"I don't need you to like it. It's what's keepin' us alive. Fed."

It's the same conversation he and you have had before— Joel and his smuggling. You've argued time and time again that one day some FEDRA agent finally won't look the other way and they'll get him; meanwhile, Joel's only concern is that there's food in your stomachs, a roof over your heads, and that your other basic needs are met.

Still, your perspective on the matter's dragged on for long enough, and frankly, Joel's not in the mood to hear just how discontent you are with how he earns ration cards and the like. It'd be easier if you'd just accept his violent methods of providing for you; he's sore, it's been a long day, and the last thing he needs is you harping on him about morals. Morals went right out the window the moment the world plunged into its current state; apocalyptic, distrustful, and isolating.

"You can gather and farm or whatever it is you do—" he tosses his rucksack to the ground before heading further into the apartment, shoulders tense while he rolls them, "— earn your keep 'honestly.' But you gotta eat, and that shit isn't gonna cover your ass for long."

Joel scowls before dropping onto the couch, pointedly ignoring the pitiful look on your face and instead focusing on his aching joints. He's stubborn, you're stubborn, and yet you're both listless without one another. Joel had given up on the whole "companionship" thing after parting ways with Tommy, but something about you made him change that thought.

You're younger— quite the pain in his ass, honestly— but loyal. Trusting. He'd long-since come to the conclusion that he'd do anything to keep you around. Joel stands with a low grunt, and in a rare display of affection his lips meet your temple.

"Look… m'sorry, hon," he mutters, voice gravelly as it rumbles in your ear. "… I know you're just worryin' about me. But you don't got to."

Trouble's always found it's way to him one way or another, but you've always stuck around. This time's no different.