The highway leading into Atlanta was about as grim a sight as could be found.
Daryl had gotten used to letting his mind gloss over the details of his surroundings. Oh, he was always aware of what was going on around him-what might be sneaking up on him, what might be ahead of him. That had been true long before he'd ever have to worry about walking corpses trying to take a bite out of him. He was always aware, but he had learned to force himself to ignore the true scope of what he was looking at.
They all had. It would have been impossible to hang on to whatever sanity they had left, otherwise.
The entire fucking world was a tomb, now. Full of empty houses and empty buildings, abandoned cars and remains of last, desperate stands. Daryl had learned not to look too hard at the smears of blood and lumps of shredded flesh that decorated highways where traffic jams had made sitting ducks out of survivors. He'd learned to let his eyes slide right over buildings that had been fortified and barricaded, but nonetheless had broken out windows and doors hanging askew. He'd learned not to read the signs and posters and messages left scattered around and scrawled on walls-advertising safety that didn't exist or informing people who were probably dead about plans that had probably failed.
Dana, heading up Hwy 23 to Marlsburg. Left 5/15. Love, Mark
Red Cross safe zone at Crawley High School. Marine protection!
Dad, we are OKAY. Going to Papaw's. We love you! John and Sara
The End is Nigh! Repent, repent!
He'd learned to look away-learned fast before his stupid heart could let itself wonder if there was some message scrawled for him somewhere, some sign or piece of paper or a ripped-off pizza box lid that said Daryl and ended with Love, Glenn-learned to let his mind slide right over what he was seeing and only focus on what might be a threat. They had all learned to look away, to be aware of their surroundings, but not let their eyes linger.
It was damn hard when there was nothing else to do but look, though.
The roads were growing more and more crowded as they got closer to Atlanta. Cars and trucks and campers-some wrecked and flipped, more simply abandoned for whatever reason-were littering the highway in thicker and thicker numbers. Royce dodged around them all expertly, zig-zagging across the lanes and over medians with practiced ease. They were making good time, but he wasn't driving fast enough that Daryl couldn't see what they were passing through.
He shifted uncomfortably in the backseat of the Outback Royce had been driving when they first came across the kid, settling the crossbow into an easier position on his lap. Grimes had taken the front passenger seat next to Royce, while Andrea was tucked into the back with him. The rumble of the motor and the low hum of the tires racing over the pavement were the only sounds in the cab, and Daryl studiously ignored the uneasy silence stretching between the other occupants.
Every now and again, he had glanced up to find Grimes' eyes on him in the rearview mirror, and it was a struggle not to bristle under the scrutiny. So far the man had not voiced any of the questions that were so obviously running through his head, but Daryl seriously doubted that would be the case for long. Grimes never could just leave a situation alone, and he was too damn curious as to why, exactly, Daryl had volunteered to come along on this rescue mission.
Feeling the man's eyes on him yet again, Daryl focused his attention even more firmly on the scenery outside the window, trying to lose himself in the rushing blur of trees, guardrails, and mile markers.
Trying to ignore the cars with doors torn off the hinges and rust-brown blood painting the insides like murals.
Eventually, the road became so clogged that Royce was forced to slow down to a crawl, snaking through narrows paths between the cars and trucks that had obviously been made on purpose. Daryl spared a moment to wonder who would have bothered...if it had been Royce and his brother, or some other survivor who wanted to have a pathway back into the godforsaken city. His thoughts were interrupted, though, when Grimes sat up a little straighter in his seat, and began meticulously checking the Python over, making sure it was loaded.
"All right, everyone clear on the plan?" Grimes asked quietly, and Daryl didn't need to look to know the man's eyes were on him again.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Andrea's head bob up and down in a terse nod as she began checking her own weapon. Daryl grunted an acknowledgement under his breath, running one finger over the string on his crossbow to check if there were any adjustments that needed to be made. In the driver's seat, he heard Royce take a deep breath.
"Okay," the kid said, "we can only go a couple more miles in the car. G and I usually park in the old industrial park on the south edge of the city and hoof it the rest of the way. It's about a mile and a half to the building I left him on." He drummed his fingers lightly on the steering wheel, slowing down still further to get through a particularly convoluted knot of vehicles-a semi had jackknifed into at least five smaller cars and a jeep was overturned on the median-before clearing his throat lightly. "I told Rick last night...I'm gonna take you to the place you can get your radiator hose first."
