A/N: I'm back! Sorry for the huge delay in posting. The last chapter was a good cliffhanger, though, so let's think of it as my story's own personal midseason finale.
I love how this chapter came out, but it's dream-sequence-heavy again so hopefully it's not too confusing. Feel free to ask about anything you didn't understand. I also know a few of my readers haven't seen BS, so you might want to track down the Calling scene in the jail cell. The second half of this chapter relies on it a lot.
I've also put together a preview video for the story on youtube (link at the bottom of my profile), so feel free to check that out!
Part II
Aequitas
Chapter Nine
Daryl could never really explain the feeling he got when he heard Merle was coming home.
Hell, he could never explain any of his feelings, really. And why bother? Who'd wanna listen?
But there it was, whether people wanted to hear it or not. Merle was coming home. Finally. A six-month stint in juvie paid in full to the self-righteous dick judges of Pemberton County, who didn't give half a damn that dragging Merle off these days meant leaving Daryl alone with their dad. Back before, it hadn't been so bad. There'd been Ma, and she'd helped just by being there. Didn't even have to be conscious, really.
She hadn't been conscious much, toward the end.
But when Daddy was out – and he'd been out more than not – the house had been all theirs. Daryl'd go to her room and lay down next to her like a baby, like someone way younger than seven who still needed another person close to help fight off the nightmares. And he'd take her hand in his and sing her lullaby to her, and pray for the day when she stopped making herself sick.
And then her eyes would drift open and she'd smile and cry, and brush his hair back from his eyes and call him her angel.
"Not much of a angel to her then, were ya, Darlyna?"
Daryl shuddered and tilted his eyes toward the sun, and tried to burn out the echoes of the fire still blazing in his mind.
No, he couldn't explain the feeling he got when he heard Merle was coming home. But Merle was what he had, and they were stronger together than apart.
.-
Daryl pushed himself away from the edge of the fractured glass window as Rick came past, the hunter's jaw tense and stance shifting, agitated. Before he'd even opened his mouth, Rick was shaking his head.
"We're not going back."
But Daryl'd gotten himself set to talk and wasn't about to let it go that easy.
"We dropped everyone off safe here, they can hole up. But some of us should go back, scope the place out. See what's what. Get our stuff."
"I hear you, Daryl but—"
As calm as Rick seemed, Daryl was twice as tense. Wound up with a kind of frustrated energy that'd been a blessing on the trip over – up in the lead and so alert that he'd taken down two demons with a tree branch before the rest of the group had even noticed them coming – but now that they'd stopped moving that same tension was getting the worst of him.
"That stuff's all we got. Food, weapons, clothes, my—" He cut himself off, clenching his fist in an odd, rolling twitch and Connor, who'd been expecting the other man to mention his crossbow, wondered if maybe his brain had been on another track altogether. Daryl looked away, eyes skimming past Connor and landing on a patch of red and blue light gleaming on the stone floor. "We ain't got enough to afford losing any."
Rick took a step closer, placing a hand on Daryl's shoulder and lowering his voice so that Connor wouldn't have been able to make out his next words if not for the stone room's acoustics.
"No one can afford to leave anything these days. Anything useful we left back with those people, we've got to assume it's gone."
Daryl glanced up and caught the other man's eye for a heartbeat before finding the floor again, shoulders drawing in more tightly. He nodded – a quick, unsettled burst of motion – before stepping back out of Rick's grip and stalking away down the aisle, toward the stairs that led to a narrow alcove overlooking the rest of the room. Rick watched him go, then caught Connor's eye and shook his head faintly before continuing on his way to where his son stood guarding the side door.
But Connor was already rising to his feet, a lifetime of habit leading his hand to touch his forehead, chest, and both shoulders before he followed his not-brother toward his new perch.
The rendezvous point, as it turned out, was a small stone-and-oak church situated partway between several towns – the only structure on the long, dirt-lined road just outside what Connor had come to think of as their forest. The group had passed it on the way back from the town where Connor had first run into them, but they'd already discovered the cabin by then, and it'd had the advantage of being well off the road, being all in one piece, and having something other than narrow pews to sleep on.
Several panes in the stained-glass windows had been shattered – someone's crisis of faith either before or after the outbreak – but a large tapestry of the Savior on his cross gazed down on them from the chancel, undisturbed.
Daryl glanced up as Connor reached the top step and joined him in the alcove, expression a little weary but unsurprised. His body was broken up into sharp divisions of green, indigo, yellow and crimson, the evening sun shining in through a long, oblong window that was miraculously still all in one piece. Daryl had tugged off his leather vest and flung it across the organ stationed against one wall, and was perched on the floor in the opposite corner, contemplating the garment broodingly.
