„The schedule is almost complete, both for the gates and for the building itself - you've really outdone yourselves with the guard rotation", Hershel told Daryl. He was once again sitting over a glass of beer, this time at the main train station in New Atlanta. Meeting at the bar around the corner from his home would have been too risky at this point in their mission. Looking up at Daryl, he saw that the younger man was staring out the rain-streaked window, his eyes glazed over. He cleared his throat to bring him back.
Daryl gave a slight jerk and his eyes flew back to Hershel. A light blush crept up his cheeks as his fingers closed around his own glass. Hershel had noticed that he was having water again, but didn't intend to ask. He was certain that if Daryl felt that his condition compromised their mission at any time he would tell him so - he had done it in the past.
„Do you meet with her in person as well?" Daryl asked, completely out of the blue. „I mean, she sometimes brings back physical stuff to hand over. How do you get that from her?" Leaning back, he let go of his glass, folding his hands on the scratched tabletop. „Is it only through drop-offs, or do you get to meet her?"
Hershel's eyes widened. So that was what had been on Daryl's mind. He would have bet that his young charge hadn't heard a word he'd said over the past ten minutes - and this development was alarming. For someone who had fought against getting to know other people as hard as Daryl had, he was very invested in his agent right now - who was strictly off limits to him, especially after leaving her alone in a critical situation. „I don't see how that information is relevant for you", he pointed out. „And you know as well as I do that you knowing this might endanger all of us later on."
Daryl hung his head. „Yeah, 'm sorry. I don't even know why I asked." His hand came up and he started gnawing on the skin of his thumb, again completely distracted. He had started bouncing his right leg on his toes and it was driving Hershel insane. He knew, however, that Daryl needed to vent his nervous energy, and this seemed like a safe way to do it – safer than a bar fight anyway.
„So, all we need at this point is the time on Sunday mornings between 2 and 5 am, and the time on Wednesday night between 7 and 9 pm. You've only just completed your latest run two hours ago, so I don't want you out there again before -„ He fell silent when Daryl looked up at him, giving him a piercing look.
„We talked about that, just before I came here", he said, trying to sound casual about it, but inside he wasn't casual at all. It felt like the two of them usurping Hershel's authority over them by talking about mission planning more or less behind his back like this. „As you say, not much is missing, and we thought we might do that tomorrow and this coming Wednesday. We'd be completely finished within ten days of starting, so we can get the show on the road - if you feel the need to do Wednesday at all. I mean, we might not even … need it?"
This was a loaded question, and they both knew it. Getting a definite answer on whether or not Sunday morning and Wednesday night guard rotations were needed for planning the mission proper would give away a lot about the mission schedule - which itself was on a strictly need to know basis. Only the supervisor, guide and agent actually being sent out to put the charges in place and set the timer would be given the schedule by TE command after they had finished calculating and planning everything.
As Daryl had expected, Hershel didn't bother to answer. Instead, he took another sip of his light beer, grimacing at the taste. The front door opened, allowing the noise of a passing bus and a stream of cold air into the room, and Hershel turned his head to casually check who had just entered.
By pure chance, Daryl had been paying attention both to their surroundings and to Hershel, and his eyes lazily followed the older man's toward the door. His face turned white at the sight of two uniformed human policemen. „Merle!" he hissed.
Hershel's head all but whipped around as he stared at Daryl who was ducking his head between his shoulders now, trying to hide behind the collar of his worn dark jacket. „Your brother?" he asked incredulously. Daryl gave a barely perceptible nod. „Not many more Merles out there that I know", he quipped as he looked down at the table, hiding his face.
„Link with me in an hour", Hershel murmured, getting up from his chair. As always, Daryl had his back to the wall, so Hershel tried to shield him from Merle's view as he prepared to leave. „Try to avoid him - maybe he won't turn around. I don't have to remind you of what's at stake here."
The knuckles of Daryl's right hand, which had tightened around his glass of water, were white by now. He still didn't look up. „I'll link up sooner if anything happens", he mumbled, forcing himself to take a sip from his glass. He could feel himself tensing up, which he definitely didn't need right now. „Stay there, just a moment?" he asked.
Hershel instantly made a huge deal of straightening the hem and collar of his windbreaker, continuing to shield Daryl, as the younger man's left hand dipped into the right chest pocket of his jacket. Heart aching, he watched as Daryl produced a small red pill and quickly swallowed it without water. „Thought I'd only need this one for my way home", he mumbled. Noting the expression on Hershel's face, he added: „Muscle relaxant - 'm still good right now, but I can feel the cramping comin' on."
