Thanks for clicking on Sunshine! I hope you enjoy :)

…

Sunshine | Chapter One | Apocalyptic Backdrop

…

If the Heavens ever did speak,

She is the last true mouthpiece,

—Hozier

…

Delilah Jenkins found it odd that after everything Rick Grimes had been through, he had not—as might have been expected given the current state of the world—gone completely and utterly insane.

While more subdued and quiet than others, often toiling the fields and cultivating crops, he did not strike her as particularly deranged (well, no more so than what the midday sun and potential heatstroke could cause anyway). Neither did she fear he was the kind of crazy that meant her life was in danger by living at Fort Benning. And if you took it upon yourself to ask one of the people he deemed friend—his original group—to explain why he spent so much time out in the fields, why he seemed to prefer the company of his pigs and tomato plants to the others slowly filling up the cells of the ex-prison, they'd probably say something like, "Rick? He's… well… he's taking a break."

Except, perhaps, for Daryl Dixon, who might jump on the defense instead and say something like, "Why ya wan' ta know tha' for? You leave him be, ya hear?" In his thick, Southern redneck drawl, accompanied by a steely glare or a barely noticeable, sympathetic tightening around his eyes as he glanced over at the man in question, depending on his mood at the time.

Daryl was another prominent figure among the ex-prison residents and Delilah had slowly noticed that his moods tended to be based on a lot of things—the number of people he brought back to the Fort, the number of walkers he killed that day, how hot it was, whether he'd caught any good game in the woods, whether he'd talked to Carol yet, whether he was hungry and, of course, whether he'd had to deal with any of the eternally grateful residents beforehand.

At least, that was what Delilah had observed whilst she did her chores. As a rather quiet woman, her social role was mostly limited, and she would undoubtedly be forever overshadowed by the fiercer and more skilled warrior women, and also the bolder, more extraverted non-warrior women among them. The ones in the foreground while Delilah hovered in the background. This was neither a surprising or unpleasant fact. She much preferred to slip by unnoticed. It allowed her to observe. While everyone was busy paying attention to each other and interacting, Delilah was busy watching them.

And she was usually good at it, too—observing, with her high attention to detail and her ability to narrow her field of focus so completely. Perhaps it was why she had lasted so long before Daryl and Glenn had found her—years of just observing meant she took the time to look. (Mostly, Delilah figured, it was just dumb luck though—that and Felicity.).

Felicity, who preferred to be known as Flick, was the closest friend Delilah had. Uncommonly generous in this new world, Flick was the sole reason Delilah had survived the last three months before they were found. They'd stumbled across each other in the middle of trying to outrun their own following of undead, and Flick had been quick to pull Delilah to her and never let go. They'd been surviving together ever since, so Delilah considered herself to be the one person left in the world who knew her better than anyone else.

Flick liked to hum as she did her chores, was a hippie through and through, and secretly, so secretly that Delilah wasn't sure Flick herself even realised, she loved Daryl Dixon.

She was cautious about it, only ever giving it away in the crinkling of the corners of her mouth and eyes when he came back from a hunt, or a supply run. Even earlier that morning, as he was leading weapons training for her and a few others—assessing the abilities and affinities for different weapons of those who signed up for training—she had barely said a word.

Delilah found that situation particularly amusing, however, because Flick was fantastic at archery. Daryl—eyeing her unevenly cut dreadlocks where she'd hacked out the too-loud beads and her filthy rainbow tie-dyed singlet—who was of the opinion that hippies weren't good for much more than free hugs, had been shocked when she'd lifted the makeshift bow and arrow and hit her target. And then hit it again on her second turn.

Delilah had been cutting vegetables—mostly potatoes; they had an abundance of potatoes, and she was really missing carrots by this point—for the group dinner, as part of her chores, when, instead of dicing the potato, she had sliced into the meaty, fleshy part of her hand, between her thumb and pointer finger. She hadn't even noticed until she felt the stinging pain in her hand and looked down to find the red liquid welling up and seeping over her skin and newly cut potatoes.

She'd been paired with Abe—a genial, middle-aged, pot-bellied man, who had lost his daughters in the first wave of outbreaks, and so seemed to have re-directed his paternal stewardship onto her—for vegetable cutting duties, and when he'd seen what she'd accidentally done, he'd sighed and forced her to see one of the doctors. She had found Dr. S first, who had treated and wrapped the cut for her quickly, but when she returned to Abe, he would not allow her to touch the knife again, mumbling about her inability to use sharp utensils and finding her different chores.

