hello! I'm gonna start this chapter with a couple of apologies. a) Sorry it's taken me so long to update. The next two weeks are going to be filled with exams, so I had to revise some stuff. b) since I got a review on one of my fics I feel the need to apologize once more: sorry that my grammar is weird and not good enough. I'm trying really hard to get better at this, writing in English I mean, but there's some German grammar in my guts that I just can't get rid of, even when I'm writing in English. I haven't had any English classes in more than two years now, and those classes weren't exactly "great" either. The German education system sucks in that regard. I taught myself most of the shit I know by simply watching and reading everything in English and I can understand English really well and I can read and listen to everything, I just can't reproduce it 1:1. So sorry if my grammar is bad and hard to read.

Okay, I feel better now :D

Thank you for all the reviews, favourites and follows so far. 20 reviews on two chapters, that is awesome!
So here, have a new and very long chapter =) Ps: it's kind of a big reveal. I was gonna keep it from you for a bit longer, but some people figured it out already, and I kind of want you to know. So yeah. Here it is =)

Resurrection

Chapter 3 - Reveal

August 11th, 2007, 11:18 pm - Hanscom Air Force Base

"I don't trust this guy."

David didn't mean to spy on them. He really didn't. But since this was Zach speaking he figured that this was about him again, so he stayed where he was and listened up. He had come out here to have a cigarette and because he needed fresh air, and it sounded like his new "arch-enemy" had decided to do the same with whoever he was talking to. David was feeling a bit better now. It had been two weeks since he had crashed here, two weeks of staying with the military, watching people fight and argue and die, two weeks of trying to figure out who the fuck he was and what he was doing here anyway.

Zach was one of the unimportant little soldiers who were trying to bypass their unimportance by being two-faced assholes. Since day one he had been the one who was complaining the most about his presence, and even now it sounded like he wouldn't stop trying to set everyone up against him.

"Geez, Zach. How many more times do we have t'tell yah. He's our chance to find a damn cure" an other man said, but David didn't really recognize his voice. He tried to get a bit closer to the men but didn't really want them to see or hear him. It sounded like they were standing in front of the main entrance to the building, much in contrast to him, who was standing by the small side entrance that was facing the hangar.

He was closer to the outer perimeter this way, and the countless undead that were slowly piling up on the walls and blockades were making it even harder for David to hear what was being said.

"Yeah, Mitch sees a goddamn cure, I see a freakin wolf in sheep's clothing! Like all those dead freaks out there aren't causing enough trouble already, no, they gotta drag this slimy smug bastard in here and he's sporting that freaking bite everywhere. He ain't no miracle. He's a fuckin time bomb" Zach complained and David heard the dragging of a foot, like someone was kicking something away.

"It's been two weeks, man. He ain't gonna turn. The Major knows what he's doing" said the other man, but that seemed to make Zach even more angry.

"He knows what he's doing? If he does, then I ain't sure the man's got his brains in the right place. The bite ain't even the worst thing about it. That freak's a fucking psycho! He was all over the freaking news! For months! No, make that years, Jimmy. Ain't no doubt about it. You know it's him. You saw the tats and all that shit. We got a freaking psycho serial killer with a freakin bite wound in here. And if he don't turn, then you bet your sweet little white ass he's gonna get someone killed anyway."

David frowned and tried to get closer, making the gravel crunch underneath his feet. He wanted to curse but kept his mouth shut. If, by some miracle, those two soldiers had not heard him yet then he didn't want to draw their attention to him now. There was an awkward silence for a moment, and David already believed that they had heard him, but then the two men kept talking. His heart was pounding in his chest, because this was obviously about him. They knew about him, unlike him.

"Don't be stupid. He don't even know anything about himself. That dude's melon's all cracked in case you didn't notice the bullet wound. He don't remember it and we don't have a problem. As simple as that."

Zach snorted.

"Yeah, of course, Jim. You're a fucking moron. What if he finds out about those girls, huh? You still gonna be so fuckin chill about it then? When he puts a bullet between your eyes? He killed more than 20 people already. And just because he doesn't remember it, it don't mean he won't do it again. A bullet won't make your crazy go away."

