Author's Notes: This chapter doesn't follow the timeline of the previous two. It follows Connor right after he leaves Murphy in the cell that morning, and explains what Daryl meant when he said "Connor knows about us."
The next chapter will be like this, but following Rick.
Chapter 7: Give In, Give In To Sight
Connor doesn't sleep at all. Instead he lays awake beside Murphy, letting the man hold him with tainted hands while he whispers Daryl's name in his dreams. Every time Murphy utters that word it cuts Connor just a little bit deeper until he can no longer take the pain. He can't be around Murphy right now, and that frightens him, too, because he has never once felt the need to be away from his twin.
Part of him feels guilty for that, even though he's not the one who's been slinking around, fucking other guys in watch towers and empty prison cells every chance he gets. He has nothing to feel guilty about, and yet he still does. Because Murphy will always be his twin, his flesh and blood, the other half of his soul, and to not want him around is to almost not want to exist himself.
Connor untangles himself from Murphy's limp grasp and leaves anyway.
The sounds of walkers groaning and milling about greets him as he quietly exits the prison, the barely rising sun just starting to throw rays of gold over the horizon. The air is brisk and fresh, and dew is visible on the plants in the garden and all the grass that surrounds the buildings.
Connor walks slowly, aimlessly, passing the guard towers and garden and the fences. He stops when he reaches the makeshift cemetery, his eyes moving from one wooden cross to the next.
He doesn't know the people buried here, but he is no stranger to loss. He can still vividly see each person's death behind his eyes, can still remember their final moments with perfect clarity.
Rocco was the first, the one that still hits the hardest. There was so much blood. It covered his face, dripped from his sweaty bangs, soaked his white shirt. Connor can hear the sound of the gunshot, the way it rang through the small space they were enclosed in. He can see Rocco's body, still locked to that chair, flying backward and hitting the concrete, Murphy following not far behind. He remembers Rocco's final words: You can't stop. You'll get out of here. Don't ever stop. They never did stop, not completely. They served his memory well, paid him a respectable tribute.
Greenly was next. That one stings like hell, too. The way he just seemed to explode, there one second and gone the next, though he was still solid when he hit the floor, still somewhat there. The blood spewed from his mouth in little rivulets, the flow gushing from his chest like a fucking flood, as if a dam had burst. Proudest day of my life. Even at the end of it all Greenly had kept the faith, had made him and Murphy see that what they were doing was right. Connor cried then, holding Greenly's hand, his grip non-existent. He had cried for Rocco, too, but it was different then. He'd had to put the sorrow aside to finish the mission. But with Greenly he'd had just enough space to mourn, just enough time to cry for the fallen soldier.
Da was the third. Connor didn't even know where the bullets hit his father, he just knew the man was dying in his and Murphy's arms. Look, boys. It's so beautiful. Connor hadn't even really known the man and yet he'd sobbed, long and hard, his twin doing the same. And after all was said and done he'd snatched up the picture hidden under his Da's hat, the one of him and Murphy as babies in their mother, Annabelle's, arms. He'd taken that picture, folded it, and shoved it into the pocket of his bloodstained jeans. Murphy hadn't even noticed the damn thing was there, and maybe that was for the best.
Doc came after that, after Smecker and Eunice had broken the boys out of the Hoag. His heart just gave out one day, and he dropped dead right in the middle of a Thursday night in his bar. Connor, Murphy, and Romeo hadn't been there; they'd only heard about the incident through the grapevine. Connor often wondered what Doc's last words had been, what his last thought had been.
Romeo was the last, the most recent, the most vivid. Before they'd gotten to the prison they'd been moving around from one place to another, sometimes taking refuge in abandoned houses or rundown apartments, sometimes in mostly empty stores, sometimes just in the back of whatever car they could safely open. They'd been trying to clear out a store for long-term use, but they'd underestimated the amount of walkers inside the building. They'd gotten careless after weeks of minimal interaction with the monsters, and it had cost Romeo his life. Romeo had been pulled into the sea of walkers, a harried cry bursting from his lips as they bit into his flesh. Murphy had wanted to try to save him; Connor knew there was nothing left to save.
Connor drops his head into his hands, lets himself cry. He's lost everyone who's ever been important to him, everyone but Murphy. Except he has lost Murphy, in a sense. He's lost Murphy not to death or disease or disappearance, but to another man, and he thinks that hurts worse than Murphy's death would, because not only is it a loss but a betrayal, as well.
Connor shakes his head, trying to clear his head of such thoughts. He hasn't lost Murphy. Murphy isn't dead or missing. Murphy is back in that prison, in the bed they share, sleeping peacefully.
And then Connor gets hit with a pain so fierce it drops him to his knees. It's like a bullet shooting straight through his heart and then spreading its poison outward to the rest of his body. Murphy is in pain, Murphy is hurting, Murphy is crying, Murphy needs him.
He longs to run to his brother, wrap him into a tight hug, tell him everything will be alright. He wants to kiss Murphy's hair and tell him he loves him still, that he'll always love him no matter what he does, that he'll always be right there beside him, waiting for him, no matter how many times he fucks Daryl.
But Connor knows that Murphy is expecting him to do this. Murphy is sending out a signal, trying to get him to come back, trying to lull him into a false sense of security. Connor knows better now, after all that's happened between them, after the way Murphy's been saying Daryl's name in his sleep. Murphy will never stop seeing Daryl, no matter how much it hurts Connor.
