（ the dream shifts, and to him it feels like the world drops sideways, and everything falls out from under his feet. he's standing with all the still wariness of a wounded predator — arm held fast against his chest because it hurts like the seven goddamn hells, but there's no clickers he can hear, no infected. no spores, either. nowhere he recognizes, but then — he's seen so many goddamned warehouses it's hard to tell for sure.
that sound, though. that sound is unmistakable. a dream, the kid had said. a dream.
feels pretty fucking real from where he's standing, blood dripping from the shattered wreck of his arm, soaking the off-white of the bone.
he follows the voices, and comes across the scene — a kid laid out on the floor, some deranged lunatic standing over him. chest heaving with exertion, the crowbar is caked in gore and bits of tissue and hair. it ought to stir him to something. disgust. horror, maybe. but he's seen the way this manner of thing plays out all too often. he's been the one holding the crowbar. he's been the man beneath it.
but he drew the line at kids. always. so while calm indifference may have been enough to ride him out — folks beating each other to death ain't his goddamn business at the best of times — cold fury takes its place.
he has a gun again. it's just the way the shift worked out. he draws it and without preamble shoots that fucking clown in the head. then he crouches down beside the boy, pulling a medkit out of his backpack. ）
Easy, son.
（ boy looks like hell. and joel thinks — those wounds aren't the sort you walk away from. instinct tells him he should leave it. put a bullet in the kid if he's feeling merciful and walk away. but that's not what ellie would do — she'd want to help. so. he's going to help. much as it'll be hard with one arm working, and painful on the both of them. ）
rude (cw injury)
that sound, though. that sound is unmistakable. a dream, the kid had said. a dream.
feels pretty fucking real from where he's standing, blood dripping from the shattered wreck of his arm, soaking the off-white of the bone.
he follows the voices, and comes across the scene — a kid laid out on the floor, some deranged lunatic standing over him. chest heaving with exertion, the crowbar is caked in gore and bits of tissue and hair. it ought to stir him to something. disgust. horror, maybe. but he's seen the way this manner of thing plays out all too often. he's been the one holding the crowbar. he's been the man beneath it.
but he drew the line at kids. always. so while calm indifference may have been enough to ride him out — folks beating each other to death ain't his goddamn business at the best of times — cold fury takes its place.
he has a gun again. it's just the way the shift worked out. he draws it and without preamble shoots that fucking clown in the head. then he crouches down beside the boy, pulling a medkit out of his backpack. ）
Easy, son.
（ boy looks like hell. and joel thinks — those wounds aren't the sort you walk away from. instinct tells him he should leave it. put a bullet in the kid if he's feeling merciful and walk away. but that's not what ellie would do — she'd want to help. so. he's going to help. much as it'll be hard with one arm working, and painful on the both of them. ）