She's always there.
Sometimes, when he's lucky, he gets to touch her. A brief brush of knuckles over a porcelain skin, small hands balling into fists against his grimy shirt, his nose gently nuzzling into soft hair. Then he wakes to find a world made darker by her absence.
In the dead of night when everyone else is asleep and he's doing his best to keep them safe, his thoughts run rampant and the melodic sound of her voice is all that can calm it, a soft lilting that only he can hear. As the song fades out, her voice continues in the worst way. You're gonna miss me so bad when I'm gone. She'd never been more right about anything.
As they walk along, their broken family, he looks around and tries to imagine it bigger, the fallen still within their ranks. His brother by blood at his side, still whole, his brother in spirit made happier by the presence of his wife, two blonde sisters happily chatting to one another, children who'd been taken too soon reunited with their parents, friends who'd fought valiantly but had simply run out of luck. A flash of blonde catches his eye, just on the other side of her sister, and he has to blink hard to come back to reality, the feeling of her name on his tongue.
He can feel Rick's eyes on him, not judging, never judging, but he knows what he'll find when he looks, concern, sympathy, that godawful pity he doesn't want from anyone. He's always been intuitive, and if anyone can read him anymore now that she's gone, it's him. He knows he's been there before, and he knows it doesn't compare, Lori had been his wife, but he finds no comfort in knowing this could ever be construed as normal, knows it means he's finally gone mad. Still, it's nice that when Rick finds him sitting against a tree trunk, sharpening her knife on a rock and telling her about his day, he simply places a gentle hand on his shoulder and knows not to speak.
He gets good at living his life in silence, because aside from grunts of affirmation, what's left to be said? He prefers it this way really, never been much for conversation anyway. Then comes Maggie. It starts small, hellos and goodnights, thank yous for providing food. Then she unceremoniously dives in, questioning him about their time spent alone, wanting to know every detail of everything that had happened. He understands, really he does, he's spent many sleepless nights wondering about what came after, once she'd been taken, and while he contemplated asking, he just couldn't. As he states blankly at her, refusing to speak, he begins to notice the little similarities. The colour of her eyes is wrong, but the shape is the same, and while it's obvious from a once-over that the two were half siblings, upon further examination it was just as obvious that they were raised together. The way she self consciously tucks her hair behind her ear despite it not having been in her face, her fingertips curling over her sleeves and tugging them down over her hands, the way she impatiently shifts her weight just so as she waits for him to speak, and it's too much. Suddenly everything about Maggie Greene is painful and if he wanted nothing to do with her before, he now wishes they'd never met back up at all.
They head toward a safe zone, a scout having found them and offered them a home among his people. He can't help but think the word home is a bit of a stretch the way it's being used in this context. Home is long, blonde hair. Home is soft, porcelain skin. Home is the sound of a lullaby on tinkling piano keys as he reluctantly shuts his eyes. Home is a small hand tucked safely inside his own, arms wrapping around his waist from behind, the burn of moonshine in his throat, the heat of a building on fire warming his back as he starts over with her at his side. This is just a few streets someone walked off, but if the family wants to go, who is he to argue?
Everyone seems to settle in quickly in the safe zone. They're all given jobs and houses and while some of them have to share, no one seems to mind. Just like everyone else, he'd been interviewed by their leader, if that's what they wanted to call the guy, and he'd been given the duty of working construction alongside Abraham, expanding the walls to include another street of houses, clearing walkers from outside the gates, keeping watch while the others worked after doing his share. It keeps him busy and gives him something to think about aside from her. When work is done for the day, he eats with the rest of them before holing up in his room and, again, it's Maggie that's killing him. It's as of she's been an only child all along, her quiet conversation occupied with thoughts of bringing a defenceless child into this hellish nightmare, no sign of melancholy lingering over the demise of the last person to share her flesh and blood. She doesn't seem to notice that while she's babbling inanely to her husband, he's staring at the empty spot next to him, having a hushed conversation with a girl long gone.
