An especially long wait deserves an especially long chapter... Happy Reading!
Chapter 16: Red Sky at Night, Part II
Daryl wished he'd never set foot on that farm. Or maybe that Beth hadn't gone with him. Not because things had gone badly, it had been good. Too good. And if there's one thing life had taught him, it's that good things never last long, and that his world generally felt all the shittier afterwards. And that's exactly how it was turning out. A peep show's glance at what could have been before reality slammed the proverbial door shut in his face.
It had been hard work, digging out new holes for fence posts, cutting the posts down to size and setting them in the ground, stringing barbed wire in multiple layers without shredding his hands in the process, ploughing, planting, mucking out stalls and pens and generally corralling nearly 1000 animals (or so he'd been told, Daryl never bothered to try counting them)… the Lykins had a massive working farm on their hands, many times larger than what Hershel and their group had tried to hold onto that first year. Even with the half-dozen men who'd come in from Archer's Point (a well-fortified settlement in the Prince William Forest barely half a day's horse-ride from the farm and about the same to Alexandria, something Daryl had filed away in his memory in case he ever got the chance to speak to Rick again), Daryl himself, and the Lykins clan (because 11 kids with a 12th on the way was definitely well past what he'd consider a normal-sized family), they were all still exhausted by the end of each day. Not Dwight, of course, who had begged off the hard labor by volunteering to keep watch every morning and all night, sleeping only in the afternoons just to keep from doing any heavy lifting. Which was fine by Daryl, made it all the better, really, as everyone else there treated him like a person worth knowing and having around. So Daryl would do it all over again, by himself even, just to not be where he was now, because at least it was good work, something useful and made sense to be doing.
Because this had to be the most bullshit, stupid thing he'd been made to do since the whole damn end of the world.
It's not as though there wasn't work that needed doing at the Sanctuary. The weather had finally righted itself, with the sun drying out the fields enough for a hasty attempt at getting spring grains and vegetables in the ground. But before that could happen, the fields had to be fertilized – the sulfur in the ground made the factory a good place to have geothermal power, but it also made the soil too acidic for anything to grow without treating it first, so ashes were carefully spread and tilled in across the whole field before anything could be planted. Making sure food could grow and getting the seeds in the ground – that was important. Cutting cords of firewood, maintenance on the Sanctuary's fleet of trucks and motorcycles, hell, even laundry or kitchen work at least had a point to it. But he was doing none of these things.
Yesterday morning after "waking up" the fence walkers, a Savior dubbed Fat Joseph had presented him with a toothbrush and a bucket with soft rags and a couple of different cleansers and ushered him over to a building on the west side of the compound. Daryl knew what it was, he'd just never had cause to go inside, but Beth had described how the Sanctuary dealt with their dead friends and family one night when he'd commented on the lack of graves or headstones. The Saviors cremated anyone who passed, their ashes scattered either in the fields or woods nearby, and their names were preserved on the memorial walls in what was unofficially known as the Crypt. Which is where Daryl now found himself, having been tasked with carefully washing, drying, polishing, and re-sealing the marble slabs etched with the names of everyone that any Savior had lost since the world had gone nuts.
And, just because Negan was an annoying fucker who knew how this kind of tedious, mind-numbingly pointless work would get under Daryl's skin, he had to use the toothbrush to carefully scrub out every letter of every name when he washed the stones. And again when he rinsed the soap off. And again after he used the polish. And again once the sealant had dried. Fat Joseph had at least the decency to shrug apologetically as he relayed Negan's orders. Because the Crypt was the size of a three-car garage with 12-foot ceilings, and the walls were completely lined with marble slabs that might have once been intended as countertops, now mounted side-by-side going from the floor to about a foot from the roof and stopping there only because of the small rectangle windows that let in the room's only light, names skillfully carved in one-inch capital letters. The wall to the left of the door was completely full, as was two-thirds of the long wall opposite. Hundreds, maybe thousands of names. Every family member, friend, neighbor, or even acquaintance that anyone had lost in the outbreak and anytime since. It was slow, dull, repetitive, boring… just the perfect storm for giving Daryl's darker thoughts far too much time and leeway until even his small collection of pleasant memories turned bitter.
To make matters worse, every time Daryl would get himself into a rhythm, feel like he was making any kind of progress, someone new would walk in, and he'd been ordered to step outside and wait anytime a Savior wanted to use the space to mourn. Much like visiting a cemetery, some would stay for only a moment, others would linger in front of certain names, talk to their loved ones. There were no candles to be lit, but there was a single table in the center of the room with an oil lantern whose small flame threw flickering light on a massive black binder that people occasionally flipped through, pausing on certain pages. Daryl couldn't tell if everyone was doing it because it was part of their normal routine or making special trips just to piss him off. Either way, it made what already promised to take days to get through stretch longer, and even Beth's visits weren't enough to take the edge off.
Those had been tainted, too, by their few days at the farm.
The family Bible studies after breakfast and dinner were a bit much, but Daryl would suffer through to get more time with Beth and her kids. Like most things were when it came to interacting with anyone, but especially her, it was a bit awkward at first, but Daryl could push through the momentary tension and usually found it worth the effort. At the first breakfast, having just arrived and still in his stained sweats courtesy of the Sanctuary, no one blinked an eye when he distanced himself at far end of the outdoor picnic tables. And lunch had been brought out to him and the others working on the fencing and enjoyed in the field – enjoyed was the only way to describe it, real food filling his belly twice in one day with the spring sun on his face and not smelling like moldy shit; he'd grown up knowing he should appreciate the rare feeling of a full stomach and knowing how to go without, but it wasn't until getting a break from the Sanctuary that he could take stock of just how much Negan's tactics had been getting to him.
But dinner was a family affair back at the picnic tables as the sun slowly sank below the tree line, and not even Beth had known what to do when Henry Elmore, a middle-aged, barrel-chested man from Archer's Point whose boisterous laugh frequently carried over the group, had unceremoniously wrapped his hand around Daryl's elbow and yanked him towards the middle of the table to sit next to Beth while Liam stood on the bench on her other side, lightly bouncing on his bare toes.
Lily, who had been determinedly wriggling out of Beth's arms to stand up like her brother, immediately stopped and asked, "Mama, who dat?"
And before anyone could blink, the oldest Lykins girl had leaned across the table to pass the bread basket with a grin, "Silly girl, that's your Daddy."
Beth met his startled look with her own widened eyes, momentarily distracted from trying to keep Lily in her lap. They hadn't talked about this, had been avoiding it really. It was one thing to change her name, to keep stringing Negan and the rest of the Saviors along with a relatively-harmless lie, a decision Daryl could easily support, especially since there was virtually no chance of ever having to do anything that would remotely amount to proving it. Something else entirely, though, to screw with her kids' heads. He liked kids well enough, had an easier time talking with them than he did adults most days. But Daryl Dixon wasn't anybody's Daddy, wasn't cut out for it. Uncle was enough of a stretch, and it still threw him off sometimes to think that Rick or anyone else would want their kid looking up to him that way. The older ones seemed to handle it alright – the boy didn't ask for or appear to expect more than advice on killing walkers, and the girl, well, this was his first time really being close to her, but Daryl doubted that she'd ever reach out to him, not with her not speaking and all. What good would it do anyway, to teach her or these toddlers that he was their father when one- there was almost no chance he'd ever be a real part of their lives and two- he'd do a shit job of it even if he were?
All this flashed through his mind so quickly that he barely registered that the source of his worries had already moved on with a cheerful, "K. Mama, wan' bwead! Bwead, Mama," standing up and reaching for the basket impatiently.
Beth shook her head slightly and directed her attention back to the squirming toddler while Daryl bit his lower lip, trying to screw up his courage. It had been easier on the day Judith was born, to take charge, reach for the bawling infant, and feed her. Even with the whole group watching, he hadn't felt any nerves or doubts creeping in. If Rick had been there, it might have been different, he might not have stepped in the way he had, but after that day's failures and losses, he had needed to feel like he'd at least done that one thing right by their group.
Suck it up, Dixon, he thought to himself. Been watching her do everythin' on her own for weeks wishin' you could do somethin' to help her, gonna be a bitch about it, now that ya finally got a shot?
"I can take 'em," he offered softly, "if ya don't mind fixin' my plate after getting' theirs?"
