He's already turned back towards the barn door, attention fixed on the floodlights outside instead of the conversation behind him. Glances down-- stupidly-- to check his time on a stopwatch he doesn't even have. Pulls back from the broken frame of the one he's had on for twenty years.
There's something about the shape of his back turned to her, dark against the light of the yard, that makes her suddenly anxious. She steadies herself off Bubble's shoulder and calls after him: "Joel?"
The horse is warm at her back, alive and shifting. She can feel the prickle of its coat, the coarse hair of Bubbles's mane tickling the back of her neck just over the collar of her sweatshirt, the front of which is plastered with a school logo she doesn't recognize and won't ever know. Ellie threads her fingers together in front of her and picks at her knuckles. It's mostly quiet but even now she can make out the hum of water churning nearby if she listens.
"Thanks," she says. In this instance, she's pretty sure she means it.
By appearances alone, it doesn't win her much. When he half-turns to stare back at her from over his shoulder his expression is still listless and worn thin. But then he jerks his head to the side, mutters in a quiet tone that matches her own: "C'mon."
It's a long walk back; no point in doing it alone.
She nods. With a shirt farewell pat to the horse's shoulder, Ellie pushes off and falls in half a step behind him. She tucks her hands in the front pocket of her sweatshirt and keeps her head bowed as she goes, but follows him. Because where else would she go anyway?
It goes on for that like a while. Whether he wants to say anything or not, finding the right words are too hard when he's already spent about as much effort as he's got in him to give. A pack of bandits got shot down a few days ago, dropped a nice load of supplies-- even a few packets of pain medication. He'd turned down the offer of taking them (for a man his age he's as fit as a horse, figures someone else might need the things more) but Maria's a sharp one; she dropped them off anyway.
And the image of those packets settled down at the edge of the kitchen counter is stuck firmly in the forefront of his mind for the majority of their walk home.
"--He tries to hold your hand?" Joel asks abruptly, when they're crossing into the heart of the neighborhood closest to his house. Maybe pills aren't the only thing on his mind.
The streets are mostly empty, though occasionally she can make out the distant shape of figures on the edge of floodlights as they make their way from their homes to the wall or back - coming in or off rotation. There's something strangely insulated about the streets and the dark shapes of the trees hazy out there beyond the perimeter. It's never fully dark and she's not sure how she feels about it.
The question's not what she expects to break the silence between them and Ellie scoffs involuntarily. Beyond that it takes her a moment to scrape her words together: "Yeah. His palm's all sweaty. I don't know. He's not my type."
"Good." Is all she gets in response for a few more beats while Joel stuffs his hands down into what constitutes for pockets-- too thin, too small-- stitched in the sides of his running shorts. Good. Last thing either of them need is a boy coming into the picture. Especially a stupid one.
He was a stupid one.
"...you have a type." Less statement, more question.
"Well, yeah. I mean who doesn't, right?" Which is all she really plans to say on the matter until the silence that follows seems to mean he might want the point elaborated or something. Which wow, awkward. Ellie shoves her hands deeper in the pocket of her sweatshirt and stares at the pavement just in front of her feet.
She shrugs. "I don't know, that Williamson kid isn't bad. He kind of looks like a kicked puppy." And is like five years older than her, but she's pretty much banking on the fact that Joel probably doesn't know one not-quite-teenage-anymore boy from the next. "And can't hit jackshit with a gun from like ten yards away either. It's kind of sad."
"Seriously?" Joel angles his head towards her, brows down flat and low over his eyes. He doesn't like the idea of it, but he wouldn't like the idea regardless of the sort of boys she was into: they're still boys.
"Well you know, him and that old dude with like two fingers chopped off his right hand. Hot." She mimes the missing two fingers and waggles her eyebrows at the remaining three. Deal with it, Joel.
He grunts. Rolls his eyes and shuffles off across the lawn towards their house. "Take the old geezer - he's at least good for somethin'." No lock, no real need for it. Joel fiddles with the handle, butts his shoulder against the door to pop it open for her.
"How about this: if I take either of them, I swear you'll be the first to know." It's all easy sarcasm with the definite air that she's not gunning for either in a particular hurry. Ellie shoulders past him, sliding through the gap of the door into the stale air of the hallway and--
Electricity. Man there is nothing like it, and no amount of time spent here will ever change how he feels about that. Door shut and seen to in the warm flicker of restored electric lamplight, Joel makes a b-line for the pill packets scattered at the edge of the counter, downs them with a bottle of chilled water from the fridge. Sometimes it all seems absurd, enjoying comforts he hasn't known in years but--
Dwelling on it too long isn't gonna help anyone. Tommy did a good job. Fine, he can admit that.
"Go on, scoot. You should've been in bed hours ago." Damn teenagers.
She lingers for a moment in the lit hall. The electricity is something, yeah, but the house is still the product of twenty years worth of deglect with only the barest kind of care from the two of them. The peeling wallpaper's mostly been pulled down, so that's something. All the photos have been taken down, floors and windows cleaned, most of the claustrophobic smell aired out but--
There's something weird about Joel standing over the kitchen counter. And she could let it go, not poke - just get her butt upstairs and into bed. Because he's right. She probably should've been there hours ago. But. "Hey, your side's okay right?" Because she doesn't know how to ask if anything else is okay. "Your guts aren't going to go bleh" --she illustrates the noise by motioning with both hands from her belly toward the floor-- "Are they?"
"They will when you get a boyfriend." He snorts just before going after the rest of his water. Like if he drinks enough it'll wash the salt off his skin.
