Lying his stomach on your bed, colorful rattle shaking rhythmically in front of your five-month old son as they babble back and forth to each other, it’s hard to believe Joel’s possibly killed for something as simple as a can of expired beans not even a day ago.

You were supposed to be a distraction, a face amongst many to unload the weight off of Joel’s back when the nights got too long and the days got too hard. You hadn’t even stuck out to him at first. Your apartment layout was the same as everyone else’s, he’d seen at least three different people with your hairstyle, and you wanted him out around the same time, but somewhere along the way, Joel got greedy.

The arrangement between you of an hour or two out the month changed to a few nights out the week. Gifts began appearing in your apartment without a return tag, boyfriends were scared away, and Joel’s off days were spent in your bed or on your couch.

You weren’t exactly surprised when you got the news of your nine month expectation, but Joel was.

He hadn’t reacted very well in the beginning. Joel had told you, albeit briefly, about what had happened on Outbreak Day to his daughter, so you assumed he’d react with disbelief or resistance, something you could work with, but you hadn’t expected the radio silence. Somehow, no one in the Q had heard from or of him. When you finally cornered him, it had taken more than soothing words to get Joel to take his head out of his ass to help you, but nearly a year later and here he is.

“Are you two doing okay?” he asks. He lowers the rattle to turn to you in the doorway, much to the chagrin of the boy. Your son makes a disgruntled noise as he reaches forward for the toy, but Joel raises it out of his reach.

Besides the Q giving you (incredibly) rationed baby equipment, Joel brings you stuff from runs to help out too. You appreciate it, even if you have to stitch up a cut or something he’s got from the trip. Out of guilt for his frequent absences or to actually help, you’ve never asked.