He knew everyone was watching, or at least that Tim and Sunni were, sitting across from them and not even bothering to hide it, but Daryl made a concerted effort to keep casual and focus on what needed doing as he pulled one twin onto each of his knees and splitting a slice of sourdough bread between them so they'd be occupied while Beth portioned roast beef, vegetables, and gravy onto plates for all of them.
As soon as the smaller plates were in front of the toddlers, Lily dropped her bread and grabbed a child-sized fork in her fist, declaring, "No, I do it!" when Daryl tried to cut her food.
"Alright, you do it," he allowed before turning to Liam, "Let's get this cut down to size, okay, buddy?"
Beth frowned, "Daryl, she can't – "
"I know, she'll figure it out." He turned back to Liam and held the boy's pudgy hand around his fork and poked the blunted tines firmly into the small cut of roast, "You're gonna do it, I'm just gonna help a little." Using quick, precise motions, he quickly cut the boy's food around the fork before declaring, "Good job, you did it," before digging into his own meal and watching Lily from the corner of his vision. As he'd thought she would, the stubborn girl tried to mimic cutting her own food, growing increasingly more frustrated, wisps of strawberry-blonde hair getting in her eyes. When he thought she'd reached her limit, Daryl leaned down and murmured, "Can I help?"
"No, I do it," but her voice wasn't as sure as it had been and she sniffed as if on the verge of tears.
"Sure, you'll do it, I'll just help a little. Here, take that fork and hold that food down good, and I'll just help," he had the beef halfway cut before she even agreed to it.
"K, I do it. Daddy help."
"Yeah, kiddo, I'm just helping a little bit, you're doing it… and you got it, good job."
The child turned to Beth, beaming, "Mama, I do it! Daddy help. I do it!"
Beth grinned knowingly back, "Yes, you did, now eat your dinner." She raised her eyes to meet his.
"Don't tell me I don't know stubborn," Daryl declared just loud enough for their small group (family?) to hear, "I grew up with Merle."
As conversation carried on around them and the evening wore on, Daryl thought to himself, Careful Dixon, you could get used to this.
And he had. Less than a week was all it had taken for him to be stupid enough to let his guard down and get sucked into the fairy tale. Dwight's conspicuous absence from any and all gatherings hadn't helped. Aside from one brief encounter the first night, Daryl didn't cross paths with him until they were packing up to leave. And even that had worked out favorably, as far as Daryl was concerned.
As the household started to settle in for the night, Dwight emerged from the watch tower and angrily grabbed a fistful of the collar of Daryl's shirt and jerk him to the side of the large family room, his clothes smelling strongly of cigarettes that they both knew the Lykins didn't tolerate on their property. "Don't you even think for one second that you're about to head down the hall or up those stairs to a nice comfy bedroom. Don't you dare forget what you are. Or what you chose."
The urge to punch Dwight – just once, just break his nose and be done with it – had Daryl's fingers twitching. But Caiman Lykins then popped into the room with a lightness in his step and an easy smile on his face, as if it were nothing out of the ordinary to see a grown man whispering in another's ear in his living room, "We keep offering, but Beth insists the screened-in porch is her favorite place to sleep. You have any ideas on how to convince her to take one of the bedrooms?"
Dwight released Daryl's shirt as discretely as he could, but both men knew that Caiman's alert gaze had missed nothing. Daryl shook his head and murmured, "The porch's fine for us both, if that's alright."
Caiman sighed as if disappointed, "Well, will you at least tell my wife I tried so I don't get in trouble? Dwight, are you sure you're okay taking all the night shifts this week? Seems a shame to miss out on all that sunshine out in the field."
The words sounded like an expression of gratitude, but Dwight caught the hint of dismissal and shuffled wordlessly back up to take watch. Caiman didn't bother waiting until the scarred Savior had made it even halfway up the stairs before waving his arm, "Come on, Daryl, help me grab some bedding and pillows for the two of you at least."
Daryl shuffled along silently to the hall closet and stood silently as Caiman dropped a couple of hand-stitched quilts, pillows, and sheet sets into his willing arms. Caiman either took the silence as invitation to keep a running commentary or was going to speak regardless as he kept his thoughts flowing in an easy but continuous stream, "When my wife and I bought this place, all we had was a single-wide trailer, still on its wheels, but we knew what we wanted and kept saving up until we could build this place exactly the way we'd imagined it. And one of my favorite features is the upstairs. Almost the entire space, more than 1000 square feet, is one big open room for the kids' bedroom. Nicole and I always knew we wanted as many children as God would give us, but you never know, right? Boys? Girls? How many of each? So, with the open space, we can move furniture, rearrange however we like to give privacy, shift things around whenever we like to meet our needs. And it also means whenever Beth brings her kids, or Henry's grandkids come out with their folks, it's easy-peasy to get everyone settled in up there. And the kids love it, tons of space to play. A LOT of blanket-forts and indoor campouts happen up there. And best of all – we grown-ups get the nice, quiet, cozy downstairs bedrooms to ourselves."
By now, they had arrived at the screened-in porch off the side of the home's massive kitchen. The porch was bigger than the entire trailer Daryl had grown up in after his mother had burnt their house down around her, stained wood beams framing windows of tight mesh screening on every side and two large spinning ceiling fans keeping the air moving, the walls lined with wicker furniture decked in a variety of colorful cushions, rocking chairs, and a couple of lounge chairs, which they now pulled side-by side and fitted with cushions before draping the sheets overtop.
"But what I really wanted," Caiman stood up from their work and faced Daryl dead-on, "was to talk with you alone." His usual grin was gone. "We know. We know Beth is not your wife, we know there's never been any romance between you. And those kids might have called you 'daddy' at dinner tonight, but they're not yours by blood. Nicole and I, we both know."
Daryl swallowed, taking a guess where this was heading, "If you don't want me around your family, I understand."
"No, you don't, that's not what I meant at all." Caiman stared him down with a considering look before seeming to change the subject, "Do you know what a caiman is?" He didn't bother to wait for Daryl's answer, "It's kind of like an alligator. My parents were a bit on the hippie side, wanted to name all their girls after flowers and their boys after animals. Six sons and no daughters later, they were getting a bit desperate, so here I am, named after a lizard, the curse of being the baby of the family. My wife grew up with four sisters and a brother. In case you couldn't already tell, we're real big on family. My parents are in Indiana, my brothers and their families, scattered all around the Midwest. Nicole's family, they're all in Missouri. We choose to believe that they all made it through the outbreak, but we also know we are never going to see any of them again in this lifetime. I've always been outgoing, I'll make friends no matter where we are. But it's harder for Nicole, she's never been that kind of sociable, always had her one or two close friends, and her sisters. She and Beth really bonded, almost right from the first time they met. I think they fill some of each other's loneliness in ways no one else can."
Daryl nodded and, even though he barely knew the man in front of him, decided it wasn't all that much of a risk to reveal his observations from the day, "Beth's happier here than I seen in her in a long time. Maybe ever."
It wasn't an exaggeration. Daryl hadn't been able to fully appreciate how much stress Beth carried around with her until he saw how it melted off her shoulders in just one afternoon outside the Sanctuary's walls. How light and free and open her whole self had been, even Daryl could see it from across the pasture, how she couldn't get the smile off her face if she'd tried.
Caiman stayed serious as he moved to sit on one of the wicker chairs, motioning for Daryl to do the same, "My faith teaches me to believe the best of people, and my faith hasn't steered me wrong yet. But before the outbreak, I was a military pilot, and my work took me to places I've sworn never to discuss with another living soul. But I can tell you that I have seen what evil looks like, and it's not the dead. I do believe that Negan has goodness in him, or I would never let him near my wife and children. I also have enough experience with the darker sides of human nature to recognize that he is a deeply flawed man. Everyone should get chances to learn lessons in this life, but that doesn't mean I necessarily want the people who matter most to me to be part of Negan's personal growth. Do you remember the way here?"
Daryl was still mentally processing everything Caiman was trying to share with him to respond to the seemingly out-of-the-blue question.
"No matter, Beth knows it if you don't. You caught a glimpse of the fences today, but this place has defenses Negan's never dreamed up and will never know about. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"
Daryl nodded. Sitting right in front of him was potentially the kind of miracle he'd stopped believing in a long time ago. An escape from Negan and a happy, safe place for Beth. Except it was never that easy. "Beth and the kids could come here, but I can't." He put up his hands to stop Caiman's impending interruption. "I know ya mean for me to, that you're offerin' to keep all of us safe from Negan if it came down to it. It ain't about me not believing you'd do it, or at least try. If I come here, I might be safe, but a lot of folks Beth 'n' I both care about won't be."
