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bastardmandennis · 9 months

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five of joel miller's birthdays

Summary: Five snippets of Joel's birthdays throughout his life.

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: angst, sadness, mentions of blood/death, bad fathers, more sadness, did i mention depression?

A/N: i literally don't know where this came from- i guess i was in an extra emo mood today. anyway i know nothing about the game joel or his backstory, this is just based on my own headcanons about show joel. most of it is made up just for angst fun! this is something kind of different for me so im nervous to post it, pls let me know if you liked it!

For his ninth birthday, all Joel wants more than anything is a day out with his father. He begs, whines, pleads, until finally his dad agrees to take him hunting that weekend. Joel could barely sleep the night before–his dad had never let him go on one of his hunting trips, saying that Joel was too young, that he’d scare all the game away.

His dad shakes him awake early the next morning, before the sun’s even risen, to pile into his pickup and make their way deep into the woods. His dad pulls out a rifle from the bed of the truck, something big and heavy, but when Joel asks if he can hold a gun, his dad just laughs, a cruel little thing. Gives him a pocket knife, says you can hold onto this one–don’t lose it, now. He takes his responsibility more seriously than anything else in his short life. He runs his finger along the edge of the open blade lightly, just to see what would happen. A bead of blood emerges where he dragged the knife, but he just sucks the wound clean and keeps his mouth shut.

It’s kind of boring, sitting behind the trees and waiting for something, anything, to come walking by. He looks up at the trees above them, the way the leaves are just beginning to lose their green tint–any day now they’ll fall off. His father is silent, eyes never settling in one spot for too long, and finally he grunts here, you take this shot. Holds the scope of the rifle up to Joel’s eye–the gun is so much heavier than he expected, digging into him as he tries to balance it on his small shoulder.

Take a deep breath, focus now, his dad says. only pull that trigger when you’re sure. Through the tiny lens of the scope he can see a small gray bunny sitting up in the grass, nose twitching in the air like it can sense the danger it’s in. He shifts the gun again, taking a deep breath, trying to hide his shaky hands. Lines up the bunny’s head within the scope, finger twitching on the trigger, almost there, but then–

Can’t do it, dad, he whispers. He feels his eyes fill with tears and he can’t help the small sniffle that emerges. His dad is silent. Takes the rifle back from him, and quicker than Joel can process, lets a shot ring out into the early morning air. It’s explosive, the acidic smell of the gunpowder and smoke making him hack out a cough. His father drops the rifle next to him and comes back with the bunny in his hand, dead. Joel can’t stop staring at the shattered skull, the trail of blood following his father back to the car, where he’s muttering no son of mine’s gonna be a sissy.

His mother makes rabbit stew for dinner that night. He never asks to go hunting with his father again, and his father never offers.

ii.

For Joel’s sixteenth birthday, he begs his parents to let him have a car. They agree, say sure, as long as you can come up with the money yourself. So he does the dishes for a month without complaint. Sweats outside every other weekend mowing the lawn, watching Tommy ride his bike around the neighborhood with his friends. Goes door to door, asking if anyone has any odd jobs they need help with. Finally, a week before his birthday, he scrapes together enough money–change from the couch cushions, lawn mowing money, old Christmas money, everything he’s worked for–and eagerly presents the envelope full of cash to his parents. His dad just looks at him with a brow raised. What’m I gonna do with that? and Joel says I know exactly which car I want.

It’s a 1967 Ford Mustang Fastback, a black two-door muscle car that just screams badass. He’d found a good deal on one in the for sale section of the newspaper; some old guy looking to get rid of his pride and joy he doesn’t use anymore. It’s in good condition, right under 40,000 miles, engine purring like a dream. Barely drove it, to be honest with ya, the old man tells him. He lets Joel take it for a spin around the block, engine thrumming and rumbling beneath him, wind whipping through his hair. He doesn’t even hesitate when he gets back to where the old man is sitting on the porch watching him in amusement. I’ll take it, he said, and that was that.

