#jo!

Who gave him the right to be that pretty

joooo!! oh you know me so well honey. AH I love this one! let's get some angst in here, hm? <3

I'm picturing... some big broad qz!joel, dead inside, violent, tired, half-drunk at most hours he's not working and full-on in the rest. you don't know if you've ever spent time with him when he's totally sober. you just know that whatever this is, it's worked so far. no warning, no scheduling, but undeniably regular: joel miller's angry fist on the other side of your decrepit front door in the middle of the night, looking for release. never more than twice in a week and never anything but desperate - always depraved, filthy. always in the dark. always after eleven.

then someone gets caught smuggling goods in and out of the qz and can't make the bribe, so FEDRA makes an example of them. the second you hear, you ask whoever's closest and seems to know who will hang.

it's probably best not to interrogate the cool flood of relief that spills through you when they do not say his name.

that night, though joel has already shown up twice this week, you wake after midnight to thundered, desperate knocking. he stumbles in, bottle hanging empty from his limp arm - so far past drunk he moves like he's infected. stumbling, hungry. reaching for you clumsily, tongue sloppy on your neck, reeking of misery and whatever toxic shit he's been drinking.

he's way too drunk to have sex. practically too drunk to stand. after a fair bit of bargaining, you manage to shove him into your bed. he goes down hard and the second he hits the mattress, joel's body slumps long and slack, already half asleep. you kneel at the foot of the bed to rip his boots off, then crawl up beside him, careful to leave a barrier of space between your bodies because you've never done this. never wanted or needed to deny him. never spent this much time with your clothes all on. his eyes are already closed, brow furrowed, lips parted.

you've never seen what he looks like when he sleeps.

when you wake next it's only a few hours later - the sky's a black bruise outside your creaky window and you've sunk against the man in your bed in your sleep. your chest to his back, one arm crushed by his against his chest, your unconscious mind thought to hold him, and joel's thought to let you.

he's snoring. a wheezing sound. muttering lowly of some dream that has nothing to do with the world of the living. his face softened and jaw relaxed, so much prettier than you've ever seen him look before. you expect, when you choose not to pull yourself from the heat of his body and let your eyes fall closed, that he will be gone when you get up with the sun.

except he isn't gone in the morning; he's still passed out cold in your arms, in your bed. too shocked to move or think of what to do, you lie there holding him like you hold your breath. cautiously. a little scared.

waiting for whatever hell he'll wreck when he wakes and realizes his mistake.

I am here wife user jordiemeow...