Seeing the door to his friend's room close behind him, Rick smiled from where he stood at his own partially open door. In his excitement and happiness, Daryl, usually ultra-observant, hadn't noticed that he was being watched. In fact, Daryl hadn't even been aware of the fact that his two friends had followed him quietly and observed his discovery in the living room, had observed the reverence and then excitement of what he'd found—testimony to his state of mind at the moment, as he focused on the day ahead and the excitement to come.
Looking across the hall to Carol's slightly open door, Rick caught the pleasure and contentment in her expression. Carol was smiling broadly. Rick nodded at her, a smile on his own face, as he closed his door quietly and made his way back to bed.
Yes, he thought to himself. A Christmas Eve without sleep was well worth it to see the expression on Daryl's face.
Then, murmuring quietly to the empty room, "Yes, Daryl, there is a Santa Claus!"
His first awareness was the quiet—all was still, silent, and serene. Soaking in the warmth of his bed, covers pulled tightly around him, Daryl allowed himself to lie silent and still, his hunter's senses attuned, as always, to his surroundings. His senses were telling him that it was still very early and that he was most likely the first in the house to awaken. Smiling ruefully to himself he allowed his thoughts to wander for a moment as he marveled at the fact that he actually felt wide awake. Considering the fact that he only got an hour or so of sleep at the most, he thought he was doing pretty well and that his mind was fairly sharp. Lying quietly, he replayed the previous hours in his memory, reflecting on what awaited him and the others downstairs. Smiling to himself, he admitted to himself that he was excited. Perhaps more excited than he'd ever been in his life.
He recognized that part of his enthusiasm had to do with the fact that this was, in reality, his very first Christmas, and a small part of him cringed in embarrassment at that fact, though he did his best to push it down. He realized something, too. While he'd spent years listening to others describe their wonderful Christmas experiences, the fact that he'd never been able to share in the holiday himself meant that now he didn't quite know what to expect or what was expected of him. What did one do on Christmas morning? More importantly at the moment, what should he do? Was there a protocol to this thing? Should he just get up and go downstairs? Or should he wait until someone else woke up and went down first? Maybe he should wait until Carl and Judith were up so that he could go down after them. They were the kids after all and he didn't want to appear too eager. Of course, he was eager and he wanted to get this show on the road so to speak. He wanted to experience his first Christmas, presents and all. At the same time, though, he wanted to make it last as long as possible so that he could enjoy the experience for the entire day.
As he lay ruminating on the proper etiquette and sequence of events for Christmas morning, he heard a door open quietly, followed by soft footsteps treading down the hall and then down the stairs. A quiet gurgle and 'ga ga' followed by shushing from a newly deepening voice informed Daryl that it was Carl and Judith heading down to start the day. Did that mean it was time? Should he get up? Rolling from his side to his back, he pulled the covers tight again, but brought his right thumb up to his mouth, chewing the cuticle absently as he thought over his options.
He could lie here and wait for someone to come get him or he could get up and go down to join Carl and Judith, with the hope that the others would join them shortly. If he waited, though, how long would he actually have to wait? And if he joined Carl and Judith wouldn't they have to wait as well for the others to join them? Wouldn't it be rude to start without the others? Realizing his thoughts were starting to run together as he felt a sense of stress rising inside, Daryl pondered his options and recognized the fact that Christmas was pretty complicated. If only he knew what to do!
A sharp pain near his thumb forced him to remove it from his mouth and he realized that he'd not only gnawed the cuticle clean off but had started in on his nail itself, leaving it jagged and uneven. Dropping his hand to the bed beside him he took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax and quell the rising panic inside—panic at the unfamiliarity of what was about to happen and his inexperience with the celebration. As he lay there the reality of the situation came crashing down on him. Forget worrying about when to get up or who should get up first. The reality was that once he was up he knew nothing about what was expected of him. He was going to make a fool of himself and in doing so he was going to disappoint his friends who had worked so hard on his behalf!
Maybe it would be better if he just forgot the whole thing. He was a Dixon, after all, and a lifetime of lessons ingrained in him by his pa and Merle began to push their way to the forefront of his mind. Dixons didn't do Christmas! Didn't need it. Christmas was for pussies who had nothing better to do than waste time with a senseless holiday. Isn't that what he'd been told his entire life? Maybe they were right. He should stick to what he knew, which was hunting and tracking. After all, the game wasn't going to shoot itself.
