It's On
by Leela

There is a gap in Daryl's mind; a rip in time that first tears apart the instant Sophia comes stumbling out of that barn.

The weeks after that day blend together in his mind in a hazy jumble; flashes here and there, dreams disguised as memories, entire days that simply aren't there. Random moments come to him at times, often as he's drifting off to sleep – the farm, the woods, being on the road again, and all the anger that threatened not only his safety, but the safety of the group as well. He still doesn't know if it's been weeks, or months, hell, maybe a whole year has passed him by. Time became irrelevant and untrustworthy on that fateful day, and the only souvenirs he keeps from those hazy weeks are the fresh new scars that now cover parts of his body that were previously unmarked (he still can't remember how he got most of them).

The gap is still there when someone (Rick or Shane or maybe the whole group) decided they should head north. Daryl didn't know what they would find in D.C., or if they would find anything at all, but he didn't care, really, merely tagged along because it took up less effort than going off on his own. That would require planning, and planning required mental energy, which he severely lacked. But fate intervened again the morning Lori collapsed from malnutrition and exhaustion, and after a heated discussion between Rick and Shane it was decided she was too unfit to travel and they should stay put for the time being.

Several days passed (or hours, maybe, he doesn't recall) when Shane came back with good news, and when Daryl saw the mansion the man found nestled in the woods, he felt a certain unease. The others were overjoyed, picking their own rooms and marveling at the space and the comfort. Not Daryl.

He wasn't used to this, all this space, all this... frou-frou crap. The house had clearly been looted and needed reparations, but it still made him feel uneasy, especially when everyone picked their own rooms and the remaining two were way too big and fancy for his comfort.

(He ignored the looks the others gave him when he moved all his stuff, along with a small cot, into the attic.)

The gap in his mind stayed open; a crack that allowed moments that normally would have remained with him forever slip out and stay forgotten. He figures he must've spent those first few days exploring the surrounding woods, because he knows them now like he knows the back of his hand. He remembers, or thinks he does, bringing home rabbits and squirrels and retiring to his attic straight away, because the crack in his mind also came with an inability to feel any hunger. He thinks, with terrible remorse, that he must've hurt Carol's feelings somewhere along the way, because she always kept a weary distance from him. Often he thought of apologizing for whatever he did or said to her, but she was too much of a reminder.

Time moved forward and left him behind. He spent every day in the woods, hunting or just walking, taking out the few geeks he ran into along the way with pronounced anger. His nights were filled with dreamless sleep, and he never bothered wondering when the haze would finally lift. He knew, just like they all knew and refused to admit it, that each one of them was living on borrowed time. Whether the haze intensified or lifted, it didn't matter. He was going to die, anyway, maybe sooner or maybe later, but surely.

But then something changes.

Nothing magnanimous makes the gap shrink. It's not a life or death experience that does it, or a sudden realization that life is precious, or even something small like the availability of potable water or a warm bed.

It's an improvised touch.

He can't remember the day now, those memories are still fuzzy, but he knows he was sitting at the table on a chilly morning, looking at his breakfast. The house was quiet, eerily so, and he thought he was by himself until a finger suddenly entered the periphery of his vision. He watched it wearily as it settled on one of his knuckles, and it rubbed his skin back and forth twice, three times... and then it was gone.

When he looked up, Andrea was sitting in front of him, neither smiling nor frowning, just looking a bit thoughtful, pale eyes piercing into his own. Before he could tell her off (because the last thing he needed was her fucking pity) she simply vanished.

For several hours after, he wondered if he could trust his mind enough to believe the moment actually happened. After all, the gap was still there and the haze that clouded over his mind sometimes liked to trick him into believing a reality that didn't really exist. When he saw her several hours later and she didn't seem to notice his presence, he became convinced that the moment didn't really happen at all. But her finger left a sort of burning on his knuckle, and the rest of the day he walked around absentmindedly rubbing it, as if he could just scratch away the feel of her touch.

The days continued uneventfully, save for Lori's recovery, but there was something different, maybe something in the area, the house, or the group. He kept a close eye on them, trying to work out in his mind what had changed. But they weren't different, really, just as annoying as they always were, and the house didn't feel any more alien than before. But suddenly... suddenly the days didn't blend together anymore. Life, very slowly, stopped being a blur and started coming into focus. Several days after, he felt his stomach growling for the first time since that day at the barn, and when he asked Carol for seconds that night, her doe eyes sparkled brightly and she tried to hide a smile (she failed).

