Chapter Text
The cabin finally appears through the thicket of the bushes and countless trees that make up the Wyoming forests you have come to deeply appreciate and call home over the countless hours you have traversed them. Your horse urges on, either by you subconsciously giving it a nudge to get there just a little faster, or maybe because she is done with the day as well.
It is unusual for you to be here, you reckon.
Not this far out, no.
An overnight patrol shift isn't uncommon to secure the further border of Jackson's territory. To check on the cabins that are always stocked up with a little food and weapons and gear, just as the council has decreed a long time ago. Just in case of an emergency.
Not with Tommy, either.
You are inseparable. Annoyingly so at times. Ever since you stumbled into Jackson, half-starved and full of suspicion, he has taken you under his wing. And then a shine to you, bugging you until you relented and agreed on a date, only to find out that you actually liked him. It wasn't long before you received a new job assignment, and it wasn't surprising that your main patrol partner had turned out to be none other than Tommy. 'Just a coincidence, I'm sure' he had said back then, trying, and failing, to look innocent about being involved in that decision. He put a ring on your finger three years ago, and keeps making sure that it's been the best decision of your life every single day.
Or with Joel.
Ever since he stumbled into Jackson, half-starved and just as full of suspicion, you have grown closer to the man, too. Him being Tommy's long-lost brother, it was inevitable for you to spend a lot of time together. Family dinners. Social events. Listening to him complain about whatever shit his little brother was stirring up because there isn't much else to do but to make up for lost time. Patrols, too. He fairly early said that he likes going on them with you since you don't yap as much as Tommy. On the Joel-Miller-Scale, that might as well have been a proposal.
It is, however, unusual that you are here with both of them.
Tommy is riding in the front, his head swiveling back and forth, scanning the perimeter. His carefree whistling left behind about a mile ago. Sure, the cabin is standing on your lands. But it isn't checked on that often, and who knows who or what is lurking around.
There has been a report of a small herd. Or rather, signs of it. Maybe that's why you have been tasked to come along. Or as a buffer to their usual bickering. You always fell right into the role of mediator when their hotheadedness came to light.
Joel rides next to you, half-deaf ear to your side. Always to your side when on patrol. It is a safety precaution, something he does without even thinking about. It makes conversation a little harder, but you appreciate it nonetheless. You know how fiercely protective he is. A family trait.
One time, you tried to ride on the other side. Kept moving back when he switched you around. Often enough that he snapped at you to stay where you are. It wasn't until a few days later that he came to your house to apologize and explain his behavior. He was always hiding his partial deafness. Had gotten good enough at it that you hadn't noticed, either. Ever since then you make it a point to accommodate him.
Both men start to tense up the closer you are to your destination. Seeing them in action by themselves is always something to be in awe off. Seeing them operate together could be downright terrifying.
You know what they have done in their lives. You don't judge them for it. It was survival. Your fingers are not clean, either. And they wouldn't be here otherwise. Which makes you think of a question you still can't answer. How would your life look like if Joel had lived in Jackson, and not Tommy? A train of thought you better leave at the station, you figure, as your eyes flicker over to Joel. His strong jaw. His muscular shoulders and arms. The fabric of his sleeves distractingly snug.
You sigh. No, pondering that never does you any good. You have one Miller wrapped around your finger, and vice versa. No need to be greedy for another. There are few enough eligible bachelors in Jackson as is, and the single women there are all still drooling over the salt and peppered Texan that arrived about two years ago — and refused them all. Many tears were shed over that. Many bribes offered to you in those first few months, asking for an invitation to family dinner with him. You had indulged one of them, heavily encouraged by Tommy, only to realize he had asked you to invite your guest just to see Joel squirm under her attention. That had been a fun discussion once you'd been alone again.
Holding up a hand, Tommy signals you to dismount and hide the horses close-by so you can approach in silence.
They dismount and get their preferred weapon of choice. Tommy with his rifle and Joel with his shotgun. It is a lethal combination. Your trusted pistols don't have that certain kaboom factor, but you are a good enough shot with a calm enough head to still be useful.
Closing the distance to the cabin is a familiar dance you all know the steps of. Perimeter check. Double-check. Checking the windows. Any potential tracks checked. Checking the chimney for smoke. Opening the lock and checking the insides for any inhabitants. Lots of checking.
Once the last "clear" echoes through the cabin, you allow yourself some more checking. Of the 'out' variety. Joel is currently lifting the saddle from his horse that you have just brought to their little paddock next to the house. His flannel shifting with the movements of his back and shoulders. You lick your lips, wondering what was hiding beneath.