Daryl's eyebrows shot up in surprise at that. The reluctance was thick in the kid's voice, and it was obvious how very much he did not want to delay his brother's rescue any longer than absolutely necessary. Beyond that, it was showing an extreme amount of trust in Grimes, Andrea, and Daryl. After all, what was to stop them from just grabbing what they needed and then hightailing it back to the agreed-upon spot where the rest of their group and Royce's small bunch would be waiting for them?
Not for the first time, Daryl found himself wondering just what it was about Rick Grimes that made people trust him so completely, so quickly.
"There's an auto-supply shop on the way to where I left Glenn," Royce continued. "I mean, we'll have to go a little out of our way, but..." He trailed off, and Grimes looked over his shoulder to exchange a meaningful glance with Andrea.
"You really sure about that, son?" Grimes asked kindly. Daryl didn't miss the tense set of his shoulders, though. Who knew what kind of shape the Royce kid's brother was going to be in when they got to him? There was no telling what kind of trouble they might run into-there was no guarantee there'd be time to get the hose after they rescued the brother. And Daryl was good, but the RV wouldn't make it more than another fifty miles-maybe less-without a replacement.
Royce just nodded sharply, though. "We might have to make a run for it on the way out," he said, echoing Daryl's own thoughts almost exactly. "And I don't know what kind of shape G's ankle will be in. Best we get what you need first. It won't take that long."
He sounded like he was trying to convince himself.
Grimes took his words at face value, though, and Daryl saw the tension drain out of his shoulders. Silence fell over them once more as Royce guided the car into the edges of Atlanta's sprawl. True to his word, he pulled into a winding labyrinth of industrial buildings, shipping warehouses, and alleyways.
Most of the buildings looked like they had been out of use long before the outbreak, and the parking lot he eventually pulled to a halt in was bare and weed-choked. Royce pulled the car to a stop behind a brick storage building, covered in graffiti, and sat idling for a few minutes as they all scanned the area outside the windows. When no Walkers shambled into view, drawn by the noise of the engine, Royce turned the car off.
"We've never seen any geeks around here," he said as they all piled out of the Outback. "There's a few swarms that roam around the newer section, but there just weren't many people around here when everything went down."
Daryl moved off to the side of the group as Royce ran around to the Outback's trunk. They weren't carrying many supplies beyond a few bottles of water and what extra ammo could be spared, but Royce pulled a coil of light nylon rope wound around a rolled up army-issue sleeping bag out. According to Andrea, the boys' mother had been up throughout the night last night cutting small slits in the sleeping bag and looping the rope through them to fashion a makeshift stretcher in case her other son had to be carried off the roof he'd been hiding out on. The whole kit could be carried like a backpack. It was an impressive bit of ingenuity.
Nobdy had mentioned that if the kid was in such bad shape when they got to him that he had to be carried off the roof, it would seriously cut their chances of getting out of the city all in one piece.
While Royce was securing the sleeping bag on his back, Daryl took the opportunity to head a little ways down the alley that would-according to Royce-lead them onto the first of the streets they would have to take to this pawn shop they were trying to get to.
He wasn't entirely surprised when he heard the heavy tread of footsteps behind him almost immediately.
"Dixon, hold up a minute," Grimes said. His tone wasn't confrontational, per se, but Daryl was quite familiar with "cop voice." Grimes damn well expected to be obeyed.
Well, it was't like Daryl hadn't been expecting this. Might as well get it over with now, while they were still somewhere that was (relatively) sure to be free of Walkers.
He stopped, swinging the crossbow to rest on his back, and pressed his lips into a thin line as he turned around. He cocked an eyebrow in question, trying to look at a point just over Grimes' shoulder. Andrea and Royce were standing by the car, not even pretending not to be watching, and Andrea shot him a small smile as their eyes briefly met. He was surprised to realize there was a small part of him that wanted to return it.
"Whatcha want?" he asked, shoving the revelation aside with all the other things Andrea had been making him think about in the past few days. Grimes sighed heavily, wiping a hand across his mouth before tilting the brim of that damn ridiculous sheriff's hat down a little.
"Look, we ain't got time to dance around the topic, so I'm just gonna lay this out...we all know what we're walking into here, and I need to know we can count on you, one hundred percent, if things go south." Grimes' gaze didn't waver as he talked, and Daryl fought the impulse to look down at the ground. A flare of anger curled hard and hot in his belly at Grimes' words, at the implication, but he swallowed it down through sheer force of will. He'd done his level-best to make them all think that way about him, hadn't he?
