(Part 1)Walking Dead Fanfic: "You'll Never See The End of the Road (While You're Traveling With Me)"
Title: You'll Never See The End of the Road (While You're Traveling With Me)
Fandom: The Walking Dead (TV)
Characters: Daryl/Glenn, Ensemble
Rating: R for language and walker violence
Word Count: 15,526
Summary: Daryl and Glenn are trying to find their places in this new world, both riddled with doubt as to how they fit in. A survivalist's camp in the hills may provide some safety, but safety is relative in the apocalypse. Post Season Two.
Notes: Written for smallfandombang. I have much thanks to give, so bear with me. First and foremost many thanks to SFB's mod spikedluv for organizing this awesome challenge. I can't imagine the work that goes into this. You're awesome! Thank you also to my fabulous artist katiemariie and my wonderful fanmixer gryphon2k, both of whom produced amazing work. (That's Katie's banner at the top, there!) I also need to thank my awesome persnickett, who encouraged me and shook her pom-poms during the writing of this story. And lastly, thank you to Neil Finn and Crowded House, whose song "Don't Dream It's over" provided much of the inspiration for this story.
You'll Never See the End of the Road
(While You're Travelling With Me)
By Severina
Prologue
It's been weeks since they left the farm, weeks since Rick stood by the side of the road and told them that they're all infected. Threw that bombshell in their faces and then another and then another, left them all reeling with the shock of it all.
Daryl turns on his side, restless even though he knows T's on watch. The nights are turning colder, the wind snaking down through the cracks in the plaster, and he tells himself that's why he shivers, why he tugs his jacket tighter around his middle. Nothing to do with the increased presence of the walkers, with knowing that this is the last night that they dare spend in the run-down appliance store where they've been holed up for the past week. The thought of the geeks breaking through their barricaded windows has his entire body taut, his ears straining for the telltale sound of their moans, the rustle of shuffling feet through the long grass. But he hears only the wind, the creak of the roof as T-Dog paces back and forth.
Daryl forces his shoulders to relax, glances over at the window. By the thin slice of moonlight that penetrates through the boards, he figures that T has another hour to go. Then he'll be relieved by Maggie. Four hours tops until the rest of the group rises, gathers what meager possessions they've managed to salvage. Hits the road in search of some place easier to defend; more remote, with stronger walls and better sight lines. Some place that probably doesn't exist, except in Rick's imagination.
He should sleep.
But thinking of Maggie leads directly to thinking about Glenn. And once his mind goes there, he's never sure whether to shut it down completely or just let himself dream. He tells himself that thinking about the kid can't hurt; that in a world where he's got nothing and no one, indulging in a little late-night fantasy isn't so bad. But then he wakes up to a new day, to Glenn holding Maggie's hand, to Maggie leaning her head on Glenn's shoulder, and the loss punches through his gut, takes the wind out of him, even though he never really had Glenn to lose at all.
Daryl scowls, flops over onto his back and shields his eyes with his forearm. Four hours. He can get through four hours.
When the sun first shines through the cracks in the boarded windows, he's still awake. Still alone.
I - Storage Lockers
The office area was cramped and grungy before the end of the world, is now even more so with ten people crowded practically shoulder to shoulder into the space. The room reeks of unwashed bodies, of personal hygiene long neglected. It's been a while since they found a place with running water, and the bottled stuff is too precious to waste on scrubbing away the dirt and grime of weeks on the road. It's gotten to the point where most of them don't even notice the smell anymore, same way they don't notice the ever-present stench of the walking dead.
Daryl shifts at his place at the window, scans past the debris-strewn concrete to the fence surrounding the yard. They'd piled the detritus of the storage lockers against it, hoping for some added stability. Old sofas and mismatched particle board tables are crammed next to heirloom pieces that would've fetched thousands back before the world went to shit.
He edges a little closer to the glass, ducks his head to peer through the dirty window. Seeing past all the crap they've piled up can be a pain in the ass, but he's almost certain the crowd of walkers on the other side of the fence is getting larger. More aggressive, too - snarling and snapping at the frost wire, the weight of their combined bodies making the fence rattle and shake.
"I'm not even sure where it is," Carol says from behind him. "I don't even know if I could find it!"
Daryl lets the slats of the blinds fall back into place, turns at the fretful tones of Carol's voice.
"Go through it again, one more time," Rick says, crouching down in front of her, showing a lot more patience than Daryl would have been able to muster under the circumstances. "Start from the beginning."
Carol twists her hands together. Glances once at Lori, who rubs absently at her stomach and nods back encouragingly.
"It was one of those survival camps," she says. "Up in the hills. The kind where men go and pretend there's been a nuclear war or some kind of natural disaster and they're the last ones standing. Ed used to go there sometimes, on the weekends. I think all he really did there was drink beer and get into trouble with his… his cronies."
"And he was taking you there when you got caught in the traffic jam outside Atlanta," Rick prompts.
Carol shakes her head, looks down at her fingers twining over and over. "He wanted to. He said we'd be safe there. But I have… had… family in Atlanta. A cousin. We weren't close, but I convinced Ed that we should try to get to her. I really just didn't want to be alone with… with the kind of men that Ed associated with on those weekends. I didn't trust them. I wasn't sure I trusted them with my little girl."
When she raises her head to meet his eyes, Daryl swallows and looks away.
It's not like he doesn't know what it's like to get beaten down day after day, reminded that you're worthless even when you're doing your damn best. He respects the hell out of the woman for rising above her circumstances once the piece of shit she married got taken out. But he doesn't need reminders of Ed, reminders of just what kind of asshole that man was.
He saw the way Ed looked at Sophia. He knows it wasn't just the other men at the camp that Carol feared.
He pushes memories of the little girl aside, concentrates on the here and now. His gaze flits past T-Dog, leaning against the wall; past Carl and Beth, sitting on the counter and swinging their legs back and forth in unsuspected rhythm. Comes to rest on Glenn, perched on one of the rickety grey folding chairs, leaning forward with his hands clasped between his knees, his own gaze intent on Carol and Rick.
His eyes narrow, taking in the way Glenn's shirt hangs loosely on his thin frame, the dark circles under his eyes. Glenn's been looking haggard of late, more than to be expected from the stress of living life on the run. Hasn't been spending as much time with Maggie, either, but the two of them have been running hot and cold since they first met. Probably just in the midst of another one of their fights. They ought to be thankful that this time she doesn't have any eggs to waste by busting them on the kid's head.
He huffs out a breath, deliberately doesn't look at Maggie. Seeing her just serves to remind him of what he doesn't have, and that she's wasting a hell of a lot more than eggs, and all the things he'd do if Glenn was his. And that line of thinking only leads to more of them, images that aren't never gonna come true, until they're all swirling around in his brain and there's no way to turn them off.
"You passed the turn-off on the way, though?" Lori asks, and Daryl drags his eyes away from Glenn, turns his attention back to the discussion.
Carol's still watching him, but her eyes flick over to Lori when the other woman speaks.
"Yes," she answers. "Ed said that it led to an old logging road."
"Okay," Rick says. "That's good."
"But I'm not sure where!" Carol cries. She smoothes her palms on her trousers before her fingers return to twitching together in her lap. "I can't lead you there! I don't want that responsibility, Rick. What if I get us lost, what if I lead us right into another herd of walkers, what if-"
"Ain't no point in worrying about what ifs," T-Dog says. "Supplies are running low here. We gotta move somewhere else."
"But-"
"No one's expecting you to be superwoman," Lori says. "And if you can't find it, no one's going to hold you accountable, Carol. Just do your best."
"If there's even a shot of finding that camp, we've gotta take it," Maggie puts in.
When Hershel's arm comes to rest on her shoulder, Carol nods reluctantly.
"Something else we gotta think about, "T-Dog adds, straightening. "We even gonna consider what happens if we get there and they don't let us in?"
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Rick answers.
When the conversation devolves into chatter about timeframes and best routes, Daryl gestures toward the long narrow corridor that leads to the inner storage lockers, waits until Rick follows him into the dim stillness. "What do you think?" he asks.
Rick scrubs a hand over the greying stubble on his chin, and Daryl is struck anew at how much older the man has grown to look over the past few months, since the fall of the Greene farm. "I don't know," Rick answers. "She's hazy on the particulars. I don't know if she'll be able to lead us there."
"Whether she can or she can't, we got to shit or get off the pot," he says. "We got more geeks gatherin' at the gate every day, and them fences ain't gonna hold."
"You know this area pretty well. Do you know the logging road she's talking about?"
Daryl sniffs. He's not going to deny that it's nice knowing that his skills are valued - that he is valued -- but sometimes Rick gives him credit for knowing a lot more than he actually does. "Hell, there's dozens of old logging rods crisscrossing through the back country. Game trails and private drives, too. Could be any of 'em."
"Shit," Rick murmurs.
"Whatever happens, we gotta lay in more supplies before we get too far away from civilization. What we got ain't gonna last more than a couple of days at the outmost. Once we're out in the woods, we ain't gonna be able to just stroll out and hit a 7-Eleven."
"Not that there's any more stores to hit," Rick says.
Daryl leans against the dirty wall, his own hand travelling to his scrubby beard, considering. They'd had to venture further afield than ever before on the last supply run, and then only to find a Walgreens with an old Subaru crashed through the oversized plate glass. Most of the stock inside had been picked over, the rest destroyed when previous winds and rain had lashed through the shattered window. Daryl had cursed the driver of the damn car profusely before putting an arrow through his rotted skull.
They'd been subsisting mostly on vending machine food since then, augmented only by what little game - usually squirrels - he could find in the near vicinity. The lack of proper nutrition is getting to them all. Daryl knows that sometimes he loses his focus; is more quick to snap at someone instead of just biting his tongue and letting the irritation flow off his back. He doesn't even want to think about what it's like for Lori, trying to get by on stale Doritos and warm Snapple with a baby growing inside her.
When he meets Rick's eyes, he knows his friend's mind has also turned to Lori. Turned inward, unfocused.
Daryl figures he'll probably never know what really happened in that field with Shane. But he knows what Lori was doing with the man before Rick showed up at the quarry. And he might not have been all that great in arithmetic at school but he can sure as hell count back from the time Lori announced her pregnancy and figure out that the numbers sure as fuck don't add up in Rick's favour.
Not that there's a goddamn thing they can do about that now. Lori's having a baby, and she needs proper food. Her and the rest of his people.
"We could send out a small crew," he starts.
Rick glances up, and Daryl swears he can actually see it when the man comes back to himself. Takes charge. Becomes their leader once again.
"Tomorrow," Rick says. "You, Glenn, and T. If you go over the back fence you should be able to make it through without attracting too many walkers, then circle around and grab the Hyundai. Hit the houses on the west side of town, we haven't gone through many of them yet."
Daryl nods. "All right."
"We'll leave for the mountain camp day after tomorrow."
II - Suburban Street
"What do you think?" Daryl asks.
Glenn hesitates with his hand resting lightly on the door handle, chews his lip as he considers the question. Daryl can feel the pressure of the day weighing on his shoulders, the need to move and move now making his leg twitch, but he stays quiet, lets Glenn think. Behind them in the back seat, T-Dog swivels to watch their six; in the rearview mirror Daryl can see the stiff line of his spine, shoulders tense. The feeling of being exposed and vulnerable never really goes away when they're out in the open, not for any of them.