"Again, we know, about Maggie and Glenn and all the rest of them. It's a big farm, Daryl, always plenty to do and more than enough room. Maybe they come here, too."
"Then Negan would attack for sure," Daryl declared with absolute certainty.
"Do you know how to run a farm? Raise livestock? Do you know how many animals an acre of pasture can sustain? How to keep them from inbreeding to the point of going sterile or diseased? How to rotate crops for maximum produce? Negan needs this place, and more importantly needs us running it, a whole heck of a lot more than we will ever need him," Caiman revealed his proverbial ace in the hole. "You've seen the Sanctuary. Do you think those fields can grow enough food to feed everyone?"
Daryl shrugged, "Ask me how much meat's gotta be hunted or caught to feed a group, can tell you 'bout that all day long. Always left the gardenin' to folks who know better."
"Well," Caiman responded, "Short answer is, Negan found himself a very nice, solid building that can hold a lot of people and will probably have the lights on until Kingdom come. He even lucked out that the developers who invested in what that land was supposed to become had already dug the wells for a decent water supply that might not run dry for decades. But the fact is, the soil around that factory takes far too much effort to keep it fertile, and there's nowhere near enough room for livestock to graze and still plant enough for folks to eat, even with the greenhouses producing year-round. And Negan knows it. It's part of why he works as hard as he does to trade with as many communities as he can. It's still not enough. The Sanctuary is physically strong but it's well beyond capacity and cannot possibly sustain itself. If he doesn't cut the crowds at that factory by at least half in the next few years, the Sanctuary will fall. And if Nicole and decided tomorrow to stop supplying him, even if all 22 of his other communities and every single outpost he has kept producing, at least a third of the people in that factory would starve to dead in less than a year. That's how much he needs us."
Two weeks later, Daryl was still pondering over the conundrum. Caiman's offer had introduced an entirely new element into his already chaotic mess of a situation. There were a lot of potential holes, more than enough things that could go horribly wrong that made Daryl hesitant about how to go about using his unexpected ally. What he really kept getting stuck on, though, was how easily everything could have gone in his favor instead of the fucked-up series of events that had him scraping a particularly stubborn clump of dirt out of the notches of 'JOHN GODFREY's name on a marble slab. The Lykins farm was just over thirty miles from the Alexandria Safe Zone. One turn down the right road and they not only would have found a sustainable food source, but people who knew about Beth and would have gladly helped reunite her with her family. And no one would have had to die and he and Aaron and Maggie would all be home right now, and Beth along with him –
"The fuck you even doin' in here anyhow?"
Daryl wasn't often caught completely off-guard, but he'd been so caught up in his musings, he'd never heard the old man approach, hadn't noticed him blocking the light from the open door.
"Ain't it enough, I gotta get up every mornin' knowin' I'm the last of my blood? Put my head down at night knowin' if I kick off, they ain't nobody left to remember or care?" Charlie Preston advanced on Daryl, still kneeling by the wall. Not that Daryl was the slightest bit afraid – the old man might have temper and a grizzled toughness, but even in his weakened state (he'd been put back on the one-a-day-dogfood-sandwich diet the instant they'd returned to Negan's compound), Daryl knew he'd have no trouble defending himself. Except that, if he did so much as glare too long, let alone actually put his hands on him and the old geezer decided to report it, Daryl could be cut off from Beth. Being here at all was already bad enough; being here alone would be intolerable.
"Ain't it enough, I gotta see you and that other Alexandrian piece-a-shit walkin' around when my boys can't?" Daryl set down the toothbrush and rag and resigned himself to hearing the old man out until he got tired and left, or decided words weren't enough and started throwing punches. Daryl had known rednecks like this all his life – he was betting on taking a beating before all was said and done.
"They wouldn't even let me see their bodies, did ya know that? Some of 'em were butchered and burnt up so bad, they didn't want folks knowin' which ones came back whole and which were too fucked up to rightly recognize, so none of us got to see. The fuck kinda people are ya? Can't even be satisfied with just killin', gotta burn 'em alive and screamin', gotta rip 'em apart? Is that what you done to my boys? Would you even know?" The old man was heaving with emotion as he towered over Daryl. "My boy Chuck, he went and put himself through trade school, learned himself how to do all kinds of wirin' and electrical what-not. Had himself a pretty gal what wanted to marry him. And Daniel never done nothin' but want to follow after his big brother. My grandsons never lay a finger on another livin' soul! All they done is try to do right by folks around here and look after an ol' man who couldn't never do nothin' for 'em! And now, I can't even come to their headstone without the murderin' filth what took 'em from me bein' here." After several heaving breaths to get himself under control, Charlie glowered, "But you go on, you take yer little brush and you scrub them names, boy. Hope your fingers bleed from it. Hope ya can't close yer eyes without seein' all them names over and over. Hope you go as slow as all those poor sons-a-bitches at that outpost did, and I hope they're waitin' to meet ya on the other side."
No one had ever described Abraham as a patient man, but he forced himself to find ways to keep busy until the street cleared and he could approach Rosita in what he hoped seemed casual and spontaneous to anyone who happened to notice. Even as he concentrated on measuring his gait into something resembling a stroll, he couldn't help a grinning appreciation of both her outfit and the intensity with which she sharpened her hunting knife. Just because they weren't together anymore didn't mean he couldn't acknowledge what to his mind was the perfect combination of sexy and badass.
"What's wrong, Sasha not putting out often enough for you?" She didn't even look up as his boots came into her field of vision.
"Don't be like that, Rosie," he groused before deliberately softening his normally brash tone. "I really do miss working with you," he softly added.
Rosita slid the whetstone along the blade's edge a final time before glancing up from her seat on the porch steps, "Is this your version of the 'can we be friends' pitch?"
"How 'bout it's me acknowledging I could've been less of an asshole about how this all went down."
She snorted, "No argument there." She paused for a moment, and Abraham let her, figuring she deserved at least this much for putting up with how he essentially paraded his relationship with Sasha in her face. "I've always had the upper hand when it comes to dating," she revealed. "Could keep it as intense or casual as I wanted it, and every guy I hooked up with was… useful. It was good, the sex was fun, learned something new from each one, enjoyed things while they lasted, got out before it got too real and I might miss them too much when shit inevitably hit the fan. Things with you were… feeling like it might have been different. And I've never been dumped before," she finally met his gaze with a rueful grin, which he returned.
"Sucks the big hairy one, don't it?" That got a small laugh out of her before she grew pensive again.
"Does Sasha feel 'different'?"
Abraham gave his response the gravitas Rosita deserved, "I would never have left you for anything less than 'the one'."
He let the silence stretch for a minute before resting his forearm casually against the porch railing's post, "You and Spencer?"
Rosita rolled her eyes and scoffed, "Oh, please, total rebound. Something to do until I get my head on straight."
Abraham grinned, pleased to take the conversation back into their more comfortable banter, "He's too good-looking for you anyway."
"Excuse you?" her eyebrows shot up and the tip of her knife shifted to point dangerously close to his zipper for Abraham's comfort.
He knew better than to flinch or drop his grin. This was how they played. "I just mean that Pretty Boy's used to being the hot one in the relationship. He can't be happy competing with your sexy sweetness."
Rosita narrowed her eyes at the brawny redhead, "This is exactly the kind of back-and-forth we used to do when you wanted me all riled up for an especially hot fuck, and seeing as how Sasha is apparently 'the one' for you – what do you want?"
Abraham reached into one of the many pockets on his cargo pants and held, low enough for Rosita but no one else who might be walking by to see, a handful of spent bullet casings, his expression turned dark, "I want to know if you're as pissed as I am. I want to know what you're willing to do for Eugene."
Merle was right, Daryl groused to himself as he glanced around furtively, he really was a glutton for punishment. It's not like the old man's words were any worse than anything he'd heard since he'd been brought to Negan's stronghold – or all his life, for that matter. There was a time when he could let insults roll off him like water off a duck's back. When he'd been pulled from the Crypt to help with the midday meal clean-up, he'd seen the old man shouting, half-crazed, to anyone who would listen how the walkers were ruining his tomatoes and upsetting his bees. He'd lost his family, and that was tragic, but he was also clearly off his rocker, and therefore nothing he said should be worth worrying over.
