A good 90% of this chapter was unexpected. Honestly I didn't see a lot of this coming. This is also the first time that I've really messed with reality in this story in such an overt way. Sure, there have been hints of it before - the abandoned car conveniently placed on the railway tracks, the fact that there are almost no walkers where Beth and Daryl lived. Don't worry, this story is not going to become supernatural in any way, at least no more than it is canonically outside of reality, but there are hints of destiny and fate at work here.
The soundtrack for this chapter is also kind of weird and you'll see why when you read it. I'm hoping to start updating more frequently now that things at work are winding down and I've made a conscious decision to avoid 20000 word chapters.
Thanks again for all your support. I don't own anything in case anyone was concerned about that.
Soundtrack:
I'd do anything for love - Meatloaf
Here I go again - Whitesnake
Wouldn't it be good - Nik Kershaw
Take me back home - Soulsavers
Love thieves - Depeche Mode
Five days later - she tells him it's a Saturday - and they stand outside the house staring at its drawn curtains, the shut door. Shut forever maybe, he's not sure. There are a lot of things he's not sure about anymore.
It still looks like Lego to him though, with its white bricks and bright blue flowerpot, the dark wood porch where he cradled her head in his hand and she knew, without him having to explain, all the reasons he needed her as much as he did. As much as he still does. He thinks he can see them there now, his arm bandaged and bloody, her shivering against him, how she took him inside and into their bed and held him, told him he was good, he was worth it. How she made him feel safe for the first time in his life.
This house, this home.
This girl.
He sometimes looks at her and wonders if she's real and he's not sure he wants to know the answer.
He's stopped trying to put what he's feeling into words, he's not even sure the right ones exist. He knows it's just a place and, at the end of the day, there are lots of places. Places better than this one. Places more secure with more food. Places not stuck lonely and isolated at the end of the world, although he never saw that as a bad thing. The world is big now, bigger than it ever was and maybe he was just fooling himself when he thought they had carved out a space in it. That they could live here forever, until the end, however that would come. Once he thought one set of four walls was as good as any. He no longer believes this to be true.
On some level he gets he's being dramatic, melodramatic even. It's not like they were here for that long. Six months? Maybe seven? A blip in his life, a hiccup. Nothing more. Although maybe that isn't true for the new world. Maybe seven months is a lifetime. But he's not sure that matters. Beth would say it does though. She'd insist and he's starting to believe her too, starting to think that how you spend the time you have is more important than how much of it you spend. And that's the rub, that's why he feels like he does, why he doesn't want to leave and why he'll probably always think of this house as his home, his first real home, his first foray into the world as a real honest-to-God adult. So many memories, so many firsts.
So many things they're giving up.
He remembers carrying her inside, picking her up in his arms and laughing his way to the front door and beyond, her lips pressed to his jaw, a giggle against his skin, and how he didn't want to believe any of this was possible.
And the days that followed and the nights that followed those days.
He didn't carry her out and it seems fitting that she walked out by herself. He didn't think he could anyway. They're both too heavy with grief.
He looks over to her, she's leaning against the car, chewing on her thumb and he thinks she looks just as defeated as him.
The last couple of days have been a blur of packing and organising, plotting routes that don't go through the cities, and trying to figure out where they'll spend nights. Not that it will take too long, they have a car after all and Georgia isn't that big, but it lies between them, unspoken, that neither of them want to rush this trip. And that - that unvoiced desire - scares him more than anything else. That they're trying to draw this last bit of goodness out slowly, make it last a little longer, burn a little brighter is more telling than anything they've said or haven't said to each other about it. It's almost enough to make him want to call quits on the whole thing. Sure, they're moving towards Maggie, sure it's a possibility they could find her, but at the same time they're also moving towards something else, something he knows with alarming clarity isn't necessarily good. Something has to give, some balance has to be found and he doesn't think they get to have it all anymore. They've been ridiculously lucky for the last little while and at some point the debt is going to need to be paid. He thinks they're heading to it now. Thinks the long arm of whatever law now has favour is soon to be knocking.
This mad little trip could, and likely will, end in blood and heartache, if not for the others then for them.
Definitely for them.
Either way - and he tries so hard not to think of the bad things all the time - they've agreed to take it slow, no rush. An extra day or two is not going to make a difference. They both know this.
"We'll come back," she says softly. "If we find Maggie, we'll come back here with her and Glenn and Sasha and Bob. There's enough space, we can live here forever."
She sounds like she's trying to convince herself and he's not sure if that's about finding Maggie or coming back. But it doesn't matter because there are tears on her cheeks and he slides an arm around her shoulders and pulls her to him so that his chin rests on her head and her lips against his neck.
He wants to say it'll be okay, but he doesn't quite believe that and he tries so hard not to lie to her, so instead he kisses her hair and holds her tighter, rocks them a little in the first hint of spring warmth.