David frowned and automatically put a hand on his forehead, where he could feel the round hole in his forehead. He still didn't know who had shot and ambushed him, although he was dreaming about the incident on a regular basis now. He knew that a guy had shot him, that he had been blonde, that he had known him, but he couldn't remember his name, their relationship. But whenever he thought about that day he felt a wave of hurt and betrayal, like he had been close with this person. He remembered that he had been reaching out for him, trying to press the gun down, to beg him to help him and not to shoot him. He had been trying to stop him to let him know that it was him, that he wasn't... And then it had happened.

BANG.

His ears ringing, incredible pain, and then darkness.

"Look" said Zach and snapped David out of his memories.

"All 'm saying is. There ain't ever gonna be a fucking cure. The world's gone to shit anyway . Even if we did get a cure because of this freak, how the fuck are we supposed to cure so many fucking infected? At least one third of the population of Beantown has been wiped out. Almost two thirds gotta be dead and walkin around, and then there's us, maybe a couple 'a hundred people who are still alive. Bit too late for a cure now, don't you think?"

Jimmy snorted and spat on the ground.

"Aren't you a ray of sunshine, man."

"'m just telling the truth and you know it. It's survival of the fittest now. The Major just won't get it. He's so keen on his democracy and humanity bullshit and his fucking cure. Why do we even wanna restore the old order with this bullshit? I say we get a couple of our guys, tell them what's up with this Saint freak, and then we get rid of everyone who's in our way. I mean sooner or later that guy's gonna remember, and when he finds out that we put some wood up those kids then we're pretty much screwed anyway. So I say we go get him first and since we're already on it, might as well pull it right through. Just look at this place. We could have pussy for years and no one's gonna stop us anymore. There ain't no rules, there ain't no state or city or government and no ranks. We can do whatever the fuck we want. Just like we always wanted to."

David froze and paled. He still didn't know who he had once been, but if he could really trust them with their talk then they knew about his past.

He had been some sort of serial killer? A Saint?

He frowned and scratched his arm, the one where he had noticed the massive cross on it. He had been wondering about that, and it was kind of silly to be honest. Who the fuck would call himself a saint and who the fuck would even tattoo this kind of bullshit on themselves? He'd nearly had a heart attack in the shower when he had first seen the immense tattoo on his back. So he had been extremely religious, a saint, but one who killed people who raped kids. Yes, it disgusted the hell out of him and made him angry to hear about something as fucked up as this, but he didn't get how someone who believed in god's word could kill someone in general.

And he had obviously done that a lot, judging by how Zach and Jimmy recognized him from the news and how they seemed to fear him. They certainly could be right with that, if it weren't for the fact that he didn't remember shit. But it looked like he would have to remember it soon, because these people were obviously out to kill him because of that past.

He heard a gentle chuckle very close to the corner and pressed his back against the wall of the building.

Shit, he didn't even have a weapon with him and his body was still way too much screwed from the shot, the bite wound and all the tests and needles.

"Just calm down, Zach. This is just your dick doing all the thinking for you. You just need to get laid, buddy. No need to call everyone out on this anarchy bullshit. Let's go. Our shift started 15 fucking minutes ago."

David felt sweat form on his forehead as their footsteps seemed to be getting closer and closer to his hideout.

"You just watch me, Jimmy. You just watch me."

The two soldiers walked right past him and headed for the south wall of the air base, and David could finally take a deep breath.
The shadows had kept him out of sight. Thank fucking god. But also fucking great.

Zach didn't just hate him, he also wanted to kill him.

318 days later...

June 24th, 2008 -11:48pm, Lake Oconee

Connor was lying on the dirty couch that had once been white and now resembled the dirty color of pus. Everything stank and looked filthy these days, no matter where they went. Well, if you didn't count Woodbury. The Irishman rested his head on his right arm and turned pages of the old magazine he had found on one of the many shelves in this living room. Thinking of Woodbury, it reminded him of the others. He wondered how they were doing with them gone, if they had found the note and refrained from following them. Both he and Daryl didn't want to put anyone in danger, and they just wanted a break from the group, they wanted to be alone. They both doubted that Rick and the others would be following them too far or at all, because they both had left the group before and no one had followed them as well.