With Daryl's pill gone and his collar miraculously straightened as a result, Hershel grabbed his glass and took a long step toward the next table over. Once he stood in front of it, he put the glass down and nodded at Daryl. To anyone who hadn't been paying attention to them, this would look as if Hershel and Daryl had been sitting at separate tables all along.
Heart pounding in his chest, Daryl casually nodded back at Hershel and took another sip of water. Closing his eyes and leaning back against the wall, he listened to the sounds of Hershel leaving - saying good-bye to the waiter as he paid for his beer, then walking up to the door and opening it to allow the sound of the rain splattering on the sidewalk into the dingy room, along with another gust of cold air and the whine of a patrol ship skimming over the buildings, first getting louder and then fading away.
He only had to wait for about a minute, all but feeling it ticking by, until Merle's voice rang in his ears. „Hey, baby brother, what're you doin' way out here? 'sis the wrong place for hittin' up some fresh, young pussy, Darleena!" From the way he sounded, all easy-going and boisterous, it was clear that he was putting up a façade for his colleague, and Daryl could do little else but go along with it. He didn't expect this one to go down nicely - he hadn't yet met Merle face to face again since yelling at him that he should go fuck himself after he'd abandoned Carol, and Merle would certainly make him pay for that.
He opened his eyes with a disgusted sigh and allowed them to widen as he looked at Merle, as if only just noticing him. „Nah, had to deliver something, and now I'm off already, so I thought I'd drop by here and get myself …" He faltered, remembering that he was drinking water.
Of course, this fact hadn't escaped Merle either and he gave an uproarous laugh, slapping the other cop next to him at the bar, who was still facing the bartender, on the back so hard that some of the beer in the full glass he was holding slopped onto the counter. He gave a grunt and glared at Merle before turning back toward his beer. Merle, completely oblivious, started walking toward Daryl, a glass of beer in each hand - and Daryl was quite certain that Merle wasn't having the light version.
Pulling out the chair Hershel had vacated two minutes earlier, Merle plopped down on it, setting his two glasses down hard enough to almost slosh beer from both of them onto the table. Anticipating a beer flood, Daryl leaned back, but the foam was still sufficient to stop the beer from slopping out. Merle pushed one of the glasses over toward him just as Daryl noticed the second guy starting to follow Merle over from the bar. „Y'ain't gonna get shitfaced on this, lil' brother", Merle informed him with a malicious little grin, swiping his glass of water to the side, nearly knocking it off the table. „Here, have one o' mine!"
Daryl gave him a dark look as he saved his glass. „Ya know I can't", he mumbled, pushing the beer back toward Merle. „'m on medication, fuckin' weather's messin' with my leg." However, his older brother was having none of it - not in front of witnesses, and not after Daryl insulting him like he had. For an instant, less than a second, his eyes were full of anguish when Daryl mentioned his leg - but then the asshole façade was back.
„Ya want me to beat the livin' shit outta ya, baby brother?" Merle asked belligerently, pushing the glass at Daryl a second time. „I ain't not takin' no for an answer here", he added, his eyes as hard and cold as stone. Daryl realized that there would be no getting out of this - the best he could hope for was getting off with drinking only half a glass of beer, which might not interfere too much with the painkillers he'd taken back home, and the muscle relaxant he'd taken two minutes ago.
Merle nodded approvingly when Daryl picked up the glass his brother had been pushing on him and took a small sip. He had never been overly fond of beer, and being on painkillers nearly every day hadn't improved his tolerance. He still remembered his hangover of a few days before less than fondly, incurred by having all of three cans of shitty beer. As he was setting the glass down again, Merle leaned in conspiratorially while his colleague pulled out a chair from a neighboring table and sat down on it as it was, with its back to their table. "We're off early", Merle confided with a triumphant smirk. "We uncovered a huge conspiracy and were let off for the day."
Daryl's heart nearly jumped out of his chest and then started doing double time. "Whoa, you don't say", he managed. His voice sounded like a croak in his own ears, but that was probably due to the fact that he himself knew how dry his throat and mouth had gone. "What did ya find? Y'all get a promotion?" He forced himself to look first at Merle's colleague and then at his brother with an approving expression on his face.
"Naw, prob'ly not that", Merle whined, shaking his head. "But if they find the fuckers, there'll be hell to pay and we might get a one-time bonus if they catch 'em all." Daryl felt sick to his stomach. Here he was, pretending to be proud of his brother for selling out his species to the aliens occupying their planet, and commending him for potentially uncovering the conspiracy that he himself, Carol and Hershel plus a backup team were in on. He felt bile rising in his throat and took a huge gulp of water – only to be convinced that it was sloshing around in his nearly empty stomach, making him even more ill.