Not wanting to get caught you go inside, acting like you haven't just pictured your beloved's brother drenched in sweat, shirtless, splitting wood. The guilt doesn't wait for long to follow. It always makes you feel awful, these unbidden thoughts that pop up without warning. You love Tommy. Truly. So why did they not disappear?
The man in question is busy warming some food up for you all to eat. It is already getting dark outside, and you all missed dinnertime.
You saunter over to him, check to make sure that you are still clear of any extra sets of eyes, and smack him on his rear. He snorts, turns to you with a big grin, and says "Careful there, Sugar. Don't dish what ya can't take. Though I wouldn't mind a little massage after all the ridin' we've done today."
"Sure, want me to kiss it while I'm at it?"
"A true artist always signs their work, don't they?"
"God, Tommy, you're so full of shit," Joel's voice announces that he has caught that little philosophical conversation in all of its glory.
"You're just jealous," Tommy chirps back, a smile on his face you can't quite place. Like he knows something you don't.
"Of having a face like yours that comes with that? No, thanks."
"We're related, dumbass. Means you got most of my face, too. Though I still doubt that, with how much prettier I am than you."
Seeing how this was not going to end well — or at all — you decide to step in before it escalated to them not talking to each other for the rest of the patrol. Again. More for your sake than theirs, but no one needs to know that, right?
"Guys. Enough. You're both pretty, handsome, and pretty handsome, so can we eat now, please?" you are pleading as you turn to each of them. Tommy looks like the cat that ate the canary while Joel .. blushes? No, that must have been a trick of the light.
Two serious "Yes, Ma'am," follow suit to your request.
After a nice meal of warmed up leftovers that you brought along for everyone, you volunteer to do the dishes. Joel has carried a bucket of water inside from the stream close to the cabin, and is now standing next to you, drying the bowls and cutlery as you hand them over. A companionable silence fills the room.
The sound of paper being shuffled disturbs the peace as Tommy flips to the next page in the book he found. He is sprawled across the worn out couch, lounging about, trying to pass the time. Unsuccessfully, it seems. "This is a shit book, damn."
"Why, not enough pictures for ya?" Joel casually replies, a small teasing smile on his face.
You swat his arm. It makes the smile only wider. And your knees weaker.
"I told you two to behave," you admonish them. Hopeful that they'll listen, knowing that they rarely do when they get bored. Not when they are relaxed and feeling safe enough that they could express themselves like this without being judged, or the pressure to uphold whatever social standing their place in the community demanded of them.
Judging it a fair punishment, you leave the last bowl and pan for Joel to clean, and make your way to the couch. Picking up the current occupant's legs one by one and tossing them towards the floor, you make yourself some space and sit down at the far end of it.
"You could've jus' asked," he states, putting the book on the side-table. He sits upright and scoots over, sneaking his arm along the backrest of the couch to pull you closer and wrap it around your shoulder.
You swat it away. "I'm still mad at you."
"Seriously?"
"Yes, seriously."
"What did he do now?" Joel asks, gladly embracing the chance to pile up on his little brother, who is currently busy rolling his eyes.
"He ate the last chocolate bar."
Joel, standing in the open kitchenette, his hands busy drying the pan, stops to stare mildly shocked at the criminal offender. "Wow. That's a whole new level of stupid, Tommy. That shit was a dick move even Before."
Waving his arms frustratingly through the air, Tommy tries to defend himself with, "You don't even like that brand. You always say it's way too caramelly. As if that could be a thing. Too much caramel. It's lunacy."
A meek defense. In times of hormone-induces crisis, chocolate was chocolate. You cross your arms, pouting. Just to make him feel bad a little more.
Nodding to you, Joel points out, "Don't think that's gonna hold up in court there, partner."
Tommy sighs, his shoulders slumping. Then, he perks up. Practically catapulting off the couch, he turns to you, a giddy look on his face, "I think I got just the thing. Maybe. No promises." He couldn't have been more cryptic if he tried. He vanishes in the tiny hallway leading to the two bedrooms and the bathroom.
With the dishes done, dried, and put away, Joel makes his way to the small living room area, taking a seat in the recliner that has probably seen better days even long before the world has ended.
"What do you think he's up to now?" you ask him.
"Whatever it is, it ain't no good. Always a safe assumption."
You share a look, and laugh. His eyes catch yours, full of warmth and an intensity that makes you falter and look away.
There is some ruckus coming from one of the rooms. Something heavy scraping over the wooden floor makes your face scrunch up. That was definitely going to leave a scratch.