And yet, here he was, seriously contemplating a major breach in… actually, Daryl wasn't sure how opening the Crypt's binder and flipping through the pages would break any of Negan's dumb-ass "rules", but it seemed like the kind of nit-picky thing the grinning sadist would jump all over. Not respecting people's privacy, maybe? Then maybe he shouldn't be askin' Beth to be spyin' and shit for him.
That irked him, when Beth had revealed Negan's concerns about how Alexandria came to attack the satellite station and how he wanted her help bringing down the potential traitor in the Saviors' crew. And no, it was not because she'd told him while they were trying to calm her son's night terrors.
"I'm sorry," she half-whispered as she brought the squalling toddler out to the screened-in porch that was serving as their shared sleeping space for the week. They had both jolted from where they had just been settling down onto the lounge chairs when the boy had started screaming – his cries carrying from upstairs and across the house.
Daryl had shaken his head and reached out, "Give 'im here." Beth had instinctively tightened her arms around Liam, but Daryl was insistent, "He woke up Lily, didn't he? And he's still asleep, he won't know who's holdin' him. Go get her settled like I know ya wanna and I'll work on gettin' him calm."
She'd come back a few minutes later to find them laying on one of the lounge chairs, Liam stretched across Daryl's torso, sucking on one finger and burying his face in the ratty mane of his stuffed lion.
"I can take him, if ya like," she'd offered softly.
"He's sleepin' now, don't wanna wake him," Daryl's voice was equally low. "Should probably check outside, or at least make sure Dwight ain't sleepin' up there on watch. His carryin' on like that probably drew in more'n a few walkers."
"Not likely," was her unexpected response. "The farm's 1600 acres, that's 2 ½ square miles, and we're right in the heart of it. With the trees all around, even Liam's screamin' at the top of his lungs ain't likely to carry far enough to be any trouble." She pulled one of the quilts up over both Daryl and the baby before settling in her own makeshift bed. "But you're sure Dwight's on watch right now?"
"Yeah, supposed to be, why?"
And she had taken only the time to glance around to be sure they were alone before relaying everything about Negan's visit to her apartment and his suspicions about Hilltop and a possible traitor. "That's why I gotta ask, I know we said we weren't gonna get into all this, but – "
"Gregory told Rick about the outpost. I wasn't there when he did and I don't know how he knew about it, but I only scouted the place because I got told where to look for it," Daryl didn't see any point not divulging everything he knew, at least to Beth.
"You scouted it ahead of the attack?" she asked, and the wavering tone in her voice was exactly why they hadn't talked about this too much before now. Daryl wasn't convinced that Negan and the Saviors weren't every bit the brutal, overbearing bastards Hilltop had painted them to be, but Beth knew and liked a lot of the people who had died at that outpost, and neither of them were very good at keeping their emotions in check about the whole thing. But if Gregory or some fucker inside the Saviors had set them up and he could get Negan's rage (and that damned barbed bat) directed on them instead of Rick and the rest of their family in Alexandria, then it was worth checking his defensiveness for the space of a conversation.
"Me and Jesus, yeah, we went there a couple of times, trying to get a head-count, see if Negan was actually there or not before we made any kinda move on the place."
"But Negan wasn't there. Wait – Jesus?" Beth couldn't seem to decide which was more important to focus on.
"Jesus – his real name's Paul Rovia, Hilltop guy. You ever see him, you'll get it."
"So Hilltop has started sending out scavengers."
"Nah, just the one, and no one sends him, he just goes. Don't like stayin' in one place too long. Ain't been in Hilltop all that long, either, maybe a year, two tops. 's why he didn't know whether we was seein' Negan or not. Could only go by what Gregory had told Rick to look for – white guy, black hair, leather jacket, red scarf. Saw a guy fit most of that, both times we watched the camp."
"But that could be a lot of people," the judgement creeped into Beth's tone despite how hard Daryl knew she usually tried not to let it.
"Yeah," he admitted. "Think I probably got that even then. Guess I wanted it to be him. Wanted it done. 's why, when we rounded up everyone who came out of the compound, asked for Negan, and the one guy stepped up… didn't question it, just did what we came to do and sent the rest running. But I guess the survivors told a different story."
Beth sat up so she could be sure she had his attention, "Daryl, there were no survivors."
Maybe that, more than old man Preston's grief-fueled hatred, spurred him on now. Because Beth wouldn't lie to him. And what she said fit with what Negan had been raging about that night on the road: 31 people had worked at the satellite outpost, and 31 people had died there when Rick had led their group to attack it. But what Beth knew and what Daryl knew were two different things. Because what Daryl knew was that, however many people had died inside (and, really, it shouldn't have been all that many, Eugene's firebombs were supposed to only have enough fuel to send a brief burst of flame before dying out), they'd only killed a handful who ran out before capturing nearly a dozen of them. Daryl had killed one. Ten people were set free to tell other outposts that Negan was dead. Obviously, they'd gotten that part wrong, but that was still ten more corpses than there ought to have been.
Daryl didn't know what exactly he expected to find by looking in the Sanctuary's book of remembrance. It's not like he doubted Beth's word. He just wanted… something… confirmation, maybe? He didn't quite know. But the Crypt was empty and no one outside seemed anywhere close to approaching. And if he got caught, well, he'd deal with that if it came.
It was like Beth had described. Each page in a plastic sleeve to preserve its contents. Loved ones' names, birth and death dates, things that people remembered about them or noteworthy things they'd done, how they died, and, whenever possible, a picture of the deceased. Those that didn't have a photograph often had a pencil sketch – apparently, the Sanctuary had an artist who lent his or her services, as they all seemed to be done in a similar style. Daryl perused a few pages at random before flipping to the back of the book. Entries were added in order of people's deaths, so those who'd died at the satellite outpost should be on the last few pages. He did a quick tally – 31 names with the notation 'killed at the satellite outpost massacre'. Leave it to Negan and his goddamned flair for dramatics. There was nothing more descriptive about how they'd died – he'd have to ask Beth for more details to know how many had burned versus how many had been stabbed, shot, etc.
But the photographs told the real story. Daryl wouldn't be half the hunter or tracker he was if he couldn't remember things as he saw them. And he knew some of those faces were part of the group they'd sent off into the woods. And here was proof they hadn't made it back – in fact, had died at the outpost. Which meant someone else who knew they were going to be out there that night had not only killed them, but brought them back to be sure Negan found them at the outpost and put the blame on Alexandria. Maybe 'massacre' ain't so far off… poor bastards never had a chance.
And now that he was here, Daryl couldn't help himself from skimming through the epitaphs. It's not as though he'd ever thought Beth lied to him. The people were there to set up a working home and farmland, so it shouldn't have been a surprise to see that reflected in what people had written about their lost loved ones. Great carpenter, always loved gardening, father of two daughters… Daryl had never taken a life before the dead started walking, and, aside from Dale, whose life he'd ended out of mercy, Daryl had never taken a good life. Only enemies who were clearly out to get him or the people he protected. Until now. Looking at their faces smiling up from their photographs, reading bullet-point notes on who they'd been and who they'd left behind, the realization of what they, what he had done hit him with greater force than any of his father's beatings: he really was a murderer. He had killed people who had never harmed him, never threatened his family, just walked up to them and snuffed out their lives. No different from the Governor rolling up to their prison gates and blowing everything they'd built to hell.
And the real icing on the cake (because when things went to shit in Daryl's life, they never did it by halves): there on the last page, "Charles 'Chuck' Preston and Daniel Preston", and underneath, a wrinkled, worn photograph folded many times, probably kept in the old man's billfold, the grinning face of a young man with black hair and a weathered leather jacket. The same face on the man who'd stepped up and claimed he was Negan in a desperate, self-sacrificing gamble to save the others' lives. The same face Daryl himself had put a bolt through. And Daryl knew, every time he walked past the old man or his raised garden beds, he was going to see that smiling photo in his mind and remember what he'd done.
Enid frowned as she tried to figure out how to go about the task she'd given herself. Not just the physical juggling of it – although that was something of a trick, navigating herself and a plate of food out the small window and onto the roof of the house to where she knew Glenn was hiding. But the emotional bit was more of a struggle. Her personal motto was a whole lot easier to live by when other people weren't brought into the mix. Surviving for herself was manageable: find food, find shelter, don't get bit. For a long while, she'd also added 'don't get attached', but, she guessed, that wasn't really an option for her anymore. And now that she was finding herself attached to more and more people, their survival was all tangled up in her own. Which is how she now found herself stuck risking life and limb (or at least an uncomfortable landing should she slide and fall the fifteen or so feet to the ground) just to make sure Glenn didn't completely fall apart in Maggie's absence.
