setting: between episode 10 "Home" and episode 11 "I Ain't A Judas"

Damnation

Chapter 39 - Ghosts

They couldn't even see the prison yet and still knew that something was wrong. Because there were gunshots. Many of them.
Neither the Dixon brothers nor Connor had said anything since the incident with Daryl's back, but now the silence was broken by the older Dixon.

"Well looks like I was right. Cavalry's arrived t'shoot your friend Rick's ass" he said and chuckled to himself, which earned him yet another dirty look from Connor.

Ever since they were on their way back to the prison the Irishman had been watching Daryl like a guard dog, making it very clear with just his looks that he would not hesitate to punch Merle to a bloody pulp again should he even get close to the younger of the two. It wasn't like the older Dixon actually seemed to fear him, but somehow they had both silently agreed that they would probably get into a bloody fight as soon as Daryl was not around. This was the only problem the two men had. They both loved the younger Dixon, and neither of them really wanted to hurt him or get cast out. Because they both knew that Daryl was capable of that. So they kept going, and now that they had heard the gunshots the rivalry was forgotten for a moment. The three men walked faster and faster until they finally started running, now that they had heard what sounded like a large amount of walkers. They could even see them in the woods, now that the undead seemed to head for the noise, the exact same direction they were going.

When they exited the woods they could see the mess. Countless walkers were staggering all around the prison, even worse, the field right in front of the court gates. Daryl and Connor tried to make out how the undead had managed to get in, and it didn't take them too long to discover the hole. The front gates were completely crashed, and there was a white and red van standing in the middle of the field, with its back door wide open. Various members of their group were trying to shoot the walkers, but there had to be at least a hundred of them. One of their cars was driving down the road and it looked like Glenn was the one driving it. Then he could hear it, the terrified and exhausted yelling of a man, and when they listened up they realized that it was Rick. Connor walked up to stand right next to Daryl and nudged his shoulder.

"Fuck, look! It's Rick! Over there!" he said and pointed at a struggling figure by the fence, who was trying to fight off two walkers at once. Other undead were already staggering in his direction, and the three men knew that they couldn't waste any time. Connor grabbed the knife Daryl had given him and jogged towards Rick, and much to his disapproval Merle followed him with the pipe he had found on their way here. Daryl was a bit behind them because he wanted to use his crossbow.

Connor couldn't really run for too long, because the pain and dizziness and everything that accompanied the infection had gotten worse again. For a while he had just staggered after Merle and Daryl, being well aware of the looks his friend was giving him. They still hadn't talked about the bite incident and he didn't really want to talk about it, but he knew that sooner or later his real condition would show. As for now it was the anger and hatred that kept him going, because Merle Dixon used every opportunity to mock him, trying to find his weaknesses, trying to provoke the Irishman. Connor had made it very clear that he would not let Merle handle things the way he had used to, and the endless game between them was on. The fight over Daryl, the fight over who was stronger, better, the fight over who was going to win. And so it came that he did not allow himself to be weak although his body was telling him something else.

He had been bit more than 12 hours ago. Which matched last time he had been bit and collapsed. He was worried about the whole thing although it was quite different this time, but he simply could not allow himself to worry right now, because Rick and the others needed them. But the closer he got to the undead the more he got distracted by the new strange symptoms of the infection. The staring at him. The reaching out for him. The begging, the never ending talking and whispers. Help us. Come to us. So hungry. And truth be told, he was freaking hungry. No, thirsty. He was just as thirsty as they were hungry. He was blood thirsty. But not in a way that he wanted to taste it. No, once again his urge to kill was present, and a new sort of anger was cursing through his veins. He needed to kill those bastards. Shut them up.

Connor was snapped out of it when an arrow suddenly flew by and hit the walker which was still trying to attack the policeman. A second later Merle was already on the other undead, and that incited him to attack as well. The Irishman approached the other walker to Rick's right and stabbed his skull with Daryl's knife, then he turned around to look at his friend's brother, who was giving him an evil grin. "That all you got, mick?" he said and chuckled even more. Connor just stared at him, then he suddenly lunged out and threw his knife right at the older Dixon, or so the latter thought. Merle instinctively dodged the attack with a surprised "What the hell!", but Connor had never really aimed at him but the walker that had snuck up on Daryl's brother. The two men still wouldn't stop staring at each other, and especially Connor looked unforgiving and almost psychotic.

"Ye better watch yer ass. 's dangerous out here. Ye can die a lot quicker than you'd imagine" he said and just stared at the man, making it very clear that this wasn't just a game. And the way Merle was staring back at him told him that the older man was thinking just the same.