"Can't get five minutes without you up my ass, huh?"
Connor ignored the question, dragging forward the organ bench, swinging one leg over it, and shooting out one of his own.
"What'd you lose back there, Dixon?"
Daryl flitted his gaze up, searched Connor's face for a second, then turned his attention back toward the vest. His eyes skated over the hard, white edges of the wings.
"We all lost a lot. Glenn did good grabbing that van, but we're still short food, whatever clothes we had inside the house…"
"Wasn't your crossbow," Connor continued thoughtfully, cutting right over the other man's dodge. "You'd said 'weapons' already. Maybe you just count your weapon as special, and who'd blame you? But I'm willing to bet you had something else in mind."
The eyes slid off the angel wings, drifting over to the window instead.
"Why you back here, Irish? Thought you'd want to be up front, get in some one on one time with your pal JC."
The weight of God's judgement felt heavy on Connor's shoulders, even through the fading tapestry, through the eyes that gazed out sightlessly. Irony, truly, that the only time Connor felt less than fully at home in a church was when he would be forced to stay and sleep in one.
"Think I might be safer back here for now," he replied, working to keep his tone light and careless. "Last time I was in one of these…"
"If this is what it means to keep faith in you, you can carry the fucking world straight to hell!"
Connor's smile slipped. His fingers drummed along the bench tunelessly. Daryl, attention finally captured by the long pause, flicked his gaze back toward the other man.
"My bike," he offered after a moment, his face ghost-pale in the blue light.
Connor, shocked out of his darkening memories, let out a short, surprised huff of laughter.
"What, really? It was a nice ride, and handy in a pinch, but it's not exactly—"
"Was my brother's."
It was a testament to how far Connor had come in the past week that his first, instinctive thought wasn't "But I don't have a motorcycle." His mind had cleared up enough to accept all the obvious differences between this man and Murphy, from the several-shades too light hair to the missing tattoos, to the very manner in which he carried himself. …Although the similarities continued to irk him, unacknowledged and unanswered.
No, Connor's first response was the hard tug in his gut that came along with surprise and a touch of guilt: he hadn't known that Daryl Dixon had a brother. Had been so wrapped up in deciding whether or not the man was somehow his own brother that it hadn't even occurred to him to ask.
"Lost him a while back," the hunter continued, in the faint, toneless voice of one who wasn't sure whether he even wanted to be talking. "Lost him," he repeated, putting emphasis on the word. "Always sorta thought… hell, maybe we'd run into each other again. Give it back to him." He snorted humorlessly. His wrist twitched, rolled. "Not that he could ride her anymore. But still…"
His gaze was back on the narrow, red-tinted road.
"And no need to go sharing that with the rest," he added faintly, firmly. "They'd just fuss."
They sat quietly for another minute, and Connor found his own gaze tracing the line of the vest's wings.
"I had a rosary," Connor said abruptly, voice louder, sharper than he'd expected. Sound bouncing around the quiet of the tiny alcove and slamming back into his eardrums. He cleared his throat, went on more softly. "Me and Murph, we had matching ones our whole lives. Hand-carved Celtic crosses. Identical, you know, even if we weren't. Then I just decided to leave it, last time I was in a church. Threw it at the altar, actually. I still find myself reaching for it five, ten times a day."
Daryl nodded, as if he'd noticed, as if that set some fragmented pieces of knowledge together in his head.
"You think God holds a grudge for things like that?"
Connor's hand twitched, lifted. Halfway up, it altered course and determinedly readjusted the collar of his jacket before lowering.
"He expected more of me, I think, and I failed to deliver."
Daryl's eyes were narrowing, confused and curious, and Connor forced a grin to his face, pushing himself to his feet.
"Well Dixon, I can't help with your motorcycle but I'll tell you what: since you lost your crossbow, I'll let you use my silenced Berettas."
Daryl tilted his head. The sun had set; his face was fully in shadow.
"I already got your guns."
"And now you may use them with my blessing." It was too dark to be sure, but he thought he caught the ghost of a smirk flitting over the other man's face. "Now I'm off to see if Fearless Leader lets me take first watch. Looks like it might rain later; I'd hate to be out patrolling in it."
He made it to the stairs and started down. Daryl's voice carried out after him.
"Rick never said he'd let you keep watch, Irish."
"No," Connor shot one last, winning grin toward the alcove. "But why else would he have you waste time teaching me how to be stealthy?"
.-
It was pouring by the time the group had swallowed down their meager meals and begun to settle in for the night; hard, frigid rain that seemed more like bullets of ice than water as it pelted toward the ground.
