Chapter 3

Daryl

"You've done your job well, Daryl. Like a loyal soldier should," Philip stated calmly from behind his table, his old features smiling gently.

"Thank you, Governor," Daryl mumbled under his breath, bowing his head slightly. There was nothing that could make up all the effort the Governor put into looking for his brother. He just knew it. Now, he wasn't a freaking detective or anything. He just had spied a bit. Spent his time watching the ruler of the North Land. Time was a killer these days.

"Just Philip to you, son." The Governor stood up and walked around the table to grab a bottle of whiskey from on top of the bookshelf against the wall. "You know, I want to offer all the good things to my people. They deserve something that keeps them going in the middle of everything. I want to be reliable and strong to them." Motioning for Daryl to relax in his chair, Philip walked back behind the table and sat. Daryl followed him with attentive eyes. "A strong leader needs a great right-hand man."

Daryl could sense what was coming next and hesitated as he accepted the offered half full glass of whiskey. "Yes, reliability is a good feature," he agreed as he looked into the Governor's smiling eyes.

"Your brother, he…" Philip started and shook his head. "I don't know why he left you, but when we find him, there could be a reason for you to stay here even if he leaves."

Daryl swallowed. Was Philip implying that Merle didn't care about his own brother? "Merle was high," was all he managed out before there was a loud knock on the door and some asshole stormed in. Daryl glared, mainly because he didn't feel good about the whole situation.

"Martinez! About time you showed up," Philip welcomed the guy and Daryl glared harder.

"Governor, I think we got ourselves a spy," the Hispanic looking man said as there was a figure dragged behind him in a firm grip. The boy's head was covered with a black bag of some kind as he stumbled into the room, all lanky shoulders and uncoordinated steps. Daryl finished his whiskey and stood to leave but was interrupted by Philip's haunting words.

"Daryl, thank you for your time. Think about it."

Daryl snorted as he shut the door. As if anybody knew a thing about him and Merle.

They had always been together. Yes, there had been all the fights and Merle coming and going as he wanted, leaving Daryl alone with their pa for days. But Daryl had grown to the habit of leaving as well and when he got back, Merle would be waiting for him, silently treating his wounds. The way Merle stroked his sweaty hair and held him was almost gentle… Daryl missed it. He knew his brother hadn't left him.

No person, no matter how high in precedence, could claim otherwise. It made him angry that some piece of shit governor suggested so clearly that his brother didn't care and he couldn't do a damned thing about it. After all, the asshole did provide him shelter and food and at least pretended to be searching. But what Philip wanted in exchange to that…

It was too much. There was no way could Daryl actually go as low as crawl in the grass roots taking orders from a man about his age and stand behind those filthy words and actions in front of the whole crowd of people that believed every lie.

Not that he cared about the people, though.

Daryl stepped into the cozy light of Crippling Biter and took in the sight before his tired eyes. The whole town seemed to have decided that getting wasted tonight was the right call. Well, shit. Might as well, he mused as he stared at a bunch of guys arguing loudly in the middle of the pub, holding their drinks high as nasty slurs escaped their mouths. He squeezed through the thick mob and recognized the old man sitting at the bar. The gray hair was a mess that fit the worn out flannel shirt and dark pants. The lack of his right leg made him easily identifiable. This town, city, whatever it was… It was the right place to a man who was missing limbs.

"Hershel," Daryl grunted as he angrily hushed a pitiful looking boy off the chair next to the old man's. He sat his ass down and turned to face Hershel with his body. Hershel looked up from his bottle of beer. "Seen Merle 'round?"

"I'm sorry, son. No sign of a rebel with the name Dixon," Hershel shook his head pointing towards the center of the pub, "Unless you can tell by one of their faces. All of the town's troublemakers seem to be out here to kill some time tonight."

Daryl glanced over his shoulder. The group of hillbillies was loud indeed. It reminded him of good old times, all of it before the apocalypse. Him and Merle in the bar. Merle's slurring hollers. Fisticuffs late into the night with fellow boozers. Fights with Merle. He remembered it all, everything coming back to his mind in a restless and painful flow. But there was no sign of Merle, just as the old man had put it.

The drunkards' arguing was intense. Slurs and swears were passed between beer covered tables and it would've been downright fatally dangerous if guns or other weapons were included. Daryl turned his burning face back to Hershel, sighing heavily.

"What they quarrelin' 'bout?"

"There's a rumor," Hershel began, making Daryl slightly lean forward in anticipation. "Some say the Governor's been lying to us. One of the hunters died in the darker part of the North Land last night. A few biters broke in. Some think the Runners are still a threat."

Daryl thought on it for a second. Could this have something to do with the job he and T-Dog had been engaged with…? Maybe the Runners knew and wanted revenge. Or maybe they only wanted revenge for the former incidents. Blew a hole to the fence of the North Land. Daryl didn't exactly know what had happened between the Governor and the group of people that escaped, wasn't entirely sure. He didn't know if he wanted to hold that knowledge.

"An' what do the others think?" he questioned, finding his own mind, despite everything, pretty intent to understand what's going on.

"That the Runners are too smart to bother. They think someone else did it. Maybe someone holds yet another grudge against the Governor," Hershel suggested, his old features looking tired as hell under the dim light of the pub. Daryl pondered on it. Maybe… Merle.