They need to go. They can't linger. If they do, they might change their minds, might just say fuck it all and go back inside. Never speak of it again. And he doesn't hate that idea. He doesn't think she does either. It would be easy. It would be so so easy.
But they can't, they both know it. You don't get to go back. You just don't. It's just not the way the world works anymore.
In any case they also need to go to Bessie, see if she's waiting for them even though he knows she won't be. But they can't leave her, can't just stop with the food deliveries. That's like taking a feral kitten from its mother, taming it for years and then tossing it back into the wild to fend for itself.
Yeah, he knows that's a metaphor for himself as well. His lack of self-awareness doesn't stretch that far.
He wonders sometimes what would happen if Beth tossed him out one day, if she just called it quits. Sure, he'd survive but that's not what he's worried about. The thought makes him feel a bit sick. If there's one thing he knows deep in his bones it's that at some point everybody leaves. Doesn't matter who you are, doesn't matter if you didn't mean to. You leave and when you do, you leave people behind. His Ma, Merle, Junie Day, even his piece of shit old man. Yeah, there's only one common denominator there.
He shakes his head. He doesn't want to think on it and he forces his mind back to Bessie. They left a note, a note that said they were leaving and they couldn't bring her food anymore but she could come with them, if she waited for them this morning they'd take her with to wherever the hell they are going.
He knows it's a shot in the dark, he knows they haven't done enough. He knows other things too. Things he's afraid of thinking, things he's afraid of saying. But they're there, little parasites on the edge if his imagination, gnawing away at the goodness, leaving only darkness behind.
He kisses Beth's hair again.
"We should go," he says, voice rough and low and she nods, wiping at her eyes.
And then she kisses him, long and hard and deep, her tongue hot and wet inside his mouth as her hands force their way into his hair, nails scraping along his scalp. Desperate. Needy.
Almost as desperate and needy as him.
He backs her into the car, because if he doesn't he knows he'll be carrying her inside again, and slides a knee between her thighs presses hard against her hip and fists his hands in her hair, bunching it in his fingers on either side of her head. She's sweet, she's so sweet and he wants to lose himself in her, drown in her again and again. It wouldn't even be a sacrifice. Wouldn't be hard at all. He had her last night, fast and rough first and then slow and gentle after and she left him a breathless bundle of nerves curled around her, head against her breast. He thought it was over, he thought she chased the demons away along with that searing desire, but she didn't.
It's all back. All that fear, all that want and he's already rolling his hips against her, letting her feel how hard he is, letting her know he'd take her right there with tears on her face and sobs in the back of her throat and she's grasping at him, hands sliding under his shirt, nails digging into his skin, his scars, making her own, putting her marks on him, the only marks besides his ink that he wants, that he welcomes. He still can't believe it. Still can't believe that she needs him, loves him even. That in some world that certainly can't be this one she sized him up and didn't find him wanting. And then somehow made a place for that here with him. So he kisses her harder, tracing his tongue over her teeth, tasting her and touching her and trying to lose himself in this little safe bubble they've created.
But it has to end - all good things do - and eventually they both pull back, gasping and shaking. There are more tears on her face but he's not sure if they belong to him or her.
She forces a smile. "Come on, there's time for that later."
And he nods but he can't keep that little voice, the one he tells himself doesn't sound like Merle, out of his head.
Is there brother? Is there?
Yeah there is. There has to be.
He kisses her again, slow this time. She's so pretty in the morning light, fresh and pale, hair gleaming and eyes bright. He wants to say he loves her, but he's not sure he knows what those words mean and if he can do them justice. So he says her name instead, hopes that somehow she knows that's his answer for everything, his way of saying words he can't.
"I love you Daryl," she breathes. And his insides burn. They've made no promises, no declarations of ever after. Maybe that was because they thought they already had it. Life is different now, you don't get to up and leave on a whim. But now he wonders if maybe they should have. Maybe he should have said and done more with her breathless I love yous pressed against his sweaty skin. Maybe he should have said more than Beth and hoped she understood that it meant so much more than just her name.
My girl, my lovely girl.
He runs a hand through her hair, touches her lips and she nods once, all business, and slides behind the wheel, Bo immediately jumping from the back to the passenger seat to sit beside her. Mutt thinks he's a person. He thinks he gets that. Sometimes he thinks so too.
He opens the gate. Part of him considers taking the chain and the bolt with them, but the thought of leaving this place unprotected, for the dead to take up residence is just too awful to contemplate. So he locks it up again and shoos Bo out of his seat when he gets to the car.
She smiles at him and he thinks it could be gratitude. She feels it too, the loss of it all.
"Bessie?" She asks and he nods. It's worth a shot. It has to be.
