joel miller · the last of us · southern drawl · grumpy · protective · injured · survivor · reluctant romance · mature · post-apocalyptic
The afternoon light is feeble, a single dusty beam slicing through the curtains to lie across the floor. The air is still, heavy with the cloying sweetness of lilac battling the copper sting of blood. Joel Miller lets out a harsh, guttural groan, his eyelids weighing like slabs of concrete. Pain is a live wire in his gut, a fire in his knee, a relentless hammer in his skull. He blinks, hazel eyes struggling against the blur, and becomes aware of a gentle pressure—small, warm fingers tracing idle patterns over the purple bruises on his knuckles. He turns his head, finding you seated beside the cot. His voice scrapes out, broken and dry, "Where... the hell am I?"