Daryl keeps his own eyes fixed on the street in front of them. His gaze flits between the large houses with their overgrown lots and wildflowers run rampant to the broad avenue scattered with parked cars. It's one of the more affluent neighbourhoods they've come across; probably was the kind of place where investment bankers and attorneys lived, commuting back and forth twice a day to and from their high-powered jobs in Atlanta. In his pre-apocalypse life, the only time Daryl himself ever saw houses like these was when he got called out to get rid of a family of possums or raccoons that dared to take up residence in one of those manicured backyards.
He wonders if Glenn ever got called to deliver pizza out here.
"Got two coming in from the side street," T announces.
Daryl flicks his gaze to Glenn, who nods.
"Okay," Glenn says. "We leave the car here. Make our way on foot to that ranch house at the end of the block. We start there and make our way back. Drop off whatever we've found, then go down to the other end of the street and do the same. Quick and easy."
They exit the car in unison, T-Dog tossing two of the duffel bags to Glenn over the top of the vehicle. As they move warily down the street, Daryl swings the crossbow into position, keeps his finger on the edge of the trigger guard.
"It's quiet," T says.
"Thank God for small favours," Daryl replies. He edges out from behind the rear bumper of a pristine SUV; glances inside the driver's side window as he passes, on the off chance that the owner was in such a rush to get inside when the dead rose that he left his keys in the ignition.
Glenn meet his eyes from the other side of the car, inclines his head toward the vehicle. "Can we take it?"
"No keys."
"Damnit," Glenn mutters.
When Glenn glances over his shoulder, Daryl half-turns to follow his gaze. The two walkers that T spotted are still stumbling through the crosswalk half a block away, oblivious to their presence. He side-glances the kid, takes note of the way Glenn's eyes leave the walkers to flick nervously from house to house, the goosebumps on his skin despite the heat.
"What is it?"
Glenn lifts a shoulder. "What T said," he replies. "It's quiet. Where's all the geeks?"
"What the fuck are you two waiting for?" T-Dog hisses.
Daryl looks up to see that T's already crab-walked halfway to the next house. He's opening his mouth to reply when all hell breaks loose.
The first walker stumbles from behind the shoulder-high hedge that separates two properties, staggering into view only inches from T-Dog.
Daryl doesn't think. He raises the crossbow to his shoulder just as the geek is bending its head to T's arm. He has time to see T start to move, to see T's eyes go wide, to know that even if the other man ducks or dodges he's not going to be able to get out of the way fast enough. Then the arrow is flying, embedding itself into the walker's head seconds before the thing's teeth fasten on the meat of T-Dog's bicep. The walker sags against him, one arm reaching out seemingly to scrabble at his sleeve even in death, and T does an awkward shuffle-dance to push the thing away before looking up, eyes still wide with shock.
"How many times you gonna make me save your sorry ass?" Daryl calls out.
"As many as it takes, man," T replies, grinning. Then he blinks, smile dropping away as though it never existed in the first place. "Shit."
Daryl looks over his shoulder.
The walkers spill from the walkways between the houses, a mass of putrefying flesh, stumbling and staggering against each other in their haste to reach the street. Daryl swings his crossbow onto his back, slides his knife from the sheath at his belt. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Glenn pull his machete from his backpack; he spins in place, trying in vain to keep all the geeks in sight.
The first one to reach them used to be a man, still clad in a decaying business suit. Daryl buries the knife in his skull, yanks the weapon out before the thing has even stopped its forward motion and is already whirling toward the next, a woman with long stringy hair, one eye dangling on mangled tendons and flopping grotesquely on her sunken cheek. Daryl thrusts with his knife, the sharp blade sliding like butter through the empty socket; shoves her falling body back and into two more geeks who are trying to reach past her to get to him, knocking them down like pins in a bowling alley.
"There's too many," Glenn shouts.
Daryl risks a glance toward the others. There are dead walkers strewn on the sidewalk, testament to the skills they've all honed in the last month. But there are more coming, continuing to shuffle from the backyards on both sides of the street, their eager moans echoing up and down the block.
He meets Glenn's eyes, nods once.
"T! Move!" he yells as she sprints past the other man, sees T-Dog stab his fireplace poker through the skull of one of the geeks before skip-stepping away from the reaching claws of another. Daryl skids, spins to bury his knife into yet another rotting skull, hesitates only long enough to ensure that T-Dog has wrestled through the mass of moldering bodies and is hard at their heels.
They run.
III - House
Daryl flings a leg over the arm of the overstuffed chair, glances up from where he's been cleaning the grime out of his nails with the tip of his knife. "They still out there?"
Glenn lets the curtain fall back, leans his hip against the second-floor window sill. "They're starting to drift off. I signaled over to T. We should be able to make a run back to the car soon."
Daryl grunts noncommittally, slides his knife back into its sheath and glances around the room. Framed photos of a smiling couple on the dresser, the open door of the walk-in closet showing him suits and dresses hanging neatly pressed, shoes lined up on standing shelves. Thick russet duvet cover and a mound of pillows.
He can't even remember what it's like to sleep on a real bed.
"Where's all the geeks?" he mutters. "Jeeeeeeeeeesus, ain't you ever heard of jinxing people?"
He looks across the room when Glenn snorts out a laugh. "Yes, Daryl. This is clearly all my fault."
He feels his lips twitching, and for once doesn't exactly feel the need to hide it. He pulls himself into a sitting position on the chair, feels the smile devolve into a grimace when he sees the smear of dirt and grime his leg has left behind on the pristine cream-coloured material.
"Anyway," Glenn says into the silence, "I thought you didn't believe in God."
Daryl blinks. "The fuck you goin' on about?"
"All these jesus and good lord's that you come out with. It's just weird."
Daryl cocks his head. "'Cause I don't believe in God."
"Well," Glenn answers. "Yeah."
"Who said I don't?"
That seems to throw the kid for a loop. Glenn scratches behind his ear, leans back against the wall and crosses his arms at his chest. It's a thinner chest now, Daryl notes, but the kid's arms have gotten stronger, all lean muscle from hard work and continually fighting off the walkers. When Glenn moves to sweep a hand through his hair before leaning his head back against the wall, Daryl can't help but notice the way those firm muscles shift under his skin, the way his hair shines against the sunlight filtering through the window.
He looks away. Makes himself look away. Presses his lips together and reminds himself, not for the first time, that he's not going to go back to the way things were before, back at the quarry. Back when he found himself watching Glenn as he moved through the camp, keeping an eye on him as he bent over the old RV or sat with the kids as they muddled through the schoolwork their ma's still made them do. Back when he found himself listening to what Glenn had to say, doing what Glenn wanted him to do. Even though he didn't really know why.
He gives his head a mental shake. He's been lying so much all his life - lying to his old man, to Merle, to the men he worked with, to the guys at all the run-down bars where he spent too many nights drinking cheap hooch and pretending to be interested in some slag giving him the eye. Lying to himself is just second nature.
He knew why he paid attention to Glenn, listened to Glenn. Cared about Glenn. Knew it the moment he started to get to know the guy a little, back when they were still sitting around the campfire at night, believing that they were going to be able to ride out the end of the world in a mountain camp with a row of cans tied on strings for protection against the undead.
He didn't admit to himself what it meant, though, until Glenn got taken by the Vatos on that damn trip to Atlanta.
And then he knew that there was no going back. Didn't matter that sometimes just being around Glenn makes his hands twitch, makes him feel awkward and stupid. Didn't matter that somebody like Glenn would never be interested in somebody like him.
"I've been praying," Glenn says suddenly.
Daryl looks up from where he's been studying the bars of light on the carpet.
"I never even really thought about God before all this, you know? But now… everything's so messed up."
Daryl snorts.
"I don't mean just the walkers," Glenn clarifies. "I mean everything. Me." He throws up his hands. "I don't know."
"Real clear, kid," Daryl says.
"I'm messed up."
"Who ain't?"
Glenn's lips upturn in a sad smile. "True. God, so true. And I know we're all just trying to muddle by as good as we can; I get that. We're all just doing our best. But Rick's, like, supercop. You're Rambo. I'm just a fucking pizza delivery boy. I just feel like I don't even know what I'm supposed to be doing, never mind how to be the best at it."
Daryl's thoughts flick to Rick, the way the man wanders through the corridors of the building at night. Daryl himself is a light sleeper; always has been, ever since he was a kid, when being aware of what was going on around him was required even in the darkest hours of night. Rick moves quietly, but Daryl still hears him stalking through the halls. Has crept out into the office more than once only to find Rick standing motionless at the window, his forehead pressed to the glass.
Daryl's spent his own share of nights lying up on the roof of the one-story building, staring at the stars, unable to sleep for the thoughts chasing around in his head. Has heard Lori crying softly in the bathroom when he sneaks past on his way outside. Knows that Carol is often bent over the few medical books they've managed to scrounge up long after the sun goes down, squinting in the wan light of a candle.
"You ain't no different from anybody else," he says.
Glenn sighs. "And then there's Maggie."
Daryl shifts uncomfortably in his chair. The last damn thing he wants to talk about is Glenn's sex life. He leans down to the quiver resting against the side of the chair, plucks out one of his homemade arrows and smoothes his fingers through the feathers just to have something to do with his hands. Looks anywhere but at the damn kid.
"I'm sure you'll make up," he finally mumbles when the silence has stretched out and out, and he looks up to see Glenn watching him expectantly.
"No, it's not-" Glenn starts. He crosses the room, flops down on the bed and sends dust motes flying. "It's like… let's say, before. Say you had a chance to sleep with some amazing supermodel like, I don't know… Miranda Kerr. You would do it, right? Because she's Miranda Kerr. Your friends would think you're an idiot to pass that up."
Daryl doesn't mention that he never had friends, says only, "Not the best example, kid."
Glenn huffs out a laugh. "What, she's not your type? She's smokin', dude."
This whole conversation is unnerving. He shoves the arrow aside, pins Glenn with his best glare. "And now she's probably staggerin' through Hollywood with half her damn face missin'. You got a goddamn point?"
"Jeez, chill," Glenn says. "My point is… I think Maggie was my Miranda Kerr."
Daryl blinks.
"She's pretty and she's nice and she wanted me, and it's the end of the world, and I'd be a complete moron to pass that up, right?"
Daryl can't sit still any longer. He flings himself up from the chair, stalks to the window to flick aside the curtain, gazes blankly down at the street. It takes a few moments for it to register in his overworked brain that the area around the house is relatively deserted, only a few stragglers still shuffling down the middle of the wide boulevard.
"We don't work out because we're not… she's not what I want," Glenn continues behind him. "And then everything else is so confusing. I'm trying to do what's right and keep people safe and I'm just saying, I have no idea what to do here. I'm so fucked up, dude."
"Yeah, welcome to the fucking club," Daryl mutters. He lets the curtain drop, turns back to the room. "We through with the sharing circle, now? We gonna braid each other's hair next? Maybe have a pillow fight?"
"Geez, fine," Glenn says, rolling over onto his back to stare at the ceiling. "Sue me for trying to open up for a change."
"For a change?" Daryl mocks.
Glenn props himself onto one arm, points a finger. "Fuck off. You could take a lesson from me, Daryl. Take a break from this taciturn, growly thing you're working. None of us are buying it anymore, you know."