So they drive to the old house, pull up close to the lawn and wait. They wait for a long time and he holds her hand in his, running his thumbs over her palm, trailing his fingertips over her flesh and thinking about how her fingers tasted of her and him last night and how he'd run his tongue over each one until her whole body shivered and shook. His desire for her is not unusual, he wants her almost constantly. The day he realised she welcomed his touch and wanted him too it was like the floodgates opened and the world as he knew it shattered. Just being able to touch her in itself was a comfort. And he pretty much wants her all the time even though he can usually keep the coals in his belly burning low and hot. Today is different though. Today he can't take his eyes off her, can't stop imagining different ways he could have her, can't stop that burn bursting into flame. And he knows it's stuff like this that makes you reckless, gets you killed.
But his eyes are drawn to her neckline, the small rises of her breasts beneath her pink shirt, then to her thighs, the tight dark jeans, her cowboy boots, scuffed and worn. He's never kissed her feet and suddenly he wants that. Kiss her feet and work his way up from there, her ankles, her knees, her thighs...
"I don't think she's coming," she says softly and he drags his eyes away from her and looks at the door.
"Lemme check," he says unfastening his seatbelt and pushing at the door handle, but she grabs at his hand and pulls it to her mouth, kisses it.
"Be careful," she says and he gives her a small smile.
"Ain't going inside," he tells her and brushes his lips against hers. "Just going to see."
He makes his way up the steps to the porch, tries to look in through the windows but they're dark and dusty and he can't see a damn thing. The house itself looks the same as always, grim and abandoned, broken. A nasty place to stay and a nasty world to live in. He wonders what's inside now, if it's just Bessie or if she's managed to keep the walkers from leaving the bed, if they're still there rotting away until one day they break free and feast on her. He thinks he hears a groan, faint, pained and a sense of dread winds it's way around his spine.
What the fuck are they doing here anyway? Bessie is half crazed, she nearly fucking killed him, she thought he was like them, keeping Beth prisoner and hurting her, forcing her to do things she hated. The thought clenches in his belly, briefly extinguishing those flames of desire he's been feeling. They come back though, right back, finding their way around his dread and crawling up into his chest.
Still, what are they thinking believing they can bring this feral girl on a road trip across the state? How can they trust her, how do they know she won't kill them in their sleep. He honestly doesn't know how either of them thought they could pull such a ridiculously wild plan off.
It turns out they don't have to.
There's an envelope stuck on the door. It has his name on it and he can feel something round and hard inside it when he tugs it off. He's not sure he wants to know what it is, not sure his heart can take it. Everything is out of place and wrong and he's ready to shelve the whole thing, go back to Beth and beg her just to turn the car around and go back home, because that's what it is: home. And he can't believe they're walking away from it all.
Beth.
It's always been Beth.
He opens the envelope. There are two things inside. The one is a notecard, dirty, smudged with squiggly writing in a blue ballpoint which looks like it was just about out of ink. The message is simple, two words.
Thank you.
He's not surprised, not in the least, it was never going to work. It was never going to happen. Why would it? Bessie is too far gone and the sad fact is she knows it too. They can't help. Not anymore.
The second thing, however, that surprises him. And it scares the shit out of him too because it shouldn't be possible. It just shouldn't.
He takes a moment to breathe, to look around, focus on the trees, birds calling from the highest branches, the rusty smell of rain in the warm air. And beneath that something else that he's not sure is only his imagination. Cigarette smoke, wine, cheap perfume. Fire. Always fire.
My boy, my wonderful, wonderful boy. The best thing I've ever done.
No.
He can't, he won't.
He looks down at his hands, tells himself he's being crazy, knows he isn't. It's for Beth, he knows it is, even if Bessie doesn't. It was always meant for her, meant to slide around her wrist and sit there forever. Meant for her many years before she was even born, before he was too. A thin silver bracelet, three delicate blue opal heart charms hanging from the chain. And for a moment he just looks at it, the way the sunlight glints off it, the way the opals sparkle like Beth's eyes.
This is what he was looking for when he stupidly walked into this house a million years ago. This is hers, this is his Ma's. He dares - dares - to think it's the same one.
By God's cosmic fucking hand.
She had it all along.
She knew.
He doesn't know what to make of it, can't really think about it for now because it's just too fucking weird. This whole day just feels surreal. It's insane to think this could be his Ma's bracelet. It's absolute madness. But it is. He knows deep in his bones that it is.
So he sighs, touches the door once and then walks back to Beth, Bo, his life. They've brought a box of tinned food and few other essentials for this scenario and he leaves that on the bottom step before climbing into the car, pushing Bo to the back.
"She's not coming?" It's phrased as a question but it sounds like a statement and he shakes his head, looks back at the house, the door, the broken windows and the darkness within.
