Daryl's last memories were of Rick's hands on his face, and pale blue eyes fading from sight, like the sun over the horizon.

Then everything went black.

For a long time, or what might have been no time at all, there was...nothing.

Then he was falling.

He tried to open his eyes, but there was nothing to open. No sensation reached him at all except that the ground had opened up and he was plummeting into the abyss. His mouth tried gasping for air, to call for Rick, even just to scream, but nothing passed his lips, and when he made a grab out at something to stay his fall, he realised every nerve in his body was unresponsive. Daryl realised then that he may not even have a body anymore. Terror gripped him as he realised he was dying and it was nothing like as peaceful as people made it out to be. This was it, this was the end, after everything -

But Daryl had never been a coward, and he sure as hell wasn't ready to die, not if he could help it.

Some distant part of his mind recalled a poem he'd been told in high school or seen in a movie somewhere. Not that he'd ever been allowed much chance to like poetry, his father told him it was a hoby for fags, while his teachers said he hadn't the brain to understand it, but for whatever reason this one had stuck with him.

Do not go gently into that good night.

Rick had kissed him, that evening before the Saviours. That had been gentle, but not a goodbye, no, it was full of hope and promises like everything they did together. It was what kept him going through every night of Negan's toture. He had to get back -

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

If that's what he needed, well there was nothing Daryl was better at. He pushed his fear deep down inside himself and screamed and yelled and kicked with all of the nothing he had. Ain't no soul, divine or otherwise, gonna keep him in this shithole.

"Why don't you go fucking fuck yourself!" He yelled.

He slammed into the ground.

And bolted upright.

His eyes were open. Oxygen entered his lungs again. He felt feeling returning to his limbs and the firmness of the surface beneath him. All the little sensations and feelings, inputs to his senses he'd never even noticed before, now testified loud and clear that he was alive. He couldn't help but marvel at his own ragged breathing and the thin film of sweat outlining the body he thought he'd lost.

Rick. "Rick!"

Where was he? He swung his head round, checking first for danger (habit) then for the man he loved. But he was alone.

Blinking rapidly and shaking his head to accustom to the overwhelming return of reality, he took in his surroundings.

He wasn't outside Alexandria anymore. Sure as hell didn't look like no afterlife he'd ever heard of 'neither. Desk. Wardrobe. Mattress under his ass. Some bedroom. Still lived in, by the looks of things. Bunch of personal affects and crap, not much dust. Daryl wasn't much invested in any sort of luxuries; anything was better than a Savior cell, but it wasn't his or Rick's room, and it didn't look much like any of rooms in Alexandria he'd been inside.

Still, satisfied that he was safe for the immediate future, he felt on his chest for the bullet wound. Nothing. What? He could still feel the ghost of his chest being ripped open, swore he still felt the faint smudge of blood on his cheeks from wear Rick held him. Yet there wasn't a mark on him. Jesus. Long was I out?

Shaking his head again, he swung out of bed. He was about to call out again for Rick or Carol, but realised he had no idea where he was, and no weapon. He didn't think the Saviors would just leave him unsupervised in a bed like this, but he wasn't taking any chances, and no way in hell he was wandering around new territory unarmed. Crouching into a defensive position, he noticed a cache of empty beer bottles gathered near the door. It'll do. He bust one open on a nearby desk, careful not to let the glass fall near his feet since it wasn't exactly his first time doing this. Still though, it was best not to go barefoot. He paused a second, listening carefully for any reaction to the sound he'd made, then grabbed a pair of shoes from the end of the bed.

What was going on? Was Rick okay? Who had dragged him off the street and into some strange new place, still bothering to leave him a fresh set of clothes?

The shoes were pretty decent fit, truth be told. Got lucky, or someone had picked them out special for him. Actually looked a bit like the ones he wore before –

Daryl's head snapped up.

He looked again at the room. Fuck. He hadn't even noticed, it had been so goddamn long. Crappy rock posters on the walls, Miller bottles in the corner, plaid sheets, and that fuckin' oak tree across the way he'd fallen out of once and busted his leg on. Must have been years ago, but it was his. It was his goddamn room. From before the outbreak.

But his room...his room was back in Atlanta. He'd been shot outside Alexandria, in Virginia. What the fuck. Why had the group come all the way back here? How did they even know which house was his?

His stomach tightened

No longer afraid of someone bursting into the room, he hesitantly pushed himself up and walked towards the doorway. Bottle still in one hand, he let the other hover over the light switch that was now looming over him. Fear overwhelmed him, and for a moment he was frozen, as if by choosing not to flick it he could choose not to know, he could deny the truth of this world a little bit longer. Funny how little things like that tiny little lever had become totally inconsequential in the apocalypse, unnoticeable until they changed your world.

