Disclaimer: I don't own The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: This is a 'soul bond' or 'soul mate' style story. To my knowledge no one has taken a crack at this particular trope in the fandom, so this is more an experiment than anything. In this particular version, I am using a 'tattoo' or 'mark' to show how a soul bond presents itself.
Warnings: *Contains: soul bond/true mates/soul mate trope, illusions to domestic violence, spoilers for the first three seasons, adult language, adult content, AU after the fall of Atlanta, angst, UST and more. *Please note, this fic is canon complaint up until the end 4x14 "The Grove" – after this is likely AU in terms of what will happen in 4x15 & 4x16 – the series finale. This chapter contains spoilers from the 4x15 promo.
Tied
Chapter Ten
The scent of the burning cabin stuck with them, sinking deep into their clothes and hair no matter how many miles stood between them and the blaze. They walked, ate - slept where they could. Days passed this way.
He felt disconnected, like a phone gradually running out of juice – the signal fading as the low battery hits critical. The question of what happened when that battery trickled down to zero kept him awake long after his time on watch ended. Neither one of them slept through the night anymore anyways.
On some level he was aware that Beth knew something was wrong, something other than what was on the surface. But polite as she was, she didn't press. Not past getting him to admit that he actually gave a damn – that he felt responsible – guilty – guilty for every single person they'd lost. For her old man, for Rick, Glenn, littleasskicker, and yeah – even Carol.
He felt guilty that he hadn't been there, that someone hadn't been there to speak for her when Rick had dumped her in suburbia. Guilty that she was out here, alone, guilty that she didn't know what had happened, that they were scattered – separated. Or maybe she did? Could she sense what had happened? Did she know something was wrong? Had she felt it? Had she seen it, through him?
What if she'd tried to go back? What if she'd come home only to find the prison overrun? Shot through with holes, a walking graveyard?
He'd tried to close off, to shut down, brain pulling itself in a dozen different directions at once. And as a result, he and Beth had gotten off to a rocky start - what with the yelling and moonshine. He'd been busy doing emotional triage and she'd been trying her best to hold on to what hope they had left.
They'd gotten on like gasoline and a lit match until that drunkin' screeching match at the cabin, but eventually, Beth's hope fueled the ragged tatters of his own. And silently, he let it build. The Greene family seemed to be infectious like that. They had a habit of being too kind for their own good – too pure. Beth had more of her old man in her than she realized.
Hershel would've been as proud as hell - moonshine and all.
He got flashes of her every once in a while, just enough to know she was still ticking. Mostly they were just impressions, emotions - grief, surprise, laughter, horror, sadness. He tried his best to sort through them, unable to shake the feeling that even his attempts were inadequate. What he did get was muddled, a wordless jumble that came to him out of order and unfocused. He wasn't good at this sort of shit, at emotions and words. That had been her strength.
But he cultivated that hope in the back of his mind regardless. He pushed it through the bond, best he could, inching it towards that delicate little tangle that hummed and blushed in the back of his mind.
He told himself that knowing she was alive was enough, for now.
Things got better after that, at least for a little while. He and Beth found a place. A caretaker's cottage on the edge of a cemetery, filled to the brim with everything a white-trash, back roads redneck could ask for. It was clean - bright. Beth's happy grin had been a light in the dark, well worth the piggy-back and the hassle of her twisted ankle as they settled down for a good old fashioned pantry-raid.
Hey, it was the end of the world, might as well live a little, right?
Wrong.
He'd let his guard down.
Now Beth was gone and it was all his fucking fault.
He ran after her though, for miles, tracking the tire treads through the leaves until he came upon a crossroads. The wind had obscured the trail. He didn't know which way to go. Which way they'd taken her. They'd left her bag, just taken her and sped off. He didn't ask himself why, he knew why.
There weren't any good people left any more.
Just the shit.
Just the grunge you scrape off the bottom of the barrel to get to the woodwork - the people playin' pretend.
Sooner or later the good get taken.
They always get taken.
The bond was silent when he folded, falling to the ground in a tangle of burning calves and chilled sweat. His vision fuzzed over, eyes stinging as his hair hung down in stringy clumps, soaked through with sweat. He couldn't feel her. He tried, reaching out. But there was nothing. She wasn't there.
Carol.
"C'mon fella', suicide is stupid. Why hurt yourself when you can hurt other people?"
It didn't take a rocket scientist to know that the men who'd cornered him at the crossroads were rotten. But considering the circumstances, he'd decided to go with strength in numbers. In the beginning, he wasn't sure what their deal was. Were they freeloaders, hunters, drifters? Were they el solo or part of a larger group? Had they seen something? Did they know who took Beth?
The truth ended up being much simpler, they were assholes – users. They had no loyalty to each other beyond a flapping pie-hole and a gun-arm to take watch while the others slept. They reminded him of his pa – of things best left buried. He didn't bother learning their names – especially the two that didn't talk worth a damn – horse-face and Harley something or other.
He planned on cutting ties that night. But Joe – 'Mr. I've been around the block and seen some shit' had just fixed him with a smile – staring him down like he was darin' him to try. So, he decided to wait, biding his time.
"You know, I bet there's a bitch, got you all messed up, am I right? You walking around here like a dead man, you just lost yourself a piece of tail, must of been a goodin'. Tell me something, was it one of the little ones, cause they don't last long out here."
The next night, a few hours after Cupid had tried to claim his rabbit, Cupid and bandana-head tried to slit his throat in his sleep. It'd just been the four of them, with horse-face and Harley off on a night run for water. They thought he was asleep. But the truth was he hadn't slept for nearly three days. He was jumpy and on edge, and when they crept up, k-bars reflecting the light from the campfire, he'd been ready for them.
He whirled, knife slashing across bandana's throat before the smaller man could react. He sent him reeling backwards – fountaining red – clutching at his throat as Cupid yelled. The man's long-limbs flailed, using the higher ground to his advantage, knife arcing downward. But before the thrust could connect he buried his buck knife deep into the man's thigh and twisted.
The fucker had squealed like a stuck pig before he'd reached around and gutted him – showing him his insides just before the lights went out. He dropped him like the sack of shit he was – entrails steaming.
He was on his feet, crossbow up before the other one – Joe - could untangle himself from his bedroll. They faced each other down across the fire – assessing. The man's eye teeth gleamed in the low light. His smile anything but kind as their breathing rose up, harsh in the sudden hush.
"Well, what can I say?" Joe began cocking his head, seeming to settle on an apologetic sort of detachment before he shrugged. The man fixed him with a look, like Yoda going dark side, as his eyes - the same ones that'd probably charmed more than a few back country girls off their feet in his hay-day - promised forgiveness.
"…Can't choose your friends, these days."
His eyes narrowed, thinking about Carol, about Rick, Beth and Glenn. He thought about Tyreese, Hershel, Lori, Dale, Andrea - every single fucking one of them as red hazed across his vision. Liar.
"Yes, you can."
The man had actually looked surprised when his finger slammed home - arrow piercing clean through the asshole's left eye socket before it kept going. It buried itself so deep in the tree behind him that he figured leaving it there was meant to be.
The world didn't need any more garbage, after all.
A/N #1: Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – Okay, I lied, one more chapter. Eeesh.