"You wanna go inside?" she asks and he shakes his head again. Not that. Anything but that.
He takes another moment, closes his eyes, breathes out and then turns to her, looks her squarely in the eye.
"She left you this," he holds out the chain, lets it dangle between them for a few seconds before she takes it into her hands and studies it. Studies his Ma's bracelet.
"It's beautiful," she says softly and he nods. Nods because he can't speak and he's choked up and he worries if he does he's just going to break down crying.
He won't tell Beth. Not yet. He won't tell her how difficult this is, how difficult leaving is. He won't tell her that he thinks that the scrap of jewellery she's holding once fitted around his Ma's skinny wrist. He won't tell her that he brought it back, the same way his old man gave it away.
It's too much. It's all too much.
He takes her hand, turns it palm up, runs his thumb across that thin white scar, a line that turns silvery in the moonlight, that he's kissed and licked and scraped his teeth along. He kisses it now and clips the bracelet over it. He thought he'd be clumsy. He thought he'd fumble with the catch but he doesn't.
"It didn't suit her," he says and he's not talking about Bessie. "She knew it. It's better on you."
"I'll keep it safe for her," she whispers voice cracking. "Just until we come back."
Oh my girl, my dear sweet girl. We can't come back. Not in this world. You don't get to do that.
But he kisses her anyway, kisses her because those flames are searing him, burning him up inside and he wants to take her again, have her like he did last night, lose himself in her. And when she pulls back they're both breathless and they don't talk as she drives away.
xxx
They've plotted a route but they know they need to be flexible. Places are overrun, highways blocked, so they start by heading back to the gas station and following the road out of the town. There are walkers here, not many, but still more than they've seen closer to home.
Number seven, with the blue flowerpot.
Christ he really needs to stop thinking that way. They'll never have people over for dinner, kids to come and play. It's not an address anymore and they don't need to give directions. But still.
Still...
They weave their way through the dead, Bo growling low and soft from the backseat. He hopes the numbers will thin soon because he can't see how they'll get through thicker herds and he can't deal with a repeat performance of the veterinary college run.
Can't imagine having to drag Beth and Bo from this car and try and make it back home.
Luckily he doesn't have to.
There are fewer and fewer walkers as they exit the town and she turns onto the highway. They've discussed this route, decided it was best even if they hit obstacles. There are enough turnoffs along the way that they can backtrack but this is the most direct route. They could get lucky.
They could.
She sees it as a genuine possibility. He's not so sure. But they make good time and walkers are scarce he willing to consider the idea that he could be wrong. Maybe things don't have to be bad all the time, maybe this is a beginning more than an end. Maybe. But maybe he's also getting ahead of himself and he should back up. They're not out of the woods yet, not by a long shot.
But despite his own misgivings, he starts to feel some of the tension easing from his shoulders. He allows himself to find a silver lining, if only for a moment. They're here, with a tank full of gas, and each other. It seems like a good start, seems a damn sight better than what most people have these days. And the most wonderful girl in the whole wide world loves him and stands by his side. Yes he's tense and dread gnaws at the pit of his belly. But he's used to that. It's there more often than not these days, only leaving when they're inside and alone and shut away from the world. He knows how to deal. He knows how to cope.
So he does.
In his own way.
Sort of.
He makes a conscious decision to let himself be distracted by her, by the lean line of body her next to him, the way she drives. He feels Merle rear up ready to say something about women drivers and manages to shut him back down.
Not here. Not now.
There are CDs in the glovebox. Beth found a stash at Mr and Mrs Dudebro - Power Ballads from the 80s and 90s - and he grabs one at random and shoves it into the player. And the bad music helps, even if it does make him think of the seedy bars Merle dragged him along too when he should have been at home, in bed, preparing for school.
He finds a strange sort of comfort in it. A perverse enjoyment of Meatloaf and his emphatic declarations that he won't do that, of Whitesnake going down the only road they've ever known, of Joe Cocker and his chained heart.
She sings along every now and then, songs she's way too young to know the words to. Mainly the bigger hits, the songs that have been covered or still got radio play before everything went to shit. And she sounds better than some poodle pop hair metal one hit wonder anyway. Also she makes him laugh despite himself. She bounces a little in her seat and drums on the steering wheel, pretends to take the words very seriously. He knows it's for his benefit, that she trying to tell him it's okay and keep him focused on the good things.
And that's not something he's ever had before. Not just that silliness, that excess, but someone who cared enough to try and make him happy. He didn't understand it at first but he gets it now. He gets a lot of things now. And he realises that means, more than anything, that he has a lot to lose.
Beth, my blue-eyed girl.
At midday they stop on an abandoned stretch of highway, walk into the long grass, flecked with yellow daisies and lie down in the sun, Bo between them.