Glenn's tone is light, but Daryl finds himself considering the words seriously as he turns back to gaze again out into the front yard. It's not like he particularly tries to be blunt. He just appreciates honesty and plain speaking. And if he holds himself aloof from the others, tries to shelter himself as best he can… well, he has his reasons. He's got a dozen of them criss-crossing on his back, a couple more striped in fine white lines on his chest. And it's not anybody's business what he holds inside, what he keeps close to his heart.
For a man who appreciates honesty, he realizes, he sure does a piss-poor job of practicing it sometimes.
Daryl takes a breath. Forces himself to face the room.
Decides that maybe it's time for the lying to stop.
"Ain't into Miranda Kerr," he finally says.
Glenn shakes his head, grinning. "Not exactly the kind of sharing I was talking about. But hey, fine. I don't know how you could find anything wrong with her, though. I mean, she's got great tits, she's got legs for days-"
"Maybe her husband," Daryl says quietly.
His heart is thumping double-time. He resists the urge to wipe his sweaty palms on his pants, bites the inside of his cheeks. Can't decide if he wants to rush from the room or turn and smash his fist into the wall. Settles for staring at the plush carpet, one hand swiping repeatedly over the scruff on his chin in an attempt to still its trembling.
He realizes suddenly that this is the first time he's admitted out loud just who he is. His stomach roils. He thinks he might puke.
The blood is roaring through his system so fast that he barely hears Glenn's murmured, "What?"
"Street's clear," he says gruffly, pushing away from the window, avoiding Glenn's eyes. "Signal over to T, let him know we're moving out."
IV - Survivalists Camp
They circle the compound cautiously. The camp is bigger than Daryl expected; one main building, probably some sort of community centre - and if they're real lucky, it'll have a kitchen, but Daryl's learned by now not to hold his fucking breath - surrounded by eight or ten cabins strung out in ramshackle fashion. Two watchtowers, north and south. All of it surrounded by an eight or ten foot tall wooden fence.
There are two breaches in the fence that they can see.
Daryl crouches next to Rick, continues to scan the grounds. Despite the gaps in the defensive walls, the area seems remarkably deserted. From his vantage point on the slope on the west side of the compound, he can see a lot of dead bodies, but only a few scattered walkers shuffling aimlessly through the yard, sending up puffs of dry dirt with every dragging step. Of course, that doesn't mean they won't open up a door to find one of those buildings filled to the rafters with geeks. Daryl still occasionally wakes up in a cold sweat from memories of his encounter with a dozen ravenous walkers locked up in the storage room of a craft store in Senoia.
There's not a single living human being in sight.
He could sit here all day, watching, making sure it's safe. Has, in the past, waiting by a game trail for a nice doe to amble by. But the others aren't so patient, and behind them Daryl hears the shuffle of anxious feet, the low murmur of voices, once the sharp crack of a breaking twig. He side-glances Rick, but the other man just continues to stare at the camp.
When another fifteen minutes of reconnoiter reveals no change, Rick finally stands. Gestures toward the gate.
The walkers in the yard raise their heads, snarl and snap and stagger in their direction as soon as they enter the compound. Daryl manages to take out two with his bow before they manage more than a dozen steps in their direction. He pulls his knife as Glenn, Maggie and Rick fan out into the yard, gets his back to T and Lori as they take the rear.
It's over in less than five minutes.
Daryl scrubs a hand over his face, crouches next to one of the bodies, its chest shredded by bullet holes. He stands, nudges at it with a booted foot. “Guess they never got the memo that ya had to aim for the head.”
"That's Sal," Carol says, coming up beside him, her arms wrapped around her middle despite the midday heat. "He used to come to the house every once in a while for dinner." Her lips twist in a sad smile. "He brought me flowers once. More than Ed ever did."
Daryl squints across at her. He never figured on Carol actually knowing some of the people they might find here. " 'm sorry," he says.
"Oh, he wasn't a good man. He beat his dog. Broke my heart."
Daryl has no idea what to say to that - a man that beats his dog is only one step above a man who beats his woman, and frankly his first instinct is to spit on the dead asshole - so he simply looks away. His eyes automatically seek out Glenn; find him standing with his head bent close to Maggie, foreheads nearly touching. The sight makes his gut lurch even as he calls himself ten times a fool.
He's done his best to stay away from the kid since that last supply run. Has done his best to avoid even thinking about that day, first throwing himself into the preparation for the run to the mountains, then taking point on the long slow slog through the back country roads. As soon as the group was situated at the end of each day he headed out into the woods to hunt, not resting until he came back with at least a little meat for the communal pot. He did his share of night watch, took extras when he could, and didn't sleep much even when he finally turned in for the evening. Spent countless hours staring at the low, sloping roof of his tent, running that last conversation with Glenn over and over again in his mind, feeling his heart clench every time he remembered the words coming out of his mouth.
And he spent his days glancing surreptitiously at the kid, trying to see if Glenn was looking at him any differently, both fearful and hopeful in equal measure.
When Glenn started chatting to Maggie again on their third day out, sitting next to her on the pine log they dragged up to the fire each night, he told himself that it didn't matter. Glenn might know his secret, but that was as far as it went. As far as it was ever going to go.
It's not like anything changed as far as Glenn himself is concerned. Glenn's still the same guy. Still smart, still quick on his feet and with his mouth. And okay, it sure seemed to Daryl like Glenn used to look at him… well… speculatively. Back at the quarry. Back when Daryl was watching him, listening to him. Coming to the rather startling conclusion that he'd kill anyone who hurt him, do whatever he could to protect him. That he'd rather die himself than live without him.
Sometimes, back in those early days, he thought that interest was reciprocated. Sitting around the campfire at night, when Glenn's leg would brush against his even though there was plenty of room on the damn log. On watch on top of the RV when Glenn would climb up and join him, tell him some long, outrageous, ridiculous pizza delivery story that made him choke and spit out his water and then knock the kid's stupid cap off his head in retaliation for his soaked shirt. Or at the CDC, long after everyone else went to bed, sitting alone in the dark, empty cafeteria with a bottle between them and not saying anything at all.
Clearly he was wrong. Glenn likes girls. Glenn likes Maggie, despite his protests to the contrary.
It didn't matter. Not one bit.
"-together again."
Daryl blinks, bites back a curse. Woolgathering in the middle of a mission is the best way to get himself killed, get somebody else killed. Anything could come spilling out of those buildings, could still be dozens of geeks around. He pulls himself back to the present with a wince. "Sorry, what?"
Carol smiles softly again. "I said it's nice. Seeing Glenn and Maggie together again. Good to see them working things out." She lays a hand on his arm, her fingertips cool on his sun-warmed skin. "Everyone deserves a little happiness, don't you think?"
Daryl squints down at her, trying to decipher the look in her eyes. He saved from replying at all when Rick calls them over to the join the rest of the group in front of the large communal building.
But he feels Carol's eyes on him the whole time they walk together through the yard.
* * *
"Everybody did great today," Rick says.
Daryl places his crossbow next to him on one of the rustic tables set up in the common room, leans against the back wall and eyes the room. The structure is crude, but solid. Better by half than the ramshackle shack that Merle put up on his own property back in '92, but Daryl's also pretty sure that whoever constructed this main room and the cabins wasn't stopping every half hour to shove another line up his nose. The fireplace that takes up one half of the west wall should provide ample heat for the cold winter nights to come. From his quick perusal of the rough-hewn bookshelf most of the books and magazines are of either the field-and-stream or tits-and-ass variety, but they might find something more suitable when they dig further. And the kitchen pantry was stocked to practically the ceiling with more food than they've seen in months. He expected MRE's and beer. And when he poked his head inside the room on his check for walkers, he did see those - as well as dried fruits, canned vegetables of every kind imaginable, bags of rice, stack upon stack of bottled water. Even home-made preserves lined up neatly in a row, all labeled with a woman's flowing hand. God only knows what else they'll find.
The men who fought and died here weren't good men, at least according to Carol. But his respect for them goes up a notch just the same. They must have been overrun fairly early in the game. If they'd known that head shots were necessary to take down the walkers, he has no doubt that Ed's band of survivalist cronies would still be hunkered down here now, probably firing warning shots at his own people from those guard towers and sending them off with their tails between their legs.
It occurs to him suddenly that if Ed had had his way, his body would have been one of those they found today. His, and Carol's. Sophia's.
He wouldn't have known them at all.
There would have been no child to get spooked by a walker on a crowded interstate, no child that ran away into the woods and got lost. No search that ended in failure and heartbreak. There would have been no little girl that smart-mouthed him when her ma wasn't around to catch her, that snuck into his campsite with bugs clutched in a dirty hand for him to identify; no little girl that confided in a whisper that she wanted him to teach her how to shoot the crossbow when she was old enough, so she could protect her mama.
Daryl licks his lips, swallows around a throat suddenly gone dry. Blinks, presses his lips together as his gaze flicks around the room. He finds Carol talking quietly with Beth and Hershel, thin sweater tied around her waist. Her eyes are still anxious and delicate worry lines sketch her skin, but she also looks happy. Proud. It was touch and go for a while - Daryl thinks the walker herd that came upon them unawares on the back road near the old mill will likely haunt his dreams for a good time to come - but in the end, Carol led them to the right place. The safety they have now is because of her.
And yes, everyone does deserve a little happiness.
He allows himself a quick, furtive glance at Glenn before he turns his attention back to Rick.
"Daryl, T and I have checked the grounds and the buildings twice," Rick says, his voice cutting through the side conversations that have started up in the room. "We're certain that the entire camp is clear of walkers. We'll be safe here."
If he expected a chorus of hurrahs, he was sadly mistaken. Daryl sees tentative smiles on Carl and Beth's faces; nothing but uncertainty and skepticism on the others.
"We all hope it's safe, Rick," Lori finally says hesitantly. "We really do. But do you think that maybe you're jumping to conclusions?"
"No, Lori, I don't," Rick snaps. "We have shelter here. Food. Everything we need."
Daryl watches Lori's eyes drop quickly away from his, caught again by the sharp contrast between her present incarnation and the fire and brimstone woman of the past. That Lori is gone now, and the woman that's left behind is all brittle shell. It angers him, he realizes - not only because he's watching two good people, people he now calls his friends, rip themselves apart, but because every rift leaves the rest of the group vulnerable.
"That's all well and good," Maggie says. "There's a couple dozen dead bodies outside that thought the same damn thing."
"We're not them."
One thing about Maggie, the girl doesn't back down. "The fences are down, Rick."
"So we repair the fences," Rick answers immediately.
"So the walkers can just tear them down again, rip us apart like they did these people?" Maggie argues. "It's not safe."
Hershel puts an arm around his daughter's shoulders. "She's got a point, Rick."
Rick takes a breath, and Daryl can see the man forcibly hold back his temper. Perhaps it's the sight of Hershel's protective arm; perhaps it's seeing Maggie's doubts reflected in the eyes of the rest of the group. He swipes a hand over his beard, catches Daryl's eye as he prepares to make his case. Daryl's not sure what he can offer, but he inclines his head in wordless support.
"These people didn't know what they were up against," Rick starts. "Yeah, they got overrun. But you all saw the bodies out there. They were shooting for the heart, the vital organs. As a result, they got bit, they turned, and they started attacking their friends. They didn't know you had to take out the brain. We do."
Daryl leans against the back wall, folds his arms at his chest and resumes watching the room. Sees Glenn nod his head in agreement, T-Dog bite his bottom lip but stay silent.
