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."
Tied
Chapter Eleven
He wandered after that, alone. He told himself he was looking, looking for Beth, looking for the others. But the truth was he was just walking. Stumbling down the blacktop, through the trees, across lawns, fields - just like every other brain dead asshole in the entire god forsaken state.
He tried to sleep – climbing up into the eaves of a house on the edge of some town, the roof half shaded by an overgrown willow. When he woke up, it was still light out – or maybe he hadn't slept at all. He couldn't tell. He forced himself to choke down a can of creamed corn and keep moving – stomach roiling when he remembered something Carol had said a few days before the clusterfuck with Rick and the Governor.
Judith would be moving up to solid food soon. If she wasn't-
It took another couple days before he managed to get his head screwed on straight.
He decided to double back. If there was any sign of the others, any hint they'd been out this way, perhaps he'd still be able to recognize it. So he doubled down, he put his ass to the grass, salvaged what was left of his balls and shouldered his way through the green.
If they were out there, he'd find 'em.
Glenn, go to Terminus - Maggie
He'd been walking along the tracks when he saw it. Hell, he nearly put a rib out of place when he caught a flash of red against the dull sheen of the electrical box they'd been smeared across.
His heart leapt in chest as he jumped the ditch and hurried over. His hand hovered just above the dried blood. Maggie. Maggie had made it. It wasn't much, but it was something. If Maggie had made it, the others could have too. Rick. Carl. Michonne. He already knew Carol was alive, somewhere. Seemed almost too good to be true that there were more of them out there. More survivors.
He dropped down on his haunches, inspecting the walker with the torn up belly. He could see the scene playing out in the back of his mind. She'd killed a walker – he squinted – no, two, and scrawled out the message with the only thing available, choosing the biggest flat surface closest to the tracks.
Had she known Glenn had made it out, or just hoped? Was she with any of the others? The ground was too disturbed too tell. There had been a fight or at least a struggle while she'd been here, then a small group of walkers had stumbled through sometime after. Seemed like a whole hell of a lot of traffic for an area that seemed so deserted.
He looked around, casing the joint. From the state of the body and the tracks littered around it, he figured the walker had been cut open about two, maybe three days ago.
Maggie had been alive three days ago, alive and with a destination in mind.
He arched a brow as he straightened, sore muscles protesting the strain, eyes lingering on her message – all uneven letters and drip-dried gore.
Terminus? What the fuck was Terminus?
The next day he found a wooden sign nailed to an electrical pole by the tracks – there was a map, a route. Terminus was a place. Probably the same place they'd heard on the radio in the car on their way back from that medicine run for A-block.
Sanctuary for all. Community for all. Those who arrive, survive.
He memorized the route, hitching his pack higher around his shoulders before he turned on his heel and headed back the way he'd came. If the others had seen this sign, he'd bet a two-six of back bar bourbon and all of Merle's gold-fillings that they would have tried for it too. It seemed like as good a bet as any. A slim chance was still a chance after all.
He tried not to think about Beth - about who'd taken her. He tried not to think about where she was, about what they might be doing to her right now or-
He couldn't.
Not now.
Not when he knew for sure that he wasn't the only one.
That it was just miles and days that separated them now.
Beth had been right to hope.
For all the good it'd done her.
He followed the tracks, careful as the brush deepened, gradually leaving civilization behind. The woods were thick here, old, undisturbed. He couldn't help but notice the silence. Before all this, back before Wildfire and the end of everything, he'd gone out of his way to keep it like that - to strike off in the brush whenever the world and Merle were gettin' just a bit too loud. But now, as fucked up as it was to admit, he found little comfort in it. The silence was just heavy now, oppressive – singular.
It made him miss that sweet little voice humming along under her breath as they walked.
It made him miss the late night flutter of pages as Carl read his comics in the dark.
It made him miss a whole lot of fucking things. Things he had no business missing.
Merle's voice was quick to butt in - old memories wriggling out of the lock-box in the back of his mind, the one he'd been keeping them in since he'd had to put Merle down outside of Woodbury.
"Ya getting' soft on me Darlina? Is that it? Why don't you just curl up beside the tracks and make it official, huh? Wait for one of those dumb fucks to do the world a favor?"
His lip curled, a muscle ticking in his jaw as he wiped his hand across his face, smearing dirt and sweat across his skin as he squinted down at the tracks – trying to pick up Maggie's trail.
He ignored the voice as it nattered on, talking about limp-dicked pussies and how even leavin' home to try for Atlanta and the safe-zone had been a mistake. How if they'd switched places, if he'd died in Merle's place, Merle would've been half-way out of the state by now. Goin' places. Doin' shit.
It took a while, but eventually he wrestled the thoughts back, slamming the lid as the ghosts of his brother, his old man and every other failed father figure he'd ever had the displeasure of knowing cut off in mid-word.
And if he flipped a finger at the world at large as Merle's voice aired out in the back of his mind, well, no one was around to notice.