"Ain't no punk-ass bitch," he gritted out, his fingers tightening on the strap of the crossbow. He risked a glance at Grimes' face to find his eyes narrowed in consideration, and no small amount of mistrust.
"Andrea says we can trust you," Grimes said quietly. A dull flare of something flashed through Daryl's chest, some complicated feeling he had neither the time nor the energy to put a name to. Trust. Andrea trusted him. "Now I'm inclined to listen to her, especially after what you did for Amy, and what you did last night. But you see where I'm comin' from, here? You've never seemed to care about lending a hand beyond the bare minimum requirement before. Why're you suddenly all gung-ho to help us with something this dangerous?"
The words were spoken in the same calm, reasonable tone that Grimes always used (the one that kind of made Daryl want to punch him in the face), and his expression was open and understanding, but still clearly expecting an answer (which also kind of made Daryl want to punch him in the face). Daryl swallowed, shifting his weight slightly and reaching up to swipe at the end of his nose.
What could he say?
That after months of carefully walling off every part of himself that didn't have to do with living to see the next day, saving Andrea's sister seemed to have woken something up inside of him? That after surviving the attack on the quarry, he'd taken a good, hard look at the man he'd become, and he wasn't sure he could stand that person? That he was starting to be afraid that all the parts of him that his boy had loved-that had been worthy of that love, damn it-were withered and dead and shattered beyond repair, and he needed to see if there was anything of the man he'd been left?
That he had survived when the one person who had made his life worth living hadn't, and he did not have it in him not to try and save this boy who had the same name?
There was no goddamn time for his internal crisis.
He flicked his eyes up to Grimes' again, blowing out a puff of air through his nose. "I heard ya' that night at the quarry," he muttered finally. Grimes' brow furrowed in confusion, and he rolled his eyes heavenward. "After we was done takin' care...well, takin' care a' the bodies," he elaborated. "You was all standin' around decidin' what to do. Who was gonna come with ya', who weren't. I heard what ya' said 'bout me."
Grimes actually had the gall to look apologetic. "Look, Dixon, we were all under a lot of stress-"
He let out a short bark of bitter laughter. "Hell, when ain't we under stress these days? Ain't gotta explain nothin' t'me. I know how it is. But I ain't stupid. Can't make it out here on my own-so if I need t'start pullin' more weight to stay with y'all, that's what I'll do. S'long as ya' got my back out here, I got yours."
Grimes tilted his head to one side, regarding him with narrowed eyes that were far too assessing for Daryl's liking. After a moment, though, he nodded shortly. "All right. I can accept that." He straightened a bit, and stuck out one hand in offering. Daryl eyed it for a moment, before reluctantly reaching out his own and shaking Grimes' hand firmly.
He still didn't like the man.
He still thought Grimes needed to get down off his high-and-mighty horse and for damn sure stop acting like some goddamn modern day Lone Ranger.
He still hated the man a little bit for getting to go to sleep every night in the arms of the person he loved when Daryl would never touch his boy again.
But for the first time, he thought maybe it might be time for him to try and get over it.
Glenn was in trouble.
There was no ignoring it, or trying to be optimistic about it. He was in serious trouble, and if Danny didn't come for him soon, he was starting to think he would not be making it off this roof. It was so hot. So damn hot, and his water was running low. He was sick to his stomach, and a low-level pounding had started up in his head that would not abate. He'd sat up too fast this morning, and an alarming wave of black dots had danced across his vision, dizziness making itself known and worsening the nausea to the point where he'd been sure he was going to throw up.
Forget dehydrating to death...he was going to stroke out from the heat.
The roof of the pawn shop felt like an oven, the concrete and tar paper soaking up heat like a sponge and reflecting it back at Glenn mercilessly. Even the comparatively cool nights brought little relief as it took nearly until dawn for the heat to leach away from the stone. His shelter was the only spot of shade available and it didn't help much.
He licked his dry lips and took another swallow of his increasingly precious water. He well-recognized the symptoms of heat exhaustion (anyone who lived through Atlanta summers with unreliable air conditioning knew them) and was well on his way to pure heatstroke. He'd already stripped his jeans off, despite his initial vow to keep them on during the daytime in case Danny showed up and he had to make a run for it. The absence of the heavy denim had helped a little, but even that benefit was wearing thin.
He was in trouble.