You and Joel pay close attention from where you're sitting, until Tommy's victorious "A-HA!" announces that his quest was a success.
There is more noise from the same something being moved back into its original place, most likely the bed or a dresser.
Tommy appears in the doorway, his hands behind his back. "Found it. Emergency stash."
A few quick strides carry him to you. He sits back down on the couch, still turned towards you so that you can't see what he is concealing.
"That better be a chocolate bar," you comment, dryly. Joel is observing the scene unfold before him with a little smirk.
"Better," Tommy proclaims.
"Two chocolate bars?"
"Better!"
You gasp dramatically, placing a hand on your chest as you play along. "Three chocolate bars?!"
He faux-frowns. "Not that much better."
Too excited to draw this out any longer, he reveals his treasure.
His hands are cradling an unsealed, very fancy and therefore expensive looking bottle of whiskey. "Ta-Da!"
A soft "damn" escapes you. It's been a while since you've had the real stuff. Seth has taken up brewing, but it is questionable how safe for human consumption his concoctions are. The first (dozen) batches of vodka had gone straight to the clinic. To be used for sterilization.
Joel whistles lowly, and holds his hand out towards the bottle, inspecting it after Tommy hands it over.
The three of you share an excited look. Tommy quickly gets up again to check for glasses in the tiny kitchen, but comes up almost empty. All of them are either gone or grimy, except for two. He ignores the bucket of water that could change that, and you don't mind. Not like anyone could catch cooties from sharing a glass. Plus, you would have caught those years ago from Tommy if that was a thing.
The glasses are held out to Joel — who has already opened up the bottle and found its content satisfactory enough to let out a pleased hum when he took a whiff — and fills them with two fingers of amber liquid each.
Joel takes one, while Tommy hands you the other. "A peace offering", he calls it. And you accept, letting him sit down close enough next to you that your thighs are pressed together while his arm finally finds its favorite place: around you. You lean into him a little, more out of habit than anything, and feel Joel's eyes on you again. When you look over, he has them fixed on his glass. Must have been your imagination.
You are a little surprised that Tommy doesn't just take a swig out of the bottle. Instead, he is watching you contently, awaiting your reaction. And approval. He is always like that. Eager to please. Needs it like he needs air to breathe, at least when it comes to you.
"Cheers," Joel says, holding up his glass towards you.
"Cheers," you reply, mimicking the motion.
A small sip is all you dare at first. And it's a good idea. The liquid burns heavily as you swallow it down after savoring it for a bit. It leaves a taste of berry fruit, hazelnut chocolate, and — god damn it, caramel — in your mouth.
"Good?" Tommy asks with a big, expectant smile on his face.
"Mhm," you hum and lie a little. It is good. But it could be better. Without that sweet awfulness in it.
"Lemma try," he whispers and instead of taking the glass you immediately hold towards him, his hand moves past it, up to your face. He cups your face and kisses you, his tongue swiping at your lips to beg entry to your mouth. Your eyes flutter shut, and you open it for him a little more. He eagerly pushes forward, swiping his tongue over yours, before pulling backwards.
"Yeah, that is delicious," he hums as a cheeky grin crosses his face, his irises just a little more black than before. "What d'ya think, Joel?"
His brother, who you realize with a little mortification has been present when that little burlesque show happened, says roughly, "Guess it is."
Tommy has never been this forward with his affection for you in front of Joel. It has always felt more like he was deliberately holding back. Sure, a hug, slinging his arms around your shoulders or hips, maybe even a quick peck were fair game. But this brazen? Never.
Then, Joel takes a sip. His first one you realize as he hums appreciatively, his eyes closing, letting the flavor spread in his mouth. He swallows, your eyes closely following the movement of his Adam's apple.
You snap out of your short-lived trance and hold the glass towards Tommy again.
"Nah, but go on ahead. Gotta go an' take first watch, anyway," he explains, declining your offer, slowly removing himself from you and the couch to stand up.
"You sure? And do we really need watch shifts? We haven't seen other people in these parts for months."
"Better safe 'n'sorry," Joel concurs. Not with you, that is.
"If it was only me an' him, I'd say fuck it. But I ain't gonna risk anythin' bad happenin' to you, sweetheart. Joel an' I will handle everythin'." Then, he turns to his brother. "You better take good care of her while I'm gone."
Joel narrows his eyes, a silent conversation you are not privy to taking place between them. It ends with him nodding, and Tommy leaning down to you. He gives you another torturously slow kiss, then whispers, "You go an' have fun, yeah?" before placing another one on the top of your head.
