Daryl didn't leave Warren's side for nearly two weeks. Job be damned, outside world be damned, all of it be damned, Daryl wasn't moving. The infection had been pretty bad, and Warren would occasionally relapse back into a mild fever for a day or two, but the boy was out of the proverbial woods, at least. Nothing his body did at this point would kill him, and the antibiotics they were throwing at his system made sure of it. Daryl would stay awake while Warren slept, watching him, watching the windows, just watching. Someone still needed to be on high alert around Warren, because even with the previous incident growing further and further back in the past, the residents weren't happy.

They never did anything, luckily. Daryl would see them peeking into the windows with heavy scowls, gone as soon as they saw him move to get up, like they were scared to be caught. And of course they were scared - whether they were terrified of Daryl, who usually looked fairly pissed off when he had to get up, or the fact that the last person to bother Warren got executed, it didn't matter - and that meant that Daryl barely had to break out of his own thoughts to deal with them. And he spent a lot of the time thinking.

Why was it that he stayed here? He was having trouble sorting himself out these days. It used to be so simple - he stayed because it was useful, because he needed them and couldn't work alone, because they needed his protection and he got something good out of keeping them alive - but it wasn't like that anymore. He didn't necessarily need Warren to survive - he could function perfectly well on his own - and with the way his group were integrating into the system that was Alexandria, they didn't need him anymore. Whatever happened to running?

The bike sat unfinished and unused in the garage. That's what happened to running.

That, and the idea of leaving Warren behind was like a line tied to Daryl's wrist, tugging just hard enough when he turned to leave that he couldn't keep going. To run would be to snap that line and send Warren reeling back, and he couldn't do that to the boy. Maybe that was a good enough reason, Daryl thought one morning, arms crossed on the end of the bed, head on the sheets, watching Warren sleep peacefully, the gentle rise and fall of his chest a soft comfort. Maybe Warren needed him. Maybe, being ill, Warren needed him to get better. Maybe if Warren got better and could function alone, they'd part like normal people, only having crossed paths by sheer accident, torn apart again by the oscillating universe, never to see each other again.

He didn't think that would happen, but saying it wouldn't didn't mean it couldn't.

Warren stirred, and he sat up, pushing his chair to the head of the bed. The boy yawned, stretched, and pushed himself up, leaning against the pillows stacked high behind him. "Morning." Warren said, sleepily, a smile on his face.

"It's three o'clock." Daryl replied, soft, chuckling.

"It's still morning fuck you." Warren reached out for a gentle punch to Daryl's shoulder, a playful movement that seemed so natural to the two of them that it overwrote the natural awkwardness a punch to the shoulder usually entailed. "But seriously. Did you sleep?" Warren asked, stretching with his arms to the ceiling.

"Nah. But 'm good." Daryl leaned back in his chair, ultimately relaxed and even a little sleepy himself. If he could have seen himself from the outside, he would realize his questions had answers he just couldn't see. He did need Warren - not like a fish needs water, or a bird needs wings, but like how a dog needs a good field to run in, or a child needs a hot summer day full of climbable trees and sweet, green grass. Not a need on the big official Table of Needs - Maslow was a smart guy, but his table was too simple and too emotionless - but something more than that. It was a need that couldn't be categorized, not as an Emotional Need nor as a need for Love or Esteem or Self Actualization. It was a need without boundaries, a more metaphysical need - like how an acoustic guitarist needs a warm coffee shop to play in, or how a cold day needs a hot drink and a warm fire and a good movie at the end. The kind of need Daryl had for Warren was the kind of need that breeds perfect moments, sweet and wonderful and complete moments without need for anything additional. He needed Warren, because when they were around each other, they bred perfect moments like this one - warm in the comfort of the house, unafraid, playful and sleepy with no desire to move, content in the presence of each other, content in the knowledge that the other wouldn't break the moment because of awkwardness or self awareness or for anything less than the greatest of biological needs - and in the same way, Warren needed him.

"You should sleep." Warren frowned slightly, sitting up on his own, pulling away from the pillows. "I feel bad hogging the bed if you're not even gonna sleep."

"'M good." Daryl's reply was a hush to the question. "I'll nap later." He leaned forward, motioning Warren to lift his arms so he could check on the scars. They no longer needed bandages, as they weren't oozing anymore, and Rosita had predicted the stitches from the original incisions could be removed by the end of the week. They were no longer red, though around the stitches themselves they were a little pink. "You ever gonna tell me what happened?" Daryl asked, running a callused thumb over the scar, the light mark stark against the honey darkness of Warren's skin. He'd asked that question once a day, every day, since Warren had woken up, and every day he'd gotten silence. He never pressed further, but he always asked, hoping one day he'd get lucky and Warren would say.

Today must have been his lucky day, because after a moment, Warren spoke. "I guess you're just gonna ask until you know, huh?" He smiled, chuckled, too engrossed in the perfect moment to not reply, subconsciously fighting to not break the spell they created. "And I guess they're pretty worrisome looking. Somewhere between I got clawed by a bear and I tried to slice my own chest open and honestly I feel like you're gonna be disappointed." He chuckled, putting a hand over the scar, running a finger in a circle around the area.