He looks at the sky, carrion birds circling high above them, black shadows against the blue and he thinks of how they ran from the prison, how he followed the bounce of her long hair, her thighs long and lean and faster than he imagined. He can't remember much of how he felt then. He can cycle through it, the hurt, the rage, the blame. He knows they were all there, that they all played a part one way or the other. But what he remembers more than anything, the one thing that stands out among all the rest was that even then she was his life. Angry as he was Beth Greene became the centre of his universe the day they ran through those smoking prison gates and out into this shithole of a world. At the time he thought it was his mission to make her strong, to make her tough, but she already was. So strong, so tough. And then he thought it was his mission to make her like him, unfeeling, stoic, empty. He's never been so proud of a failure.
Even when he loses he wins.
He looks over at her, she's chewing on a strip of jerky, squirrel he thinks, and running her fingers through Bo's fur. It's started to go glossy, no longer the strange puppy fluff he used to have. He's also put on some muscle and even though he still has no idea what kind of a mutt he is, he thinks he's beautiful.
"Hungry?" She asks and he takes it as an invitation, rolling over and onto her, pushing her down into the grass, nudging her legs open and moving against her as he grazes his lips along her jaw.
He thinks she'll play coy. He's expecting it, but she doesn't. She melts under him, body soft and welcoming as she finds his mouth with hers, presses heady kisses along his lips, tongue stroking against his and across his teeth. And he loses his mind a little. He'd take her right there, his hands already finding her breasts, squeezing them through the thin material of her top. And she's moaning, arching upwards, grinding herself gently against his cock, breath hitching as he pushes back.
And then they hear Bo, that low guttural moan. His warning, his contribution to their family. The way he earns his keep.
They both freeze and he pulls away, grabbing the crossbow and peeking out into the grass. He sees them instantly, a group of five. Shambling. Limping. Not close, but close enough. And he knows they can't stay, that he can't have her in the pale sunshine, lose himself in the smell of her, the whisper of the grass.
"Come on," he says, taking her hand, seeing the sunlight catch on the opals, and hauling her up. She sighs, more than a little disappointment in it and something inside him clenches deep and tight. That she could want him is still a mystery he can't even begin to solve. That he can make her wet and draw goosebumps out of her skin, cry his name and beg, yes beg, him to fuck her isn't something that makes a whole lot of sense to him and he wonders how long he can keep ignoring it.
And now is so not the time.
They head back at the car, get Bo in and she slides behind the wheel, waits for him while he scans the horizon, the long grass, the walkers grey and lurching against it. They've seen them now and are moving towards the road, they're probably going to have to drive around them and he doesn't know why the thought fills him with dread.
"Daryl?" She calls and he snaps his attention back to her, shakes his head and climbs into the passenger seat, shuts the door sharply.
"Ready?"
No. No he's not ready. She knows that. But looking at her now, neither is she.
He nods.
She smiles, leans over and brushes her lips against his jaw and he runs a hand through her hair, down her neck and over her shoulder. He could touch her like this forever, run his fingertips over her skin, down her ribs, round her hips. He's done it before. Some nights he'd undress her and just trail his fingers over her, trace her curves and her edges. It's all so new, all so wonderfully indescribably new.
But not here, not now with a dead audience and miles still to go. There'll be time. There has to be.
She starts the car. The walkers have moved into the road in front of the car and he expects they'll start heading towards them but they don't. Instead they just stand there, five across, shoulder to shoulder, like they're guarding something and he realises with a jolt that not only are they fresh, they're also dressed in army fatigues. Sure they're stained with blood and God knows what else, but the khaki pattern is unmistakeable. Three of them even have assault rifles strapped to their backs, and fuck if he doesn't wish they could get their hands on those.
"What are they doing?" She asks softly, a nervous flutter in her voice.
He squints, chewing the inside of his cheek, jaw working hard.
"Dunno," he says. "Want me to drive?"
She shakes her head.
"I can get past them, I'm just wonderin' why they're not comin' any closer."
He wonders too. This all feels very backwards, very wrong and he wishes they would just get moving.
He shrugs.
"We should go."
It's not like he expected anything to happen. They're walkers, fresh or not they're slow and shambling, but he's surprised when it doesn't, when she just weaves the car around them and they make no move towards it, remaining right where they are.
He doesn't understand why but as they move back into the road and pick up speed a word comes to him. Singular, straightforward, apt.
Guardians.
And he has no idea how to feel about that.
xxx
Things are less light after that. It had to happen. It always does. The radio is on but she doesn't sing along and the music is just as awful as before. Nik Kershaw keeps asking him wouldn't it be good? and the truth is he doesn't think so.
Wouldn't it be good to be in your shoes?
Even if it was for just one day
Wouldn't it be good if we could wish ourselves away?
