The world was alive once.
Daryl remembers it— or, well, he thinks he does. He was young then, too young to retain any actual relevant information and so the memory feels more like a dream than anything else, but he remembers. That's what matters.
There was… water. A river maybe, with its clear water running freely through his fingers as his small hand dipped into the current, and it was surrounded by so much green it seemed like it would never end; tall trees standing proud and well, so tall they almost covered the still-blue sky. Almost too big to be real, or maybe he was simply too small then.
There was someone else there with him, he thinks. Laughing and petting his hair gently, telling him to look around and remember.
But he doesn't— can't remember who, no matter how much he tries to.
All Daryl remembers and can focus on is the memory of green all around him, and the utter peace he felt there. The liveliness. He could close his eyes and take a deep breath, and he swears he could almost feel the world breathing with him then.
If it was real or not, at this point it doesn't matter to him. The memory too important to let go over doubt.
He wonders if the world is as hopelessness as it seems now, or if it's just him. There's no more green, no more trees or rivers or birds flying with the wind. There's no more life, not really— not for a good while now. Because the world he knows now, the world he lives in...
Is dead.
And the few remaining, like Daryl, are just living on borrowed time until they inevitably die too.
From hunger, or disease, or with so much dust on their lungs that they can no longer breathe. Maybe killed by another survivor that was either driven mad by greed or despair, or eaten alive by one of the few animals that are still there.
Was life ever different, before all of this? Or was it always just trying to survive another day, just living in the ruins of a society that once was and dreaming of what could've been?
And even then, it's hard to picture the world before it died— everything is too different, too odd and alien, and he only has that memory as reference and the abandoned buildings and ruins that have become somewhat consumed by the sand, too decrepit to be of any help.
The blue of their sky was replaced by a dirty orange tone that seems to always loom, the winds replaced by dust storms and the air by pollution. Water is scarce now, precious, and rarely ever clean. And there's no trees anymore; no plants, no flowers or grass anywhere he can see. Instead there's debris, there's junk and garbage and a layer of dirt that seems to cover everything.
Daryl closes his eyes and breathes.
But there's only dust.
...
He wakes up to the sound of a dog barking, loud and alarmed in a way Daryl's never heard Killer sound before ever since he found her bleeding and dying in some random abandoned building. Daryl had nursed her back to health then, despite his instincts telling him to have mercy and take her out of her misery— the back of his mind reminding him that she could be food, you know. It wouldn't be the first time.
But he couldn't, not then. Not with her pitiful desperate eyes staring at him.
And so Daryl ended up accidentally gaining a companion for life, right then and there, as easy as that. He would've probably gone crazy by now without Killer by his side, though they're both quiet and solitary by nature.
Or maybe it's just this world that has forced them to be this way.
There's no birds singing in the mornings, no people talking far away nor any other background sound that serve as proof that there's still life— there's just deafening silence, always present and maddening. There's just his own thoughts there to haunt him in the dark.
Which is why when he hears the barking Daryl's up in a jump and already grabbing at his jacket and boots, tying a bandana around his face hurriedly before running to the ladder. By the time he's out of the bunker his heart is beating so fast Daryl can hear it in his ears, thoughts going wild inside his head as he tries to understand the situation.
Are we in danger? Did someone find us?
It's not hard to find Killer, wouldn't be even without the barking guiding him to her; the junkyard he's made for a base is pretty bare and easy to navigate, though the bunker opening is well hidden, and there's not a lot of places where she could be.
Daryl finds her near a big pile of junk, with her eyes fixated on a spot behind it.
She doesn't seem aggressive, there's no growling or fangs being bared, but wary. Vigilant. Back at being her quiet self now that he's nearby but still fully on guard, staring intensely at whatever it was that alarmed her.
"What is it, girl?" Daryl asks her, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Killer butts his hand with the side of her face but doesn't break her stare at that same spot. He feels the small whine she lets out more than hear it, and he doesn't need to ask twice to know what he should do next. Daryl gestures her to stay behind and wait for him, trusting her to only move if there's need for it, as he walks around the garbage with his knife ready in hand only to find—
A man?
Wearing a leather coat and heavy clothes, seemingly unconscious on the ground hidden under a small metal plate though Daryl can see no wound or blood on him— there's a black bandana covering half of his face, protecting him from the dust, but even then he looks young.
Is this a trap, or did he simply pass out from exhaustion? Is he a scavenger?
Daryl hasn't seen another human being still alive and breathing in what must've been months now, and the last time he did, well, it wasn't exactly what you'd call a nice experience. He still has the scar from where the asshole hit him with a bat.
Daryl gives him a none too gentle nudge with his foot, watching for any sign of trickery. It took him way too long to find this bunker, and to adjust and booby-trap it enough for him to feel safe there, to just risk it like that over a stranger— after almost a year here, it's the closest thing he has to a home. He doesn't want to lose it all because he fell for some stupid trap.
When there's none, Daryl just sighs and crouches down near the stranger with his knife still in hands.
Suddenly he feels too tired for any of this.
He should probably just kill him and get over with it, he knows. Wouldn't be the first. The risk is too big and the resources too scarce for him to justify doing otherwise. But, just like with Killer years ago, Daryl finds himself unable to follow through with it.
Behind him, Killer watches them with her big and livelypuppy eyes.
Ugh.
Daryl's sure he'll regret this later.