"There's plenty of wood piled up in the back, enough to repair the places where the walkers got through and reinforce any other weak spots," Rick continues. "We got two guard towers and enough manpower to keep them manned twenty-four seven, and enough food to last us a few months as long as we augment it with whatever Daryl and I can hunt down. We've got a place to lay our heads that's out of the cold and the damp."
Daryl knows Rick's mind is already set. Whatever happens, he and Lori and Carl will be setting up camp here. Daryl also knows that he'll almost certainly be joining them; it's the safest course of action. But he respects Rick for laying out the case, meeting everyone squarely in the eyes.
"We'll be safe here," Rick finishes, "at least through the worst of the winter."
The room is silent for a moment, until T clears his throat. "Hell, it's not like we've got a better option."
Daryl can tell that Maggie's not convinced, but when Hershel gently squeezes her shoulder she keeps her mouth shut. And though he doesn't want to admit it, his own "almost certainty" hinged on a particular Asian agreeing to continue to hitch his wagon to Rick's train - and he's more likely to do that if Maggie continues to bite her lip. Daryl'd be tempted to track Hershel down tonight to buy him a cold one if the old coot still drank.
"I can work out a watch schedule," Glenn suggests.
"Fine," Rick agrees, "you get on that. We need the first two men out there within the hour, we gotta be extra-vigilant until those gaps in the fences are fixed. Lori, Carol," he continues, "you two are in charge of the food stores. We need to know exactly what we've got so we can figure on how long everything's going to last us."
"On it," Carol says.
"Beth, work out some cabin assignments. If any of the rooms need blankets, there were some in the storeroom out back. Carl, give her a hand," Rick says as Carl hops lightly down from where he's perched cross-legged on one of the tables. "And make sure everyone's got toiletries, too. The water in those communal showers might be ice cold, but at least we got some soap and shampoo."
The young girl smiles at that, and Daryl sees the grin picked up by several people in the room, enthusiasm and hope ricocheting rapidly from one person to the next. Despite the risks, despite the still-gaping holes in the fence line and the ever-present threat of a walker herd, they will have four walls and a roof over their heads tonight. Ample food in their stomachs and clean fresh-smelling bodies. Soft mattresses to lie on instead of the cold, hard ground. Carol has a bounce in her step as she heads through the door to the kitchen area, and even Maggie looks somewhat mollified.
Daryl never had much use for cops, but he had to admit that whatever else Rick may be going through, the man is a born leader.
Once Hershel's assigned to sort through the medical supplies the survivalists had laid in, Daryl pushes away from the wall.
"We still got a few hours of daylight left," Rick says, taking in the remainder of the group. "The rest of us will make a start on those fence repairs."
"What about the bodies out there?" T-Dog asks. "Shouldn't we take care of those?"
Rick shakes his head. "We'll burn them, but not until the fences are fixed. That's our number one priority." He turns to Glenn, whose head is already bent over a scrap of paper torn from the back of an old fishing guide. "Glenn, you come fetch us as soon as you got the watch schedule made up. Remember, both the south and north towers have to be manned. We need to get people in those guard towers as soon as possible. We can't risk any stragglers getting through while we're vulnerable here."
"Got it," Glenn says.
When Glenn's eyes meet his, Daryl quickly looks away.
Everyone deserves a little happiness in the end times. And he knows that ultimately, Glenn's happiness lies with Maggie.
V - Daryl's Room
Daryl thought he knew sore, working on the road crew that first year after high school, slinging asphalt onto Georgia highways and byways under a blazing one hundred and twenty degree sun. He thought he knew sore working at the meat plant years later, flinging hundred pound slabs of frozen beef onto the table for the cutting saw. He thought he knew sore on the construction sites, lugging wood planks up and down ladders, bending and lifting all day and into the night.
He realizes now that he didn't truly know what sore was. Back then, he could head home to his tiny apartment, heat up something in the microwave and throw the heating pad on his back after chasing down a few muscle relaxants and painkillers with a cold Bud. He could run the water in the tub as hot as he could stand it, so hot that it turned his skin beet-red and made every scar stand out like brands on his flesh; prop the old black and white TV onto the counter by the sink, ease down into the water with another beer and relax for an hour until all the pain melted away and he could finally flop into a soft bed, the fan on the nightstand whirring softly and cooling his fevered skin as he drifted off to sleep.
This? This is unrelenting.
For six days now he's been at a breakneck pace. Up at dawn to work on the fence line, hauling wood, hammering nails. Afternoons in the surrounding woods - sometimes tracking, often putting in miles before he manages to snag something for the supper pot; sometimes just sitting off the nearest game trail, still but vigilant, every muscle standing at attention. Then his evening shifts on the watch towers, eyes straining to see beyond the gloom, ears alert for the sound of dragging footsteps shuffling through the fallen leaves.
They have to save their meds for emergencies, so there are no pills to take away the aches that have settled into the line of his shoulders and the small of his back. Hell, he won't even risk a shot or two of the Wild Turkey still stashed away on his bike, not until the fences are completely fixed. Not until his people are protected.
He's tired, his eyes are grainy and his right shoulder protests angrily when he pushes open the door to his cabin.
To find Glenn sitting on his bed.
He blinks, actually glances back at the door like he's in some kind of rundown motel room and there'll be a number on it to indicate he's in the right place. When his confused gaze meets only the rough wood planking, he furrows his brow and looks past Glenn. There's his quiver propped up against the wall, his backpack with its dirty clothes spilling out into the corner of the room.
His room.
"The hell you doin' here?"
The tentative smile on Glenn's face fades. The kid jumps up from the bed like he's been goosed when Daryl strides into the room, and Daryl pushes down the quick pang of regret that flashes through his head at the thought that the kid might actually be scared of him. It ain't his damn fault that Glenn made himself at home here while he was out slugging through the tick-infested woods, maybe helping himself to Daryl's things while he's not around to put a stop to it. Kid should be scared.
"Heyyyy," Glenn says. "I just thought I'd… you know… stop by. Haven't seen you in a while. Thought we could chat."
Daryl grimaces. "Chat?"
"Yeah. Chat. You may have heard of it. You open your mouth, words fall out. It's this thing friends do."
"We friends now?"
Glenn's lips quirk in a quick smile. "There's that gruff thing again. I told you, dude, nobody buys that anymore. That ship sailed, like, back when you nearly got yourself killed looking for Sophia."
Daryl doesn't want to think about what it does to him when the kid smiles like that. But the mention of Sophia drives a spike through the lightness in his chest, and his lip curls as he turns away from Glenn, tosses his crossbow carefully on the bed. "Go ahead and say what you got to say."
"Geez. It's not like I came to say anything in particular, it's just… I've been thinking about you. A lot, actually. And I've been thinking about… that thing. That you told me?"
Daryl freezes. Should have just kept his damn mouth shut. Where he does or does not want to stick his dick is no business of anybody's, least of all some scrawny little Asian kid with an attitude. Now it's gonna become some thing, like it's a damn quirk that defines him, changes him into someone different somehow. It's always gonna be there, whenever Glenn looks at him, pictures him… and he hates that. He no longer thinks of it as a perversion, no matter what his old man said when he found those magazines in his room, no matter what the old man screamed when the lash came down that final time, when his pa followed after him as he scrambled away on all fours, trying to cover his head, trying to get away. Escape.
He believes in God, even if he thinks that God's often a pretty sick fucker. And God made him this way. But being… wanting… liking men isn't who he IS. And now that's all Glenn's gonna see when he looks at him, like he's some freak, and the thought makes his stomach roil, makes him want to curl his hands into fists, go back out into the woods and just be alone, just…
"Daryl?"
Daryl realizes he's been standing motionless, staring at the damn bow. He straightens, meets the kid's eyes. "What about it?"
"Is it a secret?"
Daryl bristles. "Ain't gonna be puttin' a notice up on the bulletin board, if that's what you mean."
"Okay," Glenn says.
Daryl waits for more, waits for the questions to start, for the look on the kid's face to change from anything but mild interest. But Glenn merely looks at him, presses his lip together and nods. Smiles slightly. After a moment it starts to feel like a staring contest that isn't going to have any damn winner.
Daryl shakes his head, turns away to remove his vest. He can't help the wince that crosses his face, and the "Anything else?" that he barks out at the kid loses a lot of its bite when it's muffled in a gasp of pain. Not that Glenn's ever paid much attention to his bark, anyhow.
"You know, I could help with that. I give a great massage."
Daryl glances over his shoulder, eyes the kid warily. "That some ancient Chinese thing?"
Glenn rolls his eyes. "Dude, I'm Korean. You know I'm Korean."
"Whatever, Ho Chi Minh."
"Getting old, man," Glenn laughs. "And it's an ancient Korean thing. Do you want my help or not?"
Glenn apparently takes his hesitation as assent, grabs the rickety wooden chair from the corner of the room and set it up near the bed. Daryl flops down reluctantly, tells himself that he's letting this happen because he's in pain. And because Glenn's right - they are friends. One friend offering to help another isn't a bad thing. It's no different than if Carol made the offer. Or Lori. He'd do the same for them. And at its core it's really a sign of acceptance. Glenn isn't going to look at him any differently, or judge him as some kind of freak.
The thought should ease his stress. But when Glenn touches him, he tenses.
It's not like no one's ever touched him before. Not like no man's ever touched him before. There have been… encounters, desperate groping in seedy back rooms and dimly lit bathrooms. But there has never been this - this gentle caress, the heat of Glenn's chest against his back, the slow careful attention to his needs.
Daryl holds himself still, tries not to shiver at the touch. Glenn's fingers are warm, strong, his fingers kneading expertly into the rigid muscle, leeching more of the pain away with every skillful press of his fingers. He closes his eyes, loses himself a little in the sensation.
"Better?"
Glenn's breath ghosts across his skin, stirs the long hair at the back of his neck.
Daryl realizes suddenly that he's rock hard, his dick straining against his zipper. And Glenn's lips are mere inches away, his chin practically balanced on Daryl's shoulder. All he'd have to do is turn his head…
"Daryl?" Carol's voice calls out.
Daryl is out of the chair before he has time to think, his erection wilting as if it had never been. The hand that comes up to swipe at his chin shakes just slightly, and he takes a deep breath before he turns to the open door. Deliberately doesn't look at the kid. And curses himself for ten times a fool.
"I brought you something to eat. Lord knows you don't eat enough to keep a mouse going, never mind a man," Carol continues. Her gaze flits between the two men, her brow furrowing when it rests on Glenn's face, but Daryl still doesn't look. Can't look. "Am I interrupting something?"
"No," Daryl says quickly. He nods toward the cloth-covered plate, rushes forward to take it from her hands if only to give his own something to do to stop their jittering. "Thanks for this."
"Anytime," Carol says.
"Well," Glenn says, "I guess I'll…"
He makes a vague gesture toward the door that Daryl catches from the corner of his eye, and Daryl nods. Stares at the floorboards until the sound of Glenn's footsteps fades into the distance, until the only sound is his own breathing, too harsh and loud in the small room.
He looks up to see Carol leaning her hip on the doorjamb, arms crossed at her breasts. She raises an eyebrow. "Everything okay here?"
Daryl tosses the napkin toward the bed, slumps back down onto the chair and buries his fork into the mound of canned potatoes on the plate. "Ain't no reason why it wouldn't be."
"Okay," Carol says again. He lifts his eyes from the food in time to see her push off from the doorway. "If you ever need to talk…"
"I look like the chattin' type?"
