filters through the branches in scattered patches, turning the forest floor into shifting patterns of gold and shadows. The trail itself is well worn. Not because itβs safe, necessarily, but because itβs dependable. It has good visibility where it matters and thereβs enough cover to stay under the radar. There are several natural overlooks where patrols can stop and listen before pressing on.
Magnolia picks her way confidently over exposed roots. Phoenix walks a few yards ahead, ears turning toward distant birdsong. Smoke settles into the middle without needing much guidance from Marcus. Exactly where an experienced patrol horse belongs.
For a while, no one says much; the woods have a way of encouraging quiet. Marcus gradually stops riding like every movement requires conscious thought. His shoulders ease just a bit and his grip on the reins softens. Instead of staring at Smokeβs ears, he begins looking farther down the trail.
You notice him glancing toward a fresh set of deer tracks crossing the path. Then up into the trees. Then toward one of the small clearings where daylight spills across knee-high grass. Not because heβs distracted but because heβs finally beginning to observe instead of simply ride.
Joel notices too as he occasionally looks over his shoulder.
Without turning around, he asks, βWhat do you see?β
Marcus doesnβt answer immediately. He takes another slow look across the clearing.
βDeer came through not too long ago.β
βCouple hours, maybe?β
You catch Joelβs almost imperceptible nod.
Marcus studies the edge of the tree line, βNo fresh human tracks.β A moment passes before Marcus continues, βthe birds havenβt stopped singing.β
Joel finally looks back over one shoulder, βGood.β
With that one word of approval, Marcus tries very hard not to smile.
You notice anyway and so does Joel. Neither of you says anything as the three horses continue deeper beneath the pines, the trail narrowing once more until the forest quietly closes around them.
The patrols settles into an easy pace. The morning stretches on beneath towering pines, the forest opening and closing around the narrow trail in gentle waves. Several more checkpoints come and go without incident. An old trail blaze still hangs where it should. The footbridge spanning a shallow creek remains sound, though one plank has begun to split along the edge. You take a mental note for the log later.
Marcus has stopped asking questions every five minutes. Not because heβs run out but because he continues to observe and learn. The forest often has its own way of teaching.
Chirps drift through the canopy. A squirrel darts across the trail. Somewhere deeper among the trees, a woodpecker hammers steadily against dead timber. Itβs all normal, exactly what you want to hear.
The trail bends gently around a rocky outcrop before widening into a small clearing where sunbeams pour through an opening in the canopy.
Joelβs horse slows first, not abruptly but just enough. Phoenixβs ears prick forward before he stops.
The signal is immediate. You bring Magnolia to a silent halt. A second later, Marcus pulls on Smokeβs reins and catches himself just before asking why.
Joel points once toward the ground ahead of him. Nothing more. You ease Magnolia forward until youβre standing beside him. You follow the line of his gaze. At first, you donβt see it but then the light catches something dark against the pale dirt.
Old enough to have browned around the edges but fresh enough that rain hasnβt washed it away. Someone has haphazardly kicked loose soil over part of it.
Joelβs eyes sweep the surrounding trees. Yours follow. Neither of you speaks. You simply reach for your rifle; the familiar weight settles naturally into your hands. Joel does the same. Behind you, Marcus remains exactly where he is and Smoke stands quietly beneath him.
Joel glances back once and gives a small gesture that means stay put. Marcus nods, his head bobbing just a fraction.
You and Joel dismount almost together, your boots meeting the earth without a sound.
For several long seconds, nothing moves. The breeze shifts gently through the pines. The birds continue singing.
Joel motions toward the blood. You angle wider, moving slowly through knee-high grass along the edge of the clearing.
Your eyes sweep constantly through the environment around you. Ground, trees, rocks, brush, then ground again. Thatβs when something catches your eye β not blood, but branches.
A pile of dead tree limbs are gathered awkwardly beneath the stand of some younger pines. Itβs too deliberate, too tidy. You look back to Joel who meets your eyes almost instantly. You point silently; his eyes follow your finger towards the discovery. Together, you slowly approach, rifles half-raised, ready to fire at a momentβs notice.
Joel nudges the first branch aside with the barrel of his rifle. Then another. The smell reaches you; itβs faint at first but soon the rot settles in around you.
More branches fall away exposing grayish skin, torn clothes cling to the flesh. An outstretched hand lays palm up. Three infected lie tangled together beneath the brush. Each bears several clean knife wounds. These were done efficiently and purposefully.
Joel crouches down now, his eyes move quickly over the scene.
