Disclaimer: I sadly do not own The Walking Dead. Unbeta'd.
Spoilers: References to Season 1 and 2.
Warning:Rated for themes, language, and violence.
A/N: I don't usually do these but I decided it was totally necessary since you all are putting up with Daryl and Glenn acting the way they do. Special thanks to everyone taking the time to read. Especially reviewers and those who favourited!
This is my first attempt at writing a fic this elaborate, so thank you! I hope to meet (and hopefully surpass) your expectations!
Anon reviewers: I respond to your reviews! Please see my profile for the link.
Packages in Zombie Zone, Area S - 10
Merle stopped kicking when Glenn's whimpers died down. Merle smirked, spouting racist remarks at Glenn, each cuss flying out easily and without remorse. He spat on the kid's face and stalked off to his room, hands deep in his pockets.
"Don't take shit from us again." Merle growled. "You deal with this, Darlena. I ain't wastin' my time on trash like this."
He stared at Glenn's body, battered and bruised from the welt of Merle's boot. It took Daryl a few moments to register what just happened. Daryl bent down, reaching out to wipe Glenn's face. But Glenn stopped him, swatting his hand away. Hard.
"Don't touch me," Glenn hissed.
Glenn reached out, in an attempt to stand. Daryl brought his hand to Glenn's, an offer to help him but. Glenn ignored the invitation completely, supporting his own weight by pressing his palms flat on the ground.
Glenn stood up tall, wiping the dust off his shirt and jeans. Reaching onto the counter, Glenn grabbed his hat, popping it back out and fixing his hair before putting it on. He grabbed the rolling cans and placed them back in the cupboard, in the same order he found them. Daryl stepped forward.
"You've got spit on your face," Daryl pointed out. He reached out to wipe it off but Glenn dodged his hand and took three large steps back.
"I meant it." Glenn stared fiercely. He stormed off to the front door and stopped. Glenn turned around to face Daryl. He took a deep breath and let it all out. "When I first came to this place, I didn't know you lived here. I didn't know anyone lived here. And since Carol and Sophia are starving because Ed is such a prick, I thought maybe I'd help them out. But no, you decide to show up with your big bulging biceps and sleeveless shirts." Glenn shook his head wearily. "I didn't mind paying you back. And I did. But now that Ed's dead, I needed to borrow some more because they were starving. And no one's paying their rent! But how was I supposed to know you had an asshole brother who'd beat the crap out of me for replacing the food I took?"
Glenn pressed his lips together, waiting for a response. Daryl stood there with his mouth open, staring at the glob of spit on Glenn's face travel down his cheek, clenching his fists, swaying back and forth, unsure whether to wipe Glenn clean or punch him in the face.
Glenn slammed the door shut behind him.
"Where's the chink?" Merle asked, poking his head out of his room. After scanning the apartment, Merle opened the door wide and stumbled out, kicking empty beer bottles with each step. His clothes were dishevelled, his shirt was unbuttoned, his pants hung dangerously low on his hips.
Daryl's ass was sore from the long periods of time he spent sitting on it, tapping the kitchen counter absently. "He left."
"Good." Merle spoke firmly. He rounded an arm around Daryl's neck and rubbed a fist roughly on his head. "No one messes with us Dixons, lil' brother. Tell him that the next time he comes around."
The kid's trips to Room 201 became less frequent. And on those occasions when Daryl managed to catch the kid being dragged in the apartment or pushed out, the kid never looked his way. The kid didn't wave when Daryl stared at him from across the hall. The kid just picked himself up off the ground, buttoned up his jeans, and hurried down the stairs without a word.
But soon, a small influx of visitors arrived at Room 201. Each of them used a different call when knocking. Daryl checked, breathing heavily as he opened the door when he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. And although all of them carried that cardboard box, none of them were Glenn. Daryl listened to them come and go from the other side of his door, eyeing each one with disdain.
He dropped food off next door and Carol would give him pitying looks. She never asked him what was wrong, only gave thanks when she received a few cans or two. She spoke warmly, knowingly, as if she knew him personally. He snapped at her, telling her to mind her own business.
He sat for hours against his door, waiting for that familiar knock.
Merle came and left as he pleased, leaving the apartment as many as eight times a day. He often opened the door wide enough to hit Daryl's leg, frowning at his brother before stepping in or out of the apartment. Sometimes he returned with bottles of beer, leading Daryl to question how Merle managed to find large amounts of this rare commodity. Sometimes Merle returned with women, many of them young and wily, many of them he offered Daryl, who declined them with silence. Sometimes Merle returned alone.