Feeling adequately chastised as she sat off to the side in what could only be described as a time-out punishment, she had plenty of time to watch Felicity try and explain to Daryl, her cheeks a brilliant shade of red, that she was from a hunting family. Their work station was set up a distance away from the practicing residents for safety, but they were faced in their direction to have something to watch and so Delilah could only just make out what Flick was saying. Having only been at Fort Benning for a couple months, Flick had been intensely overwhelmed by Daryl, and so her explanation was more a warbled, incorrectly punctuated, timid, series of words that, when stringed together, made little to no sense.

Daryl had stopped listening pretty quickly, obviously irritated by her stuttering inability to communicate, until Flick, with a half-crazed expression (Delilah had suspected that it was Daryl's intense, anti-hero presence that had driven Flick a little crazy) had continued to demonstrate, in a rare, completely unlike her, bout of showmanship, the extent of her archery abilities. Afterwards, she'd gathered her thoughts properly enough to state firmly, almost over-enunciating her words this time, that, "I'm from a hunting family—my father taught me."

Daryl nodded, frowning and narrowing his eyes in concentration.

"And…" Flick trailed off slightly, shuffling her feet and losing the last of her emboldened state. It was comical, Delilah thought, because Flick was never so completely flummoxed—that was more Delilah's thing. Flick kept her head in the most precarious of situations, even when they were escaping that horde of undead when they first met, and so Delilah could only conclude that for Flick, talking to Daryl Dixon was more intimidating than facing down the undead. "And I practiced archery."

Daryl didn't say anything for a while, and Delilah could see the panic this caused in Flick, shrinking back into herself. Her fingers twisted at her rainbow tie-dyed singlet. Daryl's pretty blue eyes continued to look at her, seeming to contemplate what he was going to say next, and Delilah hoped it was some kind of praise. Then, he looked between Flick and the few others lined up, waiting to have their own go at the weapons. "Ya can help train some a'tha others, then."

It appeared to Delilah to be mostly out of character for Daryl. From what she'd seen, Daryl interacted less with the newer residents at the ex-prison, almost avoiding direct conversation with the overly attentive ones. Partly, she suspected, because he was trying to avoid a lot of the hero-worship going around (largely born out of the gratitude for the safe home they'd been provided with and welcomed into, and the intrinsic human drive to copulate with the people most likely to survive), and partly because he simply did not trust any of them the way he trusted the original Fort Benning residents. And so, for a moment, she wondered if Flick had made enough of an impact on Daryl that he'd want her to be around him, helping him, and whether anything would come of it.

But then Glenn had wandered over to take over from Daryl's instruction and Daryl had indicated for Flick to join Glenn. Delilah watched as Flick's shoulders slumped ever so slightly, trailing over to Glenn as he led the group in training. When her and Flick locked eyes, Delilah offered an awkward, sympathetic smile-wince that the other woman accepted graciously.

Delilah watched them until they moved further out of sight as more people began to mill around, doing chores, and she looked back over to where Daryl stood with a tall, broad man she knew to be Tyrese, whose skin reminded her strongly of chocolate. Her gaze focused in on Daryl, though, as she tried to figure it out in her head.

She wanted Flick to be happy—or as happy as one could be in a world filled with things trying to rip you apart slowly to feast on your flesh—and with a wave of conviction, she thought that in an abstract sort of way, Flick and Daryl would be good together. They should be together, because it could work. Daryl had the haunted kind of eyes Delilah had seen a lot since the zombification of most of the world—they were guarded, wounded eyes that went along with those who had seen a lot and done a lot of crap, perhaps some he wasn't proud of. (Vaguely, she suspected that Rick Grimes had given him the opportunity to be proud of something he'd done, and that was why he was so unwaveringly loyal to the largely-absentee man). And Flick was exactly the kind of non-judgmental person that would suit him perfectly.

And for a moment, Delilah had thought that perhaps, those few minutes out in the yard, when Flick pulled the attention to herself for the first time since Delilah had met her, would be when it happened. When Daryl's understanding of Felicity would alter and shift on its axis, rotating into realization as he finally actually saw her, and everything would be perfect, if only for a short time.