The moment he stepped into the pecan grove, he knew something was up. He'd taken a detour off the tracks when he'd noticed some scuffed up sod and trampled brush – his instincts dead on when he nudged the body of a walker – dead and stuck in between the tracks. An emotion he didn't want to put a name on rose in the back of his throat as he looked around - the kill was fresh. No more than a day old.
Whoever had done it might still be around.
He picked up three – maybe four separate boot prints that led off into the forest and followed them. It didn't take him long to realize that two of the prints were smaller than the others – they had kids with them. Had Lizzie and Mika made it out?
He passed through the treeline, eyes fixed on the trail. He cocked his head, trying to make sense of the strange way some of the tracks looped in on each other, almost like someone had been runnin' in circles – one of the girls playin' maybe - only to be nearly bowled over by the feeling.
He grunted, one hand pressing hard against his mark as the bond throbbed – aching. He could feel her - she was all over this place. Her scent was grief and a thousand different shades of it. He whirled in place, taking it in, the little house, the scent of split oak, dust, and-
He shuddered as another ripple of dark rolled over him, heavy like an iron weight across his shoulders as a flash of blood red across pale skin got stuck behind his closed lids. Something bad had happened here. Something so bad the memory of it had lingered – tangible to him through the bond as her memories mingled with his.
It was like getting stuck in a god damned echo.
He rubbed at his eyes, trying to scrub the feeling – the images – the smells – away and focus on what was in front of him, what was going on in the here and now.
There were four graves.
Two old.
Two fresh.
He sighed, letting his crossbow drop, ignoring the puff of dust it kicked up as he straightened the last cross in the row. He shook his head, jamming the resignation aside in favor of stalking across the yard, grabbing the shovel someone had left propped up against the front porch.
There had to have been someone left alive after whatever the hell had gone down – they wouldn't have been buried otherwise – but still, he had to know.
He started digging.
She came to him in his sleep sometimes, all gentle tips and smooth fingers. They carded through his hair, scratching across his scalp until the gentle waves turn heady and the feel-good scritch-scritch evolved into something darker - something that tented his jeans and made him long for something more. It made him wonder what she'd feel like, splayed out underneath him, around him. And more than anything, that gave him hope.
She was out there somewhere.
He could feel it.
His girl was comin' for him…
"Would it kill you to have a little faith?"
Terminus turned out to be an abandoned railway station surrounded by fences and over-turned semis. Or at least it had been; now it looked like someone had taken a flat iron to it. He shouldered his crossbow, cresting the last rise. The sun was in danger of setting as the last rays of afternoon sun had him shading a hand over his eyes as he surveyed the worst of the damage.
The front fences had been torn open, toppled; it seemed like the inner ones were intact, but the primary defenses had been breached. The metal sheeting they'd used to reinforce the main gates was charred, all jagged edges and premature rust. They'd been attacked, and not just by walkers. Whoever had hit this place had hit it hard, and they'd had the numbers and firepower to do it.
He kicked at the gravel, sending a blood stained tin can – mushroom soup – skittering across the blacktop. Huddled shapes lay scattered across the yard, the dull sheen of bone visible even from the distance as dropped suitcases and abandoned toys peeked out of the long grass. There were more shapes, stretching out along the seemingly endless line of canvas tents that had been set up closer to the front gates, almost as if they'd taken on more people than the squat, ugly buildings in the background could hold.
Whatever Terminus had been, it'd fallen a long time ago
"Faith 'aint done shit for us."
He closed his eyes, refusing to let the sting collecting in the corners spread any farther. He waited for the little voice in the back of his head to start up again, to lash out with 'I told 'ya so' and 'you should'a known better,' but it didn't happen. Even his memories of Merle remained silent.
He was about to turn away – planning on skirting around the perimeter and back to the tracks on the other side to see if Maggie and whoever she was with had decided to keep walking or try their luck deeper in the woods - when he heard it. Voices.
It was a muted little burble of sound that'd probably just been the wind and sleep deprivation talking, but he skidded around on his heel regardless, boot soles scraping through the coal-littered gravel with a discomforting scrape.
In for a fuckin' penny, right?
When he caught sight of them, huddled around the campfire, safe in an enclosure that seemed to have escaped the brunt of the damage, he thought – for a handful of moments - that he'd finally lost it.
He watched them through the trees, keeping to the shadows as Sasha said something, dangling a piece of canned fruit in front of Bob's face with a laugh. He shook himself, blinking, unsure if what he was seeing was actually there. Half convinced he'd been on his own for too long, gone too long without sleepin' again, anything.
But when he opened his eyes again they were all there – hell there were even a few extras. A woman with shoulder length black hair and a hesitant smile, a red-head with dog tags, a sweet looking honey in booty-shorts, and a man sporting a mullet and a sour expression as Judith tried her best to make a grab for the walkie-talkie he was fisting like his life depended on it. The newbies stuck to the side lines, uncertain of their welcome but joining in on the fun nonetheless.
Rick, Michonne, Carl, Tyreese, Glenn, Maggie, even Beth– somehow – and really, he was sure there was one hell of a story there. Bob, Sasha and fuck – it had to be true. They'd made it. Somehow, they'd all made it.