Glenn didn't even look her way as she carefully maneuvered herself across the roof's slant to where he was perched between the two dormer windows.
"You're on the roof. Again." She internally rolled her eyes at her terrible opening. She really did suck at this whole conversation thing.
"Yeah," Glenn kept staring ahead at some indecipherable point on the darkening horizon.
"And you missed dinner. Again." Enid moved to stand over him and held the plate down near his face. She saw him open his mouth and, anticipating the rejection, she cut him off, "Not that I blame you for that last one. Turnip – again. But food is food and you're no good to Maggie or your baby if you don't eat."
That, at least, got Glenn to break his personal staring contest and meet her eyes with a sullen expression.
"At least split it with me?" Enid offered hopefully.
Glenn showed a spark of curiosity, "Didn't you already eat?"
"No, it's turnip," Enid's exaggerated look of disgust drew a slight chuckle, which, honestly, was better than she expected. She busied herself with settling safely on the slanted surface, putting her back to the window box for both comfort and stability. It also put her close enough to Glenn that they could balance the plate on their adjoining knees while she dug two forks out of her jeans pocket.
"I wouldn't have been caught dead with turnip on my plate when I was little," she kept a running dialog so he wouldn't have the chance to refuse to share the meager meal with her. "Everyone said I was the world's pickiest eater."
"I dunno," Glenn offered as he speared a forkful of boiled turnip, "I pretty much lived on pizza for the last three years of my life before all this."
"Please," Enid challenged with a smirk, "I wouldn't even touch pizza. It had cheese on it. I hate cheese."
"Were you allergic?"
"Nope, didn't like the way it smelled or the way it bubbled when it melted, so I refused to touch it."
Glenn's disbelieving (but engaged) look spurred Enid on, "Oh, it gets better. I also wouldn't eat potatoes. Not just boiled or mashed, but potato chips, French fries, none of it. My parents couldn't even go through the drive-thru and get me a Happy meal, 'cause I wouldn't eat it."
"What did you live on?"
"Peanut butter sandwiches – no jelly, it wiggled in the jar and that creeped me out – grapes, cereal, and broccoli, oddly enough."
Glenn pondered her strange childhood diet for a moment before nearly startling her with his realization, "But we eat potatoes all the time!"
"And I still hate them," Enid confided. "I take as few bites as I possibly can, and as soon as I feel the least little bit like my stomach isn't going to growl in the next few minutes, I stop." She let silence settle around them for a few minutes before revealing, "I've never told anyone. It's a stupid thing to worry about for one, gotta eat whatever we can get. But mostly because it would mean talking about before, and I try to not even think about it. Just stay in the now, you know? When I do, you know, think about my parents and everything, it's just a lot. Like how I shouldn't know that it's easier to eat raw turtle than it is to choke down raw frog."
"But is raw turtle easier than cooked turnip?"
Enid pretended to give the ridiculous question a moment of serious contemplation, "Well… turtles are kinda cute, so… score one for the turtle, I guess. Better to swallow the vegetable that tastes like dirt smells and let the little guy live to plod along another day."
Glenn nodded and set the now-empty plate and forks on the roof behind him. "Before, I delivered pizzas and basically lived on the leftovers and Monster drinks, playing video games until my eyes bugged out, all the while swearing to my parents back in Michigan that I was saving money to go to college when I had no plans to ever go back in a stuffy classroom. I was just spinning my wheels. Then shit got crazy and I've been right in the middle of it ever since, always part of the fight. Now I'm stuck sitting on the sidelines again and it sucks."
Enid wasn't sure what to say to that. After a few minutes of relatively comfortable silence, she offered, "I never really thanked you for bringing me back to Alexandria all those months ago."
"Given how things are, not all that sure I did you a favor, convincing you that being here was better than making a go of it out there." When she didn't jump in with any kind of platitude (because, really, what was there to say?), he opened up, more to the night sky than to her, "I've never been without her this long. Maggie and I have had each other's backs since almost the start. Even after we lost the prison, all I could think of was getting back to her, and I went out and did it. Now, it's still the only thing I think of, except I've got no way of doing it without getting people killed. Getting her killed. And our baby. I've never felt our baby kick. I've only ever felt one baby kick inside her mother, and that was Judith. I remember freaking out, the first time Lori asked if I wanted to – everyone else in the group already had, except for Daryl, but no one was going to ask him anything like that back then. It was so weird, like, Alien-level weirdness… but I also remember how Rick and even Carl would get whenever they touched Lori's belly. It was like all the stupid rom-coms my sisters used to make me watch, but now, it's all I want. Shit," Glenn looked at Enid as if he's just realized he'd said all that aloud, "I shouldn't be leveling all this on you."
Enid didn't answer for a couple of minutes. She couldn't necessarily relate to a lot of what he said but understood the basics. Finally settling on what she wanted to say, she asked, "I don't mind. You and Maggie… you're kinda… important. To me. You're important to me."
Glenn smiled softly, "You're important to us, too."
"Can I tell you something?"
Glenn nodded for her to go on. Enid swallowed, and wished she'd figured out how to bring a glass of water out here earlier, but ploughed through regardless, "How you feel, spinning your wheels or sitting on the sidelines or whatever? That's how it was for me when y'all took Maggie to Hilltop and left me here. Not you, exactly, you weren't here. But the others. Carl actually locked me in a closet to keep me from coming along and helping. I didn't just get left behind, I got trapped in a dark, stuffy box, not knowing when or if anyone would know to get me out. I know it's not the same."
"Not cool, though," Glenn agreed.
"I know I probably wouldn't have made a difference out there with the Saviors. I'd have been in just as much trouble as y'all were. But at least I would have been there. And now I feel like all I can do is babysit, Judy, the other kids… Carl…"
"Me," Glenn added with a bit of an eye-roll. Enid didn't argue – she was having to trick him into eating, after all.
Silence stretched between them for a bit longer before Glenn quietly offered, "I can't tell you what-all's going on, but we're…" he paused to sort out his words, "trying something" he finished vaguely. Still, Enid nodded in appreciation.
"That time you went out and things went bad, and Nicholas did what he did," Enid reminded, "People here put your name up on the wall because they were all sure you were dead. Maggie and I took it off because she was sure you weren't. I think Maggie's okay."
"Why?"
"Does she feel gone to you?"
Glenn met Enid's eyes in the darkness, "No, she doesn't."
"Whenever you try whatever it is y'all are planning…"
"I promise, no matter what, neither one of us is going to be on the sidelines."
"So, I got your message," Beth quirked a lopsided grin as she held up a fistful of gardening tarp scraps and waved the fluttering ends in Daryl's direction. "Why exactly do we need these?" she asked as she eased the cell door behind her.
Daryl reached with practiced ease for the hand-crank lantern clipped to Beth's belt and started winding the crank, "The old man, one with all the honeycomb and tomatoes you like so much – "
"Charlie Preston?"
Daryl nodded in the now-lit space as they both sat on the floor and began laying out the pieces of tarp Beth had managed to scrounge from the greenhouses. "Heard 'im earlier, fussin' that the dead on the fences're upsettin' his bees, scratchin' at the hive boxes. Wanted the walkers cleared off, but Negan won't do it, puts a hole in the security net he said, make the whole place vulnerable. Don't know if it'll make much difference but," he reached for Beth's knife and began slicing the tarp into even strips, "maybe workin' this stuff into the fence itself will keep the dead from seein' in and wantin' to bother the hives."
"I love that," Beth's heartfelt smile was worth any lingering embarrassment Daryl felt at his idea. "When do you think you'll start weavin' this stuff through the chain link?"
"Tomorrow mornin', when I get let out to walk the fences. Wasn't sure if Tim'd be able to tell ya in time to find this stuff tonight, only caught him by chance 'cuz of where I's workin', his class or whatever was practicin' knife-throwin' this afternoon. Kids' aims are so bad a few near hit me, an' I was more'n ten feet from the target wall."
Beth chuckled softly as she helped him sort the tarp strips. "How was Tim's aim?"
"Better'n most. Ain't got much strength behind his throw yet, though. Ya feelin' better about him pushin' towards that mark thing?"
"Tim, yes. Dwight, no." Beth's expression darkened at the memory of their last afternoon at the Lykins' farm.
Daryl had thought Negan showing up to share a meal with the Lykins family before everyone headed back to the Sanctuary would have broken the spell on whatever crazy dream he'd seem to have fallen into, but the end result of that afternoon was worth whatever shit Dwight might later throw at him in retaliation.