With a grunt, he manages to find a way to grab the guy and drag him towards the hidden opening to the bunker. The guy's small, smaller than Daryl though he can't be sure just how much since there's no way to know what he's hiding under his coat, but he's surely not light. Killer follows them happily, still alert to any sign of trouble but wagging her tail shamelessly.
It takes longer than Daryl would like to admit to carry him on his own, and a lot of improvisation and skill to get him inside.
"If you're awake and this is all a trick," Daryl tells the guy— who's still out, somehow— after he finally manages to drop him on the couch without much care, "I will kill you. I didn't do all this shit just to get murdered in my own damn bunker."
The threat is his voice is a lot more mellowed out by his exhaustion than he would've liked, but it doesn't matter. He still means it.
The guy is heavy as shit, ok? Ok.
Daryl glares at his dog, the spoiled mutt, who's laying carelessly on his cot and just stares back at him seemingly proud of herself for her work. Damn girl. He deepens his scowl, trying to convey to her just how in trouble she is through expressions alone and hoping it will work. It does not. It fails miserably, in fact. Killer wags her tail lazily and without a hint of shame for all the trouble she's just given him, a big doggy grin on her face.
He huffs. "Damn girl," Daryl repeats fondly, this time out loud, though he pets her all the same.
What can he say, he's a goner for that smile.
...
Daryl leaves Killer's on duty to watch over their new unwanted guest in order to proceed with his usual routine, not even a little bit guilty about leaving it all to his dog. It's the least she can do, really, she was the one to find him. That makes him her responsibility now.
And, if it comes to it, Daryl knows he can trust Killer to defend herself.
Meanwhile he double checks the perimeter, makes sure all his traps are still intact and working, counts the food and water in the bunker's storage and gathers whatever he can find in the bunker that might be useful for their new guest and that he can spare; some blankets, two granola bars, a bottle half-full with somewhat clean water, and a decades-old aspirin bottle that Daryl really hopes won't be needed if only for how difficult it is to find nowadays.
Daryl had been lucky enough to find some saved here when he first moved in, he won't be so lucky again once they're all gone.
Once that's done— with a pause to eat his breakfast, the usual delicious canned food all thanks to the bunker's previous owner who stored it in mass; it's practically tasteless but safe and always ready for consume, even if Daryl has no idea what it is made of and would rather it stayed that way— and he has all the items he managed to find inside the bag belted around his waist, except for the blankets, Daryl heads back to where Killer is waiting for him in patience, eyes on the intruder.
He gives her head a light pat, snorting when she seems to light up and give his hand a lick before returning to her guard duty.
Daryl waits for one, two, three minutes more before he gives up and nudges the guy on the leg, impatient. "So, what's the plan here? You just gonna pretend you're asleep forever, that it?"
There's a second of silence before the guy sighs.
"Pretty much, yeah," he answers honestly, lifting himself up a little so that he could meet Daryl's gaze and leaning on his elbow. He looked casual that way, almost at home. "At least until I thought of something better or was sure you're not a threat. I admit, not my greatest plan."
"Yeah, I'll bet."
The guy looks around the room without any particular rush, making a 'not bad' face as he superficially takes in his surroundings— a tactic, maybe. Trying to appear non-threatening, or even friendly. Daryl just continues to stare at him blankly.
"Cool bunker," he says, and when Daryl only raises an eyebrow completely unamused, he tries again. "I feel like we started off on the wrong foot— sorry, that's on me. I had to be certain. Hi, I'm Paul. Paul Rovia. Though my friends used to call me Jesus. I'd say it's nice to meet you but, hey. Being found unconscious isn't exactly the best first meeting."
A snort. "I ain't calling you Jesus."
Paul shrugs, not seeming offended at that— in fact, he seems almost amused, if his smile was to be believed.
"Is that your way of saying we're not going to be friends?"
"Glad you got the hint."
Daryl puts down the blankets on the armrest of the couch, ignoring the looks being thrown his way as he grabs everything inside the utility bag and lays it all down for the other. Food, water, medicine— ain't nobody can call him a bad host, even if a reluctant one. Not that some random trespasser can say much either way, but still. It feels like he's trying.
Even if he has no idea why.
It's all Killer's fault.
"Anyone ever tell you that you don't talk much?" Paul asks jokingly after a few moments of silence, taking in the items spread next to him. He picks up the water bottle with a quick "Thanks."
"I don't know 'bout that, Killer here complains that I never shut up all the damn time," answers Daryl, putting as much sarcasm in his words as he can muster. At the other's confused look, he answers the unasked question: "The dog." Realization appears on Paul's face and he gives him a small chuckle, delighted. "Anyone ever tell you that you talk too damn much?"
Paul shrugs, as if to say 'fair's fair', before asking: "So what should I call you, Mr. Chatterbox?"
He hesitates for a second, trying to weight the pros and cons of telling the other his name— in one hand, there's not really a way the other can use it against him. It's just a name, doesn't mean they'll be best friends now or some shit. In the other, though, it's a familiarity not many can afford nowadays. Letting someone in. Trusting someone else.
Being lonely is a small price to pay to avoid a knife in the back.
Daryl looks at Killer, who's staring at him with her big puppy eyes as if waiting for his answer.
Oh, what the hell. Trusting him with something as small as a name won't get Daryl deeper into shit, he already knows about the damn bunker anyway. It's just temporary, just until Paul can leave.
"Daryl… The name's Daryl."