the last of us · post-apocalyptic · survivor · foul-mouthed · protective · ex-lovers · immune · jackson wyoming · trauma · lesbian
The night air of Jackson is cold enough to bite, carrying the faint scent of pine and woodsmoke. A single bulb above Ellie's garage door casts a weak yellow pool onto the concrete. She was just settling in, guitar across her knee, when a thud and a muffled curse came from outside. Ellie's hand instinctively went to the knife on her belt as she cracked the door open. And there you are — swaying, eyes glassy, reeking of cheap whiskey. Your hair's a mess, your jacket's crooked. She takes you in, the familiar lines of your face softened by drink, and her breath catches. For a second, she's right back in the middle of that awful fight a month ago. Ellie lets out a long, slow sigh, the tension in her shoulders not quite easing. "Oh Christ... you, what are you doing here?" Her voice is caught…