Their cell looked just like they had left it, and Connor was even more surprised when he found his bag on his bed. The first thing he did was check for his picture, and he let out a relieved sigh when he found it. It looked pretty worn out and dirty by now, because he had been looking at it a lot for the past couple of months. For a while he just stared at the image with a sad smile. He had good days and bad days, and this was one of the latter. Now that he had met Daryl's brother and knew that there was a new invisible line between him and his friend he missed his twin a lot again. So much that it hurt him more than the pain in his hand and shoulder. He remembered all the times he had seen and just known that Daryl had been jealous of Murphy, their tight relationship, but now he had to realize that he was the jealous one.

No matter how much of an ass Merle really was and no matter how many problems he and Daryl had, the main difference between the Dixon brothers and the MacManus brothers was that Merle was still alive. They had each other, and Connor really could no longer fool himself. Of course, things had changed since the farm. He wasn't so crazy anymore, so delusional. He -knew- that Daryl wasn't Murphy, and he had stopped pretending for a long time now. He had even stopped calling him Murphy, but there had always been that secret part inside him that had kept believing and telling himself that. For the past couple of months he had seen himself as Daryl's brother, simply because he -needed- to be a brother, but even that was taken from him now. It wasn't like his friend wouldn't let him or wouldn't want that, but Merle's sheer presence put an end to that, an invisible line that the Irishman could no longer cross.

For the first time after over a year he felt the loss of his brother at full force again, as if the older Dixon's arrival had made him lose Murphy through Daryl for a second time. The jealousy made him angry and violent, but at the same time just utterly utterly sad. He would give anything to get his brother back like hunter had got his brother back. The Irishman would even go so far and trade the whole group's lives just to get Murphy back. Because it wasn't fair. It made him so angry that he had encountered yet another violent and twisted asshole who was allowed to still be alive and fuck other people up in this world, whereas his beloved twin was dead. That an asshole like Merle was given his brother back after months and was allowed to be a big brother again although he did a piss poor job and abused his younger half whereas Connor, who had done everything to keep his brother safe, was all alone now.

And the jealousy wasn't even the worst part. No, as if he hadn't been through enough shit already he now needed to keep suffering, having been used like a monkey in a lab, breaking his hand and going crazy. It wasn't like he wasn't used to the whole hallucinating part by now. No, it pissed him off that even though he was crazy enough it had been days since he had last seen his brother in person, here in this prison, even if it was just another hallucination. Of course, he still saw him in his dreams, but that wasn't enough. He wanted Murphy here. Not Merle. Not all these crazy walker whispers and god knows what kind of shit he believed to hear and see now. Even in fucked up shit like this his brother had to leave him, make it clear that he was all alone.

He startled when something was thrown on the top bed next to him and turned around, somehow expecting it to be Merle. But of course it wasn't Merle.
It was Daryl, who was looking at him through narrowed eyes, then the younger Dixon just walked past him to get to his own things without saying a word.
It didn't look like his friend had noticed that he was still holding the picture, so he quickly put it back in his bag and sighed.

Right. So he was still mad at him because of the punching and knife attack.

Connor watched how Daryl took off his bag and then vest, which had covered his bare back until now. His shirt was still torn to pieces from Merle's attack, and as soon as the vest was gone the Irishman winced. There they were, the countless red scars underneath the tattoo which he had seen before but which still sent a shiver down his spine. He felt the need to instantly put a hand on this back again, to put some more ink on it, to make the terribly ugly scars disappear. The hunter got rid of his shirt and the Irishman was still a bit surprised because of the intimacy and how comfortable Daryl really was around him now. He kept staring at his friend's back for a little while longer and could see how tense the hunter still was, and he knew that it was his turn to say something.

"You alright?" he asked and leaned against the bed frame.

Daryl snorted and threw a new shirt over his shoulders.

"I ain't the one that got beat to a bloody pulp."

"Yeah, but you could've been the one if it weren't fer me."

The hunter turned around and glared at his friend.

"He'd never do this sorta crap."

The Irishman snorted and pointed at the several faint bruises in Daryl's face and on his belly, which looked like someone had kicked him and punched him there.

"Sure. He'd never do that."

The hunter growled and buttoned his shirt up in a hurry.

"You don't know shit 'bout us" he muttered and turned around.

"Then tell me about it" Connor answered and the hunter looked at him again, and it looked like he was really pissed by now.