"I swear, I'm not much for farm life, but if you keep feeding me like this," Negan gestured to his near-empty plate, "I'm gonna have to put in for a change in address." His smile was genuine as he praised Nicole Lykins, who waived him off.
"Don't look at me, they did all the work," she tipped her head down the long picnic table to where her teenaged children were finishing their own meals. "I'm pregnant. I neither cook nor do dishes while I'm pregnant, house rules."
Negan glanced to her husband, who shrugged, "She also doesn't kill any of the livestock or clean them once they're bled out, and she doesn't muck stalls, either."
"Certainly explains the whole eleven kids and counting thing you've got going on… I'm guessing you also don't put down the dead while preggers," Negan smirked.
"Actually, none of us have this week. Tim here has done the border patrol both at sunup and sundown, taken care of everything."
"No kidding," Negan eyed the young boy appraisingly where he sat across from Beth and Daryl. "Been putting in quite a bit of practice time with that bow, what're you up to now?"
Tim bit his lower lip, "Um, 283, sir." His shy nature and Negan's considering stare had him struggling to keep eye contact.
Negan let out a low whistle. "Damn – I mean, Dang – seriously, you folks are killing me with your no-cussing rule… You aiming to set a speed record there, Mister Dixon?"
"No, sir. I just like getting in the practice."
"Well, you must have your eye on either a Hell of – oh, for cryin' out loud, really?" he sent a pleading look Nicole's way, but her glare was relentless. He mock-glared back at the brunette woman who merely raised an eyebrow in return. "FINE… one HECK of a job opportunity or one seriously awesome firearm."
Tim swallowed, but it was the way his hands fidgeted under the table that pulled Daryl's gaze away from the half-playful staring contest between his captor and the farm's owners to meet an equally-attentive expression in Beth's eyes. "Um, no, not really, Mr. Negan. I haven't really thought about what I want to do when I finish school."
"But you have been cruising the armory, done a little window-shopping," Negan surmised.
The boy shook his head, "I don't want a gun. I like the bow just fine, and my knife." Tim was surprisingly adamant.
"Well, color me curious, why the rush to hit the mark, then?" Negan leaned back as far as he could without losing his balance on the wooden bench, "What could a young man like yourself possibly need with 1000 points if you're not going to use them as intended?"
No one at the table missed the way Tim looked first to Beth, then back to Negan before ducking his head and softly asking, "Could I maybe… can I tell just you? Please?"
Negan seemed to take it in stride, "Sure, kid. We'll get these dishes cleared and you can show me the new fenced-in area y'all been working on. It's for the sheep, right, Caiman?" he deftly steered the conversation away from the visibly nervous boy.
When lunch was finished, with Nicole sending one of her boys to take a plate up to Dwight in the watch-tower, Negan put a hand on Tim's shoulder and guided him away from the group. As he turned, he tipped his chin to Beth to get her attention before discretely tapping on the walkie-talkie at his belt and waving four fingers.
Beth waited until she was sure Tim was sufficiently focused on walking with Negan before she pulled Daryl by the sleeve to the screened-in porch that had been their bedroom for the past week, as it was also where the Lykins' kept their radio and speaker equipment. Daryl quickly picked up the handheld and switched it to channel four before turning it on, Negan's voice immediately crackling through the receiver.
"He must have locked down the speaker button," Beth commented as they listened in, watching as the leather-clad man led Tim down the hill towards the pasture, stopping to lean casually against one of the newly-placed fence posts.
"…so I don't know which to be more curious about, you wanting to get your hands on 1000 points to NOT buy a weapon, or you wanting to do it while NOT telling dear ol' mom and dad."
"But we can, right?" Tim's voice was soft and uncertain. "When we hit the mark, the points are ours, we can use them however we want?"
"Sure, no rule saying you HAVE to use them to arm yourself. But since it's us talking 'man to man' out here, there's probably not going to be another time when you'll have that much collateral in the bank. So why wouldn't you want to? Cut to the chase, kid, what is it exactly you're wanting to get your hands on and why aren't you wanting your mother to know about it?"
After a beat, they watched Tim stand a little straighter and look up at Negan, "Will you promise not to tell my Mom?"
"Is it dangerous?"
"No."
"Will she get pissed at me if and when this all inevitably comes to light?"
"No, I don't think so."
Negan nodded, "Then I promise, I won't say a word to her about it."
"Did Negan just break his own rule about lying?" Caiman walked up to stand on the other side of Beth.
"Technically, no. He didn't promise not to let me eavesdrop while Tim did the talking," Beth replied, eyes still glued to the radio in Daryl's hand.
"I want to get Mom's vest back. And Mr. Anders said he'd sell it to me. But the only way to get the points…"
"… is to put down 1000 rotters. Preferably before Dwighty-boy puts any more holes in it than it already has," Negan finished for him. "So why the big dramatics – 'can I tell JUST you'?"
"I want it to be a surprise. Mom doesn't get a lot of those. Not good ones, anyway. And I…" Tim shuffled his feet in the dirt before deciding to reveal, "I heard you and her talking last week. When she said she didn't like seeing her angel wings on Mr. Anders' back instead of – I just thought maybe I could help her."
"And what else did you hear that night?" Negan's tone was deadly serious.
"Just… just that, you think it's silly to have eggs for dinner." Even at a distance, Daryl could see the boy's body language betraying his nervousness.
"Uh-huh," Negan deadpanned. "I'm gonna trust that you understand that some conversations aren't meant for everybody. Or anybody."
"I know how to keep secrets, Mr. Negan," Tim's voice might have been low, but it didn't waver.
Negan tipped his head, "And just what secrets do you have experience keeping?"
"Well, if I tell you, doesn't that kinda prove I don't know how to keep them?"
"And maybe satisfying my piece of mind after eavesdropping on my very private conversation is more important." Beth and Daryl both bristled at the way Negan stepped into Tim's personal space to intimidate the boy.
"Okay… well, you know how Mom and Sunni and I got past the fence and the guards and everything when we decided to move into the Sanctuary and even after all this time, no one's figured out how we did it, and we haven't told anyone?"
"I do," the open curiosity bled into Negan's tone.
Tim made himself keep eye-contact as he took a risk, "I'm still not telling you."
Even without binoculars, Daryl could see the pause and then the toothy grin spreading over Negan's face, "Look at you! Got some of your Mom's backbone there, don'tcha? Or is that your Dad's stubbornness? Hard to tell… Well, I just don't know, tiny Tim, what if I made it worth your while… say, by marching back up that hill and making Dwight hand over that vest right here and now. And then you get to keep your 1000 points once you earn them AND make your mama smile. What would you say to that?"
"I wouldn't want you to," Tim easily replied. "I mean, yeah, getting the vest and the points would be cool and all, but then Mr. Anders would be mad, and it wouldn't be fair, besides."
Negan stepped even closer to the boy and murmured with deadly seriousness, "And if I told you that if you don't tell me, right here and now, what weakness in my Sanctuary's defenses you all so expertly exploited back then, I will take my darling Lucille, march back up that hill, and beat the holy hell out of Daddy Daryl until you talk?"
"I… I would tell him why, and he'd want Mom to keep her secret if she thought it was important, so he would tell me not to tell you," his small voice was tremulous.
"Aren't you something? Alrighty, then," Negan's voice carried a measured consideration, "And that's it, that's the whole enchilada?" At Tim's clear confusion he clarified, "That's all you needed to tell me?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well," his tone back to his usual cheerful swagger, "Far be it for me to get in the way of anything that puts a smile on the good Doc's face." He wrapped an arm around Tim's shoulder and swung Lucille in a wide arc as he turned and began the trek back up to the main house.
"I am still curious, though… you really haven't given any thought to who you'd want as a mentor or what kind of work you'd like to do?"
"Not really. I mean, I'm not really good at much of anything and all the jobs are important, so I guess whoever'll take me," the boy replied.
Negan stopped their progress up the hill, "First off, that is bullshit on multiple levels. One – while I won't say that everybody's good at something, I will say that, from what I've seen you do in the last few weeks, anyone would be fucking lucky to have you watch their back and you're half their fucking size. Two – saying all jobs are important is a sweet little bedtime story for people too stupid to do anything useful, and you're too smart to be falling for that shit. Some jobs are DEFINITELY more important than others, and some jobs are WAY more fun than others, and someone like you, with your bad-ass fighting potential AND the fact that you were just willing to go toe to toe with me to look out for your family, you're gonna have folks lined up for miles wanting to say they got to mentor a cool kid like you. You're going to have your pick of any assignment you want. It's one thing not to know what you want – good, even, let the offers pour in, take your time weighing your options. But don't go selling yourself short, kid."