They see more signs. Every couple of miles there's another. Maggie's writing scrawled in blood. Glenn's name over and over again. She slows at each one, frowns and then speeds up until they see the next. They don't talk about it. He knows why. He sees how she scrutinises the writing, face full of anticipation and then how she deflates almost immediately.
He won't ask. She'll tell him eventually, not that she needs to. He knows what's going on and he gives her thigh a squeeze. He'll write her name on every sign in the world if that would make her happy, write it and keep it and hold it. Write it on his heart even though it's there already.
"You alright?" She asks and he nods.
He thinks he is. Alright enough anyway. But he knows he's starting to brood again, that gnawing sense of unease eroding any vestiges of a good mood. He's jumpy and all over the place, he knows this and he can't seem to get a handle on any of it. And he hates it. Since he was a snotty-nosed kid having the shit beaten out of him he's never trusted sudden changes in mood. Because you can go from an afternoon bordering on pleasant watching the game with your old man, and sure you'd keep your distance, stay out of reach, but still, he wasn't screaming, he wasn't breaking things. And then suddenly he was and your face was being smashed against a wall and he was kicking the shit out of you and you had no idea why.
He gets that he's frustrated. Not with her, never with her, but just with how messed up this whole situation is. How messed up it's been for a long time. How it gave them a taste of something, something good and right and perfect and then ripped that away by offering the possibility of something better. He knows they can't ignore the signs, he wouldn't want to. This isn't only for Beth, he knew that the second before his heart dropped into his boots when he saw Maggie's bloody scrawl. Because in that second he felt something akin to elation. He has hope. He's had hope since that night he fell over his words trying to tell her he loved her in a kitchen at the end of the world. Had hope when he realised he could do it, that in some way he was allowed.
But hope aside he never actually thought that meant they would find the rest, maybe that they were alive somewhere and safe but being part of their world again was not even something he considered as a possibility. And that sign, in the moments before he actually processed it, before he actually had a chance to think further than his own desire, it became a beacon, a signpost that told him sometimes things can work out.
And then it was gone. And now all he can think about is what they're losing and what they're still going to lose. And he doesn't know how long he can deal with these feelings. How messed up he is right now, how complicated this all is.
He shakes it away. There are no bad things here. Beth is here and she's good and perfect and wonderful and she's wearing his Ma's bracelet and somehow she loves him and he doesn't deserve it but he's trying and he won't throw it away. Won't hurt her. Ever. He'll hurt himself first. Gladly.
Wouldn't it be good if we could live without a care?
And then suddenly everything goes for a ball of shit. And all that luck he was banking on runs out. It had to happen. He knew it did. It seems fitting for the kind of day they're having.
She slows, pulls to a stop, keeps the engine running. He can see the turnoff they need to take, it's almost close enough that he can read the sign, green board, white labels, dried brown blood. He knows what it says, knows Beth's name isn't on it, knows it'll break her heart one more time, so he finds that in a way he's grateful they can't get close enough to actually see it, to actually confirm it.
In front of them is a sea of abandoned cars blocking the highway, they cover the road, pressed tight against each other, some have walkers inside, banging against the windows, and he knows there's no way around. No way through. They saw this after the CDC, Rick once said this was what Atlanta looked like when he left. He doesn't doubt that it does.
"What now?" She asks.
We go home, we go straight back home and we never ever leave it again. I'll carry you inside and we can read together in the candlelight and we can make love in every room.
Instead he tells her to turn the car around, take the exit they saw a couple miles back and see if they can use the smaller suburban roads. So she does, throwing the car into reverse and heading back the way they came and onto the exit, following the route he tells her, past abandoned houses and broken convenience stores, heading left towards the next onramp. And for a while it seems like that's going to work. They talk about not much of anything. It's slow, but they make a good distance. Until they don't.
Another blockade of cars, this time with trucks, an old school bus even. No way through, no way past, no way around.
She frowns, turns the car around again, doubles back, turns right instead and circles back from the other side. But before they've even gotten close to the onramp they're cut off again, this time by an overturned truck, spanning the entire road, stuck between the Jersey barriers.
They both stare at it speechless for a long long time and he can see her biting her lip, glaring as if the truck it will move simply by the force of her gaze. He doesn't see why it shouldn't though. He's done it, been kicked out of this world and into another simply by looking at her.
The truck however is immune and remains where it is.
"Guess we should have headed further back," he says and she shrugs like she doesn't quite believe that will help.
He takes over the driving for a while, she navigates. And again they drive for about an hour before they hit another pile up, and then another and another after that. Cars, cars and trucks and buses, twisted metal everywhere he looks.
Looks like someone's trying to tell you something. That's Merle. Back from the dead for the third time today. Maybe you should listen brother.
