There is something wrong with Shane. Well. There is something more than usual wrong with Shane. It's making Daryl edgy. It's making Rick edgy and Daryl can see that spreading like ripples over still water until everyone is off-kilter and snarling like hungry dogs at one another.
It's only been a day, no one had been expecting two wary, insular groups of people to join up and create an after-school special together, but it's worse than it should be. They're still camping in the wreckage of the stone structure, and the imposing silhouette of some other building, still standing, looms over them. It seems ominous in the day, downright malicious at night, and it isn't helping – the new people want to settle there, seem to have no idea how difficult it would be to clear a place that size.
That was just one of the fights, and none of them had been pretty. There is too much tension today, more than there had been even yesterday, and Daryl can see Shane all over it, brooding malice left in his wake like a small child's sticky fingerprints. There were two separate fires last night, so clearly distinct that someone might as well have drawn lines in the dirt.
Daryl noticed, maybe a little smugger than was necessary, that last night Maggie was with her family, and Glenn was with his- well. Family's maybe not the word, but Glenn was where he belonged, too.
Most of the lines are pretty clearly drawn, people falling into some very definite camps, Shane's got almost no one behind him and he knows it.
But Daryl's busy watching Andrea. The new folks have no experience of Shane when he was a little less overtly crazy, and the man as-is inspires very little belief in his rational decision-making ability. Most of Daryl's group are squarely behind Rick. Daryl, lord help him, would like to be able to say he's sticking around until something better comes along, and knows that in fact if Rick decided to head down through the gates of hell itself Daryl would probably be hard on his heels.
Andrea, though. Amy's death sent her somewhere ugly, and she's back harder and meaner and less concerned with what's right, more with what's necessary, what feels good, what's easiest. Daryl would like to approve but it smacks of the worst of Merle, and there's that poisonous malice of Shane's, almost a shroud around her.
When one of the big men about town finally decides to throw down, it will be interesting to see where she falls.
Shane and Rick are gone – Daryl is pretty sure they're just hugging it out in the woods together, because there is no good reason for two grown-ass men who hate each other to spend that much time alone together in the woods – and the vibrating tension that had been jumping around the group has gone with them.
In their absence, people relax into their relief at new, safe companions, other survivors, sinking into the idea of a bigger community. It's seductive – the way they had been losing people since the camp by the quarry has been frightening, felt uncontrollable and inevitable and endless. Gaining people feels like their luck is changing. Maybe it's wrong. Probably it's wrong. But it means something, and it changes something to be gaining rather than losing for once.
So Daryl decides to channel his inner Zen bullshit artist, and finds himself some inner peace. Turns out that looks a lot like rolling around in the dirt with a pair of puppies and a dirty, grinning boy. The dogs are bright-eyed, energetic and growing larger every day, and Carl is wrestling and gleeful and giggling like a child. Daryl'd like to say he's transported to his childhood, but tussling with Merle always had a sort of vicious edge.
Daryl wishes sometimes that he'd had a chance to be a big brother.
He's got Carl in a thoughtful sort of headlock. The boy is struggling, gleeful and wild, Daryl's just hanging on with a shit-eating grin; there's a dog gnawing determinedly on the toe of one boot, and he's saved from an impasse by a warbling war-cry and an almost insubstantial weight crashing into his back. Sofia. Daryl can feel a grin splitting his face that he's helpless to contain. The girl's clinging to his back, so he shakes the dog gently off, adjusts his grip on the boy and spins the lot of them around until they scream for mercy.
As he spins he's subject to a barrage of broad smiles, familiar faces, snatches of helpless laughter. His eyes catch on Glenn's, mouth open in gleeful, artless laughter, something soft and warm and contented in the set of his eyes and-
Daryl falls over his own feet, managing only through a uniquely painful set of contortions to keep himself between the children and the ground as he lands. The impact forces the breath from his lungs and he lies still, eyes shut, wheezing and contemplating the many ways in which he is completely screwed. Daryl hasn't tripped over himself like that since he was a teenager, which was a good while ago and a good god damned riddance, too.
Screwed, screwed, screwed.
A wet nose pushes insistently into his ear and he shivers all over, nearly displacing Carl, who is sitting on his chest, and Sofia, on his legs. The dogs are clambering up to join them and joy is settling warm and sweet and buoyant in his chest and he laughs and puts his hands up. "I surrender, you got me. Little demons."
He is lost, head over heels, jumping head first and eyes closed tight. And he can't find it in himself to mind all that much, wouldn't stop for anything.
He can hear Glenn's laughter, smooth and sweet and fond, distinct from the collective noises of good humour, and it soothes some of the rough places in his own heart and it is terrifying how easy this feels, in a life that is otherwise almost too hard.
But then, hasn't he earned his place here? He considers Lori and Rick and Carol who trust him, absolutely and immediately and without a second thought with their children, those things most precious in their world, and there is no denying it. He's one of these people, family in all the ways that matter – trust and love and protection and loyalty, tied together with everything but common blood. And no matter what his brother might have said to the contrary, it's enough.
When the assorted child-and-puppy flesh has calmed itself and settled, Daryl sits up and presses the heel of his hand into the small of his back with a sigh. "'m getting too old for this rolling around in the dirt nonsense." Sophia giggles, but it's half-hearted and she's already moved on to playing with the dogs.
Hah. Not even as interesting as a rude, unwashed, mangy little puppy.
Carl is standing off to the side, apparently having remembered that he wants to be treated like a real adult, and it acting like all of this nonsense is beneath his boundless dignity. He and the girl keep surreptitiously side-eyeing each other, though, so Daryl suspects that his solemn refusal to participate will last all of ten minutes.
He's about to hoist his sore, elderly self to his feet, but Glenn beats him to the punch with an offered hand.