"So, I can just… wait? Like, I can get the thousand walkers and just, not pick a job?"
"Did someone tell you, you had to pick right away?" Negan sounded ready to swing Lucille at the thought.
"No, sir, it just seemed like that's what everyone did. And I want to contribute, you know, do my part," Tim added.
"Going to school and learning how you can contribute better IS contributing." He ruffled Tim's hair with an easy affection. "World's gonna try and swallow your fun free-time up fast enough, don't go rushing it. Now, having said that, you seriously don't have any idea what you want to be when you grow up?"
Tim pursed his lips and then shrugged his shoulders. "Sorry, Mr. Negan."
"Don't be sorry, just be thinking. Come on, just between you and me," Negan leaned down conspiratorially, "You don't have your eye on ANYTHING in that storehouse? 'Cause there are some super-cool toys in there."
"Well…" Tim dragged out, "Can this be something else you don't tell my Mom?"
"My hand to God," Negan raised Lucille over his head, "The Doc will not hear this from me."
Daryl watched Beth roll her eyes, "Honestly," she muttered. "It's like he can't help himself." But Daryl also noticed the shadow of a grin on her face. To tell the truth, his mind was a little more at ease knowing the kid wasn't trying to get his hands on a gun and risk him going too trigger-happy the way Carl had at the prison.
"There is one thing," Tim's voice continued over the walkie-talkie, growing cautiously more excited as he explained, "On the back wall, there's this double-bladed staff that comes apart in the middle so it can be either two shorter swords or one long one that's dangerous on both ends. I don't think I could use it yet, maybe after I'm a bit taller, and I'd need a lot of practice and someone to teach me, but it looks really cool! There's nothing else like it in the whole armory," he was almost breathless with enthusiasm before looking crestfallen, "Someone else'll probably snatch it up, though, and, even if they don't, it's a lot more points than I'll ever have."
"Oh, you never know," Negan hedged, "Ol' Nick Brommer might be a crotchety son of a bitch when it comes to runnin' that armory, but he's been known to wheel and deal now and again. I imagine you could come up with some way of bartering work or favors to make up for however short you are on points after Operation: Surprise Mom."
They were close enough now that Tim's rueful grin was clear through the porch's mesh screen windows, "Thanks, Mr. Negan, but no… I won't even have close to half the cost after, you know" he tugged at his jacket to wordlessly refer to the leather vest, "and there's no way he'd want to make a bargain no matter how many favors I promised."
Negan stopped their progress again, "Just how much is Dwight asking for?" He kept his voice deliberately casual but there was a tightness in his stance that belied his relaxed tone.
Tim must have picked up on it as he toed nervously at the dirt and couldn't quite meet Negan's eyes, "900."
"I'm sorry, I either mis-heard you or temporarily lost my goddamned mind. Exactly how much is one of my Saviors charging a ten-year-old boy for a second-hand, weathered and old-as-fuck leather vest with raggedy-ass wings coming unstitched from the back and bullet holes in both sides that doesn't even rightly belong to him in the first place, but actually belongs to said boy's mother?"
"Oh, for Pete's sake, if I've told him once, I've told him a thousand times, I don't want that kind of language around here," Nicole had made her way to the porch and gathered around the hand-held radio, but Beth waved her comments off, back stiff and mouth set in the same determined frown Daryl had seen seconds before she cussed him out at the moonshine shack all those years ago. Truth be told, he wasn't far behind her in the anger department.
"Please don't," Tim softly begged. "I don't want to make trouble. I asked, and Mr. Anders set a price, and I agreed to it, and that's that."
"Boy, a coat like mine, fully lined and, may I add, an actual whole damned leather jacket instead of a couple of flimsy scraps laced together, would go for less than half that in the market stalls. Are you honest-to-God going to stand there and tell me that you think that's fair? We don't cheat," They were close enough now that Negan's last declaration carried across the yard to the adults on the porch without the radio's help.
"I'm gonna kill him," Beth vowed.
"No, you're not," Daryl started to dismiss, but she swiftly cut him off.
"Don't you tell me what I can and can't do, Daryl Dixon. That man is selfish and petty and bitter, and he's takin' it out on MY child, and –"
The radio crackled, "It's not cheating, Mr. Negan." Tim's face was pale and he didn't look up.
"Excuse me? Are you seriously about to stand here and tell me I don't know my own rules? Keep in mind, I'm on your side, but I am also one pissed off motherfucker right now," the man warned.
To his credit, Tim held his ground even though his whole small frame was tensely trembling, "It's only cheating if someone feels like they've been cheated. We set a price and I said yes. So it's not cheating."
Negan stepped into the boy's personal space, "Look me in the eye, right now, and tell me that scrap of dyed cow skin is worth more than practically anything else in all the Sanctuary."
It took Tim several seconds to raise his chin, "It's worth it to us. Maybe not to anyone else, but that vest is worth it to her, so it's worth it to me."
"You gotta let Tim work it out on his own," Daryl brought his thoughts back to the present, eye-balling the width of the garden tarp strips as he cut them down to what he thought would fit the chain-link fence. "Know ya can't stand a bully, 'specially a grown-ass man goin' after a kid, but Tim wants to feel like he's doin' somethin', and he ain't gonna want to be the kid whose mama fights his battles for him."
"When did you get so wise?" Beth teased gently.
He shrugged, "Don't know about raisin' kids. Do know somethin' about fightin' for what's yours, knowing folks don't think you're worth shit."
"So I just stand back and let Dwight be a jerk to him?"
"Just a damned vest." Daryl tried to scoff as if it didn't matter, but he knew that Beth saw through it.
"A vest your brother gave you. The last thing you have that he gave you."
Daryl nodded in acknowledgement. "Yeah. Ain't worth takin' shit over, though, if you go raisin' Hell and Dwight gets called out." Beth opened her mouth in what he could see from her expression was going to be a protest, so he cut her off, "Look, do you care about Tim havin' all those point things?"
"No, not really."
"And ain't ya tryin' to get all kinds of folks openin' up to ya more than they already do so we can sort out all this shit and maybe find some kinda way out for our family?"
"Yes," she reluctantly let out.
"Then maybe let this one go. Kid wants to feel like he can stand on his own. Ain't hurtin' nothin' to let him. And Negan knows and is pissed, and whatever else I think of the miserable fucker, he ain't the type to let anything slide, so he's probably gonna sort this out his own way without you havin' to let on that you ever knew what Tim was tryin' to do for ya. But if you go gettin' involved, kid ain't gonna thank you for it."
"I know," she admitted with a hint of a whine, "Don't mean I gotta like it, though."
Daryl stretched his legs out and used his foot to playfully nudge her own. "You really like it that much, claimin' my wings for yourself?" he asked with a half-grin.
Beth's eyes twinkled in the lamp-light, "It's where I first got to hug ya, kinda got attached to 'em."
Daryl let himself smile more fully as he teased, "Probably look better on you anyhow."
Beth quietly laughed in return before changing the subject, "Hey, two full weeks back and not a single night terror from Liam, I think maybe we're finally passed 'em."
"Kid probably just needed a vacation," Daryl mused, "Was good for you, too, you're different there, ain't wound so tight."
"I do like it there," she softly agreed. "Feels like home used to. Nice to just think about family and farmin' and such. Maybe not for all the time, even Daddy didn't do that much Bible studyin'."
Daryl snorted softly, "'s a bit much. They're good people, though. And they really care about ya." With a meaningful glance to the closed door, Daryl dropped his voice even softer as he relayed what Caiman had offered in terms of sheltering their family if it came to it.
Beth considered for several minutes before offering her thoughts, "I don't want everyone fightin'. But I got a feelin' we can't avoid it."
Daryl nodded and paused, thinking it over and choosing his words, "You were right. I mean, I knew you weren't wrong, but..." he swallowed. "I looked in the book, in the Crypt, at the folks who died at the outpost. Ain't pictures of all of 'em, but some… Some of 'em, I know we let go. Sent 'em off into the woods after one stepped up and said he was Negan, but they're in that book all the same. So someone went out there, caught 'em, killed 'em, and brought 'em back to the satellite station so Negan would find their bodies and blame us for all of 'em. Don't change what we done, I know that now, but it weren't just us. And whoever else it was, they ain't done yet."
