Running was probably the best option.
He'd considered it for a long while, almost since the beginning. Running had always been an option, of course. He'd always considered it - it would be so easy to just slip away into the dead of night, never to return. But he'd stopped himself just short of actually doing it every time. One foot out of the light of the campfire, more or less. He rationalized it as a safety in numbers, as being better off having someone at his back, as protecting the children.
Daryl didn't like admitting that Rick was right when he called them family. Not when he was so close to running for so long, the itchy tingle of being out in the open, of being reckless, of open sky and elbow room calling him away. Not when his fingers itched over the keys when he found a running car, like he could floor the gas and just leave forever. But something kept him, and if Rick called it family, he had to admit it probably was.
But now he was offered a bike. A bike that was truly his, a bike made for one, and he could smell the burning rubber under his feet and feel the handles hum under his fingers and that wanderlust kissed him gently and he just wanted to bolt. It was the same kind of itch that forced him to hunt for cigarettes, even when he knew he'd eventually run himself dry. And with how it was offered - Aaron, springing it on him like it was a badly planned birthday surprise - he was surprised he hadn't spent his days making it work so he could go. But that would mean spending more time around Aaron, and he tried to avoid too much quality time with him.
Aaron had started acting... weird. Daryl avoided it like it was a bitter taste. Of course, he knew what was going on, and knowing made it worse. Aaron had, at some point, pinpointed Daryl as one of them. Gay. He'd picked up some signal and had decided that Daryl really wanted some good dick, and he had started acting on it. He'd make a mention of how he and his partner wanted to do this thing, or that thing, and would Daryl like to come like he was trying to get Daryl in a comfortable, relaxed place, so that Daryl could tell him some big secret. Like how Daryl was a queer. Of course, Daryl did not consider himself a homosexual. Girls tickled him in nice ways, nice ways that gay men wouldn't feel. Girls made him feel hot and bothered. The only other sign he could even consider in his determinations were his sometimes weird dreams, where he'd remember flashes of hot, large hands, scruff on his face, and nothing else.
Almost every one of those was proceeded with a half-assed caught-prey meal that he was pretty sure was the cause. Indigestion can cause weird dreams, and he was sure of it.
So Daryl had started avoiding Aaron like the man carried some plague, and with Rick's current campaign against trusting Alexandria and carrying weapons, Daryl honestly had nowhere to go. Running seemed more and more like the best decision, but until he had a bike he was sort of stuck. He could just vanish, of course, but he was given a bike, and tearing away on the open road was so much more appealing that trying to make it out on foot.
He pressed his hands into the muddy earth beneath where he sat, leaning back against a tree. The woods had been such a good haven for him, having no other retreat. Not with Aaron hounding him when he was in the walls and Rick insisting he arm himself. At least out in the open he could carry his crossbow, and that seemed to satiate Rick well enough, and he didn't need to carry anything else. And Aaron had stopped trying to follow him after the first three attempts nearly left him with a bloody nose from Daryl's fist. So Daryl was alone, and it was nice. Quiet.
He'd found a glen, a small patch of exposed grass and a tiny pool of water that wasn't tainted with the heady smell of death, and walkers rarely passed through it. Occasionally he'd see a deer on the other side, just under the shadows of the trees, and it always saw him first and bolted. But it was nice, serene. He'd like to think, to sit and dream of the road and warm hands and his youth, his brother and everything before it happened. Before it happened. The event with no name that no one wanted to mention as anything other than the difference between then and now, the difference between the light and dark place.
Something rustled, and Daryl sat up. He was usually undisturbed, at least with that kind of noise. It came again, close, and he tensed, reaching slowly for the bow he'd lain beside him. Human, obviously human, not the disjointed but consistent Walker stumble, the steady beating of feet that weren't sure how to place themselves. This rustle was short, and stopped frequently, and was soft and unsure and it was so human because an animal wouldn't make that much noise. Daryl lifted the sight to his eyes, and shifted forward on his knees.
He could see, just through the green tangles of grass, a pair of shoulders. A blue t-shirt, ripped at the shoulder slightly. They shifted steadily, breathing, up and down, like whomever was struggling a bit, and then they straightened, slowly. Slowly, and Daryl could see the pain in the shift of the shoulders, the way they clenched, and he watched as the figure rose, and the head appeared over the grass.
It turned, and gray eyes met blue. For an instant, what was a fraction of a second but felt like hours, both eyes could read each other. Daryl read fear, immediate fear, like a deer caught in the beam of a bright light; a rabbit staying still or fear that movement would create a chase instinct in a predator, like if they stayed still they'd be fine. He could feel the moment before it happened - the boy, for Daryl could swear it was honestly a young child and not an adult, not at that height, inhaled, and seeing Daryl shift slightly, bolted.
Daryl immediately took after him, ducking under the tree line and tracking his path quickly until he was almost up to him, watching the boy run through the trees. It was strange, this kid knew these woods well, taking strange paths through bushes and briars and around trees in a way Daryl wouldn't have guessed. But Daryl chased like a greyhound who had the bait pulled out from under him, so focused on keeping the blue t-shirt in his eyesight that he didn't realize they had ducked into a massive amount of corn until he'd lunged headfirst into it.