βNot ours.β He breathes, quiet enough that only you hear.
You nod. Jackson patrols wouldβve logged something like this immediately. Warned the next group. Marked the location.
You kneel beside the nearest body studying the entry point of the knife beneath the jaw. Itβs clean, professional, skilled. Your fingers hover near the wound without touching it. Less than a day old, two at most.
Your eyes drift across the other two infected. One still wears the remains of a faded hiking pack. Another has mud caked along one sleeve. Details, tiny details.
The sort youβve catalogued a thousand times before. Normally, youβd take another minute to study the direction they came from, look for more footprints, ask yourself why someone bothered hiding infected instead of leaving them where they fellβ¦
Instead β your thoughts are broken by Marcusβs hushed voice saying your name. Heβs still waiting on the trail, watching you and Joelβs every movement. Your head lifts automatically before you stand. Joel does the same. You sigh giving Marcus a nod that itβs probably fine to speak now.
βWhat do you see? Was it hunters?β he calls quietly.
βMaybe,β you shrug, looking back towards the bodies again. For the briefest moment, you realize your thoughts have already moved on. Not because you were finished but because someone is waiting for your answer.
βTheyβve been dead less than a couple days.β You say, still trying to scan the area.
Marcus dismounts only after Joel gives a slight nod. He approaches carefully, exactly as heβd been taught. His attention fixes immediately on the knife wounds.
βSo... somebody else was here?β
βLooks that way,β you answer.
βRecently.β You confirm.
βWho?β Marcus asks before kneeling where you had been only moments earlier. Curiosity replaces caution as he studies the scene.
You open your mouth, βI ββ you pause for a second, βdonβt know.β
Another question forms almost immediately.
Thatβs when Joel speaks. βKid, weβre all gettinβ the same information right now.β
βRight.β Marcus says, shaking his head at the questions, knowing there arenβt answers right now.
The three of you spend another several minutes searching the clearing. Joel circles wide through the trees, scanning for additional tracks before returning with a single shake of his head.
βNothinβ fresh.β He mutters.
You nod in response, taking your notebook out before jotting down your assessment.
Blood on trail, concealed with dirt.
Three infected β neutralized β knife wounds.
You finish the notes by writing the approximate location and underlining it before closing the book.
Joel gives the surrounding woods one final look. βWeβre done here.β
Marcus studies the bodies one last time before quietly asking, βWe justβ¦ leave βem?β
Joel nods, βFor now. Weβll send a larger team out to investigate.β
Marcus nods. He doesnβt seem entirely satisfied by the answer, but he accepts it. The three of you return to your horses. Magnolia greets you with a quiet nicker as you approach. You scratch absently beneath her mane before swinging into the saddle. The familiar motion steadies something inside you.
Smoke falls naturally into the middle once more as the patrol resumes. The forest seems unchanged. Wind still stirs the pines. Shadows spill across the trail in scattered patches. Only now, everyone seems to notice it a little more.
Marcus breaks the silence first. βSo...β
He glances over his shoulder at you, βWhen you said the wounds were only a day or two old.β
You look ahead at him, his facial expression sincere.
βHow could you tell?β he asks.
You explain how tissue changes, the scents, and even how insects arrive in stages.
Marcus listens with the same focus heβd given every lesson over the past month. By the time his questions finally slow, the scene is long behind you.
The conversation drifts naturally into something lighter as time passes. Trail markers; how elk migrate through the valley this time of year; which streams stay cold longest into summer. You answer patiently, Joel occasionally interjecting his own replies, too.
Though your mind feels like itβs somewhere else as you speak.
At one point, Marcus asks whether Phoenix has always hated crossing water.
Joel answers with a quiet, βNoβ¦ he just likes makinβ me work for it.β
Marcus smiles, βSo itβs personal?β
Joel deadpans, βEverythingβs personal.β
Marcus laughs at that. Even you smile. The patrol settles once more into comfortable silence. Hours pass that way. Nothing else unusual surfaces before Jacksonβs wall comes into view in the distance.
Magnolia flicks an ear back toward your voiceless sigh. Beside you, Joel glances over, just briefly. Then, without a word, he turns his attention back to the gate.
The three horses ride home together. When you arrive at the gate, you and Joel give your full report. Marcus watches and listens, jotting down notes of his own as you both speak.
Over the years of patrol together, you and Joel had been through some real precarious shit, making todayβs events irrelevant in the grand scheme but for reasons you canβt quite name, today felt just a little heavier than it should.