But then reality caught up to her and Delilah knew that nothing would change. At least, not when everything continued to move on the course it was already on. From a distance, she had witnessed many women fawn over the hunter and be equally disappointed when he neither noticed nor returned their interest. Flick was not the first, nor, Delilah knew, would she be the last.

And the more she witnessed those around her—in particular, one Daryl Dixon—the more she was sure that generous, caring Flick did not stand a chance.

Daryl, despite his redneck roots and what would be considered a disadvantaged background, had found himself in a position of authority and leadership. He walked with a confident swagger, and Delilah doubted that much could really throw him off that he couldn't cope—he was clearly a born survivor. With his fantastic hunting skills, his favourite food was that of the game he caught himself. He was a champion cross-bow wielder (and could often be seen coming back from a hunt, the cross-bow slung over his shoulder), liked the other inhabitants of Fort Benning more than he would let on, and had a habit of ripping the sleeves off his shirts so the edges were torn and frayed and threads were falling out.

He also had a strong connection with one of the older women, Carol, (Delilah had heard from Glenn, that he'd been one of people to search for Carol's daughter, Sophia, with a kind of desperate dedication, refusing to give up) but one didn't have to be particularly observant to notice that.

They tended to be subtlety protective of each other, in the most non-direct of ways. He was the first to begin to organize a search party when Carol, Maggie and Sasha had been gone on a supply run longer than they should've been. They'd left earlier that day and should've returned by the time the sun was lowering, and when that time passed, Daryl moved into action.

Before they could start their search, however, the car rolled up to the prison, and Delilah and Flick and the other residents piled out into the yard to see, considering they'd been gone for a while and some had begun to fear the worst.

When the trio emerged from the car, absent blood and obvious wounds, Daryl had brushed past her and Flick in a rush. For a moment, Delilah had seen Flick's eyes light just a little at the redneck's presence the way they always did, her mouth twitching absentmindedly into a barely-there smile, while Daryl didn't pay the slightest bit of attention to Delilah and her smitten friend. Instead, he'd rushed to the front of the relieved pack, his arms wrapping around Carol in a firm, tight embrace that expressed his thoughts far more eloquently than his words usually did, and Delilah watched as the light disappeared from her friend's eyes, the smile slipping to give way to her usual, benevolently neutral expression.

"I did say I'd be back," Carol reminded him lightly, in the warmer tone she usually reserved just for him. Her greying hair cut short and spiked, the older woman was tougher than most, and her voice usually reflected that—except when talking with Daryl. She seemed to be the only one he let see a different side of him—the side that didn't cope well with people he was attached to either leaving him or dying (a not uncommon occurrence, considering).

"Yer, well, ya took yer damn time 'bout it," he grumped gruffly back at her, irritated. (Delilah noticed that the redneck's thick accent became even thicker when he was angry or irritated). They had eyed each other, as next to them Maggie was kissed senseless by her husband Glenn, and Sasha wandered off to find her brother Tyreese and let him know she was back. Delilah patted Flick's shoulder consolingly as they stood among the other residents looking on, because Carol and Daryl looked like a couple among couples, reuniting in their own way, and she figured Flick saw it too.

Delilah had yet to figure out if it was a romantic connection that Daryl and Carol had, though. She certainly thought there was the potential there—they seemed to hover near it constantly, one step away from finding themselves waking up in the others' bed. And yet, at the same time, she thought that they were an anchor for each other—they were incredibly close, who'd shared terrible minutes and hours and days, and come away with an immeasurable bond. There were some things people went through together that marked you, that bonded you, even if you didn't want it. The zombie apocalypse was one of those things, and it had made them family, rather than friends.

The rest of the inhabitants wandered off now that the excitement of their returning saviours' had concluded, and they shuffled back to finish their chores so they could eat and sleep. Delilah turned to Flick just in time to see the other woman pick up a jacket, frayed and worn, that had seen far better days, and wander up to Daryl and Carol.

"Excuse me, Daryl?" Flick's voice, all throaty and malleable in comparison to Carol's hard, strong one, had Delilah wincing, not sure if she really wanted to watch this play out. Not that she had any reason to think there would be a confrontation between them at all, but Carol tended to be abrasive at times and Daryl unintentionally dismissive, and she wasn't sure how it would mesh with her friend. "I think you dropped this when—"

"Wha'?" Daryl grunted in his roughly coarse voice, cutting off Flick in confusion, his eyes going all squinty as he looked at her.