The night of his birthday, he decides to take his new car on the backroads, headlights flashing and bouncing down the long dirt road. He feels invincible, untouchable, a flask of whiskey stolen from his dad on the seat next to him, the radio barely drowning out his whoops and hollers of excitement. He takes a sharp turn, then another, loving the way his heart practically beats out of his chest with the excitement of it all. Another quick corner and the flask falls to the ground–he reaches down, takes his eyes off the road for just a second and crunch, there goes the front of the car against a tree.

He’s dazed, head throbbing with the impact and liquor. Crawls his way out of the front seat to look at the damage to the front of the car. It’s totaled, hood crumpled, windshield cracked in half, tires popped. He can’t stop staring at the smoke rising from the engine up into the clear night sky. He walks home in a daze, only realizing once he’s there that the bone of his ankle has gone clear through the skin.

He doesn’t drive for a long time after that.

iii.

He wakes up on his twenty-third birthday to the sound of a baby–his baby–crying. Panic fills his lungs as he sprints out of bed to her room. She’s lying on her back in the crib wailing up a storm, little face practically purple with the force of her cries. He picks her up gently, shushes her, walks around the room with her. There’s an empty bottle in the corner of the crib, but no sign of her mother.

He treads downstairs slowly, hushing Sarah as she whimpers in his arms. The house is empty, eerily quiet, the hum of the refrigerator whirring as he makes his way through the living room. On the kitchen table is a small brown box, nothing special, with his name scrawled in handwriting he’s familiar with. He sinks into a chair, careful not to jostle the now-sleeping Sarah, and opens the box. Inside is a handwritten letter, and a ring he would recognize anywhere–he’s the one that bought it. His heart sinks, breath catching in his throat.

He has to read the letter three times, his hands are shaking so hard. He knocks the box to the floor, ignoring the clink of metal on the kitchen tile. His chest feels tight, like he can’t get a full breath in or out, and instead he focuses on listening to Sarah’s quick little breaths, the way her eyes flutter under her eyelids as she sleeps. He traces a finger over her soft cheek, pushes the tiny ringlets away from her face. Just looks at her, at the way her tiny hand grasps his finger, so small in his arms.

That’s how Tommy finds them later that morning when he bursts in the door with a half-eaten bagel in his mouth, grumbling that he’s been waiting out there for ten minutes, didn’t ya hear me honking?–Joel and Sarah, together at the kitchen table, a wedding ring forgotten on the floor.

iv.

On his thirtieth birthday, he gets a call from his mother, hysterical and blubbering. He can’t make out what she’s saying at first, begs her to take a breath, ma, slow down. She does, just enough to tell him that his father had a heart attack that morning and was taken to the hospital. Tommy calls him five minutes later, saying get up here, it’s not lookin’ good. He gets dressed in a daze, begs the woman next door to watch Sarah just for a little while, and then he’s off.

The antiseptic smell hits him right as he walks in; he wants to cover his mouth, he wants to turn around and leave, but he forces his feet forward. Asks the receptionist in a low voice he doesn’t recognize for his father’s room number. She points him down the hall, flashes him a cute little smile, one he doesn’t bother returning.

His mother and brother hover in the corner of his father’s room, faces pinched. He greets them in a daze, trying to avoid looking at his father’s weak body lying in the bed. The steady whoosh of the breathing machine, the beep…beep…beep of the heart monitor echo in the tiny room. He’s never seen his father this vulnerable–he looks tiny in the massive hospital bed, skinny arms and legs and gaunt face. All he can do is look at him.

Two weeks later, when his mother finally makes the decision to take his father off life support, he goes peacefully, one last rattling breath and then–it’s over. He feels a lightness he hasn’t felt in a long time, maybe in forever. Doesn’t go to the funeral, but feels guilty enough to show up to the wake afterwards. His mother doesn’t mention his absence, but Tommy’s anger is enough for the both of them. As he leaves later that night, she presses something into his hand, curling his fingers around it.

