AN: This may be a two-shot if there is enough interest in the little bit that I would add to it. I wrote it in response to at Tumblr prompt/request. Some of the requests that I get are beautiful, really, and could be stories of epic length (if my rambling self were to write them). This is one of those. I guess, then, you could also think of this (and the follow-up chapter, if there's interest in it) as a complete short story, but also something of a sampler for a possible longer story that I may do in the future.
This is not exactly canon, so please don't expect it to be.
I own nothing from the Walking Dead.
I do hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!
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Sullen. Quiet. Withdrawn. Grumpy.
Daryl had heard every possible explanation of himself tossed at him by others. It seemed like he was better at pissing everyone off when he kept his mouth shut than he was when he opened his mouth and said some of the things he was thinking.
He was tired of saying what he was thinking, though. It didn't change a damn thing and it made his stomach hurt to give too much voice to everything that boiled within him.
Mostly, he was hurt, and he was angry, and he felt his losses acutely.
They had all lost.
Rick never missed an opportunity to remind Daryl that they had all lost. Any time that he got any reaction from Daryl that he didn't like—or got no reaction at all—he reminded Daryl that they had all lost. Rick, himself, had lost his wife, after all—his somewhat estranged wife by the time of her death—and his daughter, which may have been the biological child of the best friend that he also lost; when he killed him, of course.
Daryl was sympathetic to others' losses. It wasn't that he was somehow heartless and didn't give a shit about human suffering—he was surrounded by human suffering.
It was Rick's losses, in particular, that pissed Daryl off because, with every step of their long-ass journey to hell in a handbasket, Daryl was becoming more and more convinced that it was, in fact, Rick that had cost him almost everything he'd lost.
Maybe he was twisting things, but Daryl could see how Rick had cost him his brother—twice. And if that loss wasn't enough, Rick had then cost him the love of his life.
And every time he lost, Rick arranged it, it seemed, so that he never got the chance to say goodbye.
Merle was left handcuffed to a roof. When he returned to Daryl's life, he left quietly again to fill Rick's orders to deliver Michonne to the hands of the Governor—a task Rick wanted done but didn't have the balls to do himself. When Daryl saw Merle again, he was gone. He was nothing more than one of the flesh-eating creatures that terrorized them constantly.
Daryl might not have gotten through losing Merle a second time if it hadn't been for Carol.
If he was being honest, it was Carol that had kept him going from the beginning—at least from the first shy kiss that she'd offered him on the road, after the farm. He'd already loved her, but he hadn't realized that's what it was. She'd helped him figure out what it was and what he'd been feeling. She'd allowed him to feel, and she'd accepted him as what he was, just as he was. She'd been his first love in every imaginable way, and she'd made him sure that, somehow, they'd survive this whole world—they'd beat it—just to be together.
And then Rick had taken her on a run and he'd left her there, making the decision, himself, to banish her from the group entirely.
Daryl had never gotten to say goodbye. He'd never gotten to say a million things that he meant to say. She was just gone.
For his actions, Daryl had broken Rick's nose. Rick had argued that he hadn't known about their relationship, which was true, but Daryl thought it didn't matter. Rick didn't have the right to do what he'd done, and that was the simple truth of it—and he was angry, and hurt, and scared of losing her forever.
Daryl had intended to go after her, determined to leave the entire damn group if that was what Rick wanted to keep his bullshit banishment in place, but the prison had fallen under attack at almost the very moment that he'd learned of what Rick had done. In the scramble to escape Daryl had lost precious time just the same as they'd lost people. They'd all been separated. He had no way of knowing where, exactly, Rick had left Carol.
When he'd joined the group later—found them on accident—they'd all found themselves in a pretty bad situation. They were captives of a group that, promising them sanctuary, had intended to kill and eat them. When they managed to escape, Daryl had chosen to stay with the group simply because he felt like there was nothing else to do. There was nowhere else for him to go. There was nobody left in the world that he loved, and he'd never done well with going it entirely alone.
There was nothing else, really, for Daryl at that point. Nothing mattered. He was simply surviving. He might as well do that with others—at least until he was ready to go off on his own.
He understood, honestly, the words of a friend he'd lost in the past—a friend that Rick had left behind. She'd offered him her words when he'd asked her about whether or not she still wanted to end her life, as she once had, or if she was ready to keep living. She'd told him that she didn't know if she wanted to live or if it was simply something she was doing out of habit. He'd considered the answer bullshit at the time. Now, though, he wished he could tell her that he understood.