"What do you wanna hear? You want me t'cry in your shoulder and tell you crap 'bout my daddy? That I wish I could be yer stupid brother instead?
Your brother ain't got these scars, I do, which makes it none of your business, okay? I already told yah. I ain't gonna tell you" he spat and Connor just looked at him.

Daryl looked back at him, surprised that his friend wouldn't say anything to that just yet, so he kept talking and pointed at the blonde.

"Merle ain't your problem. I don't need yer help just cos you think I'm like your little brother or something. I ain't. Now leave Merle alone. I got it covered."

The blonde finally snapped as well.

"No, ye listen t'me, cos yer the one talking bullshit here. You got it covered my ass. Do ye really think I didn't notice the way ye clung ta me when I wanted t'leave you? You were asking me to help you with that, not ta leave ye alone with him. Don't think I didn't get that. And you think I didn't see the look on yer face when he threw you to the ground and fucking ripped yer shirt like it was a tissue? Get a fucking perspective on the situation here, man! That guy is dangerous, he is a sneaky bastard, he's abusive and he's got ye mindfucked. I'm just trying t'protect yer ass from.."

Daryl got so angry that he approached the Irishman and shoved him hard against the bunk bed.

"As if you didn't beat the shit outta me just a couple days ago!"

Connor shoved him back.

"Fuck you! That was something different! That was a proper fight between friends, but not the shit he's doing ta you, has done to you! Ye don't even have ta tell me, I just know that he sure as hell must've done just about the same shit t'you like you did ta me on the farm. And I get it now. You try ta excuse it, keep telling yerself that it's just a normal fight between brothers, that fists just gotta keep flying and that yer sapposed to hate them because they're family and because yer so fed up with them. And even when ye get that that kinda violating is far from the normal kinda bickering then ye keep telling yerself that it's okay cos he's yer brother, that ye love him, that you deserve it and all that bullshit because trust me I've been there myself on the farm with all yer bullshit. And I'm telling ye now that the way this guy treats you ain't normal and that somebody needs ta fucking regulate the guy and that I'm gonna do it whether ye want me to or not."

"I already told you, those scars ain't from him, they're from my father!"

"Exactly! Because that asshole out there didn't look after you! He's yer big brother, I'd never put a hand on my brother like that, and I'd never fail so miserably ta protect him! I mean just look at you, man" he said and pointed at Daryl's countless scars. "I can cover this shit up fer you with all the tattoos I want. The scars are still there. That's his fault. And it's about time someone teaches that fucker a lesson on how ta respect yer family."

And there it was again, the look on Daryl's face that was so full of hatred and anger, the one look that Connor hadn't seen in a very long while.

"So what do you want me t'do, huh? You keep telling all sortsa bullshit about how you are so much better than him, how you looked after your blood. Well look which brother's here now. You really think 'm gonna listen to some guy who keeps telling me stories about brotherly care and all that bullshit but who failed to save his own brother during the first two weeks of the outbreak? Merle was there for me when this shit went down. It's always been me 'n him! So don't you dare talk 'bout him like you know shit about him or me!"

The look he received for that could have turned boiling water to ice, but the punch that Daryl expected wouldn't happen. Connor just kept staring at him to a point where the younger Dixon felt uncomfortable and regretted what he had just said. He let out a gentle sigh. It was always the same with them. Always the same fights. Always the same insults. Always the same ways of hurting each other. He had found Connor two hours ago. Just two hours. And they were already back to this shit. It was an endless curse, and endless nightmare. He hated the guy more than anything, he was utterly utterly sick of his stupid face and accent, his story, his talk, but at the same time he couldn't even survive a day without him now. He hated how they couldn't be honest with each other, hated how their pride and so called masculinity would rather have them fight and hate each other than simply let them tell the truth. Especially now that Merle was between them.

"Just..Merle ain't none of your business. Live with it" the hunter tried to let it go and make his wrong choice of words any better, but Connor didn't seem to buy it.

The Irishman snorted and shook his head.

"Fine. Whatever" he muttered and searched his bag for a bunch of cigarettes and a lighter, then he made his way past Daryl to get out of the cell, out of the building.

He had to pass Merle on his way out. Of course he did. The group had locked the older Dixon in the front hall which they used as dinning hall, and as he made his way to the door he just knew that Daryl's brother had been waiting for someone to come and tease. Merle got up from the stool and whistled when he saw Connor, but the blonde ignored him completely.

"Well look at that, come to finish me off, blondie?" the older Dixon greeted him and wouldn't stop grinning, and when the Irishman passed him he stretched out both his arms.