His father’s watch, the one he’d never taken off. Joel rubs his fingers along the rough material of the army green strap, clasps it around his wrist with shaky hands.

He wakes up on his sixty-third birthday to a cold house, much colder than he’s used to. He’s confused for a moment and then remembers where he is–his new house in Jackson. It takes him a minute to get out of bed, ignoring the aching of his bones and the stiffness in his joints. It’s a process just to get dressed, his fingers frozen from the cold and most likely arthritis. By the time he heads out the door, the sun is high in the sky, warming away the morning chill. Plenty of people are out and about this afternoon, scurrying from door to door or just enjoying the late September sun. He stops by Tommy’s, who’s out on patrol, says hello to Maria and the little terrors running around the house.

At the greenhouse, he chats with the young woman working there, sweet-talks her into letting him take a few late-season blooms. Her cheeks are pink when she hands the bundle of flowers to him and he drawls out thank you, darlin’, giving her a quick wink before he slips away. He takes his time walking out to the edge of town–not that he has much of a choice these days. The sun peeks out above the mountains, cutting down on some of the autumn chill that he’s still not used to, even after twenty years in Boston. The weather here is even more unpredictable, icy and -20 one day and sunny and 50s the next. He’s grateful that today seems like a nice day, probably one of the last before winter hits.

He opens the rusted gate, letting it slam shut behind him, not noticing or caring how loud it is. His feet take him down the worn path he knows so well, weaving in between various headstones and memorials. He finds the one he wants, brushing a few leaves away and placing the bouquet of flowers down gently. His knees crack when he kneels down, moisture soaking through the legs of his jeans, but he doesn’t notice.

Sarah Miller, Beloved Daughter, Niece, Friend, the stone reads. There’s a butterfly carved into the upper corner. The stone is a light gray marble, the kind that sparkles subtly when the sunlight hits it just right. He runs his hand over the smooth stone, the sunken letters. Closes his eyes and lets himself feel, for the first time in a long time.

Hey, babygirl, he says. And that’s how he spends the rest of the day, finally with his daughter again.

BONUS:

On what he thinks is his fiftieth birthday, Joel wakes up slowly, in no rush–a luxury now that the world has gone to shit. In the haze before fully waking up, he registers the sounds of someone moving around his kitchen. When he closes his eyes again, he pretends it’s Sarah, making him breakfast just like she did on the last birthday he would ever have with her.

He pulls a worn flannel on and shuffles out to find Tess sprawled out at the kitchen table. The smell of coffee draws him in–if sleep is a luxury now, coffee is practically unheard of. There’s even a small bowl of sugar, and he wonders how many ration cards she gave up for that, too. She gives him a small smile, tells him happy birthday, you old man, and he grumbles and hides his smile behind the top of his mug.

Three days later, when they’re waiting in a safe house outside the QZ, his foot catches on a crumpled piece of paper–a card, worn down and missing one corner. The print is barely legible, but he squints and focuses on reading the front: You still look 21… from a distance! A tiny cartoon man stands in the middle, waving. He ignores the handwritten message on the inside. He snorts and Tess turns to look at him, raises an eyebrow when he nods his head to the card, ignoring the flutter in his chest when her face lights up with a wide grin. She peels it off the floor, this crusty disintegrating piece of paper, says huh, would ya look at that, and shoves it in his back pocket when she thinks he’s not looking.

He thinks about that card, when he’s out of the QZ, long after Tess is gone, and adds not keeping it to his long list of regrets.

masterlist here

#joel miller #the last of us #joel miller fic #character study #? i guess #idk what possessed me but i couldn't stop thinking about how many depressing birthdays joel's probably had in his life #besides his daughter literally dying on his birthday #idk what this is but here you go!#joel wanting to be the father he never had #NO ONE TALK TO ME IM EMO #(jk pls yell about joel with me)#lexi writes things

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