Carol smiles. "First time for everything."
Continue to Part Two
.
Fandom: The Walking Dead (TV)
Characters: Daryl/Glenn, Ensemble
Rating: R for language and walker violence
Word Count: 15,526
Summary: Daryl and Glenn are trying to find their places in this new world, both riddled with doubt as to how they fit in. A survivalist's camp in the hills may provide some safety, but safety is relative in the apocalypse. Post Season Two.
Notes: Written for smallfandombang. I have much thanks to give, so bear with me. First and foremost many thanks to SFB's mod spikedluv for organizing this awesome challenge. I can't imagine the work that goes into this. You're awesome! Thank you also to my fabulous artist katiemariie and my wonderful fanmixer gryphon2k, both of whom produced amazing work. (That's Katie's banner at the top, there!) I also need to thank my awesome persnickett, who encouraged me and shook her pom-poms during the writing of this story. And lastly, thank you to Neil Finn and Crowded House, whose song "Don't Dream It's over" provided much of the inspiration for this story.
You'll Never See the End of the Road
(While You're Travelling With Me)
By Severina
Prologue
It's been weeks since they left the farm, weeks since Rick stood by the side of the road and told them that they're all infected. Threw that bombshell in their faces and then another and then another, left them all reeling with the shock of it all.
Daryl turns on his side, restless even though he knows T's on watch. The nights are turning colder, the wind snaking down through the cracks in the plaster, and he tells himself that's why he shivers, why he tugs his jacket tighter around his middle. Nothing to do with the increased presence of the walkers, with knowing that this is the last night that they dare spend in the run-down appliance store where they've been holed up for the past week. The thought of the geeks breaking through their barricaded windows has his entire body taut, his ears straining for the telltale sound of their moans, the rustle of shuffling feet through the long grass. But he hears only the wind, the creak of the roof as T-Dog paces back and forth.
Daryl forces his shoulders to relax, glances over at the window. By the thin slice of moonlight that penetrates through the boards, he figures that T has another hour to go. Then he'll be relieved by Maggie. Four hours tops until the rest of the group rises, gathers what meager possessions they've managed to salvage. Hits the road in search of some place easier to defend; more remote, with stronger walls and better sight lines. Some place that probably doesn't exist, except in Rick's imagination.
He should sleep.
But thinking of Maggie leads directly to thinking about Glenn. And once his mind goes there, he's never sure whether to shut it down completely or just let himself dream. He tells himself that thinking about the kid can't hurt; that in a world where he's got nothing and no one, indulging in a little late-night fantasy isn't so bad. But then he wakes up to a new day, to Glenn holding Maggie's hand, to Maggie leaning her head on Glenn's shoulder, and the loss punches through his gut, takes the wind out of him, even though he never really had Glenn to lose at all.
Daryl scowls, flops over onto his back and shields his eyes with his forearm. Four hours. He can get through four hours.
When the sun first shines through the cracks in the boarded windows, he's still awake. Still alone.
I - Storage Lockers
The office area was cramped and grungy before the end of the world, is now even more so with ten people crowded practically shoulder to shoulder into the space. The room reeks of unwashed bodies, of personal hygiene long neglected. It's been a while since they found a place with running water, and the bottled stuff is too precious to waste on scrubbing away the dirt and grime of weeks on the road. It's gotten to the point where most of them don't even notice the smell anymore, same way they don't notice the ever-present stench of the walking dead.
Daryl shifts at his place at the window, scans past the debris-strewn concrete to the fence surrounding the yard. They'd piled the detritus of the storage lockers against it, hoping for some added stability. Old sofas and mismatched particle board tables are crammed next to heirloom pieces that would've fetched thousands back before the world went to shit.
He edges a little closer to the glass, ducks his head to peer through the dirty window. Seeing past all the crap they've piled up can be a pain in the ass, but he's almost certain the crowd of walkers on the other side of the fence is getting larger. More aggressive, too - snarling and snapping at the frost wire, the weight of their combined bodies making the fence rattle and shake.
"I'm not even sure where it is," Carol says from behind him. "I don't even know if I could find it!"
Daryl lets the slats of the blinds fall back into place, turns at the fretful tones of Carol's voice.
"Go through it again, one more time," Rick says, crouching down in front of her, showing a lot more patience than Daryl would have been able to muster under the circumstances. "Start from the beginning."
Carol twists her hands together. Glances once at Lori, who rubs absently at her stomach and nods back encouragingly.
"It was one of those survival camps," she says. "Up in the hills. The kind where men go and pretend there's been a nuclear war or some kind of natural disaster and they're the last ones standing. Ed used to go there sometimes, on the weekends. I think all he really did there was drink beer and get into trouble with his… his cronies."
"And he was taking you there when you got caught in the traffic jam outside Atlanta," Rick prompts.
Carol shakes her head, looks down at her fingers twining over and over. "He wanted to. He said we'd be safe there. But I have… had… family in Atlanta. A cousin. We weren't close, but I convinced Ed that we should try to get to her. I really just didn't want to be alone with… with the kind of men that Ed associated with on those weekends. I didn't trust them. I wasn't sure I trusted them with my little girl."
When she raises her head to meet his eyes, Daryl swallows and looks away.
It's not like he doesn't know what it's like to get beaten down day after day, reminded that you're worthless even when you're doing your damn best. He respects the hell out of the woman for rising above her circumstances once the piece of shit she married got taken out. But he doesn't need reminders of Ed, reminders of just what kind of asshole that man was.
He saw the way Ed looked at Sophia. He knows it wasn't just the other men at the camp that Carol feared.
He pushes memories of the little girl aside, concentrates on the here and now. His gaze flits past T-Dog, leaning against the wall; past Carl and Beth, sitting on the counter and swinging their legs back and forth in unsuspected rhythm. Comes to rest on Glenn, perched on one of the rickety grey folding chairs, leaning forward with his hands clasped between his knees, his own gaze intent on Carol and Rick.
His eyes narrow, taking in the way Glenn's shirt hangs loosely on his thin frame, the dark circles under his eyes. Glenn's been looking haggard of late, more than to be expected from the stress of living life on the run. Hasn't been spending as much time with Maggie, either, but the two of them have been running hot and cold since they first met. Probably just in the midst of another one of their fights. They ought to be thankful that this time she doesn't have any eggs to waste by busting them on the kid's head.
He huffs out a breath, deliberately doesn't look at Maggie. Seeing her just serves to remind him of what he doesn't have, and that she's wasting a hell of a lot more than eggs, and all the things he'd do if Glenn was his. And that line of thinking only leads to more of them, images that aren't never gonna come true, until they're all swirling around in his brain and there's no way to turn them off.
"You passed the turn-off on the way, though?" Lori asks, and Daryl drags his eyes away from Glenn, turns his attention back to the discussion.
Carol's still watching him, but her eyes flick over to Lori when the other woman speaks.
"Yes," she answers. "Ed said that it led to an old logging road."
"Okay," Rick says. "That's good."
"But I'm not sure where!" Carol cries. She smoothes her palms on her trousers before her fingers return to twitching together in her lap. "I can't lead you there! I don't want that responsibility, Rick. What if I get us lost, what if I lead us right into another herd of walkers, what if-"
"Ain't no point in worrying about what ifs," T-Dog says. "Supplies are running low here. We gotta move somewhere else."
"But-"
"No one's expecting you to be superwoman," Lori says. "And if you can't find it, no one's going to hold you accountable, Carol. Just do your best."
"If there's even a shot of finding that camp, we've gotta take it," Maggie puts in.
When Hershel's arm comes to rest on her shoulder, Carol nods reluctantly.
"Something else we gotta think about, "T-Dog adds, straightening. "We even gonna consider what happens if we get there and they don't let us in?"
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Rick answers.
When the conversation devolves into chatter about timeframes and best routes, Daryl gestures toward the long narrow corridor that leads to the inner storage lockers, waits until Rick follows him into the dim stillness. "What do you think?" he asks.
Rick scrubs a hand over the greying stubble on his chin, and Daryl is struck anew at how much older the man has grown to look over the past few months, since the fall of the Greene farm. "I don't know," Rick answers. "She's hazy on the particulars. I don't know if she'll be able to lead us there."
"Whether she can or she can't, we got to shit or get off the pot," he says. "We got more geeks gatherin' at the gate every day, and them fences ain't gonna hold."
"You know this area pretty well. Do you know the logging road she's talking about?"
Daryl sniffs. He's not going to deny that it's nice knowing that his skills are valued - that he is valued -- but sometimes Rick gives him credit for knowing a lot more than he actually does. "Hell, there's dozens of old logging rods crisscrossing through the back country. Game trails and private drives, too. Could be any of 'em."
"Shit," Rick murmurs.
"Whatever happens, we gotta lay in more supplies before we get too far away from civilization. What we got ain't gonna last more than a couple of days at the outmost. Once we're out in the woods, we ain't gonna be able to just stroll out and hit a 7-Eleven."
"Not that there's any more stores to hit," Rick says.
Daryl leans against the dirty wall, his own hand travelling to his scrubby beard, considering. They'd had to venture further afield than ever before on the last supply run, and then only to find a Walgreens with an old Subaru crashed through the oversized plate glass. Most of the stock inside had been picked over, the rest destroyed when previous winds and rain had lashed through the shattered window. Daryl had cursed the driver of the damn car profusely before putting an arrow through his rotted skull.
They'd been subsisting mostly on vending machine food since then, augmented only by what little game - usually squirrels - he could find in the near vicinity. The lack of proper nutrition is getting to them all. Daryl knows that sometimes he loses his focus; is more quick to snap at someone instead of just biting his tongue and letting the irritation flow off his back. He doesn't even want to think about what it's like for Lori, trying to get by on stale Doritos and warm Snapple with a baby growing inside her.
When he meets Rick's eyes, he knows his friend's mind has also turned to Lori. Turned inward, unfocused.
Daryl figures he'll probably never know what really happened in that field with Shane. But he knows what Lori was doing with the man before Rick showed up at the quarry. And he might not have been all that great in arithmetic at school but he can sure as hell count back from the time Lori announced her pregnancy and figure out that the numbers sure as fuck don't add up in Rick's favour.
Not that there's a goddamn thing they can do about that now. Lori's having a baby, and she needs proper food. Her and the rest of his people.
"We could send out a small crew," he starts.
Rick glances up, and Daryl swears he can actually see it when the man comes back to himself. Takes charge. Becomes their leader once again.
"Tomorrow," Rick says. "You, Glenn, and T. If you go over the back fence you should be able to make it through without attracting too many walkers, then circle around and grab the Hyundai. Hit the houses on the west side of town, we haven't gone through many of them yet."
Daryl nods. "All right."
"We'll leave for the mountain camp day after tomorrow."
II - Suburban Street
"What do you think?" Daryl asks.
Glenn hesitates with his hand resting lightly on the door handle, chews his lip as he considers the question. Daryl can feel the pressure of the day weighing on his shoulders, the need to move and move now making his leg twitch, but he stays quiet, lets Glenn think. Behind them in the back seat, T-Dog swivels to watch their six; in the rearview mirror Daryl can see the stiff line of his spine, shoulders tense. The feeling of being exposed and vulnerable never really goes away when they're out in the open, not for any of them.