He tried to keep his breathing calm, tried to think of what options he might have...but the fact was there were none. He was trapped on this roof like a rat in a cage, completely dependent on Danny returning for him before he got too sick. He was able to hobble at a fairly good clip on his ankle now, but there was no way he'd be able to run fast enough to escape the swarm of geeks on the street below him. Even if he somehow managed to get away, he doubted very much he'd be able to avoid the geeks long enough to get to a workable vehicle. He was stuck.
He was in trouble.
He was in trouble, and he couldn't see a way out of it.
"Yes ya' can."
He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, rubbing until he saw stars painted across the backs of his eyelids. A bitter, humorless laugh escaped him. He couldn't. He really, really couldn't.
"Yes ya' can. Ya' ain't goin' down like this."
"There's nothing to do," he muttered out loud, not even caring that he was arguing with the phantom voice of his boyfriend in his head. He was stuck here and he was probably going to die...who the hell cared if he was going a little crazy?
"This is what yer good at. Ya' think a' somethin' an' ya' hold on."
He scrubbed harder at his eyes, biting his lip and breathing hard. "Okay," he said aloud. "Okay." He pulled his hands away from his face and looked around, eyes lighting on his two water bottles. One was only a third of the way full; the other had only a few swallows left. "Okay," he said again, steeling himself internally.
He had to cool himself down some before he got sicker.
Danny had to be coming for him. Had to be coming for him soon...because if he wasn't, it meant that Danny had never made it out of Atlanta. Glenn's gut churned at the thought in a way that had nothing to do with the queasiness he'd been battling all morning. Danny couldn't be dead. He just couldn't be. But...but if he was... If he was, it wouldn't matter how long Glenn could last on the roof, because nobody was coming for him ever.
If he did what he was thinking, it would be a huge gamble. He would probably be betting his life on Danny coming today, or tomorrow at the latest.
"You're gonna be fine, y'hear?"
"Okay," he said, and grabbed the least-full water bottle. Quickly, he scooted as far under the shelter as he could, stripping out of his t-shirt as he went. There was a light breeze blowing across the roof today...not enough to do much more than stir the hot, humid air around, but maybe enough to help him out a little here.
Silently, he folded the t-shirt up into a large pad, and set his jaw grimly as he unscrewed the cap on the water bottle and dumped the remaining liquid onto the t-shirt. He went slowly, soaking the fabric as much as he could. When the water bottle was empty, he tossed it out onto the scorching roof and lay down, stretching himself out as much as he could without letting any part of his body out of the shade. The concrete under him was warm-but not as godawful hot as the concrete hit by direct sunlight. It would have to do.
He closed his eyes and started wiping his arms and chest down with the soaked shirt, squeezing it slightly to let a little bit of water collect on his skin. Almost instantly, there was a little relief-the breeze blowing through his shelter swept across his dampened skin, cooling it a little. Just a little.
But maybe enough. Maybe enough to last until Danny got here.
He sighed softly, trying to remember the last time he had been this miserably hot. He thought it was probably the summer the wiring in his building had shorted out and blown the central air conditioning. The entire apartment building he'd been living in at the time had baked for a week until the landlord got it fixed. Those had been miserable days, and even going over to Daryl's place had brought no relief, as the air conditioning in his building hadn't worked properly since the seventies. They had drifted between their two places, spending their nights panting and sweaty for all the wrong reasons. That had...
That had been the summer they moved in together.
Glenn swallowed roughly, setting the t-shirt aside and spreading his arms as much as he could to let the breeze get at his whole body. That had been the summer they moved in together, the summer Daryl had gotten his promotion at the garage, the summer he had introduced Daryl to his parents.
The summer he'd finally realized how much he meant to Daryl.
He'd guessed that Daryl hadn't come from the best of circumstances, but the double-wide trailer Daryl had driven them to was approaching after-school-special levels of disrepair and decay. The whole structure was sagging on its foundations, more than one window busted out and just covered with plywood and duct tape. The outside was streaked with dirt and filth, and empty beer cans and bits of trash carpeted the ground immediately around the trailer. The little building sat on about five acres of land, most of it woods according to Daryl, but what had been cleared was weed-choked and overgrown.
The inside was even worse.
Glenn stood awkwardly in the middle of a cramped, dirty living room and reflected that every question he had about his boyfriend was pretty much being answered. Daryl had made a vague gesture towards a stained, sagging couch as he headed back to the (presumed) bedrooms, but hell if Glenn was going to sit on it. His eyes tracked restlessly over his surroundings, trying to imagine Daryl growing up in this place where everything was threadbare and dirty and reeked of cheap alcohol and cigarettes. The idea made him want to just follow his boyfriend into the bedroom and hug him.