The whole damn thing was really just a habit.
Mile after mile. Day after day. It was just a habit to keep moving forward, especially when you felt like you no longer had anything to live for and everything that you ever wanted was in the past and lost to you forever.
The moving forward, really, was nothing more than a force of habit—some deeply imbedded human instinct to keep you from standing still and dying.
And Daryl reminded Rick, every time that the man said something about his attitude and told him that everyone had suffered losses that, in many ways, Rick had been the author of his own destiny. He'd created the perfect storm in which all his losses had occurred—and he'd done the same for Daryl.
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The billboards along the highway advertised a housing community that was newly built with houses starting at prices that Daryl would have never been able to afford in his life before the whole of civilization crumbled.
Of course, they weren't looking to buy anything and the decayed state of the billboards made it clear that they were simply symbols of a bygone era. Nothing like social class and money mattered anymore. None of the things around which they'd once built their lives and society mattered at all.
The houses would offer protection from the elements, and the promise of a gated community meant there was a good chance for some protection from the Walkers that roamed around. There was a chance they could stay there long-term or, at the very least, that they could rest and get their strength up to figure out where they were going next.
Rick talked about that a lot—where they were going next. The damnedest thing about it was that Daryl didn't know where they were now, and neither did Rick. They had no purpose, and that extended beyond Daryl's own feelings of simply existing in the world. They were wandering, and they had been wandering since the beginning. Their drifting aimlessly, though, had gotten worse since the prison had been destroyed and they'd been thrown out, separately, to straggle back together again.
It didn't matter where they went, really, and these houses were as good as any. What they needed now was to stop wandering and to rest—to gather up some strength.
They'd wandered far enough north, too, that winter would be coming soon and it would hit them harder than it ever had in Georgia. They'd do good to find some place they could hole up until the winter had passed. They would need to find something, though, and they'd need to find it soon to start stocking it with enough food to get them through until spring.
The only problem with something as wonderful as a gated community, however, was that there was a good chance that their group wasn't the first to find it. Even though they had encountered good people and bad people, and even though they might be a bit wary of interacting with others, they really had very little choice except to proceed with caution. No matter what, they had to proceed. They needed shelter, and they needed it soon.
It didn't take long to realize that they weren't the first people to decide that a gated community of luxury homes might make a nice place to settle down. The fences around the community had been reinforced several times, and the gate that waited at the main entrance to the community was not the original gate—it was far stronger and more reliable as a means of keeping people out.
"These people are pretty serious about protection," Tyreese offered as soon as they approached.
"If we'd have been a little more serious about it, maybe we wouldn't have ended up quite the way we are," Michonne responded.
Tempers were short. Everyone was worn down. They were exhausted. Nobody had a calendar or the time or energy to keep track of the days, but it had been at least six months since they'd left the prison—what was left of it—in an attempt to survive. It may have been more. There were days, after all, when it seemed like an eternity. It seemed like they hadn't stopped travelling—and they hadn't stopped fighting—since then.
They didn't have a lot of fight left in them if they didn't rest soon.
"Just keep your eyes open and your hands ready," Daryl said.
"I'll do the talking," Rick offered.
"You always do," Daryl muttered, pretty sure that Rick hadn't heard him but, honestly, not concerned if he had.
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Their initial welcome to the community was a strange one. They were greeted by "guards" at the gate and practically whisked away to meet with the "mayor" of the community. Daryl saw very little of the place as they went, but he saw enough to note that it was clean and organized. Everyone appeared to be well-fed and, overall, doing well. It also must have offered most everything that everyone needed, because the few people he saw coming out on porches to see the newcomers didn't look like they were suffering too much.
It was a sharp contrast to the last place where they'd been around people—especially since they were taken to a nice home, offered drinks and snacks, and were not locked into train cars to wait until they became the main course at a community meal.
They were interviewed individually. Daryl could understand the precaution, especially after the nutcases they'd met along the way, and he didn't really give a shit about answering their questions. He was keeping his eyes open, too, and he assumed that, if they were really decent people, they knew and accepted that.
He answered their questions. They were simple enough. His "history" was short and he told them just enough of his background to make it clear that, while his life before all of this was nothing that he wanted to wax poetic about, he hadn't been a serial killer. He listed his skills without need to be modest. He was a good hunter and, honestly, he was at least halfway fucking decent at most any mechanical or skill-based job they could think of. He was also pretty good at learning new skills when the motivation was good enough and, if this place was all the hell they promised it was, he might find a great deal of motivation to learn whatever the hell he needed to learn to keep it in good working order.