He thinks he's getting better at ignoring the ghost of the girl he lost, walking down the road with her trailing in his wake without sparing a glance in her direction, when Noah approaches him. While he knows it's not his fault, he can't help but be bitter that he's here and she's not. The boy tells him briefly about their time together, her initial questioning of whether he was there with her, the sorrow on her face at learning he wasn't, her selflessness in helping the other captives, her bravery in orchestrating an escape that only worked for one of them. Suddenly the scent of her hair fills his nose and he knows that ignoring the spectre is going to be difficult again.
She always looks the same, her ivory skin flawless, her blonde hair in a crooked ponytail with a small braid off to the side. She wears the same clothes she donned in the funeral home, a dirty yellow polo, a grey knit sweater, the little necklace that he knew was hanging on the post of his headboard. He knows this isn't how she looked in the end, but this is how she comes to him, whispering words of comfort and encouragement, simultaneously keeping him going and causing him pain, the guardian angel he doesn't deserve.
When Olivia opens the gate for newcomers, he ignores it. He's not here to make friends, he's just trying to protect what family he's got left, keeping them safe no matter what. His angel appears at his side for a moment, a blinding smile on her face, but he can't for the life of him see what's left to be happy about. It's not until Carl comes flying out of nowhere, slamming into the section of wall he's working on, that he realises anything is happening. The boy stands in front of him, hands on his knees as he pants out a few breaths before encircling his wrist and dragging him off in whatever direction he came from. He reluctantly lets himself be pulled along, if anything he's due for a break by now, and is surprised to see his whole family standing in the middle of the road in a huddle. He doesn't even get a chance to ask what's going on when Carl fights his way past his father and Michonne, ignoring the sounds of their indignation. The group turns slightly as he approaches and realisation seems to dawn on them, even if he's still left in the dark. They silently part as Carl emerges again, a new arm trapped in his grasp, and his vision goes white.
She's always there. Taunting him with the sweet sound of her voice, his brain tricking him into thinking he can smell her, her face shining with contentment in the corner of his eye, just out of reach, never to touch. So when Carl steps aside to reveal the petite blonde, he stands perfectly still, revelling in her angelic beauty, still vaguely wondering what everyone else is looking at, surely they weren't all hallucinating.
It takes him a moment to realise this time is different. She's traded her thick sweater for a black tank top, her hair hangs loose around her face, longer than he'd ever seen it, and her face is scarred, the two they'd seen at the hospital and the one they'd watched get made. She has a knapsack slung over her shoulder that he's never seen before and rather than carrying her knife that he kept in his room, she had a new one sheathed on her hip. He vaguely notices a newcomer standing beside Rick, chatting amiably like old friends, and when he looks back, she's still there, only she's cautiously reaching out to him. He braces himself, hating for the illusion to be broken, but feels his breath stop when she makes contact, her slender fingers running delicately across his cheek.
He slowly steps forward, closing the gap between them. He's aware of the stares of the others as he snaps out of his daze and wraps his arms around her, effectively lifting her off the ground. He can hear her sister's surprise as she wraps her legs around his waist and begins to laugh, and oh god, the sound is so much better in reality than anything he'd imagined in their time apart. He buries his face in the crook of her shoulder, his nose and mouth pressed against her collarbone as his lips finally curve up into a smile. One of his hands reaches up to tangle itself in her hair and suddenly it's contagious, he's laughing along with her, a low chuckling sound he hasn't made since they've been separated.
Later when everyone's settled in for the night and she curls up in bed beside him, refusing to impose on her sister and refusing to be apart, she tells him about her time without him. She tells him that he's been the voice in her head, pushing her to keep going, reminding her to step lightly in the forest to keep from frightening her prey, refusing to let her give up until she found her way home. She tells him that he'd haunted her and he smiles despite himself because of course they tormented each other, of course he wasn't alone, of course he should've had faith that she'd come back to him. She tells him that she's so glad to be home, and she shifts ever so slightly, drifting in that place between awake and asleep, to rest her head on his chest as she tells him "I missed you so bad when I was gone, Daryl Dixon."