He kind of missed them though. He liked to be alone with Daryl but he also liked the company of a larger group, and there was no doubt that they would be returning to the group and Woodbury sooner or later. He considered this their little holiday. Connor raised his head and let his gaze wander once more. It was dark outside by now, and he could hardly see a thing anyway. They had covered the large window front with blankets to keep unwanted visitors from seeing the light of the lantern they had found in here. And by unwanted visitors they didn't just mean the walkers that were still staggering around here despite the fact that they had already killed about ten of them. No, they also wanted everyone else to stay away from this house, should there be any other survivors around this lake.

Every once in a while Connor could hear the gentle tapping and knocking of tiny fists on the window front, because there was one walker outside that he had not killed.

It was a little girl. Maybe five years old.

It wasn't like he hadn't killed a kid walker before. Back in the old days, when he had not been bitten yet and the walkers had tried anything to tear him apart he had killed two children walkers at Cape Breton Island. There had been no other choice, because they had almost attacked him and although he had wanted to die back then he had promised Murphy to stay alive. So he had bashed their brains in, and he had not really felt anything back then, because he had been just as dead as them back then.

But now everything was different. Walkers didn't attack him anymore, even though he didn't know for how long. And since they meant him no harm he didn't feel the need to kill that poor girl outside. No matter how much he hated the walkers and no matter how dangerous they really were. So he left her there in the yard to keep knocking, drawn in because of the faint light that shone through the blankets.

Connor let out a gentle sigh and rubbed his nose. He was tired and the reading with so little light was giving him a headache. He had told Daryl that he was going to take the first night watch shift, but regretted it right now. If only he could close his eyes for an hour or so. But he wouldn't risk that, not after all the encounters they'd had during that past year. And although he felt relatively safe, he still didn't trust the walkers, since they had attacked him twice after all.

If only he could switch on this large freaking LCD tv in front of him. Fuck the fact that the screen was broken and that there was no electricity. Oh what he'd do to watch one more fucking movie. Just one. He loved movies. It wasn't fair that they needed electricity to make them work. He missed those sleepless nights when he had been watching trash movies just to annoy his brother, or when they had been sitting in front of their tiny tv back in Boston, with a cool Guinness in their one hand, cigarette in their mouths and wearing nothing but boxers while they were watching one spaghetti western after another.

He wondered what Clint Eastwood or Charlie Bronson would do if they were him and Daryl.

Clint Eastwood and Charlie Bronson versus walkers - Western Style.

Now this was a movie he would like to see.

Because they were gods. No doubt about it. He tried to picture it. Walkers with cowboy hats on rotten horses and how they were all staggering and galloping towards them, while Eastwood and Bronson kept their cool. Cigar and harmonica in their mouths, ponchos strapped around their shoulders, almost like Daryl, just a whole lot cooler. Yeah. Daryl was Eastwood. He was Bronson. They would be keeping their cool until the very last moment with hordes of undead coming closer and closer. And then, POW POW POW. One cowboy walker after another, falling to the ground with a clean bullet to their heads. Smoking revolvers and cigars.

Fuck yeah. He definitely wanted to watch a movie like that.

A muffled scream startled Connor so much that it sent him right off couch.
He nearly hit his head on the table and tried his best to get back on his feet as fast as possible.

"Daryl!" he yelled before he even knew what he was doing, his protector instincts kicking right in.
He started running and cursed himself for picturing stupid Westerns instead of keeping an eye out on his sleeping friend.

He was just eight years old, running through the woods, his eyes clouded with tears.
He could hardly see but that wouldn't stop him from running, because he knew that this was life and death.
He felt incredibly alone and abandoned although it wasn't like that at all.

He was being chased.

He could hear the stomping of countless feet behind him, smelled the disgusting stench of burned wood and flesh. Daryl was so so hungry, so so scared and so so alone. They had abandoned him and no one cared about the fact that he was lost in the woods, being chased by nothing but monsters.