Though, that probably wouldn't go over well.
Daryl had been tense all day, ever since he'd quietly asked if Glenn wanted to come with him to pick up a few things from his father's house over breakfast that morning. Glenn honestly wasn't sure why Daryl had asked at all, as he was clearly bothered by the idea of Glenn seeing his childhood home. He'd long ago learned that Daryl never asked for something unless he really, really wanted it, though.
And most of the time, not even then.
Glenn shoved his hands in his pockets, glancing at the narrow hallway Daryl had vanished down. He could hear the man moving around in one of the rooms, throwing things into a couple of cardboard boxes he'd brought with them. Glenn's face softened as he remembered why, exactly, they were here picking up the last of Daryl's possessions. Another week, and they'd be moving into their new apartment. Their apartment. With its ugly, yellow wallpaper and too-thin walls. Barely better than either of the places they were living in now, but absolutely amazing because they were moving in together.
He was startled out of his thoughts by the crunch of tires on the gravel driveway outside, and the loud, choppy roar of a motorcycle. From the back of the house, he heard Daryl curse loudly. Seconds later, his boyfriend stalked back into the living room an shoved a half-full cardboard box of clothes into Glenn's arms.
"Who is it?" Glenn asked curiously, automatically taking the box. He didn't like Daryl's expression—pinched and carefully neutral, his eyes gone hard and flinty. Daryl glanced over at him, mouth tightening into a grim line.
"That's m'brother's bike," he muttered. "Didn't think he'd be here."
Glenn felt his eyes widen. He could count on one hand the number of times Daryl had mentioned his older brother in all the time they'd been together. From what little Daryl had said, Glenn had formed a very unflattering picture in his head of Merle Dixon. Daryl himself seemed to both love and hate his brother with an intensity that made Glenn nervous. He wasn't stupid…he knew the kinds of experiences that inspired that kind of emotional conflict, and he hated the thought of his boyfriend going through something like that.
He watched warily as Daryl seemed to draw in on himself, shoulders tensing, his whole expression changing. In a flash, Glenn watched the man he'd come to love just…vanish. Daryl's eyes went narrow, his mouth twisting into something harsh and mean. He swallowed as heavy footsteps echoed on the rickety stairs leading up to the front door, and glanced over at Glenn.
"Stay behind me," he ordered gruffly, "an' whatever ya' do, don't say nothin'."
Well. That wasn't overly reassuring.
"Daryl? You in here?" The door swung open.
"Wow…they don't look anything alike," Glenn thought nonsensically as Daryl's brother stumbled into the house, clearly drunk off his ass or high as a kite (or both) despite the fact that it was barely past noon.
Merle Dixon was big, muscled and heavy in ways Daryl wasn't, and his face bore the scars of years of hard living. And Glenn certainly wasn't fearful by nature…he stood on his own two feet, thank you very much…but as Merle's bleary, pale eyes focused on him and Daryl he found himself obeying Daryl's demand that he step behind him.
Over his boyfriend's shoulder, Glenn watched as Merle's eyes went hard and flat as a snake's. Abruptly, the drunken weave seemed to vanish from his step.
"Who the fuck's that?" Merle demanded, staring at Glenn in a way he had thankfully experienced only seldom in his life.
Daryl took a deep breath, shifting so that he was more squarely between Glenn and his brother. "Kid's with me," he said firmly, not offering a name or an explanation. Glenn tried not to be hurt that the other man didn't immediately clarify their relationship. Obviously, Daryl wasn't expecting such a revelation would go well. "We's just leavin'."
"The hell you hangin' around some fuckin' slant-eye for?!" Merle asked, an ugly chuckle bubbling out of his mouth.
Glenn winced, and Daryl's shoulders tightened still further. "Don't," he said, voice low and dangerous, and Glenn felt a little glow of pride in his chest. Because a year ago? Daryl wouldn't have even noticed the slur.
His pride was short-lived, though, as Merle's angry eyes started darting between him and Daryl. Through the liquor haze, Glenn could practically see the pieces snapping together. Merle's eyes suddenly went wide and he stomped forward, raising his finger and stabbing it towards Daryl's chest.
"What the fuck?!" he bellowed.
"Glenn, go get in the truck," Daryl murmured as his brother advanced on them.
"You ain't no fuckin' fag, boy!"
