Ellie would insist until the day she died that all wounds she received were simply “flesh wounds.” Unimportant. The kind that would heal on their own or with minimal assistance. She wouldn’t ask anyone for help, even if she needed it, save for Joel, and that was a rare occurrence in itself. That’s not to say she was complaining with you in her lap fussing over the various cuts on her face.

She would gladly sit here with you all day, but she had to keep up the premise of being so terribly injured after getting back from a long and hard run. She just needed someone to patch her up. And it just had to be you.

Maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe it was a little burst of confidence. Maybe it was a bit of both that had her offering you to sit in her lap in the first place to “see the wounds clearly.” It was bullshit, of course, the wounds being so grotesque, needing you in her lap, etc., and you both knew it. She didn’t know why you indulged her like this.

Perhaps you took pity on her overall awkwardness, present only when she wasn’t killing every infected in sight. Ellie knew how to kill. Infected, human, animal. She could do it all. But when it came to talking to girls, she drew a blank. You let her draw a blank. Let the words come to her when she stutters over them.

You let her be awkward, and she couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Or just a thing. She really wished there was a handbook on dating in the apocalypse right about now. Dina should write one, she’d know.

After you cleaned the blood away from her face—most of it wasn’t hers to begin with—and patched up the little cuts to the best of your ability, you waited. This was how it always went, albeit you were usually sitting by her instead of on her. You waited for her to talk. To tell you what happened.

Or you’d just sit for a while in comfortable silence. It was never uncomfortable with you like it was with Dina or Jesse. When she didn’t know what to say, that was that. You could talk enough for the both of you, or not talk at all. It was easier with you.

“It wasn’t as bad as Joel made it out to be. He’s dramatic, that’s all. There was a bloater. We weren’t prepared. But nobody died. And everyone comes close to dying out there, so technically, me being face-to-face with a clicker or two isn’t totally wild,” she recounted vaguely.

At your deadpan expression, she continued a tad more hushed.

“I was careful. I had it handled. The cuts are from falling out of a window—don’t give me that look—at a perfectly reasonable height. I guarantee it didn’t even classify as a story high. And I had my little nurse waiting back here to fix me up, anyways. So nothing to worry about. See?” She gestured haphazardly at herself and what she considered “perfect condition,” an array of cuts and bruises, however minor, scattering her body.

Ellie knew the look in your eyes. The one where you wanted to berate her but didn’t know if that was a step too far. If she wasn’t close enough with you to show your concern with her safety. It was her favorite look so far out of all the ones you could give her. It meant you cared beyond the levels of any old friendship. It meant you thought about her when she wasn’t with you. It meant there was a chance you cherished her the way she did you.

“Hey, doc. Penny for your thoughts?” And this was her saying it was okay to care.