He turned around how close they were, only to let out a terrified shriek.

They were right behind him. And there was no one there to protect him, because Merle, his protector, was gone. He was with them now. Daryl could see them come closer and closer, with three people right up front. The female walker was on fire, her long dirty blonde hair burning with large flames dancing behind her and following her wherever she went. Her face was almost unrecognizable, both her eyeballs long since exploded because of the intense heat. Her optic nerves were still sticking out of her burned eye sockets. No matter how terrifying the undead woman looked with all the fire, he still knew who she was. How could he ever forget her?

And right next to her, all bloody, the plaid shirt ripped with his guts sticking out of his belly, was his father. Belt and knife still in his bloody hands, his eyes wide open and white. Even from here he could still smell the alcohol, despite the stench of his burning mother. He was running faster and faster from them but couldn't keep his eyes from his parents, who were reaching out for him, trying to catch him.

And right next to them: staggering a bit slower but still just as hungry and insane was Merle. His arms tangling around with every step he took, the knife on his amputated hand stump nothing but shining sharp metal, just as dangerous as his father's weapons of abuse. He could still see the bloody hole in his belly, his bloody shirt where the bullet had hit him and taken his life just a couple of weeks ago.

No. Merle was with them now, and he remembered what he had told him back then.

Yah don't need your old bro Merle no more. Never did. Never will. So stop lookin for me.
Ain't no need for yah t'follow me.

But how could he not follow him now that they all wouldn't stop calling him? Reaching out for him. Just like every single time he had that dream or vision or whatever the fuck it was: these undead freaks would repeat the same shit over and over again.

Come with us.
Join us.
Help us.

You can't fight it.

His lungs were burning with pain from all the running, but there was the one pain, the one burning that was way worse than that. Once again it felt like his arm was on fire, and when he looked down on it he saw a burning bright red and black line travel all the way up his veins in his arms, to his heart, his brain.

You can't fight it.

Daryl let out another shriek when a root of a tree made him fall down.
The smell of burning flesh was coming closer and closer, he heard her screams and his father yell.

Get here you useless piece of shit! Ain't no place for you to hide! I know you're there!

He couldn't find his crossbow, but when he tried to get back on his feet he noticed how tiny his hands were and remembered. Right. He wasn't 34. He was 8. Just eight years old. And Merle wasn't there. No one was there to protect him from them, the undead, the pain, the touch of his parents. He tried to crawl away, but right then a burning hand grabbed his arm, the arm that was burning with pain anyway. His burning mother nearly dislocated his shoulder as she turned him around with all the force she could gather, and then he was already looking at the countless undead faces, his mother, father and brother being right in front of him.

You can't fight it!

Merle was laughing, his mother was wailing in pain, and his father lunged out with the belt.

No! he yelled as loud as he could and started fighting.

This shit wasn't supposed to happen anymore. They were all dead. And he was a grownass man. It wasn't supposed to happen anymore.
It was over.

No! he yelled and kept fighting. There was no way he was giving in.

"Daryl!"

His eyes snapped open and Daryl let out another terrified yelp, although it wasn't so loud and desperate anymore. No, he was actually relieved. He still kept struggling for a bit and felt the cold sweat on his back and forehead. It took him a moment to focus and realize where he was. Connor was sitting right on top of him and pinned both his arms to the mattress of the old bed he had been sleeping in, making it impossible for him to get up or fight. His chest was heaving because of the shock, and he also had to admit that he was absolutely terrified.

His family was gone and he was no longer running from undead people in the woods, but the stinging pain in his arm wouldn't go away. He let out a shaky breath and turned his head to look at the crook of his arm that burned the most and felt sweat run down his left temple. He could see that his veins were still red and visible all around the spot where Connor and Hershel had done the infusion, and it was obvious that he still didn't really tolerate whatever his friend had pumped inside him and that kept the walkers from attacking.

"You alright? Jesus, you scared the crap outta me, man" Connor said and tried to make him look at him.

The Irishman put a hand on his chest and then felt his neck and forehead, which made Daryl growl and shake him off.