He didn't know why hunting stopped being the sole reason for his existence, but he also began to help Rick and Shane with the reparations (though always in silence, as the two other men talked about mundane things from their past life). Every once in a while a blonde blur would whisk by and he would stiffen slightly and his knuckle would burn, but he never noticed his body's reaction, not with the haze still there. There was still something different, just maybe in the air or this whole place, but he'd never been away from Georgia, and he thought maybe North Carolina was just weird in general.

But it began to annoy him, this difference, and it annoyed him that he couldn't figure out what it was. He stayed up countless nights mulling it over, but could never come up with a credible explanation. He became almost obsessed with it, scanning the area for hours, exploring each room of the house, keeping a close eye on the group, but nothing could explain it.

The pieces of the puzzle started to come together one morning when he was up with the sun and began to get his crossbow ready. Andrea was in the kitchen when he entered it, and he didn't know why suddenly his legs stopped working when he saw her, but he stopped, for a second, still long enough for her to look up from the book she was reading.

"Going hunting?"

Yeah. The word he was looking for was yeah. It was right there in his mind. Yeah. But it wouldn't come out. He stared at her and nodded.

"Want some company?"

He felt just as surprised as she looked by his reaction. He didn't mean to be so brusque and rude, but for some reason the thought of spending any amount of time with her made him anxious. He didn't know why or where it came from. Didn't they used to spend time together back at the farm? Didn't she accompany him that night into the woods to look for Sophia? He didn't feel this anxiety then. Why was he feeling it now?

Hours later, it hit him like a ton of bricks, and the first word out of his mouth was, "fuck."

That afternoon, when he returned to the house, he saw her again and realized the difference was not the house, the area, or the group. It was him. It was her, too. He felt the difference every time she entered the room. He felt it when they were outside and the wind blew her hair in all sorts of directions, like a rainbow of white, yellow, and light brown. He felt the difference whenever she talked, when he began to notice the color of her eyes, the way she walked, the way she sat, how she talked, how she ate, when she smiled. Especially when she smiled. Just merely looking at her made the difference's presence known with a jab at his stomach and a nervousness in his chest.

He wanted it gone. He hated it, hated this whole... thing that was happening that he couldn't control, that he didn't even remember when it started. After all, he still believed they were living on borrowed time and knew that sooner or later either he would die, or she would, and he refused to put himself through that. He already got too attached once and it nearly killed him. He couldn't do it a second time. He knew he couldn't.

Not that it mattered, anyway. As far as he was concerned she didn't give two shits about him. She never would. And it's not like he was madly in love with her, hell, he barely even knew her. He figured it was just a crush, an attraction. And so the weeks of torture slowly melted into a puddle of stoic resignation. He would get over her eventually, and some day they would part ways and never see each other again (or die beforehand).

He just needed to stay on his toes, wait it out, and not let it grow.

So now he's standing on the porch and the group is gathered together telling stories about their past lives. Daryl doesn't participate, but a sort of curiosity takes over when T-Dog starts talking about relationships, and he hates himself when his hands twitch and his ears pique, waiting for the sound of her voice. He knows it's going to take time for this thing to subside, but it's frustrating, how his body is just not cooperating.

She talks about an old flame who is probably dead by now but who Daryl hates anyway, and he feels a strange sense of satisfaction when Mr. Fancy Lawyer Piece of Shit turned out to provide a pathetic Five Minute Service in bed. Maggie giggles into her hand like a 12 year old and Glenn looks worried for a second, as if he's counting in his head, but then shakes his head and smiles. It's rare these days to see the group like this, and it's even rarer to hear her laugh. He realizes at that moment it's the first time he's ever heard her or seen her do so, and at the sight of her squinty eyes and perfect teeth the gap closes a little bit more.

Something in the air changes, though, and the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Daryl is about to reach for his crossbow when he realizes they aren't in danger. But something still feels odd. He feels exposed. For a few seconds he panics, wondering if maybe someone from the group caught him staring. But the group is still laughing at T-Dog's story about the woman he didn't know had a wooden leg until they were in bed together. Daryl looks around, still, because he's a hunter and he knows when something is off, and it's not until he spots Carl on the other side of the porch that he realizes the strange vibes are coming from him.

Daryl gives him a scowl, as if to say, "shoo! Go on, git!" an expression he has mastered over the years and one that never fails to scare even the toughest son of a bitch away.

But he can't hide his surprise (and confusion) when Carl scowls back with the same intensity. Daryl's eyes widen a bit, and then he frowns.

What. The hell?

to be continued

Thanks, everyone, for your kind reviews! I really, really appreciate it. Next chapter: let the games begin.