When they asked him about his life now, there was nothing much to say.
He had nothing left. He'd lost everything. Rick had made sure of that—even if he hadn't directly meant to do it.
When he'd finished his little interview, Daryl had the opportunity to ask a few questions of his own, though he'd felt rushed because everyone was aware that the "mayor" of the community still had a good number of people to talk with before they could all get settled. Daryl's curiosity had been basic and his questions were quickly answered.
The "mayor's" role was given to her, and she remained in the position because that's what the people wanted. There was no benefit to the position, really, since all major decisions were made by a council. Her opinion may hold a bit more weight, but it was only out of their respect for her that they even gave her opinion any weight at all. The majority of the community was run on solar energy. They had gardens and a small orchard for growing food and were always welcoming ideas for growing more. They also had an area designated to livestock, and they intended to move the fences in the spring to allow for more space and expansion where necessary. People were allowed to choose housing for themselves and were encouraged to grow families, but there were many people, and even families, who shared homes simply because they preferred not to be alone after everything they'd seen and experienced.
Everyone worked. Everyone contributed. Everyone partook.
That suited Daryl just fine.
And if he found out later that it didn't, it didn't really matter anyway. He could stay or he could go—there was nothing holding him anywhere.
When he left the house, he left with instructions from the "mayor" – Celeste – that he was to go to the storage area of the community and get a "welcome" package of the basics. Then, from there, he could expect someone working in that area to show him around so that he could make choices about where he wanted to live.
He didn't care where the hell he lived, really, but he told her he'd accept her welcome package and her guide, just as long as she didn't expect him to live with Rick.
It was time, he figured, for a little distance.
As Daryl dismounted the steps of the house where he'd been taken for the interview, he pulled a cigarette from the half-crushed pack in his pocket and lit it. He looked around, taking in his surroundings, sincerely, for the first time. He'd been given rough directions for how to arrive at storage, and he let his feet start in that direction.
He was aware that people—some working and some doing other things—were watching him, though most had the common decency not to completely stop to gawk and stare.
Daryl made very little eye contact with any of them.
As he neared the place they called "storage," he let his ears tune in more and more to the chatter around him. He heard people talking—chattering—and he caught scattered pieces of their conversation. There was a new group. New arrivals. There was a great deal to talk about, and a great deal of speculation, surrounding new people. Daryl assumed that it must be something exciting for these people to have new blood around.
When he looked up, mostly to keep from running into anyone as it seemed like the foot traffic on the street of the little community picked up in that area, his eyes glided quickly and easily over faces that didn't matter and which meant nothing to him.
They only stopped, for a moment, when he saw a ghost from his past—a vision caught like something out of his periphery.
Daryl stopped short. He nearly fell over his own feet at the abrupt stop.
Immediately, his pulse increased. His breathing picked up. His chest felt heavy. His stomach ached and he didn't dare to glance back over where his eyes had only stopped for a half a second.
He didn't want to look back and see that they'd fooled him. He didn't want to look back and see that they'd only imagined what they wanted to see.
He didn't want to look back and, once more, suffer the loss of her as he had, nearly every morning since Rick had taken her away from him, when he woke and realized that all his beautiful memories of her were just memories and all his dreams were nothing more than hopeful recreations of his vivid imagination.
But he did look, because it was better to go ahead and break his heart again so that he could go on—he could move forward. That's what he did, after all. He just kept going because there was, really, nothing else to do.
Daryl let his eyes drift back in the direction where they'd caught a spectral glance of her. His heart practically stopped in his chest. His knees nearly buckled.
The ghost wasn't gone. In fact, she'd moved a few steps closer to him. Her brow was furrowed with concern or confusion—or maybe even doubt. She held his eyes for what seemed like an eternity before they both accepted that neither was imagining the other.
She smiled at him and he knew she was real. She opened her arms to him and he practically ran for her, slowing his steps only enough to keep from toppling her to the ground. Even in his arms, he doubted that she was real—that this was possible.
He buried his face in her neck and inhaled her scent. It was the same. It hadn't changed. She hadn't changed—not enough that it mattered.
And, suddenly, it didn't matter where the hell they were at all, because Daryl was finally home.