"'m fine" he growled and tried to get up, only to regret it.

A sudden sickness rushed over him when he remembered the stench of rotten flesh.
He didn't get the chance to fight it, because the urge to gag was too strong.

"Fuck, what the fuck did you dream about?" Connor muttered behind him and tried to place a hand on his back to calm him down, but Daryl was already done and moved out of his reach. He wiped his mouth with an awkward gasp and moaned.

"What do you think? You were doing some disgusting naked riverdancing with leprechauns in fronta me. What else do you think would make me throw up my guts like that?" he muttered and got up. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head when he saw what he had managed to throw up, which wasn't exactly much.

Guess that means no more sleeping in here he thought and shivered in disgust.

Connor snorted.
He was a bit disappointed that Daryl wouldn't share the real reason with him, but he knew his fried well enough by now to know when the hunter needed some peace.

"So she's dreaming about naked me now, interesting" he said with a chuckle and the topic was done.

Daryl massaged his aching arm and kept looking at it, completely lost in thoughts.
The dream was still haunting him, but right now he was more worried about the blood thing.

"You sure you alright?" Connor asked after a while, concern really showing in his voice now.

Daryl nodded after a moment and relaxed his arm after flexing it.

"Yeah" he just said and then turned around to look at the Irishman.

"You got a cig?"

Connor looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

"Me? Cigarettes? Are ye outta your mind?"

Daryl rolled his eyes and Connor chuckled.
He searched the pockets of his jeans and then threw a pack and a lighter at his friend, careful to aim at his head on purpose.

"We're running low on that stuff. First thing we gotta do in Augusta is raid a fucking tobacco company or shit like that."

The hunter lit a cigarette, the light of the flame showing how pale and exhausted he really was because of his nightmare.
He took a long drag and then blew a big cloud of smoke.

Jesus, this felt good.

Although the smell of smoke made him slightly nauseous again.

"Must've looked damn fine in that dream of yers if ye need a cig so badly after that" Connor said and grinned.

Daryl stared back at him, annoyance obvious. He still hated all the fake flirtations. But right now he was too tired to care or start complaining, so he figured that the best way to fight his friend's stupid tries was to give in and do the same shit. He stared at the Irishman for a while, careful to take a long drag on the cigarette and making the end glow with red burning ash.

"Maybe" he muttered and kept staring like that.

He had to fight the urge to laugh out loud when Connor looked quite taken aback.
The bastard sure had not seen this coming and was actually speechless for a moment.
Before the Irishman got to say something to that Daryl had already thrown the smokes and lighter at him.

"Moron" he muttered and then walked past the blonde to get back to the living room.

Connor followed him after a while and lit up a cigarette of his own while heading for the kitchen.

"I don't know about you, but I need a fuckin drink after that" he muttered with his cigarette still in his mouth as he headed for their bags.

Daryl sat down on the couch and put his feet on the table with an exhausted sigh.

"You need a drink after everything" he muttered and stared at the blankets that covered the windows.

He believed to hear the gentle tapping of hands. Even now the terrifying images of his dead family wouldn't leave his mind, and when he concentrated he believed to hear people calling and begging him again.

"Aye, guess yer right there" Connor muttered and walked past him so he could sit down next to him, which snapped Daryl out of this state.

The hunter looked up when his friend moved a glass of whiskey in his sight.

"Drink up. 's still warm" the Irishman said, which made Daryl snort.

He grabbed the glass and quaffed the liquid off. It burned in his throat and made him cringe, but it was a good kind of pain.
He felt it tickle the insides of his limbs and stomach.

"I guess yer not gonna tell me what that shit was about?" Connor asked and leaned back so he could blow smoke at the ceiling.

"Nope" Daryl muttered and watched his friend.

Smug bastard and how carefree and relaxed he could be these days.
He hated how he was the one with the nightmares and fucked up shit now.

They drank whiskey in silence while Connor started cleaning their guns. Daryl was thankful that his friend was giving him some space tonight, how he wouldn't say much but still kept him company. It took the hunter about fifteen minutes until he could finally calm down from his dream, and the whiskey and two cigarettes certainly played a big part there.