Maybe he should. Maybe he really should. This feels wrong. So very insanely wrong, like something is trying to trap them there. And he thinks whatever it is has the right of it. It was a world apart and they're crazy for giving it up.
Eventually he stops. Bo is whining and they need to get their bearings.
"I don't get it," she says opening the door and letting Bo out. "How can every road be blocked?"
He follows her, pulls out the map, spreads it on the bonnet, traces his fingers over the roads they've come. This can't be right. It's impossible that everything is blocked like this. And yet it is.
Somehow. By God's fucking cosmic hand it is.
He hears her come up behind him, sliding her arms around his waist, resting her hands on his hips and pressing her head against his arm. And he loves how she feels cool in the heat, the way her hair tickles, the kiss she lays against his bicep.
My perfect girl. My perfect blue-eyed girl.
He shows her where they are, scratches his thumb nail across the blocked roads. She frowns, shifting forward a little and he moves to put his arm around her, draw her close, run his fingers down the bare skin of her arm.
"It's like we've been driving in circles," she says and he's about to shake his head and tell her they've just been unlucky when he sees she's actually right. It's not quite circles, but they have been working their way along the same routes, coming at the blockades from different angles, narrowly missing one only to end up at another, turning back and repeating the process. Like rats in a maze. And he's pretty sure he hates that comparison.
"Okay," he says. "How about we turn back, but we go left instead of right and then…"
She shakes her head, points to one of his scratch marks.
"We'll just end up stuck again."
He frowns. She's right, but it seems almost impossible. He fucking knows how to navigate. He's always had a feel for it. He's had to. Usually he doesn't even need maps and compasses are a luxury. But this? This is like some bizarre web that they can't escape, like someone's playing a big joke on them and fucking with time and space. He hears Merle cackle in his head and he knows why. He fucking knows.
Years ago when it was just the two of them holed up in some shitty apartment block, complete with a cockroach infestation and rising damp on the walls, they'd watched some bizarre late night movie. He'd been drunk, Merle was high and this movie was all kinds of fucked up and he doesn't think it was because of the state they were in. His memory is sketchy but what he does remember was a bunch of bald men in trenchcoats stopping time every night and rearranging people and places at a whim, fucking with their memories and moving buildings, having people wake up the next day completely embracing their new role, whatever that may be. Yesterday you were a rockstar, today you're a married accountant whose wife is cheating on you. Tomorrow you're a homeless person with pet cat. He can't for the love of God remember the why of it, what sick twisted pleasure these stupid fucks got out of messing with everyone. Maybe he fell asleep, maybe he was just too wasted. What he does remember is that Merle wouldn't let it go. High as he was he ate that shit up and for days all he could talk about was the "what ifs".
What if this is the first time we're meeting brother? he asked. What if yesterday I was a fucking millionaire and you were a fucking circus act?
He'd rolled his eyes. Ain't no life where Merle was a millionaire
But what if this is the first time we've ever seen each other. What if we ain't even brothers?
I seen you before Merle, I ain't that lucky that I didn't.
But how would you know? Merle asked. How would you know that brother?
And round and round and round again. Merle eventually let up somewhat when something shiny and crystal grabbed his attention. But every now and then his obsession would flare up and he'd start again.
What if this is the first time we're here in this room together? What if brother? What if Ma and Dad never existed?
Daryl once made the mistake of pointing out that since they'd had this conversation at least twice a week after they'd seen that goddamn movie it kind of made this being their first meeting impossible. But that led to a philosophical conversation about the nature of the universe that neither of them was equipped to have.
Merle never fully let it go but he became quieter about it and he never ceased to find the idea fascinating.
But how would you know brother? How would you know?
And he feels like that now. Like someone's been fucking with time and space, changing the order of things, the logic behind it. Even the dead in this new world aren't acting like they should. Maybe he's just been blind and that started long ago when a girl as pure as sunshine and just as lovely told him she loved him and made a place for him inside her body and her heart. Maybe he should never have trusted any of this.
She looks away, bends down to untangle Bo from his lead, pats his head and gets a lick through the face for her trouble. And then wedges herself in at his side again, slides her hands under his shirt, links them at his belly, thumbs rubbing gentle circles into his skin. And for a moment he forgets who he is and what he's doing.
"We could…" he starts weakly, covering her hands with one of his own.
We could go home
We could forget about all this
We could grow old together
We could.
We really could.
We could wish ourselves away
But they can't and they both see why at the same time. They take a moment to pretend they don't. A moment to lie, her hands still pressed against his flesh, lips against his arm. And then that moment passes and they both freeze, no more cool circles on his belly, no wet mouth against him. It's quiet too. No walkers, no birds, not even a breath of wind through the long grass. Even Bo is still. The world frozen in time, waiting to be realigned, changed, shifted. Maybe tomorrow the walkers will never have existed and he'll be that fucking millionaire. Maybe she'll be different too, someone he never met and never will. But no, no that's too painful. More painful than looking at this map and seeing what they have to do.