"That's great", he ground out. "You allowed ta tell me what ya found?" Peering at his brother and the guy next to him from under his bangs, he tried to get his nerves and his stomach under control again but felt that he was fighting a losing battle.
The colleague, whose name tag on his jacket identified him as "Shane Walsh", ran one hand over his buzzcut and looked around himself quickly as if he was suspecting the entire pub of listening in on their conversation. Then he leaned in even closer so Daryl could smell his stale, I-haven't-seen-a-toothbrush-in-three-days breath, and whispered: "There might be a huge attack planned on one of the bases in New Atlanta, end of this week or early next." Taking a swig of his beer, he leaned back with a proud look on his face.
"'scuse me", Daryl managed to mumble before the bile washing up his esophagus made landfall in his mouth. He clumsily rose from his chair with his lips tightly sealed, face burning with shame, and rushed off toward the bathroom. Merle's face darkened as he watched him walk off. Daryl's gait was only slightly off, now that he'd soaked in the heat in the pub, but however little it might be on any given day – and Daryl's limp varied greatly, depending on a number of factors -, Merle would always notice it and blame himself for not being there to break up the damn fight his damn brother had been in before he got himself thrown off that damn roof, nearly costing him his fucking leg.
From very far away he heard that guy Walsh asking Merle in a sneering tone of voice if his brother was always such a pussy, and Merle retorted something along the lines of Daryl never having been able to hold his liquor, even if it was just beer. They both laughed louder and harder than Daryl thought the exchange was worth before the door to the restroom swung closed behind him.
After throwing up every last sip and morsel that he'd had to eat and drink that day, Daryl flushed the toilet he'd used, painfully climbed to his feet and slowly limped over toward the metal sink with the scratched mirrored metal surface on the wall behind it. One trembling, calloused hand fell upon the tap, turning on the water, and he cupped his hands under the cold stream with a heavy sigh. Filling the hollow formed by his hands to capacity, he splashed the water into his face and rinsed his mouth, then looked up at his scratched and dented reflection on the wall.
He expected that you'd look like he did right now after seeing a ghost. His face was pale, with deep, dark circles under his sunken eyes. The scar mostly hidden in his eyebrow, with its outer end hooking down into his eyelid, was suffused with blood from the exertion of vomiting and stood out like a fresh wound. Even though he was quite certain that he was being overly dramatic, he did feel as if he was coming down with something - probably a major case of fear for his life. Closing his eyes, he gripped the edge of the sink with both hands, holding on so tightly that his fingers and knuckles turned white.
„Dammit, Dixon, get a grip!" he muttered angrily. Finding the paper towel holder empty, he wiped his wet hands on his pants, wincing slightly, and then straightened up. He would need to go out there again and put on a show for Merle and that idiot, Shane Walsh, who seemed to be his partner. Hatred at himself surged through him briefly for having to put up with this shit. Maybe, when all this was over, he'd get an apartment for himself. Maybe, if pigs learned to fly, he'd be able to walk on clouds, too.
Pushing himself off the sink, he took a few tentative steps toward the door, then shook his head. This wouldn't do, Merle would have his head at home if he left the bathroom like this. Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and straightened his back. Carefully balancing his weight on his good leg, he gently bent and straightened his left leg a few times, placing his left hand on his thigh to steady it toward the end of his exercise.
When Daryl stepped out of the restroom and walked back to his table, Merle was pleased to see that he wasn't limping at all any more.
.-.
The TV was still blaring in the living room, but he had claimed a headache and headed for bed. Finally getting to lie down was pure bliss. Walking to the meeting with Hershel in the cold and spending more than two hours in Merle's company at the pub, getting more highly strung by the minute and feeling each second he was losing oozing by, had seriously worn him out. He wanted so much to just lie there and take a few deep breaths and then sink into oblivion, but he still had a job to do before he could sleep. He gave himself a few minutes to relax, then opened his link and went in search of Hershel.
„Sorry, I know it's been more than an hour", he headed off any complaints Hershel might have had as soon as he'd linked with him. „Course he saw me not a minute after you'd left. Made me drink beer with him and his asshole pal, which he knows I can't do while I'm on meds - and with the weather like this …" He relayed brief flashes of the not-so-pretty part of his evening to Hershel over their meld and the older man shuddered. Merle could be an asshole if he wanted to, and Walsh had done his best to keep up, both of them making fun of Daryl the entire time they'd been together.