Glenn swallowed. There was murder dancing in Merle's eyes.
"Now!" Daryl demanded, and Glenn couldn't argue with that tone of voice. He dropped the box and darted for the door. Merle whirled on him, but Daryl was already rushing forward. "Hey! You wanna run your mouth, you talk ta' me!" he shouted.
Glenn practically threw himself off the stairs and jogged towards Daryl's beat-up old truck. Behind him, he could hear both the brothers' voices raising in heated shouts. A litany of hateful, ugly words were spewing out of Merle Dixon's mouth, all centered around him demanding that Daryl deny he was involved with Glenn. He had just gotten his hand wrapped around the passenger side door handle when a loud crash joined the shouting.
Horrified, he whipped around to face the house again, just as a heavy thud that couldn't be anything other than a body hitting the floor sounded. They were still shouting, still screaming profanity and filth at each other, and by the sounds of it, the argument had devolved into a full-on fist fight.
He stood frozen by the truck for a bare instant, then reached into the bed and snatched up the first heavy object that came to hand—a long wrench from the toolbox Daryl had bolted just behind the cab.
Hell with this…he wasn't any damsel in distress!
He was charging back across the yard when the front door slammed open again, and Daryl came striding out. There was blood pouring down his boyfriend's chin from a split lip, and as he got closer Glenn could see the knuckles of his right hand were torn open and oozing, already starting to swell.
"Goddamn it, boy, you go with that chink, yer fuckin' dead ta' me! You got that?! Don't you never come back here!" Merle hollered from just inside the door. Daryl's steps faltered…but then he seemed to square himself up.
"Told ya' t'get in the truck," Daryl said evenly as Glenn stared, still clutching the wrench. He spat a mouthful of blood on the ground, never once looking back at his brother as he and Glenn silently climbed into the truck.
They left, without a single one of the things Daryl had said he wanted to get from the house, and with Merle's furious roars still echoing in their ears. Daryl pulled the truck out onto the main rode, his hands getting tighter and tighter on the wheel as he drove, his lips pressed into a thin line.
Glenn searched desperately for something to say, something to make this all right…because he didn't know Daryl's brother, but even he could tell that the man had meant every word. The magnitude of what Daryl had just done left him shaken, sitting huddled on the bench seat as Daryl pointed the truck back towards Atlanta.
Abruptly, though, he brought the vehicle to a screeching stop, right in the middle of the deserted country road that would take them back to the highway. Glenn threw one hand out, bracing himself on the dashboard as the truck came to a shuddering halt. Daryl was silent and still beside him, just breathing harshly, his hands clutching the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip.
"Ain't the first time he said that," Daryl said without preamble, just staring out the windshield. "Never did like no one I brought home…girls, I mean. Ain't never brought…well, you know."
Glenn nodded silently. He was well aware that his and Daryl's relationship was an aberration in the man's history. Daryl had admitted to a few relationships with women, and a few sexual liaisons with men…but Glenn was the first serious entanglement Daryl had ever really had.
"Ain't the first time he's pulled that 'you leave now don't never come back' shit…but that's the first time I left," Daryl continued softly. There was something a little hesitant, almost wondering in his voice, as if even he couldn't believe what he had just done.
Glenn bit his lip, sucking in a soft breath. They didn't talk about things like this—not really. Daryl was still staring out the windshield, as if the lonely road had all the answers to the universe. Finally, though, he turned in his seat, pinning Glenn with his gaze.
"I love ya'. Ya' know that, right?" he asked quietly, and Glenn could see how much his eyes wanted to dart away, how much it cost him to actually put words to what was between them. "I can't give ya' much...I ain't never gonna be better than what I am. But I love ya'. I'll always love ya'."
Glenn swallowed roughly, reaching across the seat to slide his hand over one of Daryl's on the steering wheel. Daryl's bloodied lips quirked before he finally turned away again, throwing the truck back into drive.
"I just wanted ya' to know that," he said softly, as they got back on the road to home.
Glenn threw one arm over his eyes, reaching blindly for the soaked shirt to start dragging it over his skin again. The air was still oppressive, even in the shade of his shelter, and he was under no illusions that he was doing anything but buying himself maybe a few more hours before he got seriously sick off the heat. He had to try, though, had to trust that Danny was coming for him, and that he was going to live through this.
Daryl would have expected nothing less from him.
"I love you," he said softly, wishing to God that wherever Daryl was, there might be some way he could hear him. "I'll always love you."