#ppcu fluff

Quiet moments out on the road meant that Joel was planning your next move or that all three of you were gathering energy for whatever horror was to come next. There was no space for leisure or relaxation in that quiet, even if there were rare moments of levity dappled into the shadows of survival. Here, though, in Jackson, you were both learning to let the quiet in.

Joel pushed his thumb into your ankle a little harder, just enough to pull you out of your reverie. Those memories were a dangerous path that you both had trodden too many times; He could see the spiral starting in your expression even before you knew it was there. When you lifted your eyes to meet his gaze, he smiled, sliding the bookmark Ellie had drawn for him as a Christmas gift into place. (Holidays were another thing that Jackson had given back to the three of you.) You let your eyes get drawn to the sketch of the astronaut floating over something that vaguely resembled the moon. I’m reading a book about anti-gravity. It’s impossible to put down!

“Got something to show you, if you’re amenable.” He said after setting the book down carefully on the fraying arm of the couch. His voice was rich and low, thick with an emotion you couldn’t quite place. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, his eyes seeking something in yours. If you didn’t know any better, you might have said that Joel Miller was nervous.

You couldn’t hold back your own soft smile, swinging one leg off of Joel’s lap in an attempt to sit up. He held onto your other ankle for a moment, tracing idle circles into your flesh with his thumb before realizing his error and releasing you.

You sat up and bookmarked your own novel. Well Read Mother Clucker is what yours said, with a drawing of what you supposed must be yourself as a chicken. “I suppose I’m amenable.” You answered, nudging his shoulder as you stretched to loosen your taught muscles.

He huffed, fond smile still crooked on his lips, and stood.

“You stay right here and close those pretty eyes. Give me a minute.” He commanded. He pushed himself up with an audible complaint from his knees, a soft grunt marking the effort in the motion that he had hidden from you for so long before Jackson. You bit back your giggle, letting him believe that the sound blended in with the staccato crackles from the wood in the fireplace.

With your eyes closed, you tried to map Joel’s path through the room. You could hear his footsteps leading away towards the kitchen, the board next to the dining table groaning in protest. He didn’t say it, but you could already hear his grumble. Gotta fix that come springtime. That was a new thing in Jackson as well, planning for the future in this one place. Building a home. The thought brought a warmth to your chest that distracted you from his next movements.

Firelight danced behind your eyelids, and you let yourself sink back into the couch, shifting into the pocket of warmth Joel had abandoned as you heard him open a cabinet door. It creaked only slightly – the China cabinet perhaps? You wondered if he had finally listened to your complaints about chipped plates and managed to loot something whole to eat off of. Or maybe he’d managed to find another bag of stale coffee out there somewhere to replenish your dwindling supply. Practicalities that felt like luxuries.

Joel didn’t leave you waiting long. You followed the path of his footsteps back to you, tilting your head towards him even with your eyes closed. He leaned in and pressed a soft, warm kiss against your forehead, reaching out to cup your cheek before straightening again and placing something on the coffee table in front of you with a heavy clunk. The plates then?

“You can open.” He said, sinking into the seat you had abandoned in pursuit of his warmth. “It’s not much, but…”

You weren’t sure if he trailed off or if your brain simply stopped processing sound as you opened your eyes to reveal a small red crock speckled with white and black spots. There was a clumsy ribbon tied out of strips of sun-bleached red fabric from God-knows-where around it, but inside. Delicate, carefully crafted roses were arranged in an explosion of natural wood tones. If it weren’t for the colors, they would have appeared lifelike, almost. You reached out, carefully stroking one of the petals. It was nearly translucent, but undoubtably wood. He had made them.

When you looked over at him it was through watery eyes. He was watching you, expression impassive, betrayed only by the slightest quirk at the edge of his mouth.

“You made these?” You asked, breathless.

“’s hard to get fresh flowers in February up here.” He explained with a shrug, like that explained it. Like it hadn’t taken hours of painstaking labor to shave each individual petal out of wood that he had cut down and prepared with his own hands. Like he hadn’t filled your heart to bursting.