„I really should have just taken you with me", Hershel began, but saw himself, as soon as he'd said it, that dragging Daryl out over the protests and maybe interference of his older brother would have drawn far too much attention to them. „How are you now? How did you get home?"
In the darkness of his room, Daryl blushed a deep crimson. „Pain was quite bad by the time he was ready to go as my dose was wearing off, so he took me in his patrol car", he admitted, as if it were a sin to accept a ride from his brother. „I'm so sorry I'm late, but I couldn't link up with cops right there next to me." Of course, he sensed Hershel's concern through their meld before the older man could even voice it. „And no, it won't be a problem during missions. I dose myself higher before we go out. I've really got it under control - under normal circumstances. Ask her. And we're almost done anyway."
„A mission is not normal circumstances", Hershel pointed out carefully. „You can never plan for every contingency in advance. Are you absolutely certain that you will have full control of your body when you go out again?" He sensed Daryl's doubt and his disgust with himself through their meld, and he hated himself for what he was doing. „Need I remind you that Carol's life might depend on you being fully functional?"
Taking Hershel completely by surprise, which was no mean feat while they were linked, Daryl gave in to his surging anger over the insinuation that he wouldn't make his agent's safety his first priority, especially after leaving her once already, and considering what had happened to him during his own last mission. Ever since Merle had cornered him into staying at that pub he had harbored a mixture of shame, frustration, and white-hot anger at himself which broke its moorings at this last straw.
He all but hurled himself off his bed, kicking the blocked wheel at its head with his left foot. Pain exploded through his leg all the way up to his hip, swamping not only him but also Hershel. „This what you want? You want me unable to handle it so you can replace me because I fucked up?" he panted, wild-eyed in the darkness, face burning with range and shame, flecks of spit flying from his lips. He was about to smash his damaged leg into the metal frame of his bed, but Hershel stopped him by ruthlessly taking full control of his body, realizing that another blow like that would leave him badly injured, maybe beyond healing. He couldn't allow this - not while Daryl was running an ongoing mission. Hershel was shocked at himself for this thought, but tried to force himself to make the mission his priority.
No attachment.
Reaching out with all that was in him, Hershel stopped Daryl dead in his tracks, his leg already raised to within a handspan of the bedframe. „Don't do this", he whispered into Daryl's mind, his anguish over his friend's suffering bleeding into their meld even though he was supposed to keep his feelings to himself. „Don't hurt yourself like that, Daryl - no matter what you might think, you don't deserve this pain. Not for being unable to defend yourself against what happened to you, not for Merle making fun of you, not for leaving Carol alone in a situation that was triggering you."
A high-pitched whimper escaped Daryl's constricting throat, and Hershel had him sit down on the bed, supporting himself with both hands. „Call him", he said gently. „Daryl, he's your brother. He loves you. Call for help. Tell him you fell." Stubborn silence filled the room, interrupted only by Daryl's ragged breathing, the hitching in his chest, occasional sobs of pain. Hershel thought his heart would break. „Please, Daryl, you're hurt. I'm too far away. Call for him."
„They're onto us", Daryl whispered brokenly. „My own brother has found out that we're planning something for the end of this week or early next week. Whoever goes in, they might already be waiting for them." Reluctantly, as if against overwhelming resistance, his hand went up from the mattress to caress his leg, but even brushing his fingertips over his thigh caused him excruciating pain. A gasp escaped him. All his pent-up anger seeped out of him in a despairing sigh.
„I will let them know", Hershel murmured softly, soothingly. „We'll find a solution and step up security, thanks to you - and hope we won't have to call it off and start from scratch a year from now. But you will call for Merle now. You need help."
Daryl nodded slowly as he imagined doing all of this again without Carol as his agent, and his heart sank at the thought. Then he pushed his own fears aside. Reaching out consciously to transmit, he provided Hershel with his memory of Shane Walsh, Merle's partner. „You've seen Merle? Clearly?" he asked, concerned. Hershel assured him that he would be able to recognize Merle even without the uniform - his eyes so much like Daryl's that it was frightening, the only difference being that unlike Daryl's they were hard and cold and ice blue where Daryl's were sky blue, warm, and caring every time Hershel looked into them.
„We'll get the schedule for Sunday night tomorrow", Daryl muttered, stubborn as a mule and quite sure that Hershel would not deny him this. And he was right.
„All right", Hershel conceded with a sigh. „But the rules are unchanged - if anything, they're stricter. No risk whatsoever. Bringing her back safely -„
„- is my highest priority", Daryl growled. „I got that."