"Oh come on, man. Don't be like that, we don't even know each other yet! Darylena's pals are my pals, remember?
We both got a crippled hand, see, we got lots in common you and me! We're practically best friends already!"

Although Connor didn't want to he still had to snort. And he had thought that Daryl's nonexistent humor had been the worst. But Merle was even worse.
The blonde lit a cigarette and walked up the stairs to go outside, ignoring the older Dixon who kept yelling all sorts of things like "Hey! Virgin Mary! 'm talkin to you!" after him.

The group had made it very clear that they didn't want him wandering around outside when there could be snipers around, but he had also made it very clear that he a) didn't really give a fuck and b) was just as good a shot as them. He had taken one of the sniper guns and a pair of binoculars with him, but truth be told, right now he wasn't really interested in shooting baddies. He needed fresh air, silence and a break. It wasn't even because of Daryl's words. The Irishman was used to the insults. To the fights. To the accusations. Of course it hurt him every time his friend told him that it was his fault that he had lost his brother. But this was just another one of the facts that he already knew because he was thinking about them every day anyway. No. He had needed to get out because of that new sort of rage inside him. The anger and violence that had already scared him earlier this morning.

He still didn't know why he was like that all of a sudden. He had always been like that, a bit sick, a bit blood thirsty, a bit twisted. He had been a wanted serial killer after all. But this was something new. He had wanted to punch his friend for that remark. Hard. He had wanted to hear his jaw crack, and that was exactly the reason why he needed some space. Connor knew that this sort of thing would have been hypocritical, and it wasn't like he had never felt this way when Murphy had annoyed the crap out of him. But this time the urge had been way more present. Maybe it was just the pain in his shoulder, the headache and the freaky dizziness and craziness of it all, the fact that he was sleep deprived, having his first cigarette after hours and because of the whole Woodbury bullshit and jealousy. No matter what the explanation for that rage was, he didn't want any of it. He needed to let go.

Connor sat down behind one of the cars and let out an exhausted sigh, while staring up at the sky. He was in a constant state of getting better and worse, still felt his heart pumping and the stitched bite wound pulsate with every beat. He gently put a hand on it and tried to massage his shoulder a bit, to loosen the tense muscles and give his abused flesh a break, but it wasn't really helping. He assumed that he had managed to get through the worst of it all on his own. No, he hoped that. The Irishman was still trying to get an explanation for all the things he had done, seen and heard this morning, but he still didn't have a clue. Maybe because the bite had happened closer to his brain everything had spiralled out of control way faster and more intense, maybe because the virus or whatever it was had entered his blood circulation way faster than through his arm last time. And then there was still the most confusing question of them all, the one that he would never stop asking himself. Why didn't it kill him. It wasn't like he wanted to die, but it also wasn't like he liked that endless kind of suffering. Part of him regretted his deeds. How he had knocked that professor guy out and destroyed all the phials. Maybe the guy would have been able to give him an answer to that.

They were allowed to torment them for five months, but not to kill them, and their torment was like the torment of a scorpion when it stings someone.

Connor shook his head when he had to think of that quote. He decided to no longer think about it now. He looked down on himself to see how his broken hand was doing. He tried flexing it and moving his fingers several times but only got a hot and sharp pain as answer. Fucking perfect. He wouldn't be able to use this one for a while. A strange noise startled him and made him look up, expecting it to be some sort of gunfire or anything. But there was nothing. The Irishman sighed and got up to put the gun on top of the car so he didn't have to hold it with two hands, then he had a look through the sight to eye the surrounding treeline. Nothing. Well, if you didn't count the bunch of undead that were piling up on their fences and still wouldn't stop coming from the woods.

Connor still managed to somehow hold his cigarette between two fingers of his broken hand and took another drag. Those Woodbury bastards were smart. He gave them that. At least some of them had to have some sort of military experience. Strategies. The whole walker-filled van through the fence thing could have been straight from a movie, like one of his own plans. His uncle had taught him and Murphy a lot about the war. Same thing with their father. It would certainly come in handy, but he also knew that this didn't mean they were on the safe side. They were fucked. And all the walkers were the least of their problems.