"The matter with you?" Merle bent down, speaking into his brother's ear.
"Nothin'!" Daryl snapped. "Get off me!"
Merle stood straight and examined Daryl. "Whatever you say, Darlena."
Confused hunters surrounded Fishin' for Gold. They looked around, chatting briefly with others before walking away. Daryl stood aside, noticing the stand was empty, unmanned. When most of them dispersed, he stood at the stand and looked around.
First, he glanced behind the stall for traces of any activity. Other than the magazine he found and gave to the old man to give to Amy, there were no personal belongings behind the stall. He lifted the glossy magazine full of makeup tips and lessons on flirting to notice a small twig between the pages, a makeshift bookmark. Opening the book, Daryl found that Amy had marked a "Do you love him?" quiz. Daryl scoffed as he skimmed through the questions, eyeing the possible pathways and results. He frowned, slammed the flimsy thing shut, and then shoved it back under the stand.
"Anyone come by this morning?" Daryl asked the vendor in the next stall over.
The woman shook her head before she turned back to her customers. Daryl didn't question her. Instead, he made his way to Zombie Zone Express, determined to find Jack. Questions needed to be asked. But behind the stall was a middle-aged man. Daryl asked for Jack and received a blank look from the man. He stared at Daryl, unsure of what to do until he saw Daryl's bow.
"Here's your pay for the medicine run." The man handed Daryl a large carton. "They told me to thank you for doing such a good job."
"But the mission wasn't complete," Daryl responded, counting the cans of food, knowing he arrived too late. The hospital had burned down before the package had arrived.
"Well," the man replied. "They paid us so I'm sure it was."
Daryl hauled the clunking cans of food in his large duffle bag, which stretched enough to fit every single one. He walked with his bow, armed and ready to fire at anyone who veered to close to his pay. Onlookers stared at him, from the Clear to the Zone eyeing the bulging bag with contempt. He received various pleas and offers for food, but he denied each one with silence, staring each at each person until they realized he didn't want what they were offering.
He tossed the heavy bag into his apartment, staring at the room by the stairs. Seconds passed by before the Room 201's door opened, startling Daryl. He stood, gripping his knob tightly, pretending as if he was just entering the apartment. With a slight turn of his neck, Daryl laid his eyes on the person being shoved out the door. He was wearing jeans, a small backpack, a button up shirt, and a silly red hat.
"Hey!" Daryl reached out. "Hey, kid!'
A gasp.
Glenn jumped into a defensive stance and stared at Daryl before dashing down the stairs. After cursing, Daryl swung his door open, grabbed a few cans of food and a canister of water and shoved them into a bag before beginning his pursuit. He dashed outside the building, scanning the Block's alleys for any signs of the kid. Running out of the alley, he stared towards the complex's entrance. In the distance, Daryl made out a small figure sprinting away.
Daryl followed, keeping an eye on the direction he was headed. The kid was heading for the Clear. And judging by the position of the sun, there were only a few hours left before nightfall. Daryl picked up his pace.
Journeying through rough neighbourhoods full of peculiar inhabitants, empty patches of land, and lonely dirt roads, Daryl grew weary. He hid often from people and walkers alike, behind large buildings, sliding his knife on the ground to see if Glenn would turn around and realize he was being followed. The kid did turn around often once he slowed down to a brisk walking pace. He was relaxed but alert. Daryl kept his distance and ducked behind whatever large object he could find whenever Glenn checked his back. The kid seemed to do that a lot.
A small plaza stood just inside the Wall. The pavement was cracked, pieces of asphalt were scattered here and there. On the end was an old pharmacy that appeared to be cleared out, empty of almost everything. Beside that was an old tech support store, full of technologies that couldn't be of use to most of the people Daryl knew. Beside it was a shop catering to adult needs. Daryl hid behind a large support beam holding up the brick canopy. Glenn ducked into the tech store, returning a few minutes later with a bag that appeared to be heavier.
Daryl's position was almost compromised. Glenn turned around when Daryl accidentally kicked a small pebble, causing it to bounce. Warned, Glenn scanned the area but saw no one there. Daryl slid his knife carefully along the ground, not wanting light to reflect off it. When he saw Glenn walking away, he began to move. But he stopped suddenly when Glenn spun around once more.