He sucked in a breath, tryin' to get used to the idea before-
"Daryl!"
It was Beth that let loose the cry, deeply throated yet high enough in pitch that it made his head cock. He caught a glimpse of her in motion, leaping to her feet as everyone turned – jumping up – all Cheshire grins and unbelievable warmth.
He craned his neck, taking one step forward, then another, throat tightening as a pot clattered dully in the background, and somehow, he knew it was her. There was a flash of a silver-grey, the quick swish-swish of boot soles singing through the long grass before she pushed out from behind Glenn and Maggie.
And just like that, he swore his soul went still.
Distantly, he was aware of a thud, of the vibration of metal humming through his skin as his bow hit the ground, smacking against his shin as the dish towel she'd been holding slipped through her fingers. He couldn't help but grin – crooked and showing far too many teeth - when her mouth opened and closed, looking for a moment like she might say something before she shook her head.
Her blue eyes were wide and shining when she started towards him. Closing the distance between them long before he realized he was already runnin'.
They ended up meeting somewhere in the middle, uncertain but too eager to be self-conscious when he caught her in mid-leap, gathering her up as long legs wrapped tight around his waist. Pleasure punched through him as delicate fingers started relearning every line, every dip and hollow as he just mouthed her name – helpless and nearly undone - into the curve of her throat.
Her hands were fisting tight in his hair as they spun, caught up in each other's momentum until he hiked her up, taking her weight as something deep within inexplicably mended.
His mark simmered high on his chest, a burning brand of arcing gold when her lips finally pressed against his. It was awkward and stupid and just a little bit bloody when one of her teeth nicked his lower lip, splitting it right down the center as he kissed her back. But frankly, he wouldn't have had it any other way.
"I've got you," he murmured, nuzzling into her shoulder as she burrowed into him, tying them together as fully as they were in mind – until it was almost impossible to tell where he began and she left off.
A rattling purr rose up – heady and graceless in the back of his throat at the thought. But there'd be time for that later. A whole lot of that if he wasn't mistaken. The bond just thrummed, glowing bright between them as his mark pulsed – fast paced and affirmative.
He practically choked when she wriggled against him, hips grinding down just so as every good feeling he'd ever had, and then some, rose up to fill the space. It nearly muted the sound of the others as Glenn yelled something about getting a room as Rick's easy chuckles rolled out – slow like a stray tom-cat stretchin' in a sun beam – the sound itself precious and sorely missed.
"I got you first…" she returned, grinning into his hair and laughing as Judith burbled indignantly behind them, making grabby hands for the both of them as the girl cooed and squirmed in Carl's arms.
And while he had no idea what that even meant, he couldn't help but laugh with her, nearly drowning out the cheers and wolf whistles when they finally lost their balance and collapsed in a heap across the dry Georgian dust. Their laughter rolled out like nothing else mattered, sinking down into the very heart of him as something – bone deep and permanent - finally slotted into place.
And he'd be god damned if Dale hadn't been right after all.
He knew she deserved better. And honestly, he was still waiting for her to realize it. But even when they'd still had the prison and every morning she'd come out of that cell, the one right beside his – all spiked feathers and a sleepy smile - his mark would just thrum and he'd forget.
If he was a better man he'd tell her he didn't want her, that this was all some big mistake. He'd let her find someone else, someone that could love her the way he figured she ought to be. But he didn't. He didn't have it in him to lie, not even for her. He was too selfish for that – too flawed.
He didn't know if he'd ever be able to say it, those three little words that'd never seemed to fall from anyone's lips when he'd been growing up. He didn't know how to go about saying how he felt or what she meant to him. But perhaps that was the point. The reason all this had happened in the first place. Because in a weird, ass-backwards sort of way, he didn't have to - she knew.
She'd always known.
"Welcome home," he murmured. He rubbed his face into the crook of her neck, soaking her in as her hands gentled across his skin, dirt and blood splatter smearing, until her hand pressed up again his mark.
He could feel it, pressed palm up across his skin and despite how stupid it probably looked, he couldn't help but do the same. His crooked fingers unfurled just above her breast, thumbing the edges of her mark as their breaths turned shallow. He figured that at this point, it would be a near thing if he ever ended up lettin' her go.
She smiled into his skin as the rest piled around them, all back slaps, gentle hands and awkward half-hugs as everyone started talking at once. And it was in that moment, despite the enormity of what they'd lost, that he knew they were going to be alright.
All of them were.
A/N #1: Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – This story is now complete. Thank you for all your reviews, comments, and support. I am so glad this story resonated with so many of you! Thank you for indulging my randomness and letting me be the first to bring this trope into the Walking Dead fandom. *You might have noticed that this chapter was fragmented. This was done on purpose; I wanted to detail how this separation was really starting to wear on him and not just in terms of the soul bond. I think that season four has proven that Daryl doesn't want to be alone anymore. He's not a one man wolf-pack anymore and he knows it.