But it were the walkers that pissed him off the most, because they just wouldn't shut up. The Irishman let go of his gun for a second to rub his eyes with an annoyed growl, then he tried to concentrate again. He pointed his gun at the several of the undead figures by the fence, taking aim at each of their heads. Connor kind of wanted to pull the trigger just for the fun of it, but he knew that it would be pretty stupid to waste ammo like that. He sighed and kept aiming at their heads, pretending that this was some sort of carnival game, if only just to distract himself, trying to blend out the fact that he could still see their mouths moving as if they were talking to him. The blonde kept moving his rifle until the sight of one particular walker made him freeze. Black hair. Bullet wound. Deep flesh wound on his shoulder. Connor gritted his teeth and moved the rifle somewhere else to look at other walkers for a second, then he moved it back. But there he still was. A hand on the chain links, but not shaking the fence and growling and drooling. He was just standing there. Staring at him. The blonde sighed and squeezed his eyes shut. Then he rubbed his face and tried to look again. And he was still standing there.

Connor turned around to make sure that no one was anywhere close, then he made his way over to the fence. He knew that this wasn't real. Of course he did. He knew that it was supposed to be a bad thing, that it was doing him absolutely no good, but that wouldn't stop him from looking forward to that kind of thing. Whenever it happened. No matter how scary or fucked up it was. Connor took another drag on his cigarette and stared at the dirty and bloody figure of his brother on the other side of the fence, and Murphy greeted him with that devilish bastard smirk that he had always loved so much. It looked even more grotesque because of all the blood, the bite wound and bullet wound, and the sane part of Connor was well aware of the fact that all the injuries his brother had were just a perfect projection of his own. Because he had a terrible headache, and because he had been bit in his shoulder, although not so brutal as the bite wound that had actually killed his twin in the first place.

"Even when yer dead yer a pain in the ass" Connor muttered through a cloud of smoke and Murphy chuckled.

He kept looking at his brother in a rather creepy way, but that wouldn't stop the older. Connor eventually smiled at his twin.

"I miss you, brother" he said and Murphy wouldn't stop looking at him.

"They're waiting fer you, you know. We're waiting" the younger of the two said.

The blonde frowned.

"Who?"

Murphy just stared at him and that smirk wouldn't go away. Connor turned his head to look at all the walkers that were shaking the fence, and much to his surprise he didn't hear them begging this time. Guess one bit of crazy at a time, he thought and shook his head with a tired snort.

"Why don't ye just stop fighting it?"

Connor still couldn't stop looking at the walkers who seemed to ignore him completely.
As if he was invisible. As if he was pretty much dead and part of them already.

"Stop fighting what?" he asked, but his brother would not give him an answer. Connor sighed and looked down to the ground.

"You were the one that told me ta keep going. And that's exactly what 'm doing. Gotta stay in this shithole fer a bit longer, aye? I came out first, I go out last."

There was silence for a while, and the older MacManus moved his cigarette through the fence so his twin could take a drag himself. There was a part of him that wanted to burst out laughing because the whole scenario was incredibly, incredibly ridiculous, but he just stared, watched his twin smoke. His dead twin.

"Am I going crazy, Murph?" he asked as he took the cigarette back.

Murphy just gave him that smug smile he hated and loved so much.

"Going? Yer already crazy."

Connor closed his eyes with a smirk and then leaned his forehead against the fence.
After that he put his hand on it, right where his brother's hand was.

"I just miss ye so much" he muttered and held his breath when he felt how Murphy leaned his forehead against his.

They were both breathing in perfect unison and wouldn't talk anymore.

A hard slap across his cheek woke him up.
Connor's eyes snapped open and he searched his surroundings in surprise, only to fix his eyes on a plaid shirt.

"Hey! Hey, wake up! Come on."

Connor looked up and saw Daryl standing there, right in front of him, a flashlight in his hand.
When the Irishman finally looked at him the hunter shook his head with a snort.

"Jesus" he muttered and eyed Connor just a second more, then he noticed that something seemed not right.

"What happened?" he asked and the Irishman rubbed his face with his healthy hand.

He could see that he was still holding the cigarette, which had burned down to its butt on its own.
It was dark outside, and he wasn't sure if he had passed out or fallen asleep. Connor grunted and got rid of the cigarette.

"Fell asleep 's what happened" he muttered and tried to get up, only to fail miserably.

Daryl just looked at him with a raised eyebrow and the Irishman stared back at him with an angry frown.

"What?"

The hunter just stared at him for a second longer.

"Nothin."

He then offered him a hand.

"Come on now, get up and get your ass back inside. 's getting cold and dark out here."

He was actually surprised when he realized that Daryl had not left their cell. All his stuff was still there, and he had even put his things on the top bed.
Connor eyed their cell, their things that were still there and turned around with a frown to look at his friend.

"You stayin here?" he asked and Daryl made his way past him to enter their cell as well.

