There was nothing quite like the open road to calm him. It stretched before him unsullied and unmarred by the dead for miles and miles, cleared out by who knows what. Did the Alexandrians think that far ahead? Maybe. Did many people pass through? It was one of the only routes from their area outward, and it was the only way to meet the major highway that cut through the otherwise untouched wilderness around it. The highway was broad, and full of cars when Daryl reached it, bike easily cutting fast swathes between the vehicles like there was no problem to it.
It was there that the Walkers began to come out in droves, and Daryl had to slow. He'd hear them, the echo of the deep set highway enough to hear the moans and feet easily, and he'd park his bike and climb a tree, nestled there quiet until the hoard passed. A few roamers were never a problem, and he would only bother to stop for them if they were in his way, but the hoards were another thing entirely. He'd get in a tree and watch as hundreds if not thousands of Walkers lumbered passed. Sometimes he'd be able to continue in a few minutes - once, he found himself stuck in the tree until the next morning, the Walkers marching onwards into nightfall. This was new, and different, and Daryl kept a close eye out as they walked by. It was like entire cities of them left at the same time, heading for who knows what and who knows where, aimlessly following the familiar routes of the highways until they found something.
Daryl was always thankful they never found him.
In between his sessions of driving - long expanses of nothing but hot black pavement and wind and speed and the rumble of a steady, even machine underneath him, bandana over his face keeping out any dust or debris as he passed through cloud after cloud of kicked up sand and sunglasses over his eyes keeping out the glare of the high noon sun - he would have to stop, either to refuel his ride from passing cars, or simply sit and eat and sleep. He never drove at night, as his headlight gave him away before he could see any threats, and he'd spend a lot of time in trees at night not sleeping. During these moments, he thought. He had a lot to think about.
Why the fuck was he out here? Well, he was hunting. It gave him a rush just to think about, because it was such a familiar feeling. The stalking, tracking, sneaking of it, the itch of his trigger finger as he passed an inn or a building and searched it out. But what did that even matter? He wouldn't do this for anyone else. Most of the others wouldn't need him to - they'd do it themselves. He would help, of course, but Rick or Carol would be out there themselves, because no one wronged their family.
He paused, one hand on a long tube he was using to siphon gas, eyes scanning the area. There was one person he'd do this for, he realized, pulling the tube and letting the excess drain before he put it away. He'd do it for Beth. Hell. he did it for Beth. She was taken and he tracked her all over hell. She was wronged and he found her. It wasn't pleasant, honestly, to compare the two - Warren to Beth - because it hurt him to think of Beth, and it hurt him more to think of Warren trapped like she was, killed like she was.
He sat on the hood of the car he had been taking gas from, watching a dust cloud down the road. Why did it hurt him? God, it was hard enough to figure out why Beth's death dealt such a blow to him. Maybe it was that he had been in charge of her when she was taken. He knew he liked protecting her - she was sometimes more pushy than she needed to be, but she was young, and joyous, and he found a smile forming at the thought of her. She was a spark when he was kindling - he could only burn when she let him. And he guessed Warren was similar. Not a spark, but a candle - slow burning, but bright and vibrant and constant.
Being constant was a big thing, honestly. Beth was a butterfly, flighty, and hard to keep up with. She made him feel old, as she was so spry, and it made her hard to protect. But while that was a hassle, he also enjoyed that - he enjoyed chasing her, enjoyed her life in the dead world. But Warren was solid. He was steady, and unfaltering, and Daryl found that just as lively, just as full. Warren gave him peace, and he enjoyed that just as much.
But what did he feel for Beth, and what did that mean for Warren? He thought about this question for a while, the open road quiet, and finally decided on an answer that night, the tree rustling gently around him, Walkers moaning on the road. He had avoided thinking on what he felt for Beth, because it was complicated and with her dead, it honestly barely mattered. He had found himself drawn to her, drawn to her radiance, and he spent a lot of his long ride thinking of the words he's use to describe what they were.
Love? Maybe. Like a sister. For all Daryl's bravado about women, and all Merle's teachings, and all he told himself, thinking of loving Beth like anything other than a sister put a knot in his stomach. It called up old, scaly memories of alcohol and Merle and he pressed them back like old bile, wishing he could just flush them forever out of his system. But the feeling was love, and he could tell that much. He had, at one point, loved his mother, and he had loved Merle, and the feeling was the same. The deep connection between them, the hot river of something there was no different.
But did he love Warren? That question kept him occupied for days upon days, kept him awake night after night. Because the feeling was no different. The deep connection was there. The strings between them were strong, and supple, and if he loved Beth, then there was no question as he felt the same thing for Warren. But when he thought about loving the boy like a brother, it felt... weird. It felt like he had touched something with a horrible texture, and it made him shiver. He didn't know why, but to love Warren like a brother felt wrong. Did that mean he loved him like a lover?
The city loomed up ahead, dark in the sinking evening, the sun nearly set. If he could get inside, he'd be safe until morning. The first building was open, and he pulled his bike inside, cradled in the darkness of the walls, the interior silent. He checked it anyway, and he found nothing but concrete floor and chained doors. Once settled, he sat. Thinking about this stuff was hard. Not only was he tasked to sort out what he felt for Warren, he also had to find names for it and figure out what it all meant.