He opened his arms and you slid into his lap, throwing your arms around his shoulders and squeezing tight, like he might try to get away. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest as you rained kisses across his face, one large hand finding your hip and resting there, the other finding your chin to pull you in and kiss you properly. It was a slow kiss, soft and reverent, like he wanted to memorize the press of your lips against his, the soft sigh you let out against his mouth, the way your body relaxed into the warmth of him.

“They’re beautiful, Joel, they’re everything.” You whispered finally, dropping your head down to rest against his strong shoulder.

“They’re alright.” He deflected, cradling you against his chest, “Next Valentine’s Day, I’ll get you something nicer.”

It struck you then, the date. Another thing that Jackson had given back to you was a calendar to go by. You hadn’t gotten used to tracking the days as the passed yet, more focused on the weather than a number. But of course Joel would notice, especially after he saw what Christmas had done for you and for Ellie. Valentine’s Day here, after the end of the world.

It’s been mere hours since you sweet-talked Frankie down the obnoxious red and white aisles of a CVS pharmacy, promising you’d take care of him so long as he got his flu shot this year. He’d agreed for the reason he always did: He can’t say no to you. But more, he did you one better and got his other boosters too, just to make you smile. That was his downfall.

“I’m gonna get you that other Gatorade out of the fridge, baby.” You say softly, pushing gently against his pectoral to signal that he should let you up. His first response is an incoherent grumble, a tightening of his arms around you, pressing your cheek into the soft fabric of his t-shirt. “Not thirsty.” He lies, despite the sticky sheen of sweat across his brow and the dry drag of his tongue through his mouth. In truth, he feels like he can’t remember the last time he had something to drink. He’s spent days in the desert feeling more hydrated than this. More alert, too, for that matter.

You aren’t so easily convinced, those lips he so loves pulling downward into a disapproving frown. You dodge him as he leans in to kiss it away. “Francisco…” He loves the way you say his name, except for when you’re saying it with that expression. That expression means that it’s a warning, an admonishment. He releases you reluctantly, a chill wracking his sore form at the loss of your touch. The blanket you supply him in your absence is a slim comfort. He closes his eyes as you step away, resting his head back against the arm of the couch.

You’re only gone a moment, long enough to grab a bottle from the fridge, but when you return he struggles to open them again. His vision is blurry when it settles on your sympathetic pout – another expression he would like to kiss away. You don’t give him the chance, pressing the cold bottle into his hand with strict instructions.

“Drink.” Your voice is soft, caring but still you leave no room for argument.

“One kiss?” He tries anyway, already cracking the lid off his drink like he knows what your answer will be. And he does. You press your lips together to suppress a smile, shaking your head at his stubborn obsession with your mouth. “I’m not really sick.” He reminds you, in earnest, as if that’s the issue. Just in case.

“Drink.” You repeat, lifting a hand to push his sweat-slick curls back off his forehead. He obeys this time, draining the bottle in six long swallows. It’s too sweet, his body so desperate for the electrolytes that the salt doesn’t even register on his tongue. He’s still thirsty, but would never admit it. It doesn’t matter when you take the empty, leaving to put it in the recycling and returning with a glass of plain water.

This time he reaches for the drink himself, his shoulders relaxing in relief as he swallows. A coaster makes it down beneath the glass just before he sets it down, his eyes already on you again, with no regard for the nice wood of the furniture. He pulls you into his lap, settling you over the soft fabric of the blanket. He should be lying down with his body aches, you both know that, but he doesn’t care right now. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, closing his eyes as he wraps his arms around you and inhales your comforting scent.

“One kiss.” You agree finally, lips curling into a soft smile at the way his head immediately shoots up. You shift in his lap, laughing as he crowds you his forehead warm where he rests it against yours. “And then you rest.” He kisses you slowly, reverently, one hand resting heavy on your shoulder as he resists the urge to pull you in and open you up. He wonders if this ache in his bones is from illness or from the strength of wanting, from the way your presence tugs at him, makes him desperate to keep you close. You’re so gentle with him as you pull away, pressing sweet lingering kisses to his cheeks, to his nose, to his eyelids. It makes his heart squeeze painfully in his chest, the way you love him. As if he deserved it. As if he didn’t need to deserve it.