The issue with corn was that tracking in corn is hard, as there's little footprints, and a gentle touch can move around corn without breaking it. Daryl hopped in place for a moment, foot to foot, getting his bearings. He couldn't hear any movement, not even a small breeze rustling the tops of the partially developed corn. The kid wasn't moving - he was smart. Hiding in the corn was probably the safest way to avoid being detected. Sound would have given him away. Tracking would be tricky, and if Daryl moved, the kid would know. The silence was killing his chances of catching the fast little shit.
So he did what he thought Rick would do, since tracking was the last thing he needed. He spoke. "Hey!" He called, in the general direction of inward, using a hand to amplify his voice. "Hey, I just want to talk to you!" He called again. The only sound was a large, fat bee that whizzed by. Fuck. "Come on!"
"Put your crossbow down!" Finally, a tiny voice responded. It was strained, and out of breath, and Daryl realized the kid had been literally holding his breath to not be heard. "Outside the corn! Put it down and take a step back!" And Daryl, wanting to talk more than wanting to shoot anyone, stepped back and did as he was told. He gently set his crossbow down, and stepped back from it, putting his hands in the air for good measure.
"Okay!" He called into the bushes. "Come on out!" He sounded a little tense, and of course he was, because if someone wanted to shoot him now was probably the best time. The corn rustled, and he tensed further. Internally, he had it planned out - if he slipped forward, he could grab his weapon and fire in under ten seconds, and he could roll dodge anything in the same movement - but externally, he was, well... very obvious. He wasn't Rick. He didn't stand stock still when someone had a gun on him. He was antsy, and it was easy to tell.
The first thing he saw was blue. It was the boy, who, well, now that he'd seen their face, probably wasn't actually all that young. It was the softness of the jaw, maybe, or the size of the eyes, or the small stature, but he wasn't sure. He also wasn't sure the person was even male. But he had the eyes of a man, Daryl saw, now that the rabbit had fled. Gray and steel and hard. He was blond, sandy, a little strawberry in it, and shaggy, like he'd been without a haircut in a while. But his face was almost hairless. His hands were small, thin, and holding... a bow. A long, red, beaten re-curve bow, with an arrow in his left hand, and a quiver on his back.
"Why did you chase me?" He asked, the arrow twitching slightly like he might just shoot Daryl then and there. He was just as tense as Daryl was, though neither were actually under duress.
"Why d'you run?" Daryl replied, snappy. "You snuck up on me."
"I was hunting." The man raised his arrow, pointing his arrow at Daryl like it was an extension of his arm. "You scared my deer."
"I didn't do shit." Daryl cross his arms, eyeing his bow. Bow versus bow wasn't something he was used to calculating, but he figured his would win. If he could get to it in time. "Ain't that good of a hunter, though, going through that patch. How am I 'sposed to know you ain't following me?" He stepped forward, blood hot now. The probability of someone hunting like that, when there weren't any deer, was shit. He knew it, and from the way the other backed up, it was easy to tell they both knew it was bullshit. "What, Aaron sent you?"
"I don't know anyone named Aaron." The other said, stringing his bow. His hands were shaking, holding the arrow loose, but threatening. Daryl wasn't intimidated, he could hear the lie in the words, hear the hesitation in the other's tone, hear the worry, and he strode forward, picking up his crossbow quickly.
"You don't know anyone named Aaron?" He was accusing, biting, voice the low snarl of a dog on guard, moving forward with such purpose that the other nearly dropped the arrow from his shaking hands, leaving him almost nose to nose with the hunter. Daryl was tall enough to tower over the other, and he used it to his advantage. "How the fuck d'you survive out here, huh? Ain't shit out here easy to catch, with a bow like that 'n a body that small, I can't believe you'd last a day out here. Stop lyin' 'n tell me who th'fuck sent you!"
Pain. That was his answer. Pain shooting up his side like he was on fire from the inside. The other couldn't shoot, couldn't fire a bow at that close range, but he could swing his arm up and shove the arrow hard into Daryl's ribs. It was sharp, he'd give the guy that, and it pierced his vest like he was wearing clothing made of butter. As soon as that burst behind his eyes, the boy was gone, bow left forgotten in the grass, bolting into the corn again like he was some phantom corn-child. Daryl grunted, bending down to pick up the bow, cradling his own wound. He shouldered his crossbow, huffy about the pain searing his side.
He was going to need stitches, he could tell, and he didn't want to owe anyone shit. Especially not from something as stupid as getting stabbed with an arrow from a fucking wild-child.
He stared at the bow in his hands, the worn red of it bright against the background, and then at the corn. If nothing else, he told himself, he'd see the kid again. No self respecting hunter would leave without their weapon. Especially not in this world, where a weaponless boy like that kid could get ripped in half if he wasn't careful.
He had the bait, all he had to do was set the trap.
After he got stitches, of course.