"Already on it," you answer, shaking your glass a little, swirling its content around for emphasis.
He gives you a look like he wants to say something, then decides against it. Grabbing his jacket on and rifle leaning against the couch, he steps outside and closes the door behind him.
You hear the little porch creak as he settles on the old bench next to the door you saw before you entered the cabin by from the sounds of it.
"I'm surprised you didn't spit it out," Joel ponders.
You demonstratively take another sip. Bigger this time.
"Spitters are quitters," you shoot back, your mouth faster than your brain. You feel your cheeks heat up with embarrassment. That sure was a thing to say to your brother-in-law.
"That so?" he asks with a dark timbre, his eyes flickering to your mouth for the briefest of moments.
Trying to steer the conversation away from that mental imagine, you force yourself to look at him and not the spot between his legs or in front of his chair as you inquire, "Why did you think I'd spit it out? That would be an absolute waste of whiskey."
"'s got a pretty strong caramel note in it, 's'all."
You can't help the warm smile that you give him, shaking your head in disbelieve. That is Joel, alright. Always paying attention, even to the small details. Especially the small details.
Making yourself more comfortable on the couch, you swirl the drink in your glass, taking your time with it, same as Joel. Everything about this situation — the quiet, the relaxed atmosphere, the feeling of utter safety — makes you beg the question again if your life would look like this if it had been him in Jackson, not Tommy. Yet again, you push the thought aside.
You can't be attracted to Joel like this. Or rather, shouldn't, since you clearly can. This little crush has only gotten worse with each passing month and year.
The two of you start talking. It is so easy, the conversation flowing like there is not an ounce of heaviness on either of your shoulders. Like the past was easy to leave where it is, not encumbering with its shackles and mangled, poorly healed-over scars.
Joel is still sitting in his recliner, but as the story he was currently telling continues, he inches forward until he is completely facing you, leaning in with one forearm resting on his thigh. "—actually went for it, full-speed, and just," Joel gestures with his hand, slicing the air for emphasis making a whooshing noise, "ran straight into a police patrol."
Laughter bubbles out of you as you throw your head back. You don't know how much time has passed and frankly, you don't care. It's been a while since you have been this relaxed, especially out on patrol. And Tommy did tell you to have fun. So you have dared to ask for another finger of whiskey, the first two coursing through your system. The second glass is almost empty again, a pleasant warmth spreading through your stomach, making everything lighter.
"No way!"
"Yes, way. The lil' shit got lucky that they just finished their shift and didn't want to bother with the paperwork. Otherwise, they would've booked him." Joel's smile dimples both of his cheeks. "Spent a long time tellin' him that he wasn't even worth the paper. Good times."
You take another sip as he talks, finishing the last dregs of your liquor, just as he makes you laugh again with that. A costly mistake. The alcohol burns as it goes down the wrong pipe. As little as it is, it shouldn't burn like this, but wouldn't you know it, it sure as shit does.
Hacking around, you lean forward and dip your head, your hand splayed over your chest while you force your rapidly tearing-up eyes shut, the droplets falling over your cheeks.
The couch dips next to you. A steady hand starts rubbing your back. "Easy there, darlin'. Easy," he soothes, voice as careful as his movements before his hand falls away.
Once you stop wheezing, you slowly right yourself up again, one last hiccuping cough escaping you as you do, staring severely ahead. "I take it back. That whiskey isn't good. It's evil," you croak.
You can feel Joel's chuckle more than you can hear it. His shoulder is touching yours, moving as he chortles. When did he get this close?
Turning to him, you see that his attention is already fully on you, a heavy, contemplative expression replacing the jovial one once he quiets. Then, something changes, a look of determination crossing his face.
"You're something else, y'know that?" he asks quietly. His hand reaches up to your face, slowly wiping one of the tears away with his thumb that your little choking act has summoned, making your breath hitch. He does not move it away after, but instead, cradles your cheek.
"Joel," you breathe out, not sure what to say, your heart jack-rabbiting in your chest. This can't be happening. Tommy is outside. Just outside. Right there. "Tommy.."
He gives you an understanding smile. "'s alright. He's fine with it," he says, his thumb gently swiping over your cheek, keeping your head in a perpetual reboot-sequence.
It takes you a moment to regain the ability to speak.
"What?"
Not to form coherent sentences, apparently.
"Said he's fine with it." Joel looks completely at ease and content just existing in this very moment.
You open your mouth, but the thousand questions you have are whirling through your head like a tornado, making it impossible to properly grasp even one of them. Sputtering out the first thing that you can latch onto, you ask, "You talked about this?"