And even though he wants to look for another way, anything else, he knows they won't find it. It's so wrong that even he has to admit on some level it's right. That's there's some macabre irony at play here. Some twisted poetry. He thinks it's could even be called a Pyrrhic victory, if there's any victory to be had here at all. And he's not sure who the victor would be anyway.
There's one and only one road that they know for sure isn't blocked. One road that will put them back onto the path they need to go.
Only one.
They have to go back.
They have to.
It's the only way.
"I'm so fucking sorry girl."
xxx
She's sitting on the side of the road, head in her hands, Bo's by her side, but he's not doing anything much other than lean against her.
She's crying and he doesn't know what to do. He could go to her but he senses she doesn't want that, that she needs this moment to work through everything and when she needs him to comfort her, she'll let him know.
There's no use looking at the map anymore, somehow he knows this. Knows they could tear it up into little pieces and scatter it to the wind for all the help it would bring them now. There's only one way they can go. They have to go back.
Apparently you do get to eventually.
And not for the first time today he feels like what's happening to them isn't real, like they don't exist in the same world right now. Junie Day, when she still spoke to him, would tell him about the stories she read. Fantasy novels about magic and strange creatures, stories where you said special words to cross into other worlds, where you collected a bunch of the right junk and only then would some bewitched portal would be revealed. And this - this day, this trip - feels like that. Like they're being forced, their footsteps counted and judged.
They have to go back to the prison.
God apparently has an even shittier sense of humour than he thought.
xxx
She eventually looks up at him and he goes to her, falling down at her side and pulling her into his lap, resting his chin on her head and rocking her gently.
They don't talk for a while and he thinks they're both letting the idea sink in through their skin and into their veins, holding it there for a while before moving it around and seeing how it fits. Not that this world seems to give a fuck if it doesn't.
"We've wasted so much time," she whispers and he nods. They have. They've wasted so much gas too.
"So what now?" She says. "We go home? Try again tomorrow?"
No Beth, that ain't home anymore.
He turns to her, touches her cheek, wipes her tears with his thumb. She's beautiful and he loves her so much he'd crawl through fucking broken glass just to make her happy, lay his life down for her just because she asked. But there's one thing he won't do. He knows that now. He can't. She can't ask him to.
"Beth," he says. "If I go back there, I ain't ever gonna leave again girl. I'm sorry. I just ain't."
Her breath hitches in her throat and she gulps a little, but she nods and he knows he doesn't have to explain because she feels the same way. Exactly the same. He kisses her forehead, glances down. She suddenly she looks more girl than woman, rubbing her eyes. He's seen her like this before, holding a shoe and sobbing next to a pile of corpses, her whole body trembling. But this time he knows what to do, this time he doesn't leave her to herself. This time he pulls her closer, holds her tight to him and presses kisses into her hair. This time he tells her it'll be okay. But they have to go, it's the only way. Somehow he knows this instinctively.
So she nods and holds back her sobs, eyes squeezed shut. They stay like that for a while, their little family, holding together on the side of the road, giving themselves time to consider the next part of their journey, giving themselves time to pretend that they don't have to do it and they can just sit here forever.
"Come on girl," he says eventually, touching her lips with his thumb. "We're just going to drive past, that's all."
But something in his gut tells him this isn't true. He's almost sure of it. He wonders if it qualifies as a lie. If it's the first in a string of many.
But she stands and they head back to the car. It's not a question that he'll drive. She doesn't sing, they leave the CD player off, even Bo is quiet in the back, lying down on the seat and sleeping.
They turn back on themselves, watch the miles and miles of farmland they've already past stretch out in front of them, small towns turning to blurs. He drives fast like there's something chasing them but he thinks he might have that the wrong way around. He'd hoped this trip could make a pretence of fun, hoped that they'd find some levity in it before things got ugly. Before they got weird. And for a moment it did, for a second. But now it seems that's been taken too. They've walked out into the real world and it's making them feel it, taking things from them they didn't know they had to give. First Bessie, now this. And he's not sure if he's just thinking crazy or if there really is something else going on here. He doesn't believe in god or the devil. He doesn't believe in fairies and dragons and Santa Claus either. But this day is too weird. Everything feels wrong. Even Beth. Even him and Beth.
And God he just wants to take her in his arms and make it right. But he's not sure that'll help. Not sure that'll make it any less wrong than it already is. And when they pass the five walkers, still standing exactly where they left them, and he watches how they wander off only after the car is past, he's almost sure that this is only the beginning.
Merle's movie obsession is obviously Dark City.