Daryl keeps his own eyes fixed on the street in front of them. His gaze flits between the large houses with their overgrown lots and wildflowers run rampant to the broad avenue scattered with parked cars. It's one of the more affluent neighbourhoods they've come across; probably was the kind of place where investment bankers and attorneys lived, commuting back and forth twice a day to and from their high-powered jobs in Atlanta. In his pre-apocalypse life, the only time Daryl himself ever saw houses like these was when he got called out to get rid of a family of possums or raccoons that dared to take up residence in one of those manicured backyards.
He wonders if Glenn ever got called to deliver pizza out here.
"Got two coming in from the side street," T announces.
Daryl flicks his gaze to Glenn, who nods.
"Okay," Glenn says. "We leave the car here. Make our way on foot to that ranch house at the end of the block. We start there and make our way back. Drop off whatever we've found, then go down to the other end of the street and do the same. Quick and easy."
They exit the car in unison, T-Dog tossing two of the duffel bags to Glenn over the top of the vehicle. As they move warily down the street, Daryl swings the crossbow into position, keeps his finger on the edge of the trigger guard.
"It's quiet," T says.
"Thank God for small favours," Daryl replies. He edges out from behind the rear bumper of a pristine SUV; glances inside the driver's side window as he passes, on the off chance that the owner was in such a rush to get inside when the dead rose that he left his keys in the ignition.
Glenn meet his eyes from the other side of the car, inclines his head toward the vehicle. "Can we take it?"
"No keys."
"Damnit," Glenn mutters.
When Glenn glances over his shoulder, Daryl half-turns to follow his gaze. The two walkers that T spotted are still stumbling through the crosswalk half a block away, oblivious to their presence. He side-glances the kid, takes note of the way Glenn's eyes leave the walkers to flick nervously from house to house, the goosebumps on his skin despite the heat.
"What is it?"
Glenn lifts a shoulder. "What T said," he replies. "It's quiet. Where's all the geeks?"
"What the fuck are you two waiting for?" T-Dog hisses.
Daryl looks up to see that T's already crab-walked halfway to the next house. He's opening his mouth to reply when all hell breaks loose.
The first walker stumbles from behind the shoulder-high hedge that separates two properties, staggering into view only inches from T-Dog.
Daryl doesn't think. He raises the crossbow to his shoulder just as the geek is bending its head to T's arm. He has time to see T start to move, to see T's eyes go wide, to know that even if the other man ducks or dodges he's not going to be able to get out of the way fast enough. Then the arrow is flying, embedding itself into the walker's head seconds before the thing's teeth fasten on the meat of T-Dog's bicep. The walker sags against him, one arm reaching out seemingly to scrabble at his sleeve even in death, and T does an awkward shuffle-dance to push the thing away before looking up, eyes still wide with shock.
"How many times you gonna make me save your sorry ass?" Daryl calls out.
"As many as it takes, man," T replies, grinning. Then he blinks, smile dropping away as though it never existed in the first place. "Shit."
Daryl looks over his shoulder.
The walkers spill from the walkways between the houses, a mass of putrefying flesh, stumbling and staggering against each other in their haste to reach the street. Daryl swings his crossbow onto his back, slides his knife from the sheath at his belt. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Glenn pull his machete from his backpack; he spins in place, trying in vain to keep all the geeks in sight.
The first one to reach them used to be a man, still clad in a decaying business suit. Daryl buries the knife in his skull, yanks the weapon out before the thing has even stopped its forward motion and is already whirling toward the next, a woman with long stringy hair, one eye dangling on mangled tendons and flopping grotesquely on her sunken cheek. Daryl thrusts with his knife, the sharp blade sliding like butter through the empty socket; shoves her falling body back and into two more geeks who are trying to reach past her to get to him, knocking them down like pins in a bowling alley.
"There's too many," Glenn shouts.
Daryl risks a glance toward the others. There are dead walkers strewn on the sidewalk, testament to the skills they've all honed in the last month. But there are more coming, continuing to shuffle from the backyards on both sides of the street, their eager moans echoing up and down the block.
He meets Glenn's eyes, nods once.
"T! Move!" he yells as she sprints past the other man, sees T-Dog stab his fireplace poker through the skull of one of the geeks before skip-stepping away from the reaching claws of another. Daryl skids, spins to bury his knife into yet another rotting skull, hesitates only long enough to ensure that T-Dog has wrestled through the mass of moldering bodies and is hard at their heels.
They run.
III - House
Daryl flings a leg over the arm of the overstuffed chair, glances up from where he's been cleaning the grime out of his nails with the tip of his knife. "They still out there?"
Glenn lets the curtain fall back, leans his hip against the second-floor window sill. "They're starting to drift off. I signaled over to T. We should be able to make a run back to the car soon."
Daryl grunts noncommittally, slides his knife back into its sheath and glances around the room. Framed photos of a smiling couple on the dresser, the open door of the walk-in closet showing him suits and dresses hanging neatly pressed, shoes lined up on standing shelves. Thick russet duvet cover and a mound of pillows.
He can't even remember what it's like to sleep on a real bed.
"Where's all the geeks?" he mutters. "Jeeeeeeeeeesus, ain't you ever heard of jinxing people?"
He looks across the room when Glenn snorts out a laugh. "Yes, Daryl. This is clearly all my fault."
He feels his lips twitching, and for once doesn't exactly feel the need to hide it. He pulls himself into a sitting position on the chair, feels the smile devolve into a grimace when he sees the smear of dirt and grime his leg has left behind on the pristine cream-coloured material.
"Anyway," Glenn says into the silence, "I thought you didn't believe in God."
Daryl blinks. "The fuck you goin' on about?"
"All these jesus and good lord's that you come out with. It's just weird."
Daryl cocks his head. "'Cause I don't believe in God."
"Well," Glenn answers. "Yeah."
"Who said I don't?"
That seems to throw the kid for a loop. Glenn scratches behind his ear, leans back against the wall and crosses his arms at his chest. It's a thinner chest now, Daryl notes, but the kid's arms have gotten stronger, all lean muscle from hard work and continually fighting off the walkers. When Glenn moves to sweep a hand through his hair before leaning his head back against the wall, Daryl can't help but notice the way those firm muscles shift under his skin, the way his hair shines against the sunlight filtering through the window.
He looks away. Makes himself look away. Presses his lips together and reminds himself, not for the first time, that he's not going to go back to the way things were before, back at the quarry. Back when he found himself watching Glenn as he moved through the camp, keeping an eye on him as he bent over the old RV or sat with the kids as they muddled through the schoolwork their ma's still made them do. Back when he found himself listening to what Glenn had to say, doing what Glenn wanted him to do. Even though he didn't really know why.
He gives his head a mental shake. He's been lying so much all his life - lying to his old man, to Merle, to the men he worked with, to the guys at all the run-down bars where he spent too many nights drinking cheap hooch and pretending to be interested in some slag giving him the eye. Lying to himself is just second nature.
He knew why he paid attention to Glenn, listened to Glenn. Cared about Glenn. Knew it the moment he started to get to know the guy a little, back when they were still sitting around the campfire at night, believing that they were going to be able to ride out the end of the world in a mountain camp with a row of cans tied on strings for protection against the undead.
He didn't admit to himself what it meant, though, until Glenn got taken by the Vatos on that damn trip to Atlanta.
And then he knew that there was no going back. Didn't matter that sometimes just being around Glenn makes his hands twitch, makes him feel awkward and stupid. Didn't matter that somebody like Glenn would never be interested in somebody like him.
"I've been praying," Glenn says suddenly.
Daryl looks up from where he's been studying the bars of light on the carpet.
"I never even really thought about God before all this, you know? But now… everything's so messed up."
Daryl snorts.
"I don't mean just the walkers," Glenn clarifies. "I mean everything. Me." He throws up his hands. "I don't know."
"Real clear, kid," Daryl says.
"I'm messed up."
"Who ain't?"
Glenn's lips upturn in a sad smile. "True. God, so true. And I know we're all just trying to muddle by as good as we can; I get that. We're all just doing our best. But Rick's, like, supercop. You're Rambo. I'm just a fucking pizza delivery boy. I just feel like I don't even know what I'm supposed to be doing, never mind how to be the best at it."
Daryl's thoughts flick to Rick, the way the man wanders through the corridors of the building at night. Daryl himself is a light sleeper; always has been, ever since he was a kid, when being aware of what was going on around him was required even in the darkest hours of night. Rick moves quietly, but Daryl still hears him stalking through the halls. Has crept out into the office more than once only to find Rick standing motionless at the window, his forehead pressed to the glass.
Daryl's spent his own share of nights lying up on the roof of the one-story building, staring at the stars, unable to sleep for the thoughts chasing around in his head. Has heard Lori crying softly in the bathroom when he sneaks past on his way outside. Knows that Carol is often bent over the few medical books they've managed to scrounge up long after the sun goes down, squinting in the wan light of a candle.
"You ain't no different from anybody else," he says.
Glenn sighs. "And then there's Maggie."
Daryl shifts uncomfortably in his chair. The last damn thing he wants to talk about is Glenn's sex life. He leans down to the quiver resting against the side of the chair, plucks out one of his homemade arrows and smoothes his fingers through the feathers just to have something to do with his hands. Looks anywhere but at the damn kid.
"I'm sure you'll make up," he finally mumbles when the silence has stretched out and out, and he looks up to see Glenn watching him expectantly.
"No, it's not-" Glenn starts. He crosses the room, flops down on the bed and sends dust motes flying. "It's like… let's say, before. Say you had a chance to sleep with some amazing supermodel like, I don't know… Miranda Kerr. You would do it, right? Because she's Miranda Kerr. Your friends would think you're an idiot to pass that up."
Daryl doesn't mention that he never had friends, says only, "Not the best example, kid."
Glenn huffs out a laugh. "What, she's not your type? She's smokin', dude."
This whole conversation is unnerving. He shoves the arrow aside, pins Glenn with his best glare. "And now she's probably staggerin' through Hollywood with half her damn face missin'. You got a goddamn point?"
"Jeez, chill," Glenn says. "My point is… I think Maggie was my Miranda Kerr."
Daryl blinks.
"She's pretty and she's nice and she wanted me, and it's the end of the world, and I'd be a complete moron to pass that up, right?"
Daryl can't sit still any longer. He flings himself up from the chair, stalks to the window to flick aside the curtain, gazes blankly down at the street. It takes a few moments for it to register in his overworked brain that the area around the house is relatively deserted, only a few stragglers still shuffling down the middle of the wide boulevard.
"We don't work out because we're not… she's not what I want," Glenn continues behind him. "And then everything else is so confusing. I'm trying to do what's right and keep people safe and I'm just saying, I have no idea what to do here. I'm so fucked up, dude."
"Yeah, welcome to the fucking club," Daryl mutters. He lets the curtain drop, turns back to the room. "We through with the sharing circle, now? We gonna braid each other's hair next? Maybe have a pillow fight?"
"Geez, fine," Glenn says, rolling over onto his back to stare at the ceiling. "Sue me for trying to open up for a change."
"For a change?" Daryl mocks.
Glenn props himself onto one arm, points a finger. "Fuck off. You could take a lesson from me, Daryl. Take a break from this taciturn, growly thing you're working. None of us are buying it anymore, you know."
Glenn's tone is light, but Daryl finds himself considering the words seriously as he turns back to gaze again out into the front yard. It's not like he particularly tries to be blunt. He just appreciates honesty and plain speaking. And if he holds himself aloof from the others, tries to shelter himself as best he can… well, he has his reasons. He's got a dozen of them criss-crossing on his back, a couple more striped in fine white lines on his chest. And it's not anybody's business what he holds inside, what he keeps close to his heart.