He hums an affirmative reply, his eyes flickering to your mouth before going back to gazing at you with a deep affection that you realize has always been there, just hidden beneath the surface. Your heart squeezes tightly upon the moment of clarity.
When he finally decides to have mercy on your short-circuiting mind by moving his hand away from your cheek, it is not to abandon your touch. Instead, he moves his knuckles over to your other cheek, gently wiping away the tears that were drying there, too, before tenderly holding your chin with his finger and thumb, turning you to fully look at him.
"Yeah. A while back."
You swallow, hard. Prepare yourself for the big question that screams over all the other ones. "What is it, Joel?"
A four-figure-whiskey tasting session that got a little too touchy to be Platonic? That would be oddly specific.
"Whatever you want it t'be. Can be just this," he rasps, his thumb brushing over your lips as he stares at them. "Or that." He pushes his thigh against yours, letting his hand fall into his lap, your gaze automatically following it. To the very obvious physical reaction he has between his legs.
Because of you. Because he wants you. Has wanted you for a while, your mind very unhelpfully quips up. It only worsens the delicate constitution you are drowning in.
"Can be anythin' between this an' that. Can be nothin' at all, too. Ain't gonna be any hard feelins. Whatever ya want, darlin', is gonna be it. Though…" he starts, unsure about something, his eyes drifting between yours as you lift your gaze back to his face, observing you closely. "Can I be honest?"
Anything you want, is that it? Is this a test? A prank?
You timidly nod and he says, tensing like he is bracing for something, his Texan drawl getting thicker and thicker, "I'll gladly take anythin' y're willing t'give me. Even if it's jus' a kiss. Even if it's jus' a lil' peck. But... I think ya want me, too. We both do. 's why I'm offerin'."
They both think that? As in Joel and Tommy?
Suddenly, the puzzle pieces start to fall into place.
The "better take good care of her".
The demand.
The "You go an' have fun, yeah?".
The permission.
The time you walked Tommy to the stable for his patrol shift and found Esther there, flirting, yet again, with a 'very uninterested but too-polite to say it' Joel. How Tommy had nudged you, a knowing smile on his face, claiming that you had some competition. You had thought it was about being the world's worst flirt.
But it hadn't been about that, has it?
All the other times lately. The little comments. Knowing looks. Little encouragements you thought were Tommy spurring you on to get through to Joel even more, who is a notorious shut-in, and great at shutting people out while he was at it.
All this time. Tommy knew. And he does not mind?
It can't be true. It is too good to be true. It's the alcohol. It's a fever dream. It's not real. Maybe you were bitten and this is the fungus giving you a last hurrah? That seems more plausible.
"No," is all you can muster, meek as a mouse as you stare at your twitching fingers. You don't even know what you're saying no to.
He turns his body fully towards you at that, taking your fidgeting hands in one of his, electricity shooting up your arms on his touch. "Look at me."
Drawing your lips into a thin line, you shake your head.
"Please," he murmurs. You've never been able to say no to any of his requests, have you? Not that he ever asked for help, the too-proud, stubborn oaf.
Slowly, you raise your eyes, letting them trail over his hand, his wrist, up along his arms until you finally meet his. They are achingly full of adoration and want. It makes your stomach coil.
"Now, say that again, 'n I might actually believe ya," he chastises you, but there is no ounce of malice in his voice. Just a desire for the truth.
You open your mouth. To stand your ground. To not give in and drown in the well of his tenderness. To not lose yourself in his lips. But no sound comes out, your body winning the battle over your mind. Or was it your heart winning? What a terrifying thought.
Joel squeezes your trembling hands with his, then takes his free one to cradle your face again. Tilts your head a little. He leans in, slowly, giving you every chance to stop him. To bolt. To scream bloody murder.
You don't.
Too busy drowning in his eyes.
Seeing the little gold speckles around his irises you've never noticed before.
Smelling the whiskey on his breath, suddenly not minding the soft caramel note all that much.
Craving it, in fact.
Craving him.
He nudges your nose with his, touches your forehead with his. Your eyes flutter shut, a little fragile sound escaping you.
"Ain't gotta be nothin'," he almost inaudibly confesses into the
infinitesimal, monolithic space between your lips and shared breaths. "Ain't gotta mean nothin'. But, Christ— I hope it is. 'n I hope it does."
Unable to bear this torture any longer — the two years of steadily simmering and suffocating craving shattering your last inhibitions — you close the cosmic distance, crashing your mouth into his.