The bottle's empty on the counter before he moves over to give her a jab with his elbow, nudging her off towards the stairs. Slips in a sincere answer while he's busy teasing at her. "I'm good, Ellie. Ain't like I fell on it again"
"Oh ha ha." Ellie rebuffs his jab by twisting away from the lazy elbow throw, but to his credit she does catch the stair railing and pull herself up the first few steps. She pauses though, knuckles knocking back and forth on the bannister, and turns back-- opens her mouth, wrinkles her nose and rethinks whatever it was that had been threatening to creep out past her teeth:
Her hands pop up in a faux sort of surrender; she ducks her head very slightly. "Okay, okay. I'm going. Jeez." And then turns, clambering up the stairs to the second floor landing and out of sight.
Once she's gone he kicks off his shoes. Spends a while brushing off his arms, the edges of his beard, the dry itch biting away at the top of his scalp. It's been a long day. The thought of settling down to put something on doesn't appeal as much as dragging his tired ass up to bed-- and he does, though he stops off at Ellie's room along the way. Lingers there to hear if she's still up and about or hunkered down under the covers.
Lucky then that the door isn't entirely closed anyway - old habits; she likes to give herself the room to peer through the crack, to hear anyone who might be coming up the stairs. A door can always be closed in a hurry, but opening one quietly is more of a challenge. There's a light on in the room, though she is in bed with the old blankets pulled up around her waist and a pillow stuffed behind her shoulders. Her chin is set low, a book propped open on her chest.
It's settled, as comfortable and quiet as she's likely to get.
He figures as much, but there's a short rap of his knuckles against the bedroom door before its nudged open enough for him to peer inside. The words 'it's past your bedtime' nearly slip out at the sight of the book settled just over the covers. He bites down on them to keep things civil.
The book flops forward, catching against her chin and covering her mouth. She's in bed; what more is he gonna ask of her? She doesn't doubt that he wants to say something - because when is Joel not itching to have an opinion -, but she lets is lay. It's a rare, unpicked battle.
"G'night Joel," she mumbles into the yellowed pages of the book.
There's a lengthy moment of silence as his fingertips fiddle with the hem of his shirt. His lips thin out, he glances half towards the door, doubles back, sighs out a short, useless breath. It's a stupid notion, wanting something more than a half-assed resolution to their earlier argument. The whole thing's done and gone and buried and he ought to just shuffle over to bed.
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"I'm headin' home."
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"Thanks," she says. In this instance, she's pretty sure she means it.
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It's a long walk back; no point in doing it alone.
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And the image of those packets settled down at the edge of the kitchen counter is stuck firmly in the forefront of his mind for the majority of their walk home.
"--He tries to hold your hand?" Joel asks abruptly, when they're crossing into the heart of the neighborhood closest to his house. Maybe pills aren't the only thing on his mind.
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The question's not what she expects to break the silence between them and Ellie scoffs involuntarily. Beyond that it takes her a moment to scrape her words together: "Yeah. His palm's all sweaty. I don't know. He's not my type."
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He was a stupid one.
"...you have a type." Less statement, more question.
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She shrugs. "I don't know, that Williamson kid isn't bad. He kind of looks like a kicked puppy." And is like five years older than her, but she's pretty much banking on the fact that Joel probably doesn't know one not-quite-teenage-anymore boy from the next. "And can't hit jackshit with a gun from like ten yards away either. It's kind of sad."
Really adorably sad.
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Kicked puppy is her type.
"Seriously?" Joel angles his head towards her, brows down flat and low over his eyes. He doesn't like the idea of it, but he wouldn't like the idea regardless of the sort of boys she was into: they're still boys.
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--flicks the light switch.
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Electricity. Man there is nothing like it, and no amount of time spent here will ever change how he feels about that. Door shut and seen to in the warm flicker of restored electric lamplight, Joel makes a b-line for the pill packets scattered at the edge of the counter, downs them with a bottle of chilled water from the fridge. Sometimes it all seems absurd, enjoying comforts he hasn't known in years but--
Dwelling on it too long isn't gonna help anyone. Tommy did a good job. Fine, he can admit that.
"Go on, scoot. You should've been in bed hours ago." Damn teenagers.
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There's something weird about Joel standing over the kitchen counter. And she could let it go, not poke - just get her butt upstairs and into bed. Because he's right. She probably should've been there hours ago. But. "Hey, your side's okay right?" Because she doesn't know how to ask if anything else is okay. "Your guts aren't going to go bleh" --she illustrates the noise by motioning with both hands from her belly toward the floor-- "Are they?"
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The bottle's empty on the counter before he moves over to give her a jab with his elbow, nudging her off towards the stairs. Slips in a sincere answer while he's busy teasing at her. "I'm good, Ellie. Ain't like I fell on it again"
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"But seriously though, you look weird in shorts."
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Once she's gone he kicks off his shoes. Spends a while brushing off his arms, the edges of his beard, the dry itch biting away at the top of his scalp. It's been a long day. The thought of settling down to put something on doesn't appeal as much as dragging his tired ass up to bed-- and he does, though he stops off at Ellie's room along the way. Lingers there to hear if she's still up and about or hunkered down under the covers.
Knocking just isn't his style.
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It's settled, as comfortable and quiet as she's likely to get.
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They fussed at each other enough today already.
"I'm turnin' in for the night, kiddo."
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"G'night Joel," she mumbles into the yellowed pages of the book.
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"--You need to sleep."
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