"It's not hail yet, but it might well be soon," Hershel offered as he came in from a run to the van, bundled up in a coat and a piece of old tarp to keep it from soaking through. "Let's just be glad we have a roof over our heads tonight."
Even if water and chill were still spraying in through the broken windows.
"Be glad the rain'll wash away our trail," Carol offered, glancing toward Daryl who sent her a slight, approving nod.
"Even the van tracks should be gone soon if this keeps up."
Connor shot the pair a slant eyed look, retrieving the tarp from Hershel and making his way toward the doors.
"Thanks, that thought'll be a great comfort to me while I'm crouched behind some bushes for three hours, watching the road."
Rick glanced up from the pile of bedding he was laying together, looking like he was ready for the first excuse to revoke the responsibility he'd granted. Maggie jumped in before he could, smiling innocently.
"But you were so eager for first shift."
"And from now on I'll know to be careful what I wish for." Connor sighed loudly, a touch dramatically, before pushing his way out into the rain, the door swinging shut behind him.
Glenn, leaning back on his pile of blankets, glanced over the group thoughtfully.
"Think we should tell him we were just gonna use the alcove window for guard duty?"
.-
Third watch, and the sky still raged. Frigid rivulets poured down – an unrelenting, cleansing force – bleeding tracks and footprints into unrecognizable patterns and battering a group of armed men who trudged through the darkened forest in their wake. Several miles off, through a trail of mud and trees, the water sluiced down and across, through shattered, stained glass windows to dampen the face of the Savior as he gazed over a band of ragged survivors.
A cold mist splashed across the floor and sprayed back up, making the sleepers flinch and grimace as they slept.
And by the main doors, a hunter dreamed.
.-
HE WILL REPAY THEM FOR THEIR SINS
A dusky shadow watched him from the other side of the wide, warped mirror. The mirror was a window, the shadow was himself. Unbidden, the dark shape raised its right arm and touched a finger to its forehead.
"You're my angel…"
"…useless bastard. Not like your brother…"
His knuckles bled, burning fiercely with the imprint of a snapped jaw. The guilty thrill of having proved himself a man, of having done it for no more reason than the guy'd looked at him the wrong way.
"…saved me, my angel. More than you'll ever…"
A savage kick to the whimpering boy's gut. His knife digging into the stitches, like pulling off a Band-Aid…
"This isn't you…"
"A man of honor."
The shadow's hand lowered to touch its chest.
AND HE WILL DESTROY THEM FOR THEIR WICKEDNESS
Fingers closing over the smooth leather, tugging it from the oblivious stranger's jacket. Folds of green stacked together inside, enough to feed him, Daddy and Merle for a month. Make Daddy proud…
"You're every bit as good as…"
"Nah, baby brother, you did good. Think we deserve better than food tonight. I can get something sweeter, make us feel like we're floating. You can go back out tomorrow, find more cash for food. Proved that today…"
NEVER SHALL INNOCENT BLOOD BE SHED
Soft, pale petals. A pale, broken face.
"We'll find her. Your little girl."
Pained brown eyes, head leaning up into the barrel. Begging him to end it.
"We don't kill the living!"
"Sorry, brother."
"…my brother's…"
"…brothers…"
"He expected more from me, I think. And I failed to deliver."
A bloody hand on a rooftop. A familiar sick feeling twisting through him, like watching a burning house. Like watching Merle hop on his bike and ride away, not looking back. He was alone again. Alone with these strangers who'd probably leave him handcuffed on a rooftop too if they knew what he really was…
"It's easy. We just get in good and cozy with 'em, feed 'em up a bit, earn their undying gratitude. Then rob 'em blind in the night. If any of 'em spot us, well, we do what needs doing."
The hand drifted sideways to touch its left shoulder.
AND THE THREE SHALL SPREAD THEIR BLACKENED WINGS
A string of wooden beads; a leather vest.
"Not much of a angel to her then, were ya, Darlyna?"
The barn was burning, the house was ashes, and Mom was still singing that same damned song…
The hand came down to touch the right shoulder.
AND BE THE VENGEFUL, STRIKING HAMMER OF GOD.
.-
Daryl shot upright, gasping, feeling all at once sick and frantic and unbearably energized.
For a lifetime, it felt like, breath escaped him. His body had stopped being his body, had become a conduit for something… for something else. He couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't breathe. Something writhed and twisted inside him like a sickness, something had seized control and…
Hell… had he been bit? Was this what being a Walker was? Floating outside yourself, not quite you, while something else took your body and used it to wreak whatever havoc it felt like?
Something was tearing at his chest – wild, scrambling fingers scraping at the flesh over his heart. A Walker. A Walker'd gotten in and bit him while he slept. He was still being eaten. Any second now, the hand was gonna tear its way in (he'd taken off his vest. Why'd he taken off the goddamn vest?) and he couldn't do a thing about it. Couldn't move, couldn't fight… this was—
"Daryl."