"So let's just say, we get there" Daryl started a conversation and Connor turned his head to look at him.

The hunter leaned back and took another sip of whiskey.

"To Augusta, I mean. What then? We get there, to this freakin lab or whatever, and they find a cure because of you and then what?"

The Irishman snorted and shrugged.

"I dunno, 't was yer idea ta go there."

"I just wanted t'get the hell away from this Woodbury place" Daryl muttered and stared at the broken tv screen.

Yeah. That was true. He wanted to get away from Woodbury, away from all the memories and shit that had happened. He didn't -really- care about the cure, although he kind of wanted it to exist. For the others at least. The knocking outside was getting louder, and it sounded like there were more walkers now because of his screaming earlier.

Connor got back to cleaning the guns and cocked his head.

"Well, Milty said that all they gotta do is figure out how ta use my antibodies and killer cells or whatever. Won't stop the dead from walking, or maybe it does, but whatever it's gonna do, it's gonna stop people from coming back after they died. Which means we could slow everything down. Or maybe even coexist with these freaks like we're doing it now."

Daryl shook his head and sighed.

"First thing I'm gonna do when we get there is make sure they get your shit outta me."

Connor frowned and looked at his friend.

"What?"

Daryl nodded.

"It's creeping me out. You know what 'm talkin about."

Connor pressed his lips together but wouldn't really react to that. Yeah, he knew what Daryl was talking about, because he could hear and feel it as well. Just sometimes and certainly not as frequently as before anymore, but still. All the weird dreams and the connection with the walkers was creeping him out as well. So maybe they could finally understand how these undead weirdos were functioning, like they were connecting on a subconscious level as one, but they sure as hell didn't want anything to do with that.

"Maybe they got an explanation for that as well?"

"Despite the fact that I didn't even ask for this shit in general?" Daryl muttered and Connor glared at him with an angry frown.

"Alright, don't have a problem with letting ye bleed ta fucking death next time" the Irishman muttered and took another angry drag on his cigarette.

Daryl didn't say anything for a while because he was just as grumpy, but figured that he shouldn't be. He sighed and rubbed his forehead.

"So let's just say they figure everything out over there. They produce the vaccine, vaccinate everyone, nobody gets bitten or attacked anymore, nobody dies except for the usual stuff that happened before the outbreak, the walkers all bite the dust sooner or later, we repopulate towns like Woodbury and that's it? Happily ever after?"

Connor put the first cleaned gun on the table and grabbed the next one with a shrug.

"Might be possible. So?"

Daryl snorted and looked away.

"That's bullshit."

Connor raised an eyebrow and looked at his friend again.
He didn't like how pessimistic and cold Daryl had become after what had happened to him and his brother.

"And why's that?"

"You don't seriously believe that's gonna work out. After everything."

There was silence and Connor had to think about it for a while.

"Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. And I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, "Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away." And he who was seated on the throne said, "Behold, I am making all things new." Also he said, "Write this down, for these words are trustworthy and true." ..." he quoted and Daryl just stared at him.

"Aye. I believe in that shit" the Irishman went on and avoided his friend's gaze, expecting Daryl to do the usual thing about his religion.
Mock him and laugh. But the hunter wouldn't say anything or do anything for a while.

"I wouldn't know what to do with myself" he eventually admitted, which made Connor smirk at him.

"How about the same shit you did before?"

Daryl snorted and drank some more whiskey.

"Didn't do nothing with my life before all this."

"Well, yer a valuable member of our group now, aren't ye. I bet there's gonna be enough work we gotta do to make te new world work."

Daryl just watched his friend, interest showing in his eyes. He didn't know if it was the whiskey they made him talk and ask so much, or if it was just the fact that they were alone and no one would judge him for the fact that he really was interested in the man next to him, because even after all these months of being together he still couldn't really figure out how the Irishman's stupid brain functioned sometimes.

"What 'bout you? You gonna go back to your life before all this? Go back t'your city, hunt evil, kill criminals and run from the police?"