He flicked the switch.

The light came on.

Daryl inhaled deeply. There was a grid. Power was online. Which meant either in the time he'd been sleeping humanity had somehow managed to return electricity to the entirety of west Atlanta and caried his sorry ass back to the same goddamn bed he'd left, or – or...

Searching for confirmation, he dropped the bottle and scrambled over to the wardrobe – his wardrobe, and yanked it open. There was his crossbow in the same place he'd always kept it, and – shit - a full set of bolts fresher than anything he'd used in months. No. Anyone could have done that, it was the stupid kind of considerate crap Rick would do. He needed to know. He rifled through the clothes, tossing them all unceremoniously onto the floor until he despaired to find what he'd been looking for - the shirt he'd worn first day of the apocalypse, long since gone, torn up and used as some tourniquet or another, and yet it was somehow also here, grubby, but ultimately intact.

He reeled backwards, crunching over the broken glass. The sound gave him some relief, forcing some chaos into this overwhelming, suffocating normality.

Everything was as it had been before he left. The apocalypse hadn't happened.

It was... a dream?

He fell back on the bed, head in hands and struggling to breath. A dream. All that death – that loss, that horror – none of it real, just the product of his own sick imagination. It didn't make any sense, he'd been gone for years. How was that even possible? All this, his life from before, what was that to him? He barely even remembered it. The room he'd spent all his teenage years in was alien to him now. A collection of trinkets that had long lost any importance. Could a dream really do that?

He waited for the relief to pour over him. It meant no more running. No more living on the edge, living from day to day, knowing any one could be his last. No more of Negan, or the Saviours, or the Claimers or the Wolves or any of the other sumofabitches. He wasn't just alive again, he had his life back. It was everything he'd long since lost hope of. It was over.

He should feel relieved, or something. But all he felt was numb. It was too much. Fuck.

It'll fade, he told himself. That's what dreams do. They feel real at first, but they always fade. With great effort, he slowed his breathing. Tried to feel grateful. He didn't have to live in that fear anymore. Could sleep like a regular human being again. Didn't have to worry about the group, about how any one of them could be taken away at any moment. What had happened to Glenn and Abraham, that wasn't real, those people hadn't even existed. He didn't have to worry about Carol or Michonne or Maggie or Carl or lil asskicker, – fuck, this line of thought was not helping. He was gasping for air again, couldn't help himself from hurling another bottle against the wall. "No!" The smash of glass gave him a short respite, but it wasn't enough. Instead he punched at the wall, bruising his knuckles, then punched again. Anything to distract from this. They were just gone.

Rick.

Oh God, Rick.

Of course I dreamed him up, he thought with a rattling breath. The sense of it shocked him. How could someone like that have actually existed? A sheriff who'd rode up into town and rescued them all, like something out a fairytale. Forging a family out of a band of broken people, and making Daryl feel like part of that that. Sappy bullshit, all of it. Sappy bullshit he'd believed.

Rick's hands coiled in his hair, pulling him close, whispering in his ear that he was special –

Shit, he must've been so desperate. Dreaming of some grandoise white knight that could come and take all the broken pieces of Daryl's soul and just piece them back together like it was nothing. Every compliment, every reassuring remark or teasing jibe, all of it Daryl talking to himself, telling himself the things he wanted to hear. What the fuck.

He'd been so goddamn naive, the truth shone crystal clear in his face. There was no one that wonderful and that thoroughly decent. Even if there was, pretty obvious now that only in his dreams could they could have possibly wanted Daryl.

But he'd been stupid enough to believe it anyway. What did that say about him? All those months they'd danced around each other – waiting for the other one to make the first move, and when they finally – finally – had, the taste of Rick's skin and sweat, the feeling of his breath ghosting over Daryl's scars, telling him he was beautiful no matter what, all of it was just the depraved fantasy of a man who hadn't gotten any in years.

He didn't even want to think about what it meant that he'd fantasised about sucking off a fucking cop.

"No, no, no. Come on, Rick. Come on." He pulled at his hair and rammed his eyes shut, willing the man he'd loved to life. He could still see the curve of his jawline, feel the rough texture of his beard underneath his hands. The soft warmth of his lips. He felt so real. "Fucking, no!" For the first time in a long time he felt like a child again, utterly defenceless. "Shit. Shit." He collapsed again, this time sobbing.