This is not the sort of thing that should be bringing heat to the back of Daryl's neck. He is actually a grown-ass man. Blushing at the drop of a hat is not on.
He takes the offered hand, and he holds on a little too long and just rolls with it. He's still a little lost in the broad smile that seems to be warming him from the inside out. He is… still holding on, now, and smiling back, drawn inwards by something as inevitable as gravity. They might as well be alone right now, for all the attention he has to spare for the people around him because he can feel Glenn pulling him closer, gentle pressure and warm, work-calloused hands and there is a deep, shivery heat creeping up his spine, anticipation, alarm and surprised elation mingling in his gut.
Of course, that's when the shouting starts up in the forest.
Daryl's tunnel vision falls away and he notices that they're being surreptitiously watched, with backs half-turned for at least the illusion of privacy. They've maybe been a little more obvious than he thought. Glenn sighs, close enough that Daryl can feel it against his collarbones and Daryl swallows, throat suddenly hot and dry. Rick and Shane's bitch-fit be damned, they can kiss and make up without anyone holding their hands through it, and Daryl's awareness is trying to contract back down to a nice little two-person universe when he feels a moment of fierce, frightening apprehension – something is going to go violently wrong.
And Daryl will be damned if he lets yet another crisis push aside yet another moment that feels like it could be what he wants.
He pulls on their still joined hands, hard and sudden enough that they're stumbling together and he reaches up to rest a hand where Glenn's neck meets his shoulder, rough palm resting against smooth skin. He rests his forehead against Glenn's and lets his eyes close. This is a declaration, unmistakeable, and he's feeling brave enough to make it but not enough to see pity or rejection if he's wrong.
He feels another shaky exhalation, closer still, warm breath against his mouth and the press of a hand against his ribs, and his knees might go a little weak with relief. He opens his eyes and a gunshot breaks the breathless silence between them and Daryl has never regretted being right more than he does right now.
Glenn goes tense against him (which he's certain he'll have trouble forgetting, later) and they spring apart, going for weapons and startled into alertness. Around them, the air of fondness and amusement evaporates and he can feel it sharpening into controlled violence without needing to look for confirmation. He can feel his people closing ranks, hears the children being gathered and retreated to a defensible position, feels the almost unconscious coordination of effort going on as people organize themselves in reaction to the crisis. While there might be bickering when they have the luxury to do so, the group acts like a single organism when it's under threat.
Daryl is scrambling, suddenly on high alert, all of his nervous interest and energy switching tracks. He's already gathered his knife and cross-bow, checked and double-checked gun and ammo and bolts, trusting that the rest will be doing what needs to be done (and how good it feels, to have that sort of certainty at his back), and getting ready to run off into the woods around dusk towards the sound of a gunshot. Before he can leave, though, someone catches his shoulder and spins him around to face them.
Glenn looks grim and serious, all the levity of a moment ago gone as though it had never been, harsh determination in its place and despite the inappropriate timing it gives Daryl the tiniest thrill of admiring interest. He squeezes Daryl's shoulder, once and hard enough to be uncomfortable, "Be careful, I'll be right behind you," and then a push as he turns to grab his own gun and Daryl is off at a run, warmed by the concern even as dread ties him up in knots over what might be happening with Rick and Shane.
There hasn't been a sound since the gunshot so he can't triangulate with sound and he's having to follow the tracks they've left (which are none too subtle, and that's helpful, but he's going to have to show these people how to hide their tracks someday).
The silence is worrying him, but he pushes the thought aside until he catches them up, forces himself to be useful rather than brooding over his worries. It can't be more than a few minutes since the first shouts, but it feels like too long, and with every silent second it's getting easier to blame himself for the time he'd wasted standing about gazing stupidly at a pretty face rather than acting. He's going to get someone killed because he's undone by an easy smile and a bit of kindness.
They haven't been gone for long and the shot sounded close; he should be on them any minute. He slows down, dropping from a rush to cautious urgency – he'll do Rick no good by walking into an ambush. He keeps moving, quick and quiet, crossbow up and ready, and listens hard.
He can hear movement, decisive enough that it's probably not walkers, a little to his left, past a particularly thick copse of trees that Rick and Shane probably skirted. Daryl grits his teeth and plunges through - though the lost visibility makes his skin crawl and his stomach churn with dread, he might not be able to afford the delay. He keeps tracking the sound of movement, orienting himself against it and hoping that he isn't turning himself around.
He's also listening back, hoping to catch a hint of Glenn or T-Dog or Andrea on his tail – he's finally overcoming a lifetime of mistrust and watching his own back, and he's started to feel off-balance without anyone at his back.
His divided attention is his only excuse for not noticing that the sounds of motion are all wrong. He catches it – too many for just one or two people, most of them being as quiet as possible - but too late. It feels like an ambush and the knowledge is a shot of adrenaline strong as a punch to the guts.
He scrambles to stop before he clears the thicker woods and loses his cover, but momentum carries him out and he stumbles to his knees even as he brings the crossbow up. It's kicked from his hands and he hears guns trained on him, safeties disengaged, looks up into blinding sun, indistinct faces and gun barrels.
"Well, well, well. Fancy seeing you here, little brother."
So, am I the worst? Ha, trick question, all the answers are variations on "fuck yes, you jerk," and rightly so. I had to re-write this bastard chapter so many times it's a little absurd, but one crash and a memory wipe later, here you are! Unrelated note, there is now accompanying art, because someone out there loves this story as much as I do, and I love them for it, more than words can express. Check it out at makedeathloveme dot livejournal dot com/4408 dot html, because it is the best thing, and after the dick move I've just pulled on y'all, the adorable contained therein will probably help.