For a man who appreciates honesty, he realizes, he sure does a piss-poor job of practicing it sometimes.
Daryl takes a breath. Forces himself to face the room.
Decides that maybe it's time for the lying to stop.
"Ain't into Miranda Kerr," he finally says.
Glenn shakes his head, grinning. "Not exactly the kind of sharing I was talking about. But hey, fine. I don't know how you could find anything wrong with her, though. I mean, she's got great tits, she's got legs for days-"
"Maybe her husband," Daryl says quietly.
His heart is thumping double-time. He resists the urge to wipe his sweaty palms on his pants, bites the inside of his cheeks. Can't decide if he wants to rush from the room or turn and smash his fist into the wall. Settles for staring at the plush carpet, one hand swiping repeatedly over the scruff on his chin in an attempt to still its trembling.
He realizes suddenly that this is the first time he's admitted out loud just who he is. His stomach roils. He thinks he might puke.
The blood is roaring through his system so fast that he barely hears Glenn's murmured, "What?"
"Street's clear," he says gruffly, pushing away from the window, avoiding Glenn's eyes. "Signal over to T, let him know we're moving out."
IV - Survivalists Camp
They circle the compound cautiously. The camp is bigger than Daryl expected; one main building, probably some sort of community centre - and if they're real lucky, it'll have a kitchen, but Daryl's learned by now not to hold his fucking breath - surrounded by eight or ten cabins strung out in ramshackle fashion. Two watchtowers, north and south. All of it surrounded by an eight or ten foot tall wooden fence.
There are two breaches in the fence that they can see.
Daryl crouches next to Rick, continues to scan the grounds. Despite the gaps in the defensive walls, the area seems remarkably deserted. From his vantage point on the slope on the west side of the compound, he can see a lot of dead bodies, but only a few scattered walkers shuffling aimlessly through the yard, sending up puffs of dry dirt with every dragging step. Of course, that doesn't mean they won't open up a door to find one of those buildings filled to the rafters with geeks. Daryl still occasionally wakes up in a cold sweat from memories of his encounter with a dozen ravenous walkers locked up in the storage room of a craft store in Senoia.
There's not a single living human being in sight.
He could sit here all day, watching, making sure it's safe. Has, in the past, waiting by a game trail for a nice doe to amble by. But the others aren't so patient, and behind them Daryl hears the shuffle of anxious feet, the low murmur of voices, once the sharp crack of a breaking twig. He side-glances Rick, but the other man just continues to stare at the camp.
When another fifteen minutes of reconnoiter reveals no change, Rick finally stands. Gestures toward the gate.
The walkers in the yard raise their heads, snarl and snap and stagger in their direction as soon as they enter the compound. Daryl manages to take out two with his bow before they manage more than a dozen steps in their direction. He pulls his knife as Glenn, Maggie and Rick fan out into the yard, gets his back to T and Lori as they take the rear.
It's over in less than five minutes.
Daryl scrubs a hand over his face, crouches next to one of the bodies, its chest shredded by bullet holes. He stands, nudges at it with a booted foot. “Guess they never got the memo that ya had to aim for the head.”
"That's Sal," Carol says, coming up beside him, her arms wrapped around her middle despite the midday heat. "He used to come to the house every once in a while for dinner." Her lips twist in a sad smile. "He brought me flowers once. More than Ed ever did."
Daryl squints across at her. He never figured on Carol actually knowing some of the people they might find here. " 'm sorry," he says.
"Oh, he wasn't a good man. He beat his dog. Broke my heart."
Daryl has no idea what to say to that - a man that beats his dog is only one step above a man who beats his woman, and frankly his first instinct is to spit on the dead asshole - so he simply looks away. His eyes automatically seek out Glenn; find him standing with his head bent close to Maggie, foreheads nearly touching. The sight makes his gut lurch even as he calls himself ten times a fool.
He's done his best to stay away from the kid since that last supply run. Has done his best to avoid even thinking about that day, first throwing himself into the preparation for the run to the mountains, then taking point on the long slow slog through the back country roads. As soon as the group was situated at the end of each day he headed out into the woods to hunt, not resting until he came back with at least a little meat for the communal pot. He did his share of night watch, took extras when he could, and didn't sleep much even when he finally turned in for the evening. Spent countless hours staring at the low, sloping roof of his tent, running that last conversation with Glenn over and over again in his mind, feeling his heart clench every time he remembered the words coming out of his mouth.
And he spent his days glancing surreptitiously at the kid, trying to see if Glenn was looking at him any differently, both fearful and hopeful in equal measure.
When Glenn started chatting to Maggie again on their third day out, sitting next to her on the pine log they dragged up to the fire each night, he told himself that it didn't matter. Glenn might know his secret, but that was as far as it went. As far as it was ever going to go.
It's not like anything changed as far as Glenn himself is concerned. Glenn's still the same guy. Still smart, still quick on his feet and with his mouth. And okay, it sure seemed to Daryl like Glenn used to look at him… well… speculatively. Back at the quarry. Back when Daryl was watching him, listening to him. Coming to the rather startling conclusion that he'd kill anyone who hurt him, do whatever he could to protect him. That he'd rather die himself than live without him.
Sometimes, back in those early days, he thought that interest was reciprocated. Sitting around the campfire at night, when Glenn's leg would brush against his even though there was plenty of room on the damn log. On watch on top of the RV when Glenn would climb up and join him, tell him some long, outrageous, ridiculous pizza delivery story that made him choke and spit out his water and then knock the kid's stupid cap off his head in retaliation for his soaked shirt. Or at the CDC, long after everyone else went to bed, sitting alone in the dark, empty cafeteria with a bottle between them and not saying anything at all.
Clearly he was wrong. Glenn likes girls. Glenn likes Maggie, despite his protests to the contrary.
It didn't matter. Not one bit.
"-together again."
Daryl blinks, bites back a curse. Woolgathering in the middle of a mission is the best way to get himself killed, get somebody else killed. Anything could come spilling out of those buildings, could still be dozens of geeks around. He pulls himself back to the present with a wince. "Sorry, what?"
Carol smiles softly again. "I said it's nice. Seeing Glenn and Maggie together again. Good to see them working things out." She lays a hand on his arm, her fingertips cool on his sun-warmed skin. "Everyone deserves a little happiness, don't you think?"
Daryl squints down at her, trying to decipher the look in her eyes. He saved from replying at all when Rick calls them over to the join the rest of the group in front of the large communal building.
But he feels Carol's eyes on him the whole time they walk together through the yard.
* * *
"Everybody did great today," Rick says.
Daryl places his crossbow next to him on one of the rustic tables set up in the common room, leans against the back wall and eyes the room. The structure is crude, but solid. Better by half than the ramshackle shack that Merle put up on his own property back in '92, but Daryl's also pretty sure that whoever constructed this main room and the cabins wasn't stopping every half hour to shove another line up his nose. The fireplace that takes up one half of the west wall should provide ample heat for the cold winter nights to come. From his quick perusal of the rough-hewn bookshelf most of the books and magazines are of either the field-and-stream or tits-and-ass variety, but they might find something more suitable when they dig further. And the kitchen pantry was stocked to practically the ceiling with more food than they've seen in months. He expected MRE's and beer. And when he poked his head inside the room on his check for walkers, he did see those - as well as dried fruits, canned vegetables of every kind imaginable, bags of rice, stack upon stack of bottled water. Even home-made preserves lined up neatly in a row, all labeled with a woman's flowing hand. God only knows what else they'll find.
The men who fought and died here weren't good men, at least according to Carol. But his respect for them goes up a notch just the same. They must have been overrun fairly early in the game. If they'd known that head shots were necessary to take down the walkers, he has no doubt that Ed's band of survivalist cronies would still be hunkered down here now, probably firing warning shots at his own people from those guard towers and sending them off with their tails between their legs.
It occurs to him suddenly that if Ed had had his way, his body would have been one of those they found today. His, and Carol's. Sophia's.
He wouldn't have known them at all.
There would have been no child to get spooked by a walker on a crowded interstate, no child that ran away into the woods and got lost. No search that ended in failure and heartbreak. There would have been no little girl that smart-mouthed him when her ma wasn't around to catch her, that snuck into his campsite with bugs clutched in a dirty hand for him to identify; no little girl that confided in a whisper that she wanted him to teach her how to shoot the crossbow when she was old enough, so she could protect her mama.
Daryl licks his lips, swallows around a throat suddenly gone dry. Blinks, presses his lips together as his gaze flicks around the room. He finds Carol talking quietly with Beth and Hershel, thin sweater tied around her waist. Her eyes are still anxious and delicate worry lines sketch her skin, but she also looks happy. Proud. It was touch and go for a while - Daryl thinks the walker herd that came upon them unawares on the back road near the old mill will likely haunt his dreams for a good time to come - but in the end, Carol led them to the right place. The safety they have now is because of her.
And yes, everyone does deserve a little happiness.
He allows himself a quick, furtive glance at Glenn before he turns his attention back to Rick.
"Daryl, T and I have checked the grounds and the buildings twice," Rick says, his voice cutting through the side conversations that have started up in the room. "We're certain that the entire camp is clear of walkers. We'll be safe here."
If he expected a chorus of hurrahs, he was sadly mistaken. Daryl sees tentative smiles on Carl and Beth's faces; nothing but uncertainty and skepticism on the others.
"We all hope it's safe, Rick," Lori finally says hesitantly. "We really do. But do you think that maybe you're jumping to conclusions?"
"No, Lori, I don't," Rick snaps. "We have shelter here. Food. Everything we need."
Daryl watches Lori's eyes drop quickly away from his, caught again by the sharp contrast between her present incarnation and the fire and brimstone woman of the past. That Lori is gone now, and the woman that's left behind is all brittle shell. It angers him, he realizes - not only because he's watching two good people, people he now calls his friends, rip themselves apart, but because every rift leaves the rest of the group vulnerable.
"That's all well and good," Maggie says. "There's a couple dozen dead bodies outside that thought the same damn thing."
"We're not them."
One thing about Maggie, the girl doesn't back down. "The fences are down, Rick."
"So we repair the fences," Rick answers immediately.
"So the walkers can just tear them down again, rip us apart like they did these people?" Maggie argues. "It's not safe."
Hershel puts an arm around his daughter's shoulders. "She's got a point, Rick."
Rick takes a breath, and Daryl can see the man forcibly hold back his temper. Perhaps it's the sight of Hershel's protective arm; perhaps it's seeing Maggie's doubts reflected in the eyes of the rest of the group. He swipes a hand over his beard, catches Daryl's eye as he prepares to make his case. Daryl's not sure what he can offer, but he inclines his head in wordless support.
"These people didn't know what they were up against," Rick starts. "Yeah, they got overrun. But you all saw the bodies out there. They were shooting for the heart, the vital organs. As a result, they got bit, they turned, and they started attacking their friends. They didn't know you had to take out the brain. We do."
Daryl leans against the back wall, folds his arms at his chest and resumes watching the room. Sees Glenn nod his head in agreement, T-Dog bite his bottom lip but stay silent.
