joel miller (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
shittybirthday) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
tushanshu_logs2014-04-18 09:12 pm
shittybirthday) wrote in tushanshu_logs2014-04-18 09:12 pm
Entry tags:
CLOSED
Characters: Joel, Sarah
Date: 17th April
Location: Sarah's treehouse
Situation: Joel finally finding the courage to find Sarah.
Warnings/Rating: A for ANGST ATTACK and M for MASSIVE AMOUNTS OF MANPAIN. (In other words, PG.)
Joel has been here four days. Four days of barely sleeping, barely eating, refusing to leave the suite, keeping a close, paranoid, almost suffocating watch over Ellie. Four days of obsessively stewing over Sarah, trying to come to terms with what Ellie told him, with what Tess has told him, with Tess being fucking alive, with the video he keeps watching on the console when he's certain no one else is around.
Four days. And on the afternoon of that fourth day, he decides: it's time to find Sarah.
He showers; a long, long hot shower, relishing in the wonderful liquid warmth of fresh water warming his aching muscles and bruised skin. Jesus Christ, how he's missed simple things like showering, something he took for granted every day of his life before the infection broke out. Just like he took a lot of things for granted. Like Sarah. He never realised just how much he took her for granted until that night she was taken away from him.
The shower, though, it helps clear his mind a little. The heat, the steam, the wonderful clean scent of fresh soap, being able to scrub his hair with shampoo and conditioner. For the first time in years, he feels clean, actually clean when he steps out, skin red, almost raw from the water's heat. He dries off and dresses: ratty cargo pants that have dirt stains rubbed into them and tear holes ripped into the fabric; a dark blue-grey t-shirt that's equally as tattered with age and wear; his old, worn boots. And with his stomach in squirming, writhing knots, his hands trembling slightly with nervous fear, he shoulders his backpack, pushes his pistol into his waistband and steps outside into the sunshine.
He keeps to the back alleys and the least crowded parts that he can find, glancing with paranoia over his shoulder every now and again, hand ready to grab out his pistol at any moment should he need to. It takes him a while to find his way to the Wood sector but he knows he's in it when he reaches it: the trees and foliage lining the streets and the treehouses built into the trees give it away.
He finds it eventually: WO-3A. The treehouse Sarah lives in. Joel stops outside and stares up at it, his throat tight, his chest even tighter and everything screaming in him to turn and leave as fast as his fucking legs can take him. What is he even going to say to her? What do you say to someone you've been grieving for for twenty years?
Just keep pushing forward, he tells himself. It's what has gotten him through the last twenty years. It's probably the only thing that's going to get him through this. And so, with a deep, shaky breath, he approaches the treehouse and begins to ascend the treehouse to the front door.
He stands there and stares at the door; and again, he almost baulks. Almost turns tail. Almost rushes back down into the street for the garden, ready to double over and empty the contents of his stomach on the grass. Shit, he's not ready for this. He is not fucking ready for this.
He closes his eyes and makes himself suck in another deep breath. Sarah. His daughter. His baby girl. He focuses on the memory of her face and that centres himself enough to find enough courage to lift his hand and knock on the door before he can lose his nerve.
He takes a step back and wipes his sweaty palms on his pants, his heart hammering allegro in his chest.
Date: 17th April
Location: Sarah's treehouse
Situation: Joel finally finding the courage to find Sarah.
Warnings/Rating: A for ANGST ATTACK and M for MASSIVE AMOUNTS OF MANPAIN. (In other words, PG.)
Joel has been here four days. Four days of barely sleeping, barely eating, refusing to leave the suite, keeping a close, paranoid, almost suffocating watch over Ellie. Four days of obsessively stewing over Sarah, trying to come to terms with what Ellie told him, with what Tess has told him, with Tess being fucking alive, with the video he keeps watching on the console when he's certain no one else is around.
Four days. And on the afternoon of that fourth day, he decides: it's time to find Sarah.
He showers; a long, long hot shower, relishing in the wonderful liquid warmth of fresh water warming his aching muscles and bruised skin. Jesus Christ, how he's missed simple things like showering, something he took for granted every day of his life before the infection broke out. Just like he took a lot of things for granted. Like Sarah. He never realised just how much he took her for granted until that night she was taken away from him.
The shower, though, it helps clear his mind a little. The heat, the steam, the wonderful clean scent of fresh soap, being able to scrub his hair with shampoo and conditioner. For the first time in years, he feels clean, actually clean when he steps out, skin red, almost raw from the water's heat. He dries off and dresses: ratty cargo pants that have dirt stains rubbed into them and tear holes ripped into the fabric; a dark blue-grey t-shirt that's equally as tattered with age and wear; his old, worn boots. And with his stomach in squirming, writhing knots, his hands trembling slightly with nervous fear, he shoulders his backpack, pushes his pistol into his waistband and steps outside into the sunshine.
He keeps to the back alleys and the least crowded parts that he can find, glancing with paranoia over his shoulder every now and again, hand ready to grab out his pistol at any moment should he need to. It takes him a while to find his way to the Wood sector but he knows he's in it when he reaches it: the trees and foliage lining the streets and the treehouses built into the trees give it away.
He finds it eventually: WO-3A. The treehouse Sarah lives in. Joel stops outside and stares up at it, his throat tight, his chest even tighter and everything screaming in him to turn and leave as fast as his fucking legs can take him. What is he even going to say to her? What do you say to someone you've been grieving for for twenty years?
Just keep pushing forward, he tells himself. It's what has gotten him through the last twenty years. It's probably the only thing that's going to get him through this. And so, with a deep, shaky breath, he approaches the treehouse and begins to ascend the treehouse to the front door.
He stands there and stares at the door; and again, he almost baulks. Almost turns tail. Almost rushes back down into the street for the garden, ready to double over and empty the contents of his stomach on the grass. Shit, he's not ready for this. He is not fucking ready for this.
He closes his eyes and makes himself suck in another deep breath. Sarah. His daughter. His baby girl. He focuses on the memory of her face and that centres himself enough to find enough courage to lift his hand and knock on the door before he can lose his nerve.
He takes a step back and wipes his sweaty palms on his pants, his heart hammering allegro in his chest.