"Your—um, your jacket," Flick managed to get out. "You dropped it."

Daryl stared at the jacket in her hands, frowning, before his eyes jumped back to Flick's face, and Delilah knew what he was seeing; an overly-helpful, perhaps somewhat infatuated admirer. Because he probably knew he dropped his jacket and would undoubtedly have had no problem picking it up himself when he decided he wanted to. "Yer, thanks…?"

Flick's eyes widened in surprise, and Delilah's eyebrows jumped.

"Felicity—I mean, Flick… I… you brought me here when you found us…" and the way her voice trailed off in utter disappointment made Delilah's chest constrict. She was sure he hadn't intentionally meant to hurt her, more like he was attempting to figure out where she fell on the infatuation spectrum he had in his mind.

Flick was strong and giving, and surprisingly sensitive, and she was more special to Delilah than anything else—the woman had saved her without a second thought—and anything that affected her, affected Delilah too.

Daryl's eyes did his squinty thing again, the corners crinkling, and Delilah wasn't sure if he was trying to remember because he couldn't place her, or he was sizing her up because he didn't quite understand her. Then he nodded, "you're tha' hippie."

Flick fell silent in response, and that made it different to all the times before, when she would at least attempt a coherent reply to explain herself or her actions to him. But now, in her silence, Delilah felt her friend's quiet hurt she attempted to hide. He didn't care enough to learn her name, and his reaction to her helpfulness was distinctly guarded, like he was trying to put her off. Despite the way his presence made her happier, the feeling was not mutual, and having this made aware to her produced a distinctly unpleasant feeling in her chest.

"Well… thanks," he muttered, grabbing the jacket from her still outstretched hand.

Carol, eyes darting between them warily, had finished standing there in silence and watching the awkward exchange, and so took the jacket from Daryl's hands, folded it neatly before handing it back to him, smoothing over the material in a practiced, motherly move. "Come on, I'm starved and dead on my feet."

Nodding, Daryl followed her easily without a glance behind, clearly oblivious to Flick's reaction, and they headed towards where the food was being handed out. Delilah chanced a look at her friend. Her face had become a blank mask so Delilah could no longer figure out what she was thinking or feeling, and it frustrated her somewhat to be denied access. Flick was talented at brushing aside her own feelings and pushing them down, expertly hiding and never giving away what she really felt and thought, and the only way Delilah knew that any of what she just witnessed affected her friend was due to the fact that Delilah knew her best.

"Flick," she heard herself say softly, and she moved to wrap an arm around her. But then Flick shook her head easily, her blank expression morphing into a small, self-deprecating smile.

"It's nothing," Flick shrugged, in an admission equally as rare as her showmanship earlier that day, before locking her arm around Delilah's and leading her over to the food in her usual manner. Her back straightened her up to her full six foot height, grinning at Delilah like the previous minute had not affected her in the least and it was the only indication that she was not going to say anymore on the topic of Daryl Dixon.

Delilah frowned. She wanted to say that he ought to have known her name at least, that he should know her—of course he should—and that she shouldn't expect to be so overlooked, but she didn't. Instead, she eyed the resolute angle of her friend's shoulders, and the slight downward curve to the corner of her mouth, and thought that Flick was, in the time that Delilah had known her, nothing but practical and logical. Mostly though, she was strong, and Delilah thought she would forever envy her that.

Flick cleared her throat. "Come on. If we don't hurry, there'll probably be no food left."

But still, even after Daryl's easy dismissal of her, Flick sent covert glances his way. She would pretend to be looking around at the others, but her eyes would linger on the hunter for a fraction longer than the rest. And Delilah wondered why Flick bothered with the pretense at all when Delilah was observant like that, and for the first time she wondered if anyone else actually knew just how much she saw.

She felt guilty, for a moment, at the way she watched those around her and seemed to know more than they wanted others to know. But then the guilty feeling vanished, for all of it—their story, with the uncertainty to their end, the apocalyptic backdrop, and the constant stream of new people walking into their lives only to be cut down just as quickly—seemed to be leading them to an ending that was inevitably tragic and creatively painful, and someone needed to appreciate every single last bit of that.