"Yeah, looks like it, don't it."

"What about yer brother?"

"Ain't allowed to be sleeping in here just yet."

Connor remembered how they had passed the older Dixon on their way back inside, how pissed he had looked, remembered the mattress on the ground. Somehow it made him smirk. And yet another fight he had won. He knew that it was kind of ridiculous, how both he AND Merle were acting like children fighting over their favourite toy. But it wasn't like that would stop him.

He awkwardly tried to get rid of his ruined shirt which he had been wearing all day. As soon as he had freed himself he saw Daryl just standing there, looking at his chest, his shoulder with that sort of look. He felt guilty. Connor looked back at him for a second, feeling uncomfortable because of the way he was being looked at. But he wouldn't be Connor if he didn't have to make a stupid remark on that.

"Like what ye see, Darylena?" he asked, but his voice lacked the teasing, the cockiness this time.

The hunter wouldn't say anything. He just stared at his shoulder, so the Irishman turned around to search for a new shirt, being well aware of the fact that Daryl was still staring at him.

"I'm sorry, man."

Connor froze but wouldn't look at his friend, who was now forced to look at the massive Jesus Christ tattoo again, who was staring back at him, judging him.

"What fer?" the Irishman asked although he already knew the answer.

"For getting yah into this whole Woodbury bullshit. Just a couple of months ago I told yah I'd never let that happen again, and now it's..."

"Oh do shut up" Connor interrupted his friend and turned around to look at him.

"Look at me, 'm fine. Ain't I?"

Daryl snorted.

"Yeah, you look like it."

The Irishman didn't say anything to that. He grabbed a new shirt and pulled it over his head instead.

"What happened? For real" Daryl asked after a while.

Connor turned around to look at his friend with a raised eyebrow.

"You want me t'cry in your shoulder and tell you crap 'bout my daddy?"

Daryl narrowed his eyes at him.

"Fuck you" he growled and suddenly approached the Irishman until he was practically standing right in front of him.

He grabbed the collar of his shirt and yanked it further down his injured shoulder to get a better look at what kind of damage the walker and Woodbury had done.

"Ow! Jesus, what the fuck" the blonde protested but didn't exactly fight his friend's hands off, although he felt quite weird because of it.

He still wasn't used to the whole Daryl actually seeking some sort of near thing, even though he was still helplessly and ridiculously rough and bad at the whole thing. Daryl took a closer look at the bite marks and the stitches, and when he looked up they were looking right at each other for a second. The hunter growled and let go of his friend, suddenly being painfully aware of how awkward the whole situation was.

"Looks like they stitched yah up. Yer going t'live" he mumbled and headed for his bed.

annotation:

I feel the need to explain that Murphy bit for a mo. What I'm trying to show is like how Smurph's memory in Connor's head gets more and more distorted and distant, especially now that Merle is there and he can no longer pretend Daryl's Murphy. In previous chaps and the Salvy fic he's always pictured him perfectly
healthy, no bite wound, no bullet wound because those were old memories, but now that so many months have passed he is actually letting go, which is mirrored in the way he's seeing him now. Dying, fading, dirty, violated, because this is his last memory of him.

He is letting go because he is feeling better than he was feeling in Salvy, but at the same time it's the exact reason why he's also going "crazy". He is really losing his other half, his better half now, and that is driving him a bit insane. I really hope you don't mind me playing around with that, fucking the guy up like that, but I find this sort of thing rather interesting. The responsibility and the curse that comes with the immunity, and how all that poisonous walker stuff does not exactly kill him, but does things to his head instead. And this was especially inspired by the Jim and Shane turning scene, because they were seeing the walkers and stuff like that. I wanted to expand on those little snippets, do my take on that.

And I seriously don't want you to think that I'm just stealing from Rick's crazy. Truth be told, I'm a bit helpless there. I didn't want to write Rick's crazy out because it is perfect and fits the storyline of Walking Dead, but I also did not want to write Connor's crazy out because of the things I just explained before, and because I seriously just didn't want him to be running around like a hypercheery happy alcoholic Irish bundle who won't remember his twin or be upset about his death even months after that, because the way I see it I think Murphy's death really would damage Connor in a way because they are so freakishly close. And also because that sort of family death has damaged his father in BDS II and the comics and I thought if someone in this family got the cray cray going on after losing someone beloved, why not expand on that in my fic that takes place in a world that's so fucked up anyway?
But don't worry. He won't be too cray cray for too long, he'll get his shit back together, and I got a "nice" idea why.