"But it's pretty simple. I used to have boobs. Like, boobs." He held his hands out from his chest like he was cupping something. "Like, never got to have pretty bras because my tits were big enough to be real melons boobs. And they sucked, because even squashing them away just made me look like I had much smaller boobs, and not like I had none at all or very large pecs, which is what I was trying to achieve. And there was this surgeon, and he was carting around a van full of medical bullshit and he'd run out of food and I'd seen him here once before I went and these people were like nah and chased him out but honestly I was pretty desperate, 'cause big breasts are a leading cause of massive back pain and it was so fucking hard to fight zombies and hunt and shit when my back tried to kill me every damn day, so I told him I'd feed him if he got rid of my boobs. And he did, and it worked, and he said he'd stick around and come back in like a week to check on them and when I woke up the next morning all my food was gone and as you can probably figure out, he never came back. You found me two weeks later." Warren shrugged, but it was clear this wasn't a happy funtimes story. It was clear that this admission, that he trusted this someone when it was clear he probably shouldn't have and paid the price for it, was somewhat embarrassing. It was embarrassing that he was so desperate to change, and he spit the story out like a bad taste, like if he just said it once he'd never say it again.

Daryl put a hand on the boy's knee, hidden by the sheets. He didn't need to say anything - he got it as best he could get it. He'd never know the ultimate pain of wanting to change oneself so thoroughly, of course, but he understood what it was to be desperate. He understood what it meant to want something so bad you'd do anything for it, even risky bullshit. He was no stranger to hard times. They were quiet for a moment, before Daryl stood. "Thanks." He smiled, the thanks a bit strange to Warren for a moment, until he realized Daryl was thanking him for telling him. Thanks for trusting me, he was saying, but it was gruff and hard and it made Warren smile because boy Daryl was trying hard not to look like this was a big deal even though it very much was. "I'm gonna get som'thin' t'eat." He spoke, turning to look out the windows, the day bright outside. "Want anythin'?"

"Nah." Warren waved him off. "Go take a break. Carl is gonna bring Judith by for a bit, so I'll be fine. Get out, see people." He looked almost sad, the smile on his face almost guilty. "Do the things you like doing, okay? I don't wanna be the reason you became a hermit and never left your home. Next thing you know you'll be shaking a cane at kids on the lawn." He chuckled, and Daryl laughed with him.

"I'd just shoot 'um." Daryl shook his head, giving the boy one last glance before heading for the door. Carl was a good kid and could take care of Warren if he needed it, and the boy was right - he needed to get outside. Not only because he'd been in that room for forever, but also because he had some things to do. He'd made a promise, after all. And no one was exempt.

He found Aaron pretty quickly, as the man had been using Daryl's inability to leave to take some time with his boyfriend, and they could only go so far when Eric's ankle was still healing. They were sitting by the tiny lake on a bench, enjoying a sort of picnic lunch with sandwiches that only had one slice of meat and cheese as that's all they could get their hands on. They looked up when Daryl approached, motioning him to sit on a nearby chair. Daryl didn't, remaining on his feet, hands in his pockets. "Hey." Aaron stood to mimic him, a little uncomfortable with Daryl's stance. The hunter looked like he was on a mission to kill, and Aaron was worried someone in the camp had done something else. They'd had enough death's inside the walls to last a lifetime. "What's up?"

"You guys remember a surgeon comin' by at any point?" Daryl asked, right to the point. "'Pparently had a van, lots of medical shit?"

"Oh, you mean Joe." Eric said, bitter at the name.

"He's, uh, a local drifter of sorts." Aaron said, soft, like saying the surgeon's name would incite a riot. "He came around every two or so months for a while, looking for food in exchange for medical supplies. At one point, he asked if he could stay, but we weren't having it. He wasn't the nicest, and he had that aura that he was a creep." Aaron tensed at the image he described, hands in his pockets. "It's been a bit since we've seen him. He's sort of learned not to come back, though I've seen him around on the routes we used to take. I don't think he wants to go far." He paused. "Why?"

"No reason." Daryl lied through his teeth, too busy planning to think of a better lie. "Your garage still open?"

"Yeah, you uh..." Aaron had started to speak, but Daryl had already started off for the garage, leaving them to their picnic. They watched Daryl walk away briskly, head down and hands in his pockets. The hunter was thinking, hard - if that surgeon came by every two months, it meant he probably only traveled a month out, and it had been five weeks since his last sighting - he should be a week back towards them at this point. This meant that Daryl could go out, find him, take back what was Warren's, and be back in six weeks at longest. He didn't let himself linger on why, letting his impulses run him as he headed for the nearly fixed bike, determined to leave by the evening.

~o~o~

The bike was ready by midnight. Aaron had come back at some point, but hadn't asked him any questions, letting him work on his own. He had stopped trying to think too much about anything besides what direction he needed to head. His blood was pounding in his veins and he hadn't felt a rush like this in a long time, nor a purpose to his actions. He was hunting again, and this was big game, and he could hear his heart in his head as he worked.

When he was done, covered in grease and dust and oil, he returned to their home. Everyone was asleep, including Warren, who snoozed soundly in his bed. He was so pure looking, sleeping there, white sheets and blond hair over dark skin, while Daryl hovered over him like a blackened wraith, dark from work and sweat and oil. He didn't linger, grabbing water and some other basic rations and throwing them in a bag, before pulling out a notepad and a pen. He left grease on the paper, and here he paused. What could he say?

Warren,

Don't worry. Gonna fix your problem, and come back soon.

Daryl

He was curt, and to the point, and he stuffed the note under Warren's pillow. He didn't question his need to leave a note, though it was an interesting point - he had some internal need for Warren to know he was coming back, that he wasn't abandoning him, and that they would see each other again. Like he needed to make the point that the universe wasn't unceremoniously ripping them apart, and that they would drift back into each other's bubbles soon.

With water and food in hand, and the bike done, he was ready to go. The open road called him, sweetly, whispering to him with hot breath in his ear. The bike's handles were cold under his hot hands as he closed the gate, the motor's hum when he started it rattling the frame and sending shivers down his spine. He missed this. Even though he was leaving things behind, even though he wasn't running and he was coming back, the road kicking up under his feet and the rumble of the engine felt like home, and he had missed it.