So Connor ignores the call, ignores his brother's pain and vicious need. He pulls himself to his feet, clenches his fists and his jaw, squeezes his eyes shut, breathes deeply through his nose.
He cannot go to his twin. He has business to attend to.
Connor rounds the corner to the small area the group has converted into a sort of parking-lot. It is quiet, peaceful, still blocked from the sun's view by the building beside it. There is no one here aside from Connor and the one lone figure standing by the mint-green Hyundai, smoking a cigarette.
"Whoever's lurkin' over there best just come on out, 'cause I already know you're there." Daryl calls out, his voice pitched low enough that it won't attract walkers or other unwanted members of the group.
A small smile graces Connor's lips. He should have known that he wouldn't be able to sneak up on Daryl.
"Figured I'd find ye here." Connor says as he casually walks over to Daryl.
Daryl's eyes cut across the small expanse of space, finding Connor in his sights. Truth be told, Connor is the last person he'd expect to be trying to have a private discussion with him. At the same time, though, he should have known this would be coming sooner or later, what with his and Murphy's carryings-on.
"Whatcha want, Connor?" Daryl asks, taking a long drag on the cigarette resting at the corner of his lips.
Connor shrugs, coming to stand in front of Daryl. "Just wanna talk."
That earns him a glare, but he just grins.
"So talk." Daryl spits out, turning his gaze to the forest beyond.
"I know ye and Murphy have been fuckin' behind my back. Know ye got that ex-cop labeled as your 'steady', too. By the way, ye got an extra smoke on ye?" Connor tries to lighten the conversation by asking for a cigarette, tries to make the other man stop glaring at him and ease up a little bit.
Daryl doesn't speak, simply pulls the crushed pack out of his pocket and offers it to Connor. Connor pulls a cigarette from the box, taking the lighter Daryl has offered in his other hand right after. He lights up, barely managing to hold in a moan as the smoke hits his tongue; it's been far too long since he's had a cigarette.
Daryl takes back his pack and lighter, regards the other man as if he doesn't quite know what to make of him. Connor doesn't say a word, opting to just let the other man stare at him for a while.
Finally, Daryl pipes up. "So what, ya come here t' tell me not to fuck yer boyfriend no more?"
Connor smirks as he exhales a plume of smoke. "Not exactly."
"Then what are ya here for? Ya plannin' on tellin' Rick, get him t' try an' put a stop to things?"
Connor chuckles and shakes his head. "M not really the tattlin' type, Daryl."
Daryl quirks an eyebrow, flicking his cigarette butt into the gravel beyond. "So ya just came down here t' bum a smoke offa me, make a lil' mornin' chit-chat?"
"Well, the cigarette is a nice bonus, but no, I didn't come down here just t' chit-chat with ye. I do have somethin' I wanna say. Guess 'm just figuring out how t' word it properly." Connor takes another inhale, blowing the smoke out through his nostrils.
The two men stand in silence for a few moments as Connor finishes the cigarette, flicks the butt in the same area that Daryl threw his.
Finally, Connor speaks. "M not gonna say it doesn't bother me that you're fuckin' Murphy, because it does. But he seems… happier since the two of ye started hookin' up. Been saying your fucking name in his sleep for Christ's sake." Connor pauses, taking a deep breath to keep from crying. "I guess I just want him t' be happy. An' if he's happy with you, then I can overlook the fact that the both of ye are filthy cheaters."
Connor looks away, out toward a walker that he can see just beyond the fence. It gives him something to focus on while he gathers his thoughts, while he builds up his courage.
His eyes come back to Daryl's, some unspoken emotion raging just under the surface. "But I think that maybe, Daryl, ye should think 'bout expandin' your horizons."
Daryl snorts. "What the fuck does that mean?"
"Ye know what me an' Murph did in our former lives, Daryl? We killed people. 'Evil men; dead men', that was our motto." Connor smirks, something evil and angelic all at the same time. "If I wanted t' put a stop this affair you two are having it wouldn't exactly be hard. I coulda stopped it a long time ago, but I didn't for Murph's sake."
Daryl's eyes narrow into slits, his lips pressing together in a hard line. "Are you fucking threatin' me?"
Connor chuckles, shaking his head. "Not at all, Daryl."
"Then what the fuck's the point here, 'cause if you're done I got somewhere else t' be." Daryl straightens himself fully, squaring his shoulders.
Connor's eyes lock onto Daryl's for a few seconds. Actions speak louder than words, and Connor's never been very good at words, anyway. So he'll have to show Daryl what he means; he just hopes that Daryl won't do something rash and stupid in response.
So quick that Daryl barely registers the movement, Connor leans forward and presses a kiss to Daryl's lips. He stays there for several seconds, keeping them locked together, wondering if Daryl will kiss back, or try to hit him, or do anything at all.
But Daryl has been stunned into stillness. He can feel Connor's lips against his own, and finds that it's not an unpleasant feeling. He just can't make himself kiss back, can't get thoughts of Murphy out of his head. And that's the real kicker: he's thinking about Murphy when he should be thinking about Rick.
Connor pulls back, his eyes sparkling, a grin curving his lips. "Broaden your horizons. Think about it."
And then he turns and walks back the way he came, leaving Daryl to his raging thoughts.