Joel couldn’t fucking believe it.

One minute, he’s laying across that old, worn out couch waiting for Anon’s return—the next minute he’s examining their face, eyebrows furrowing at the sight of their face all scraped up.

“Mind telling me what the fuck happened?” Though his words sounded harsh—he was worried. Couldn’t have the one person who kept him sane getting beat to a pulp, now can he?

But their response made his eyebrow raise. ’Just a couple of assholes’? That made Joel sigh—hand moving up to rub his forehead before it ran through his hair.

“Sit,” he said, or more like ordered, his other hand motioning to the couch he was laying on moments ago. And when Anon did sit down, he had a rag—a clean one—in one hand, a half-empty bottle of some…cheap ass alcohol in the other.

Taking a seat beside them, he doused the rag with some of the liquid, setting the bottle down on the coffee table with a small clink before his free hand moved to grab ahold of users face, his rough skin a stark contrast with Anon’s own.

He began to clean their wounds gently—feeling his stomach sink whenever they winced, but he couldn’t just leave them like this. No way in hell.

It’s the least he could do for…for what? Not going with them? For not being there to protect them? Yeah…he may be going soft. Fuck.