Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's "The Walking Dead," wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: This exists purely because I was challenged to write something of this ilk. And I think I broke my soul in the process, just saying.
Warnings: Contains spoilers for all three seasons of the Walking Dead, adult language, canon appropriate violence, gore, suicide, allusions to suicide, canon character death and mature content.
Triage
Chapter Five
His bloody hands fisted through the long grass, opening and closing almost rhythmically as a wave of tension curled up his spine. Every muscle in his body was knotted – straining. He sunk his hands into the undergrowth, grit scoring across his skin until his fingers ached, tethering himself - as if through sheer will alone he could somehow cheat death and stay.
They were running out of time. He was running out of time.
Someone reached over, pulling up the side of his shirt. He hissed in a breath, teeth clenching, as a wet cloth, dripping and icy, gentled across his skin, making finger tracks through the partially congealed blood and grit as someone – probably Maggie, made to clean it. He shook his head.
"Leave it," he grunted, "red's supposed to be my best color." The words were stilted and inappropriate. Hindsight. It was supposed to be joke but no one laughed. He didn't blame them.
He tried to turn over, side aching, trying to curl into himself – protective – but found he couldn't. His body was shutting down, weak. His lungs felt sickly and unsteady as he coughed, struggling to keep up. Darkness rolled across his vision, he blinked, but the dull sheen remained. He shuddered. Where the fuck was his knife?
The baby was crying.
He looked up, squinting through the glare, and was struck by the irony of the moment. He took them in, standing around him, above him, strong and whole. He almost choked with pride. They'd made it. They'd survived. But it wasn't just that, it was everything. They'd come so far from the jumpy city-slickers he'd gotten stuck with after Atlanta - they hadn't been able to tell their ass from a tea kettle back then, and yet, here they were, strong.
The words got stuck in his throat. He wanted to tell them, but he had no idea how to say it. He wanted to tell them that they were both the worst and the best thing that had ever happened to him. That they had been worth it and that he-
They'd be fine.
His lashes fluttered, confused. His vision blurred and suddenly there were more faces ringing out behind the others, wavering, like a ray of sunlight filtering through a cloud of mist. He made a sound in his throat, low and wounded when he recognized them.
Fuck, he was delirious.
He blinked, but they didn't go away. Dale, Andrea, Lori, Amy, Shane, Jim, Jacqui, T-dog, Sophia…they were all there. Distant, but undeniably present. He closed his eyes tightly, forcing himself to breathe, forcing himself not to react when he opened his eyes and they were still there, waiting.
He didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed when Merle didn't show.
He blinked and realized he was losing time, he had to be. Because suddenly, Hershel was there, his hand on his arm, curling around his shoulder and he said something – a platitude, he couldn't quite make it out. He was going to ask, but then Beth had replaced him, her long blond hair fuzzed around her face in an uneven halo as she pressed a kiss across his filthy cheek.
He swallowed hard, tasting bile. He'd never been good at goodbyes.
The others were making sounds. Sympathetic. Sobbing. Their faces ruined and red. He tried to turn away. This wasn't what he wanted, how he wanted to remember them. But before he could protest, Carl was there, loose limbed and close. His hat was tilted down, hiding his eyes. It was still too big. He bit down on a smile, thumbing it up over the kid's forehead on reflex - frowning when he realized that the action had taken more out of him than it should have.
"I found your crossbow," the boy offered, shrugging it off his shoulder, awkwardly fighting the straps as he put it down beside them.
He let a crooked finger trail down the side, taking in the familiar nicks and dents, inhaling the smell of the oil he'd rubbed onto the strings just the other day, fresh and pungent.
"Keep it," he grunted. "Teach little ass kicker when she's old enough," he finished, letting his hand rest on the kid's sleeve for a fraction of a second before he caught Michonne's eye over top his head. Something in him loosened when she nodded – her face stony but kind as relief trickled through him.
She'd keep them safe.
It wasn't until he winced, trying to find a more comfortable position that he heard Rick shift just off to his right. His calloused pads brushing across the clip of his holster, the action both unconscious and reassuring as the older man made to speak.
"Daryl, do you want us to-"
A/N #2: This is my first attempt at such a genre, so please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – I should just stop estimating the number of chapter this story will have apparently. The next chapter should be up around Saturday or Sunday.
"You only live twice. Once when you're born. And once when you look death in the face." ― Ian Fleming, (from You Only Live Twice.)