"I guess I can't outrun you forever," Glenn shuddered nervously.
Daryl retracted his knife immediately and pressed his back tightly against the bricks. He shifted his eyes to see if Glenn's shadow would soon enter his peripheral vision. Not from this angle. He breathed lightly, as quietly as he could. Thoughts filled Daryl's mind: what he was going to say when Glenn found him, impromptu escape routes, and wonderings about the boy himself.
Seconds, or perhaps minutes, passed before Daryl released his grip and sheathed his knife. Glenn sighed and judging from the shadow, he was steadily lifting his hands as high as his shoulders.
"Fine. You caught me."
There was a sudden shuffling sound, of sneakers against the pavement, followed by a wet smack.
Daryl turned, slowly, one step at a time, breathing heavily wondering how Glenn would react to know that he'd been following him the whole time. But Daryl's feet came to an abrupt halt when he saw a rotting head rolling on the ground. Glenn was nowhere in his sight. A walker's body was a few feet away. Just beside that was the dinky red cap that Glenn always wore. Daryl stared at it for a few minutes before putting it inside his bag.
Daryl followed Glenn's tracks until he reached the Wall. Thee dusty tracks led Daryl around the base of the tall metal fence. It was a few minutes when he reached a small segment of the Wall that looked familiar. Daryl shook his head. He was at the secret hole he often used when the gates closed at night—the easiest way in and out of the Zone, the only way into the Clear without a permit.
Daryl walked around, searching for any sign of Glenn in neighbourhoods nearby the hole in the Wall. There were no blatant hints of the boy's presence but Daryl knew that while Glenn probably knew more than he did about the Zone, he was at an advantage with his extensive knowledge of the Clear and beyond.
Fresh tracks traced Glenn's path from the hole towards a small housing complex half an hour away from the Helm. Daryl followed them, questioning his actions when he reached the edge of the small community of people, his muscles tensing with each and every doubtful thought. Furiously shaking his head, Daryl brushed them aside and continued his search.
He strapped his bow before he walked into the neighbourhood with his hands in his pockets. The first house seemed too clean and quiet. He heard hushed tones come from backyards and front porches.
Directly across the street was a woman quietly hanging clothes on a line. A child rambunctiously played behind her with another child. Both were distinct, different, one slightly tan, the other much darker. The woman looked like neither of them.
Another house seemed to be filled with another melange of people. Three teenagers eyed Daryl from the safety of their windows, while a young child watched an older man patrol the front gate with a large axe.
Every house was more of the same: filled with different people of different ages and different colours. There were many with older folk, a few with actual couples. He found a few with no children at all. There was one with a large dog that growled at Daryl before sitting as per the master's command.
And then Daryl spotted it. He eyed a house near the end of the road. Two rambunctious children squealed with joy, throwing balls at each other from afar. A teen smiled, leading them in the game, encouraging fair play. Behind the teen, standing on a porch was a couple—two men standing side-by-side watching the children thrive. The shorter one rested his head on his partner's shoulder and received a warm nuzzle and an arm wrapped around his waist.
Daryl didn't know how to react. He stared at the two men from the middle of the empty road. The two men smiled at each other lovingly, tightening their embrace with each passing second. The taller man noticed Daryl and gave a friendly wave. The smaller one grinned joyfully. The heat rushed to Daryl's face and he abruptly turned away scoffing, resisting the urge to give them the finger.
A mixture of feelings filled his gut when he compared the lives of these people to his—they had someone waiting for them, someone who cares, a place to call home. He fought the building emotions off, dismissing such notions by punching himself lightly in the cheek.
Daryl was about to reach the end of the neighbourhood lane when he noticed the thick-muscled man sitting at the end of the street. Shane, wasn't it? The cop was glaring from his chair at the end of the road. His eyes weren't facing the distance where walkers would appear but rather the last house Daryl had yet to examine.
The last house on the road shocked Daryl. When he took a closer look, he realized that this was the house he took the guns from on his first mission with Zombie Zone Express. The perfect house with the bright red paint and varnished deck, outlined in a white picket fence, the one that belonged in a dream home magazine.
And standing in front of it, Daryl spied the man he saw in the hospital—his roommate, the deputy who was supposedly comatose—hugging Carl and kissing the skinny brunette who worked at Amy's stall.