"There's plenty of wood piled up in the back, enough to repair the places where the walkers got through and reinforce any other weak spots," Rick continues. "We got two guard towers and enough manpower to keep them manned twenty-four seven, and enough food to last us a few months as long as we augment it with whatever Daryl and I can hunt down. We've got a place to lay our heads that's out of the cold and the damp."
Daryl knows Rick's mind is already set. Whatever happens, he and Lori and Carl will be setting up camp here. Daryl also knows that he'll almost certainly be joining them; it's the safest course of action. But he respects Rick for laying out the case, meeting everyone squarely in the eyes.
"We'll be safe here," Rick finishes, "at least through the worst of the winter."
The room is silent for a moment, until T clears his throat. "Hell, it's not like we've got a better option."
Daryl can tell that Maggie's not convinced, but when Hershel gently squeezes her shoulder she keeps her mouth shut. And though he doesn't want to admit it, his own "almost certainty" hinged on a particular Asian agreeing to continue to hitch his wagon to Rick's train - and he's more likely to do that if Maggie continues to bite her lip. Daryl'd be tempted to track Hershel down tonight to buy him a cold one if the old coot still drank.
"I can work out a watch schedule," Glenn suggests.
"Fine," Rick agrees, "you get on that. We need the first two men out there within the hour, we gotta be extra-vigilant until those gaps in the fences are fixed. Lori, Carol," he continues, "you two are in charge of the food stores. We need to know exactly what we've got so we can figure on how long everything's going to last us."
"On it," Carol says.
"Beth, work out some cabin assignments. If any of the rooms need blankets, there were some in the storeroom out back. Carl, give her a hand," Rick says as Carl hops lightly down from where he's perched cross-legged on one of the tables. "And make sure everyone's got toiletries, too. The water in those communal showers might be ice cold, but at least we got some soap and shampoo."
The young girl smiles at that, and Daryl sees the grin picked up by several people in the room, enthusiasm and hope ricocheting rapidly from one person to the next. Despite the risks, despite the still-gaping holes in the fence line and the ever-present threat of a walker herd, they will have four walls and a roof over their heads tonight. Ample food in their stomachs and clean fresh-smelling bodies. Soft mattresses to lie on instead of the cold, hard ground. Carol has a bounce in her step as she heads through the door to the kitchen area, and even Maggie looks somewhat mollified.
Daryl never had much use for cops, but he had to admit that whatever else Rick may be going through, the man is a born leader.
Once Hershel's assigned to sort through the medical supplies the survivalists had laid in, Daryl pushes away from the wall.
"We still got a few hours of daylight left," Rick says, taking in the remainder of the group. "The rest of us will make a start on those fence repairs."
"What about the bodies out there?" T-Dog asks. "Shouldn't we take care of those?"
Rick shakes his head. "We'll burn them, but not until the fences are fixed. That's our number one priority." He turns to Glenn, whose head is already bent over a scrap of paper torn from the back of an old fishing guide. "Glenn, you come fetch us as soon as you got the watch schedule made up. Remember, both the south and north towers have to be manned. We need to get people in those guard towers as soon as possible. We can't risk any stragglers getting through while we're vulnerable here."
"Got it," Glenn says.
When Glenn's eyes meet his, Daryl quickly looks away.
Everyone deserves a little happiness in the end times. And he knows that ultimately, Glenn's happiness lies with Maggie.
V - Daryl's Room
Daryl thought he knew sore, working on the road crew that first year after high school, slinging asphalt onto Georgia highways and byways under a blazing one hundred and twenty degree sun. He thought he knew sore working at the meat plant years later, flinging hundred pound slabs of frozen beef onto the table for the cutting saw. He thought he knew sore on the construction sites, lugging wood planks up and down ladders, bending and lifting all day and into the night.
He realizes now that he didn't truly know what sore was. Back then, he could head home to his tiny apartment, heat up something in the microwave and throw the heating pad on his back after chasing down a few muscle relaxants and painkillers with a cold Bud. He could run the water in the tub as hot as he could stand it, so hot that it turned his skin beet-red and made every scar stand out like brands on his flesh; prop the old black and white TV onto the counter by the sink, ease down into the water with another beer and relax for an hour until all the pain melted away and he could finally flop into a soft bed, the fan on the nightstand whirring softly and cooling his fevered skin as he drifted off to sleep.
This? This is unrelenting.
For six days now he's been at a breakneck pace. Up at dawn to work on the fence line, hauling wood, hammering nails. Afternoons in the surrounding woods - sometimes tracking, often putting in miles before he manages to snag something for the supper pot; sometimes just sitting off the nearest game trail, still but vigilant, every muscle standing at attention. Then his evening shifts on the watch towers, eyes straining to see beyond the gloom, ears alert for the sound of dragging footsteps shuffling through the fallen leaves.
They have to save their meds for emergencies, so there are no pills to take away the aches that have settled into the line of his shoulders and the small of his back. Hell, he won't even risk a shot or two of the Wild Turkey still stashed away on his bike, not until the fences are completely fixed. Not until his people are protected.
He's tired, his eyes are grainy and his right shoulder protests angrily when he pushes open the door to his cabin.
To find Glenn sitting on his bed.
He blinks, actually glances back at the door like he's in some kind of rundown motel room and there'll be a number on it to indicate he's in the right place. When his confused gaze meets only the rough wood planking, he furrows his brow and looks past Glenn. There's his quiver propped up against the wall, his backpack with its dirty clothes spilling out into the corner of the room.
His room.
"The hell you doin' here?"
The tentative smile on Glenn's face fades. The kid jumps up from the bed like he's been goosed when Daryl strides into the room, and Daryl pushes down the quick pang of regret that flashes through his head at the thought that the kid might actually be scared of him. It ain't his damn fault that Glenn made himself at home here while he was out slugging through the tick-infested woods, maybe helping himself to Daryl's things while he's not around to put a stop to it. Kid should be scared.
"Heyyyy," Glenn says. "I just thought I'd… you know… stop by. Haven't seen you in a while. Thought we could chat."
Daryl grimaces. "Chat?"
"Yeah. Chat. You may have heard of it. You open your mouth, words fall out. It's this thing friends do."
"We friends now?"
Glenn's lips quirk in a quick smile. "There's that gruff thing again. I told you, dude, nobody buys that anymore. That ship sailed, like, back when you nearly got yourself killed looking for Sophia."
Daryl doesn't want to think about what it does to him when the kid smiles like that. But the mention of Sophia drives a spike through the lightness in his chest, and his lip curls as he turns away from Glenn, tosses his crossbow carefully on the bed. "Go ahead and say what you got to say."
"Geez. It's not like I came to say anything in particular, it's just… I've been thinking about you. A lot, actually. And I've been thinking about… that thing. That you told me?"
Daryl freezes. Should have just kept his damn mouth shut. Where he does or does not want to stick his dick is no business of anybody's, least of all some scrawny little Asian kid with an attitude. Now it's gonna become some thing, like it's a damn quirk that defines him, changes him into someone different somehow. It's always gonna be there, whenever Glenn looks at him, pictures him… and he hates that. He no longer thinks of it as a perversion, no matter what his old man said when he found those magazines in his room, no matter what the old man screamed when the lash came down that final time, when his pa followed after him as he scrambled away on all fours, trying to cover his head, trying to get away. Escape.
He believes in God, even if he thinks that God's often a pretty sick fucker. And God made him this way. But being… wanting… liking men isn't who he IS. And now that's all Glenn's gonna see when he looks at him, like he's some freak, and the thought makes his stomach roil, makes him want to curl his hands into fists, go back out into the woods and just be alone, just…
"Daryl?"
Daryl realizes he's been standing motionless, staring at the damn bow. He straightens, meets the kid's eyes. "What about it?"
"Is it a secret?"
Daryl bristles. "Ain't gonna be puttin' a notice up on the bulletin board, if that's what you mean."
"Okay," Glenn says.
Daryl waits for more, waits for the questions to start, for the look on the kid's face to change from anything but mild interest. But Glenn merely looks at him, presses his lip together and nods. Smiles slightly. After a moment it starts to feel like a staring contest that isn't going to have any damn winner.
Daryl shakes his head, turns away to remove his vest. He can't help the wince that crosses his face, and the "Anything else?" that he barks out at the kid loses a lot of its bite when it's muffled in a gasp of pain. Not that Glenn's ever paid much attention to his bark, anyhow.
"You know, I could help with that. I give a great massage."
Daryl glances over his shoulder, eyes the kid warily. "That some ancient Chinese thing?"
Glenn rolls his eyes. "Dude, I'm Korean. You know I'm Korean."
"Whatever, Ho Chi Minh."
"Getting old, man," Glenn laughs. "And it's an ancient Korean thing. Do you want my help or not?"
Glenn apparently takes his hesitation as assent, grabs the rickety wooden chair from the corner of the room and set it up near the bed. Daryl flops down reluctantly, tells himself that he's letting this happen because he's in pain. And because Glenn's right - they are friends. One friend offering to help another isn't a bad thing. It's no different than if Carol made the offer. Or Lori. He'd do the same for them. And at its core it's really a sign of acceptance. Glenn isn't going to look at him any differently, or judge him as some kind of freak.
The thought should ease his stress. But when Glenn touches him, he tenses.
It's not like no one's ever touched him before. Not like no man's ever touched him before. There have been… encounters, desperate groping in seedy back rooms and dimly lit bathrooms. But there has never been this - this gentle caress, the heat of Glenn's chest against his back, the slow careful attention to his needs.
Daryl holds himself still, tries not to shiver at the touch. Glenn's fingers are warm, strong, his fingers kneading expertly into the rigid muscle, leeching more of the pain away with every skillful press of his fingers. He closes his eyes, loses himself a little in the sensation.
"Better?"
Glenn's breath ghosts across his skin, stirs the long hair at the back of his neck.
Daryl realizes suddenly that he's rock hard, his dick straining against his zipper. And Glenn's lips are mere inches away, his chin practically balanced on Daryl's shoulder. All he'd have to do is turn his head…
"Daryl?" Carol's voice calls out.
Daryl is out of the chair before he has time to think, his erection wilting as if it had never been. The hand that comes up to swipe at his chin shakes just slightly, and he takes a deep breath before he turns to the open door. Deliberately doesn't look at the kid. And curses himself for ten times a fool.
"I brought you something to eat. Lord knows you don't eat enough to keep a mouse going, never mind a man," Carol continues. Her gaze flits between the two men, her brow furrowing when it rests on Glenn's face, but Daryl still doesn't look. Can't look. "Am I interrupting something?"
"No," Daryl says quickly. He nods toward the cloth-covered plate, rushes forward to take it from her hands if only to give his own something to do to stop their jittering. "Thanks for this."
"Anytime," Carol says.
"Well," Glenn says, "I guess I'll…"
He makes a vague gesture toward the door that Daryl catches from the corner of his eye, and Daryl nods. Stares at the floorboards until the sound of Glenn's footsteps fades into the distance, until the only sound is his own breathing, too harsh and loud in the small room.
He looks up to see Carol leaning her hip on the doorjamb, arms crossed at her breasts. She raises an eyebrow. "Everything okay here?"
Daryl tosses the napkin toward the bed, slumps back down onto the chair and buries his fork into the mound of canned potatoes on the plate. "Ain't no reason why it wouldn't be."
"Okay," Carol says again. He lifts his eyes from the food in time to see her push off from the doorway. "If you ever need to talk…"
"I look like the chattin' type?"
Carol smiles. "First time for everything."
Continue to Part Two
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