His thoughts were interrupted when Hershel's body bumped against his. He swayed from the chair but managed to keep his balance, holding Hershel's weight up so that the one-legged grandpa wouldn't fall. "Hey, ole man, maybe ya should quit it with the drinkin' –" His voice was cut off as Hershel stood up on his own and Daryl was awakened to the noise of the pub. It was louder. He could hear glass shattering somewhere and realized the old man wasn't actually drunk but the giant form of one of the rednecks had fallen on him.

"What the hell man?!" Daryl shot at the guy who was struggling to get up from the pub floor. He looked around and then saw it – the heated argument had turned into an actual bar fight. People were standing on the tables and chairs and the ones not participating in the fight moved either out of the pub or behind the bar. "Fuckin'…" he mumbled under his breath as he reached for his knife from his belt, about to solve the situation and what the fuck, it wasn't there. Realization struck him and he was pretty fucking sure–

"Daryl!" Daryl looked to see that T-Dog had called his name from a few meters away, trying to get past the crowd. Daryl extended his arm and somehow, T-Dog made it to where Daryl and Hershel were standing and began shouting like it was the last thing he would do. "Hershel, Milton asked me to get you! Let's get the fuck outta here before any of them turns –"

"Hershel? Hershel Greene?" came the female voice from behind Daryl and he turned sharply, able to tell that Hershel and T-Dog hadn't missed those words either.

It struck him like a bitch. Because in front of him, there stood the thin blonde female from before, back from one of the camps that they had informed about the possible threat. The Runners.

The bitch didn't even seem to notice Daryl or T-Dog, though. She ran right past them, to tangle her arms around Hershel's thick neck as the old man stared in wonder. What was the bitch's name again?

"Andrea, you're alive!"

Then there was the sickeningly sappy reunion of two people that used to know each other a long time ago and all the happiness and gross reassurances right there in the middle of a literal fistfight.

"Come on Hershel, we need to go!" Daryl reminded nervously and got the face of the blonde woman to turn towards him, her eyebrows set into a tight frown.

"I remember you. You're the Dixon!" she exclaimed and Daryl couldn't believe it, because seriously, these people were unbelievable. Their first thought wasn't to escape this hell of a boxing ring, but to stay in it for a small talk? "You fuckin' snake, we gotta talk," Andrea gritted out bitterly and took a confident step towards him.

"Fine, let's just get the hell outta here first!"

After they finally made it out of the pub, helping Hershel by practically carrying him by the armpits, there was a heck of another shitstorm entirely coming Daryl's way.

The bitch was whining about stuff like how freaking hospitable their town was and Dixon better be showing her, ass first, where Glenn was or his asscrack was gonna get kicked - hard. Daryl rolled his eyes at that, as if.

"Glenn? The Chinaman?" he made sure because he remembered those lanky shoulders and the stupid hat.

He agreed to show Andrea the way because she wasn't the only one who wanted to find Glenn. Daryl had business to take care of.

"Fine, but once you're done with him, we're free to go," Andrea agreed hesitantly and Daryl motioned for her to wait outside the building. He walked the familiar way to the Governor's door, knocked and pushed in. The sight before him wasn't what he had expected, though.

The Governor looked up at him, wearing that same smile on his face as before. And there was the kid, sitting in front of the Governor's table, exactly on the spot that Daryl had been sitting way too many times. The kid's head was turned towards him, confusion written all over that round face. He wasn't tied to the chair. Looked unharmed. Almost happy, so different from when Daryl had seen him a while ago with the black bag over his head.

"You," Glenn stated, not really surprised. Dumbfounded, mostly. The Governor looked between the two of them and Daryl couldn't help but shift awkwardly.

"You know each other?" Philip asked after a short, silent while. The kid nodded and Daryl did the same after a while of hesitating. Philip nodded and leaned heavily back in his chair. "We just finished a discussion. Did you want to talk about something, Daryl?"

Daryl shifted again. "Not really. Just gettin' the kid." The Asian stared at him questioningly. "Come on, Slant Eyes. Yer friend's waitin'."

Philip laughed as Daryl held the door open for the kid and they exited the room.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Daryl pushed the oblivious kid against the empty hallway wall, his forearm barely giving the kid a chance to breathe. He held them like that for a while, just staring and realizing that it wasn't just fear that he saw in those eyes. Actually, the most of what there was in them was uncertainty. Despite the fact that he didn't really want to spook the poor kid more - Glenn had probably had his fair share of that for today - he couldn't ease the harsh edge in his voice.

"Ya got somethin' that belongs to me."

Glenn frowned for a second, looking straight into his eyes with his dark ones.

"I helped you the other day –"

"I know that."

"Look, I didn't mean to keep it. It was an accident, I lost my own knife –"

"I fuckin' know that too," Daryl growled, almost amused but the tension… That, he hadn't prepared for. He needed to get out, and he almost took off without his knife but then dug his fingers to the kid's belt and searched for a second with quick movements, finding it. He yanked the knife out of the holster, feeling its familiar pattern, fingering it, satisfied. "'m takin' this." Then, without another look at the kid, he jogged out of the building.

He could feel the fucker staring after him.

Staring.