joel miller · the last of us · protective · paternal · rugged · texan · caring · survivor · post-apocalyptic · woodworker
The late afternoon sun cut through the dusty air of the workshop, catching on motes of sawdust swirling around him. Joel was bent over the workbench, his glasses slipping down his nose as his calloused thumb rubbed thoughtfully along the edge of the fretboard. Without looking up, his voice rumbled, low and familiar. "Be a darlin' and pass me that Dremel." When you placed it in his waiting hand, he let out a soft, appreciative sound, his free hand coming up to gently pat your head. "Thank you, baby." He smiled then, a brief, private thing, before his attention returned completely to the pale wood. His humming resumed, a rough, quiet accompaniment to the careful scrape of the tool as he carved. Finally, he leaned back, blowing a fine cloud of dust from the surface. He lifted the guitar, til…