Even as he considered skipping out, though, Daryl felt a little piece of his heart breaking. He wanted to stay and experience his first Christmas. And he was warmed beyond measure by the fact that his friends thought enough of him to give it to him—to go to the trouble of creating what looked to be the perfect holiday—just for him. But his desire to experience the day warred with his father and brother's harsh words. The logical part of his mind told him that they were wrong. That had been proven many, many times over the past year. Stepping out from his family's dark shadow, he saw that his pa and Merle had been wrong about many things. His 'family', for instance. Contrary to what the elder Dixons would have thought, they were good people. People who had earned his trust and who trusted him in return. People he would die for and, he knew, who would die for him. He knew this, so why was he even questioning the situation?
And then it hit him like a ton of bricks. Even though Daryl knew that he had changed over the course of the past year. Even though he was accepted fully by his friends—accepted just as he was—there was still that little part of him that couldn't—or wouldn't—allow himself to believe that he was worthy of that acceptance. Worthy of that friendship. No matter how much he proved himself or how many times his friends reassured him of his place in their hearts and lives, Daryl still felt unworthy. He was still that outcast little boy that no one wanted to befriend—or even be near—because of the stigma of the last name he carried. Growing up with the belief that he was less than those around him had impressed upon him the idea that he truly wasn't worthy. And that knowledge, right now, caused him to moan quietly at the reality of his situation.
Inhaling sharply, Daryl felt his heart beginning to hammer in his chest, even as he suddenly found it hard to breathe. Thoughts racing and his mind a maelstrom of panicked thoughts and possible scenarios of what was to come, he closed his eyes and attempted to concentrate on his body. Tried to regain control of it once more. What was wrong with him? The panicked thought raced through his too-full mind as he inhaled deeply and tried to regulate his breathing once again.
After several minutes of deep, slow inhalations—in through the nose, out through the mouth—Daryl felt his heartbeat begin to slow, even as his breathing started to even out. In and out. He could do this. He would do this. He wanted to do this. Attempting to put his self-loathing aside, Daryl took another deep breath and decided what to do.
But then, before he had a chance to do anything, he heard the quiet sound of a door opening. Soft footsteps treading quietly down the hall to the landing. Then a whispered "Carl? You down there?"
Rick! He was up! What did that mean? Daryl's thoughts raced, bumping into each other in their panicked flight through his overextended brain. He was up. So what was he supposed to do? What did that mean for him? Listening carefully, he heard the muted reply drift up from downstairs.
"Yeah, dad. I've got Judith."
Inhaling deeply, Daryl found himself warring with dread and excitement. He wanted to get up and go down to join Carl and Judith, but he was afraid. He, the mighty hunter, was afraid to get out of bed and head downstairs, simply because he had no idea what was expected of him. Maybe his pa and Merle were right. He was a pussy. Just not for the reasons they assumed. He could track and hunt better than anyone he'd ever known. He could admit that to himself. He could face a horde of walkers without showing fear. He could even stand up to and face off with other people—human beings—who threatened him or his 'family'. But pa and Merle were right. He was a pussy. Not because he wanted to celebrate and experience Christmas, but because was afraid to do so.
Inhaling sharply, Daryl admitted the ugly truth to himself—he was a coward who didn't deserve the friends he had or the wonderful surprise they had planned for him. Who was he kidding? He was Daryl Dixon! And Dixons didn't do Christmas. Simple as that. His self-deprecating thoughts began to rise and swirl around in his mind again even as his stomach began to churn. Daryl realized he was losing control and he wasn't quite sure what to do about it.
The realization that he was so unworthy of this holiday inundated him with a sense of profound loss and sadness. But how could he lose something he never had? It didn't make sense. Realizing he was once again losing control of his breathing, Daryl struggled to regain that control. Struggled to slow his breathing to something more manageable. In and out, slow and steady.
Daryl was so caught up in his negative thoughts that he didn't hear the footsteps padding softly down the hall once again. Didn't hear them stop outside his door. And he certainly didn't hear the soft rapping on his door.
"Daryl, are you awake?"