He couldn't take it. He was used to death in that world, even accepted his own to some degree, but this felt so much worse. He had lost everyone, absolutely everyone, and not just to the inevitable draw of mortality but to something so much more obscene. The idea that they hadn't existed at all was such a grotesque and ugly perversion of of their memory. He couldn't help but feel repulsed by his surroundings, so free from any history - a crossbow that he'd never taught Beth how to hold, clothes Carol had never washed and thrown playfully at his face, a bed he'd never shared with Rick.

Shaking, he languished on the bed for some time, desperately wanting to do anything, anything to undo this abomination, but feeling utterly powerless and completely disgusted with himself. Eventually, once adrenaline had faded from his system and the tears had dried on his face, his panic was replaced with a deep sadness. Less so for himself, though there was that, but for all those lost people, the family he'd never had. Carol, who'd struggled through the death of her husband and daughter and come out the other side, Glenn and Maggie, whose love had been so much easier and purer than his own sick fixation on Rick, Michonne, who found the family she hadn't been looking for and who'd been so much like him in that way, Judith Grimes, who'd survived against all the odds and still knew how to laugh for no reason.

They'd all come so far and taken so much strength from one another. Grown together from strangers into something so much more.

Except they hadn't.

Eventually, after what must have been more than an hour, the distant sound of a revving engine penetrated his thoughts.

All this time and he still knew that sound.

"Merle," he whispered softly, scarcely daring to believe it, and shocked at himself that the idea of seeing his older brother again hadn't occurred until now. Finding strength he didn't know he had, he jumped up and made his way to the front door.

"Alright, Darylina? Woken up from your little siesta?" Merle chuckled and switched off the engine of that damn motorcycle.

It was a long time before Daryl said anything. He'd buried Merle, literally and figuratively, even got to the stage where maybe he didn't quite think about him much any more. Fuck. What was he even supposed to feel? He was a dickbag, an asshole, but it was his brother. He was real and alive and, shit, he had both fucking hands. That simple fact drove home the reality of all of this more than anything else up until now. He had to force himself not to panic again, closing his eyes to restore his breathing.

"Yeah, could say that." He looked at the ground, then back at Merle again, then at the ground. So many emotions welled up inside him and there weren't no words to convey them. He went towards his brother, fast as he dared, feeling bizarrely like he was approaching something as fierce as a bull, yet delicate as a butterfly. Once there, he reached out his hand and slowly, hesitantly, placed it on the larger man's shoulder, as if touching his flesh might burn him. His eyes hadn't lied, the man was real.

Merle's eyes darted to Daryl's hand then back to his face. "You comin' on to me baby brother? You know I ain't do guys unless you buy me some smack first."

Daryl smiled, despite himself. "Nah. Just missed your shitty face is all." The words didn't quite come out in the jokey manner he'd intended, but they were true. Despite it all, he'd missed this sack of shit. It was beyond surreal. He'd lost plenty of people, even before the apocalypse, half the time he drove them away himself, but he wasn't ever used to them coming back.

Only fitting that it should be Merle, really. No one was quite as indestructible as his older brother, and that was something his imagination had gotten right at least. Prick would cut off his own off before he went down, even if it was a dream.

He felt the beginning of tears pricking his eyes once more. He'd thought he'd ran out by now, but guess that was only the sad kind.

Merle squinted at the moisture welling up in Daryl's eyes, before apparently electing to ignore it. He stood up, and Daryl's hand fell back to his side. "Whatever Darylina. Just make sure you stay in your room tonight," he said, though not unkindly. He wiped off his hands on a rag and started towards the house.

Daryl almost let him go. He needed time to process this. He and Merle had never been one for sentimentality, it was enough that he was here, didn't think anything needed said. But he had to know, couldn't leave this standing while there was the slightest bit of hope -

"You don't remember?"

Merle didn't turn around, though Daryl had thought he might, "Remember what?"

Daryl took a deep breath. "Didn't have any... any dreams last night? Like you was somewhere else?"

This time Merle did turn. He looked at Daryl for a minute, and for a moment Daryl thought he did remember, but then the face wrinkled up like he'd been asked the most stupid question of his life. "What?"

"Apocalypse? End of days, that sorta stuff?"

Merle paused for a second, that angry confusion never leaving his face. But he paused for so long Daryl was sure he must remember.

"...Nah"

Daryl's shoulders sagged, and he tried not to let the disappointment overwhelm him.

"Been sleepin' too long Daryl. Need some fresh air in that brain of yours."

He was probably right.

Daryl hadn't been able to cope with the claustrophobia of the house. He'd stuck around to stare at Merle for a bit, but he was clearly starting to piss his brother off and fuck, he was overwhelmed by lost memories and ghosts in that place. It hadn't been home to him for a long time. He'd done the only thing he could think off that wasn't smashing more bottles and gone hunting instead.