Warren was a boy, he'd figured that much out. Even though Warren's body was female as far as Daryl was aware, telling himself that Warren was anything but was a mistake. Not only would that be an insult to Warren, and a horrible one at that, but thinking of Warren as a girl made Daryl's stomach swim like those memories would come back. Warren was a boy, and love felt like the right word, and as he sat in the dark, he pressed his head to his hands. He'd been out of food for three days, and water for two, and his stomach's churning at the idea of Warren being a woman made him feel ill. He hadn't found anything to hunt for, and it hadn't rained, and the dust on the roads was hot and drained him further. The dark was a nice retreat.
You're not gay. The voice was faint, ghostly, and Daryl shot up like he would have to defend himself, only steadying when he recognized the harsh lilt. Merle. Come back to haunt him, proper this time, not the wraith like image he'd seen before, but a good and proper ghost. Which was dumb, because Daryl couldn't fight a ghost, as far as he was aware. But there was no other noise than that, just Merle's voice in Daryl's head, as it had always been.
I thought I beat that outta you, little brother. He could hear the voice, but it had no source but his own mind, his starved subconscious fighting him. He responded loudly, pressing hands to his head, nearly falling back to the hard pavement. "You ain't done shit!" He snapped, angry now, on fire now that he was being questioned. But the voice was just that, a voice, and continued unperturbed.
I taught you how to love a woman proper. The voice was honey, sweet and sickening, and Daryl shook his head. There was no talking to it, no convincing it that it was wrong, so he only had one other option - drown it out, internally. He sat there, repeating, his own voice in his head: Warren ain't no girl, Warren's a boy, 'n if love is th' right word then fuck it. He repeated that, over and over again, drowning out Merle's voice in the back of his head, screaming at him with horrible things like faggot and failure and I thought I raised you better than this. He ignored the voice, and eventually, he fell asleep that way, hands on his own head, locked up tight in that room with only Merle's hateful slurring for company.
~o~o~
He woke to voices. He was hungry, and dehydrated, but the voice was gone. There were people outside, and he crawled to his crossbow, unlatching the front door as quietly as he could and peering out the crack. It was bright outside, almost blinding compared to the infinite darkness of the building, and he watched as a slumped little man tried desperately to pry the lock off the second door. He had a van, and his van had a Red Cross hand painted on it, and he was alone. Daryl's pulse quickened as he put the ideas together in his head.
The door was loud when he threw it open, and the little man screamed. He dropped to his knees, babbling pathetically, as Daryl approached, crossbow raised. He paused there, staring. This was the guy that hurt Warren, sniveling in front of him, scruffy face and red eyes and very little hair. "Please don't kill me." He whined.
"What's your name?" Daryl demanded the answer, stepping forward. Those red eyes, small in the man's face, were searching when he wasn't trying to plead for his life, and Daryl knew better than to think he was harmless.
"Joe." The man said, hands raising politely as he stood, antsy now. "Doctor Joe. D'you need medical assistance? I can-I can help, I can do whatever you need me to." He tried to smile, edged toward the car, and Daryl advanced quickly, making him stop. The hunter pressed close, tip of the loaded arrow so close to Joe's head that he could feel the cold steel.
"You visited a boy outside of Alexandria." He growled, face hot, blood racing. This was him. He'd done it, he'd found him, he'd gotten here, and now it was go time, and the adrenaline was pumping and he was seeing red.
"I, oh! Her!" Joe chuckled, awkward, and Daryl nearly threw his crossbow down, advancing so fast the man actively fell over and nearly hit his head on his van.
"Him!" Daryl barked, grabbing Joe's shirt and pulling him up to face him. "He ain't no girl 'n you made him a promise 'n you broke it and he nearly died." Daryl went quiet, pulling the man's face close.
"You some kind of body guard?" Joe hiccuped.
"No." Daryl threw him at the van, lifting his crossbow again. "Get all his stuff in bags and bring it here." He ordered, watching Joe disappear in the van. One small bag exited at high speed, landing near the exit, and then another, and then nothing. Joe didn't re-appear, and Daryl warily
approached the doors. He expected the worst, so it didn't surprise him when Joe made an attempt to leap at him with a knife, and earned a crossbow to the face for his trouble. Daryl dropped the bow, lifting the man by the shirt collar again, and his face was bleeding and honestly, there was nothing else Daryl needed to do but all this frustration at himself was building and he needed an outlet.
~o~o~
He left that building with the van parked out front and Joe's body in it, broken but alive, Daryl's own knuckles bleeding, his bags full of Warren's food and his stomach full as well. He didn't kill Joe, no, but the gentle moaning in the distance was a good clue that the man wouldn't survive the night, and Daryl didn't care. He had to get back, to show Warren there was nothing to worry about anymore, and that he'd gotten his things back. He had to show Warren he'd go to the ends of the earth to keep him safe.
That night he slept soundly, belly full, head quiet for once. The night was peaceful around him, and he smiled. The road was wonderful under his hands, but he couldn't wait to get home.