Connor snorted and shook his head with a sad smirk.

"Ain't no point in doing that all by myself. No. 'm never going back t'Boston. Too many bad memories up there" he muttered and seemed to be overly concentrated on his gun now.

"And I don't exactly fancy going back t'this life in general. It was awesome, but also pretty fucking exhausting. No. 'm too old fer that shit. 'm sick of it. I mean, 's not like I ain't gonna kill some evil fuck when I see 'em but...I don't want it t'be my job anymore. God made it Murph's AND my job. Not just mine. Doing it on me own would feel wrong. No. I kinda wanna do something with kids, y'know?" he said and looked at Daryl with a nod.

"Raise them te proper way. Teach people shit and do some good. Kill all that which is evil, so that which is good may flourish. 'm wanna make good flourish after all the crap that happened. Make them better and produce more good instead of erasing evil. Maybe become a priest? I don't know. People need te word of god in their lives. I don't want them t'ferget that. I'm too old fer that assassin shit anyway. And I feel like I killed too many people already. 'm gonna retire as soon as all this is over."

Daryl looked at his friend, bottle of whiskey right in front of his mouth, but a surprised snort kept him from drinking.

"You're 36 you moron."

Connor raised his head to look at the covered windows.

"37, actually. If it's past midnight."

Daryl had been drinking some whiskey but froze.

"What?" he managed to say and put the bottle away, staining his shirt with whiskey while doing so.

Connor nodded and looked at his weapons.

"Aye. June 25th, 1971. 37 years young. That's me. I know, I look like 'm 27. Don't tell anyone."

Daryl just looked at his friend for a while, unsure what to do or say. He hadn't been able to waste a single thought on birthdays for a pretty long while now. The last time someone had celebrated his birthday had actually been the only time Merle had remembered it, and that had been when he had gotten his old crossbow from him. Truth was that both Dixon brothers didn't really know the date, because their parents had been too drunk to really mark the date and his mother had given birth to him on their kitchen floor and not in hospital. Merle had not been there when he had been born, no, his brother had run away from home for the first time in his life after their father had nearly killed him with all his beatings that year.

He had never known Merle's birth date either, and they had never celebrated birthdays ever except for that one year, 1992, when he had turned 18 and Merle had actually acknowledge his existence with his most beloved present.

"Make that 50" Daryl said because he didn't know what else to say. It stuck in his throat, the happy birthday, but his pride and stubbornness kept him from saying it even now. He still hated to show appreciation and affection, so he wouldn't congratulate his friend, although he really wanted to. Despite the fact that it was pointless anyway.

He still offered Connor the whiskey bottle which he had been drinking, to make up for it.

"Fuck you" the Irishman said with a grin and drank some of it.

There was an awkward silence because Daryl still didn't really know what to do, and since Connor had almost emptied the whiskey bottle they both felt even more awkward.

"'m gonna go get us some more booze" the hunter said and got up to get away from this awkward situation, and he also just needed some time to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do.

"Aye, good idea" Connor said and seemed strangely quiet all of a sudden, like the mention of his age had rang a bell.

When Daryl noticed how his friend lit another cigarette the flame also rang a bell, but this time he had to smirk.

"And when we're done drinking we could go outside, set a couple of lamebrains on fire so you gotta blow them out like candles" he suggested, which made Connor snort.

"Taha" he just chuckled and thought about it. He wasn't supposed to laugh about burning people and knew how sick it really was, but he kind of liked the idea. This very special date made him hate them even more. He turned around after a moment to make sure that Daryl had left the living room and then let out a gentle sigh. Yeah. Setting walkers on fire was a good idea to make them pay for everything they had taken from him, because they were the reason he was "celebrating" this very special date on his own now.

He looked at the two empty whiskey glasses he and Daryl had abandoned after a while and then filled them with the rest of the whiskey, and his throat didn't just burn because of the hard alcohol, right now it also burned because of the painful realization that this was the first birthday he was "celebrating" on his own.

As soon as the glasses were filled he took them both and stared at the liquid.

"Happy birthday, Murphy" he muttered and then downed them on his own.