It helped. The forest hid the obscene sight of civilization, let him think that he was back there. Home. Funny how it had never been in one place. It was right there, behind this tree and that. Check there and he'd find Sasha and Tara, Glenn and Maggie, Carol, Michonne, Rick, all out on a run with him. He knew it was all fake, but the feeling in his gut still insisted otherwise and he indulged it.

Couple of times he successfully held the delusion for as much as an hour. When he did, all the tension eased out of him and even he started to enjoy himself. Paradoxical to have fun, he supposed, imagining a world dominated by flesh-eating monsters. Of course the illusion was shattered whenever he thought too much about it anyway. He'd imagine Rick's face when he brought back what he caught. It would be hardened and unreadable in front of the group, because that was his leader face and he couldn't relax it as freely and easily as he once could. But there'd also be that little hint of a smile he kept just for Daryl, and that would mean he was proud. Once they were back behind closed doors, the mask would fall off and Rick would pull him into his arms, smelling his hair, whispering in his ear how glad he was that Daryl was safe while his hands trailed down his back and under his shirt...

Yeah, he'd think too hard about it and the memory shattered.

The squirrel didn't even make a noise when his bolt impaled it to the tree.

He was a damn sight better hunter than before, that was for sure. Maybe it was having to provide for a whole group, maybe it was always being on alert for walkers, maybe it was just being so fucking angry at the world right now, but whatever it was he was raking up more squirrels than he'd ever done before the walkers. Could a dream really do that?

What did it fuckin' matter. Every time he remembered, loneliness crunched in his stomach sharper than all that broken class he'd showered his room with. His family was gone. No one gave a shit about him anymore. Merle was back, and he was trying so damn hard to be grateful for that (and he was) but he and Merle were bonded by blood and nothing else. That wasn't real family. Real family were the people you chose, who loved you and you loved 'em back, and you didn't have to think about why it was, it just was. At least, that's what he'd thought, back when he'd believed he'd had one. But he didn't. And he didn't know shit about them. That's what it was to be Daryl Dixon again. Piece of shit white trash who could only be at best tolerated by his own kind. Had to fuckin' dream up families and heroic sheriffs in some fantasy land just to get a bit of goddamn peace of mind.

He heard the snap of a branch nearby and instantly tensed, knife raised. It was a full five seconds before he realised he didn't have to do that any more. Nothing that could get him here, nothing in this part of the woods anyway. He was safe.

So why did he feel more vulnerable than ever before?

He didn't know how many people the walkers had got in the end, but it must have damn near wiped the planet out. Those people were still alive. Millions, maybe even billions of them. The world's greatest tragedy averted. What sort of bastard was he that he couldn't find joy in that?

He hoped the memories would hurry up and fade already. Cause they weren't. True, little by little he was beginning to remember more of this world. He could remember a day he could call 'yesterday' that wasn't filled with walkers. He'd fixed up a falling beam in the shed out back. But the memory didn't make him feel any better, and it wasn't replacing that other yesterday where he'd died outside Alexandria. 'Cause that one felt just as real and solid, probably more so. Like he had these two parallel histories in his head. The outbreak happened in 2010. He somehow knew the date in this world (the real world?) was in 2012, and he supposed he had memories leading up to that, but they only sat beside the other memories. The 'real world' memories felt fake, as if they were the dream, like some implant from a shitty sci-fi movie.

"Fucking shit," he muttered to no one in particular for at least the fourteenth time that day.

Fourteen squirrels were strung from his back and his eyelids felt heavy. Too many to be practical, really. It was just him and his brother now, no need for this kinda overexertion anymore. The sun was just beginning to set behind the trees too – time to head back.

But being back in that house didn't much appeal to him yet. The thought of going back to his bed, alone, sleeping like everything was fine and the world wasn't caving in around him, felt like he would be conceding something. He'd rather stay out here under the stars, let himself believe he'd wake up back on the tarmac outside Alexandria, he figured he could allow himself that. Somehow he'd rather be there again, literally dying in Rick's arms, than here without him. (Ungrateful piece of shit.)

He hadn't brought his shit and the squirrels really needed freezing, no one in a sane world would dream of camping out like this, but Daryl wasn't used to a sane world anymore.

He managed to clear out a space underneath a bush, unconsciously making sure to pick a spot well hidden from view since he still didn't feel safe sleeping out in the open. Fortunately he managed to fight off the compulsion to construct any kind of warning system for walkers like he used to, his muscles were exhausted and he might well have collapsed from the effort.

Once he'd made himself comfortable as he could (comfortable in the dirt where you belong) he watched the last of the sun's light disappear through the trees, before closing his eyes and letting his mind drift to those pale blue eyes.