Inspired by a photoset by hiddles_and_reedus on tumblr. Yes, it's a death fic, but in a different sort of way that is less angsty and more just... happy sad. It's really more of a ficlet than anything else, but I really wanted it to stand alone rather than lumping it in with my ficlets so here it is.
Daryl Dixon never thought that he would end up in heaven. Not a godless man like him, a man who had done horrible things in his wasted life and never had any faith in anything in the world.
But maybe that isn't true. Maybe he did have faith, it just wasn't in god or religion or any sort of church. Instead, it was in a girl. A sweet, strong, blonde-haired girl. A girl who told him once, drunk on moonshine and lit up like the sun:
You're gonna be the last man standing.
It turns out she's wrong, in the end. About him being the last man standing, anyway. She's right about other things of course, like their being good people left, even in a world that took away the best and brightest person he'd ever met.
But she's wrong, about him being the last man standing.
Because when Daryl dies, he isn't alone. There are others still left; their family in the new home they'd made, and they will live on even after he's gone.
And he is, now. Gone. Dead. He's bit the dust, or whatever other phrases may apply. The how of it doesn't really matter, or the when, or the where. What matters is that he is there, and then he is gone, and then…
Then his eyes open, slowly. Or he thinks they open, he's not entirely sure. He just knows that there is darkness, and then there is not.
Instead, there is sunlight, and the yellow green of swaying grass so bright that it hits him like a stab of color that jolts his whole body until he blinks a few times and adjusts. The color remains intense, though, and not just the grass. The blue of the sky like a robin's egg, the yellow of the sun above… they're all more vivid, more brilliant than anything he's ever seen before.
But none of them compare to what he sees ahead. Stark and white and welcoming, the farm house sits in the middle of the field and the road that leads up to it is one he's walked before and yet at the same time, it is not.
He walks it again now, drawn forward as if by gravity itself. Not the house, though, that isn't what's pulling him in. It's her.
Her, opening the door and stepping out onto the familiar porch. Her, in a simple white dress that flutters in the same breezes that toys with her hair in wisps around her face and makes the grass sway in whispers all around him.
Her with the blue eyes that he knows, even from here, could rival the blue of the sky above.
He goes towards her as there's never been anywhere else in his life he's wanted to go towards more, cause there never has been. There's only ever been her, or rather… there was nothing, for a very long time. Nothing but pain and misery and endless wandering, and then there was her.
(Except for the time after, of course. The time where every moment seemed like an aching lifetime but at the same time seemed to pass by in an instant; unimportant and faded like pastel colors or an old worn out picture. The time where she was gone. The time after he'd lost her.)
But there she is again in bright, screaming color and if his bones ache than it is with relief and not pain, not anymore. He climbs up the familiar stairs and dimly in the back of his mind he marvels that they even creak in the same way they once did, back before he died, back because when he barely even knew her. Back when she was just a girl, flitting around the fringes of his mind and passing by with just a whiff of strawberries and innocence. But he doesn't really see the porch or the door beyond it, all he really sees is her standing there above him, fixing those big blue bambi eyes on him as the most beautiful smile he's ever seen in his godforsaken (well, perhaps not so forsaken, if this really is heaven) life.
He doesn't know what to say or do but there's one thing on his tongue, something he hasn't said since the day he lost her, and after a moment he just breathes it out as if he can't believe this is real, can't believe she is real… "Beth?"
And her smile widens, lighting up her face brighter than the sun above, brighter than all the colors of this place. She takes a step towards him and says simply and sweetly, "What took you so long, Daryl Dixon? I've been waiting for you."
He has heard that voice so many times in his dreams, since he lost her. Even in waking he heard her, whispering in his mind, encouraging him, scolding him, pushing him on even when life no longer felt worth living without her in it. But the memory of her voice is nothing compared to the reality of it, so if he falls to his knees, who can blame him? Not her, judging by the way she instantly steps close and lets him press his face into her stomach, lets him feel the softness of her white cotton dress, let's him inhale deep and smell something so achingly familiar that it makes him shudder because he thought he would never in his life smell it again.
(In a way he was right, because this isn't living. This isn't life, not anymore. It's better… because she's here.)
"I'm sorry," he whispers into clean cotton, the scent of strawberries sweet in his nose. "I'm so sorry…"
He's not even sure what he's apologizing for, because there are so many things. He's sorry for how long she had to wait, he's sorry she had to be here without him, he's sorry that he lost her, he's sorry he couldn't save her, he's sorry that she died, he's sorry he wasn't good enough to ensure she had the life she deserved, he's sorry, he's sorry, he's sorry…
He doesn't realize he's whispering it all out loud until she drops to her knees in front of him and tucks her thumb under his jaw to lift his eyes to hers. Through the veil of tears he sees her, so clean and pure and beautiful and sweet and strong.
She looks into his eyes and shakes her head slowly, and murmurs, "Daryl Dixon, there is nothing you need to apologize for. Not now, not ever again, you hear me?"
He does. He's always heard her, even when he didn't want to, even when her words were so close to the truth that they were like nails, driven beneath his exposed skin and right into his vulnerable heart. But he hears her, and he nods, and before he can say anything else she fixes it all in one movement…
She just leans in and presses her lips to his, and that's it. He knows exactly where he is. He knows it even as they rise to their feet together, as she laces her fingers in his and tugs him through a door that opens with a familiar creak.
She's halfway through the door when she looks back at him, her whole face practically glowing and radiant with happiness as she murmurs, "Welcome home, Daryl."
It turns out heaven isn't a chorus of angels, or pearly white gates. Heaven isn't even really this old farm, this familiar farmhouse full of memories, with the scent of hay in the air and the lowing of cows in the distance.
Heaven is her.
Heaven is Beth Greene.
Heaven is home.
And it's his. Whether he ever thought he deserved it or not, it's his.