The name, or the backhand that came with it, grounded him enough to realize that he was still alive, still inside of himself… that it was his own hands clawing at his chest. Trying to rip himself open, dig his way in to his own heart.
And he couldn't stop. That feeling wrenching inside of him… that sickness. His next breath escaped gasping and ragged; his stubs of nails raking red marks across his breast through his shirt. His head ached, both shoulders burned like he'd had nails stabbed through them, and his chest…
Connor was shaking him.
"Hey, Dixon. It's alright. Fuck… it's okay, man." And Connor was grinning, his eyes gleaming, at odds with everything Daryl was feeling. The Irishman seemed strangely energized as well, buzzing with a thrill and life Daryl'd never seen in the man since he'd met him. Daryl'd never realized that Connor seemed broken, but all at once it was like he suddenly felt… whole. And he was grinning, bouncing slightly with excess energy, while Daryl died inside.
"You fucking felt it, didn't you?"
Felt it? He was still feeling it. …Whatever the hell "it" was. It wouldn't get out, wouldn't stop writhing around inside of him.
In a ragged movement, he shook off Connor's hands, rolled to his knees. He still couldn't breathe right. Snakes were twisting through his ribcage, squeezing at his lungs, looping around his heart, keeping it still, keeping it from beating right. It kept trying to pump along through it all – jumping, pounding erratically. Like a bad trip. Like a heart attack. Like a virus was tearing its way through him, trying to take over.
Connor was crouched down, face low against the wooden floor as Daryl curled in on himself, some of the light fading from his eyes as concern finally started to register.
"You did feel it, I know it. He's called me again, and this time you too. There's still work to be done."
…destroy them for their wickedness…
He choked in another breath, still fighting an uphill battle for every fraction of air.
Connor reached out, caught Daryl's jaw to steady him. His hand was ice cold… that or Daryl had a fever. A fever. Didn't the damn leprechaun realize what was happening? He was infected; he was dying.
Not like this…
He had to get out of this place, get away before he turned, tore up the others. He could give them that, at least.
Daryl pushed himself to his feet, no thought in mind but to get out get away, get them safe… He'd been sleeping not five steps from the door, the rain still pounding hard enough against it to muffle the sound of Connor's hissing call as Daryl shoved it open, stumbled forward into the frigid deluge.
Or… it should have been frigid. It was mid-winter, middle of the night, and everyone who'd stepped outside all evening had come back literally shuddering at the memory of the icy water. Daryl should've been frozen stiff in seconds.
Instead, he suddenly realized he could breathe.
He tilted his head up to the heavens, the water streaming down his face in rivulets bordering on rivers, tasting it pour into his open, gasping mouth. And even though the snakes were still twisting their hardest inside of him, he felt a huff of laughter escape. Another. A long, uncontrollable, voiceless chuckle.
Distantly, past the thrill of euphoria, he realized something was still incredibly wrong with him.
Hands were grabbing his shoulders, now. His knees were soaked with mud. The pale, shining eyes were more than confused now. When Connor spoke his voice was thin, hopeful. Desperate.
"Destroy all that which is evil."
And a reply tumbled from Daryl's lips, pried free by the laughter or the snakes or the rain:
"So that which is good may flourish."
And as if it'd never happened, the taut tendrils in his chest released their grip, and the giddy euphoria started to fade into a distant sensation of warmth that kept the chill of the night from biting his skin.
Not dying after all. Not bit, not infected.
Connor was frowning across the sheets of rain at him, though his eyes were still too-bright and his lips kept twitching up in a faint, disbelieving grin.
"Like a Baptism," he said, lifting a hand and motioning the sign of a cross in the air between them. "You are cleansed by the water and born anew. But why…"
Whatever he was going to say, Daryl didn't want to hear it. He jerked backward, pushed himself to his feet. The strange, warm feeling was still dancing through him, as disconcerting in its unfamiliarity as it was comforting. Connor followed him slowly back to his feet, staring at Daryl like he wasn't sure what he was supposed to be seeing when he looked at him.
Then T-Dog, having descended from the loft where he'd been standing guard, stepped out into the rain.
"Hey, everything alright out here?"
Daryl flinched, broke Connor's gaze and turned to stalk back into the church.
"You get some sleep," he growled as he passed. "I'm taking your shift."
And he went up the stairs two at a time to the alcove, feeling like he would shove Connor straight down the steps if he was stupid enough to follow. He didn't. Through the window, Daryl could see the Irish idiot standing outside in the rain for a long time, eyes closed, face tilted up toward the sky.