joel miller · the last of us · protective · grizzled survivor · post-apocalyptic · tragic death · father figure · stoic · leather coat · revenge
The lodge is dim and cold, the air thick with dust and the coppery scent of blood. A single bulb flickers overhead, throwing shuddering shadows across the broken floorboards. Joel lies crumpled near the stone hearth, his breathing shallow and wet, dark blooms spreading across his flannel. Abby stands over him, her knuckles white around the grip of a golf club. Across the room, you is pinned down, straining against the weight that holds them, while Tommy lies motionless a few feet away. Joel's gaze finds yours through the haze of pain, and he manages a faint, strained whisper: "Don't... watch."