Beth nodded, her expression grave and slightly fearful. "What else? Somethin' else is got you upset."
Daryl shook his head, not in denial, but trying to tell her without words that he wasn't ready to talk about it. Someday, maybe, he'd tell her, try to unburden some of his guilt at the realization, or maybe more the acceptance, that he'd done something he'd always thought was beyond him, killing the innocent, even without meaning to. But not yet.
Beth seemed to understand, "Well, the sooner we get to the bottom of this, the better. On that note, how are you at puzzles?"
"The kind you put together on a rainy day or the people kind?"
"The people kind. You remember the meetin' where Negan punished Parker Hawkins for stealin'?"
"Kinda hard to forget, why?"
"That night, Aaron and I both noticed this lady, Ruby Lassiter. I don't know her, just seen her around. But she looked, I dunno, like she was hurtin' somethin' awful. And I got the feelin' that maybe her husband had somethin' to do with it."
"Thought Negan took that kind of shit seriously around here."
"Oh, he does. Anybody who comes in goes through my hospital wing and gets checked from head to toe, any bruises or anythin' else outta place, whoever's checkin' 'em in notes it. Got a whole set of questions we ask, explain the rules and punishments, give folks a chance to walk back out if they think they can't live by 'em. Ain't no way we're lettin' a known wife-beater or child abuser in, whoever let 'em slide past the medical exam would be in just as much trouble with Negan as the one doin' the abusin'. So if somethin's happened, it's been since after they got here. Thing is, I didn't get a chance to check on her before we left for the farm. So I asked Dr. Carson, and he said he took care of it."
"And?"
Beth chewed on her bottom lip in consternation, "He says there was nothin' wrong with her, gave her a thorough exam, made sure her husband was nowhere nearby so she could say somethin' if she needed to. Nothin'. Thing is," she leaned forward on her elbows, "I saw her at lunch, she's all pale, upset-lookin', arms wrapped around her middle, and when she got up, she's carryin' herself all stiff and measured, like she's hurtin' but don't wanna let on. So I made my excuses for takin' so long introducin' myself, askin' if she's alright, if she needed any kind of follow-up after her visit with Dr. Carson the other week. At first she acted like she didn't know what I was talkin' about before suddenly 'rememberin'' that, yes she had seen the doctor but swearin' everythin' was fine. I checked her file, Daryl. Other than when she first came into the Sanctuary back in December, there's nothin'. Emmett lied. And then she lied about it, too. And I can't figure why. I know it probably ain't got nothin' to do with… you know… everythin'… but why say you saw a doctor if you didn't?"
Daryl hedged, deliberately holding back while still trying to get the point across, "Some folks, if they've got shit goin' on behind closed doors, they get real good at hidin' it, and even better at lyin' to keep it covered up."
Beth nodded to show she understood what he was getting at, "Alright, but why would Dr. Carson lie? What good does that do?"
Daryl shook his head, "To tell the truth, I ain't all that good at any kind of puzzles."
Spencer thrust forward and pressed his forehead to Rosita's for several seconds before pulling out and flopping down on his side of the bed with a self-satisfied sigh.
At least one of us enjoyed himself. Rosita grabbed the damp washcloth she'd stashed by the bedside earlier that evening. That's the trouble with the good-looking ones, too full of themselves and completely unteachable, she thought as she discretely cleaned herself up. And he better not've gotten me pregnant – what part of 'pull out' is so fucking hard to wrap your head around?
"You okay, babe?" he asked, chest heaving and eyes fixed on the darkened ceiling. "I wasn't too rough with you?"
"Oh, I think I can handle you," she quipped in her best flirty drawl.
She listened as Spencer got his breathing back under control. "Hey, we're good, right?" he asked.
"Yeah, why?"
"I mean, you would tell me if, you know, you were… rethinking things."
Rosita turned on her side and tucked an arm under her head, "Where are you going with this?"
Spencer turned over to face her, "You and Abraham – you'd tell me if you were thinking about getting back together with him?"
Rosita sneered, "You heard about him stopping by." She rolled her eyes, "Trust me, I am so done with him. He, on the other hand, without saying as much, wants to keep his options open."
Spencer was appropriately disgusted, "Behind Sasha's back? What a dick."
"I know, and what's worse? He tried to use Eugene's death as some kind of pitiful excuse to pull me back in."
"You tell him off?"
Rosita frowned, "No." She took a deep breath before finding Spencer's eyes in the dark room, "To be honest, I'm worried he's going to do something stupid. Just because I'm not keeping my options open – and I'm definitely not – doesn't mean I want him to shut the door." She shook her head slightly, "You know, one of the things I used to love about Abraham was his hot-blooded nature, the adventure of it all. But this is our home, our lives, and with the Saviors… we can't go throwing everything away on one of his temper tantrums."
Spencer nodded, his expression grim, "You're too smart for him, you know that?" She started to shake her head but he reached out and placed his palm against her cheek to stop her, "You are." He snorted and shook his own head slightly, "I heard him and Rick plotting right outside the window a couple of weeks ago."
"Where was I?" she interrupted.
"You had watch that night. They made some kind of pact where, if Rick can't get Negan to give up Maggie's location or some kind of proof of life then he'll turn Abraham loose to attack. As if Rick could ever negotiate with someone like Negan, it's just one bad decision after another with him. They're both going to get us killed," Spencer groused. "We wouldn't be in this position if my Mom were here. And I'm my mother's son – I should be in charge, I should be the one negotiating with Negan."
Rosita pushed herself up on her elbow, "You think he would listen to you."
"I know he would. I've spent my whole life around the law and politics, I know the right tactics, the angles for dealing with people like him. And you and me together laying the groundwork… We can't change what's happened, we have to focus on the now, on the big picture. You know, I'm glad he took our guns – can you imagine what bullheaded idiocy Abraham would be cooking up if he had an arsenal to work with? I just wish I'd been here when the Saviors did it, I would have given them Dad's old bullet press, built up some goodwill and set the foundation for a future relationship. Now, it's been too long, it could look like I was trying to hide it from them, could send the wrong message."
Rosita kept her tone deliberately casual, "I didn't know you had one."
Spencer waved it off, "Some of the partner's at Aiden's old firm were duck-hunting enthusiasts, so Dad and Aiden got the press as part of a networking strategy, you know, tag along on a few hunts, invite them over for drinks afterwards. Neither of them were ever really into it, I think they only used the press a couple of times before everything went down. I doubt Rick even knows about it."
"Maybe we should get rid of it. Like you said, we don't want Negan thinking we aren't fully on board, screw with your negotiations," Rosita suggested.
Spencer shrugged, "I'm not even sure where it is to tell you the truth. Dad lent it to Tobin ages ago, before you all got here, pretty sure he never asked for it back."
"Don't you think we should?"
"No, we don't want it here. And if I ask him about it, Tobin's crush on Carol might get him thinking he should give it to Rick or Abraham as a favor to her, assuming she ever makes it back."
Rosita nodded, "I can ask. Even if Tobin thinks it's fishy and goes to Rick about it, all I have to do is tell Rick I'm worried Abraham might jump the gun and don't want to risk breaking down whatever deal he's got with Negan. It's the truth, or close enough."
Spencer pulled her in for a kiss and smiled, "You and me, babe, the two of us are going to save Alexandria and my parents' legacy."
Yes we are, Rosita thought to herself as she settled back on her pillow and thought back on the plans and the secret stash Abraham had revealed to her a few hours before, My gun, Abraham's spent bullet casings, and now your Dad's bullet press… just a few missing pieces, and Abe and I might actually pull this off.
The next morning, Daryl watched from the other side of the fences as Charlie Preston shuffled out to his beehives and stopped abruptly, staring, before reaching out and brushing his fingers along the tarp strips that now blocked the walkers from seeing into the compound. The old man looked around with wary suspicion, eyes finally landing on Daryl, who held his gaze for a brief moment before dropping his chin and returning his attention to stirring up the rest of the chained walkers. As he passed back through the gate and started to make his way to the Crypt for yet another day of tedious scrubbing, the grizzled old farmer moved to block his path. He never said a word, just locked his eyes with Daryl, gave the tiniest of chin thrusts in acknowledgement, and then moved on as if nothing had happened. To Daryl, it was enough.
I know I don't really deserve them after making you wait so long for an update, but please review if you liked it, and please review if you didn't.