"Morning Daryl. Dehydrated oatmeal or… dehydrated oatmeal?" Carol smiles gently at him from the other side of a cooking fire, with a steaming bowlful already waiting for him.
"Carol," he nods, gruff and mildly uncomfortable with someone seeming genuinely happy to see him (ain't nobody ever going to care 'bout you except me). Rick and Shane are off in the woods (and good goddamn riddance), the rest of them are around the centre of the camp, eating together and talking. Daryl perches on a rock by the outside of the circle, a little bit torn. He wants to be closer, wants to be part of them, whatever they are.
But they aren't family, they aren't blood, and they're so damned different. And there's no way to be sure they'd have his back if he needed them, not like real, blood-family. They have no real obligation to him. They left his brother on a rooftop to die in the worst possible way, what's stopping them from doing the same to him, if it'd save their skins? Merle was right. They'd keep him and his brother around until they outlived their usefulness, and then drop them without a second thought. They'd already dropped Merle like so much dog shit.
Probably don't even want to be around him in the first place, thinking they're so much better than him and his brother. Fuck them.
"Everything okay over there?" Of course, that's the nosy old bastard, poking around where he isn't welcome once again. To be fair, he's pretty sure he's just been glaring at his food for a while; maybe it makes sense to be a little concerned.
"Fine," he mutters, digging into his food in the hopes that people will stop looking at him.
"Well, feel like joining us?" He frowns but stands, and Glenn and Carl scoot away from each other to clear him space on their log, so simultaneous it's like they'd rehearsed beforehand. His approach is as wary as if he expected landmines beneath his feet – he's waiting for them to remember that they mostly dislike him – but nothing explodes so he has no choice but to sit between them.
The chatter resumes as soon as he sits, friendly and pointless and pausing every once in a while to try to pull him in. He is monosyllabic all morning, but he laughs with the rest of them when Glenn pours the last of his oatmeal into Lori's lap mid-gesticulation while trying to tell a story about his pre-apocalyptic pizza-delivery days. Glenn stares, expression flickering between guilt and amusement, arm frozen midair.
Daryl laughs even harder when Lori responds by smearing oatmeal across Glenn's cheek, and then everyone freezes as Glenn, retaliating for the laughter, deftly spoons up the last of Lori's breakfast and flicks it at Daryl.
There is a long moment where Daryl pauses, cooling oatmeal sliding down his neck, and he's not quite sure how to respond. There are still enough angry stirrings of resentment left in him that he could explode, and feel completely justified. But. It has been a nice morning. It honestly feels as though these people want him here, are happier with him than without him. So he up-ends his mostly untouched oatmeal (he's never liked the stuff) over Glenn's conveniently hat-free head, and scoots away from him on the log while Glenn is frozen with shock and indignation.
Then the food flinging begins in earnest (it seems nobody likes the oatmeal very much), and Daryl and Carl retreat behind a rock together for a tactical consultation, having reached an agreement to pool their resources. Daryl notices somewhat absently that Glenn is still sitting where he left him, oatmeal dripping from his hair, looking far more gobsmacked than the occasion deserves. Whatever. He and Carl have more important things to do, namely conduct a miniature oatmeal bombardment of Sophia and Carol and Lori, who have banded together and surrounded T-Dog as he begs, breathless with laughter, for mercy.
It is a much better morning than he expected, until Rick and Shane return. Rick just smiles at his son's gleeful laughter and dodges a stray oatmeal-missile, which sails past him and hits Shane square in the forehead. Shane, already looking angry about whatever he and Rick were doing in the woods, just gets angrier. He glares around, berating the lot of them for wasting food and being so damn loud and irresponsible and are they trying to draw Walkers to the camp?
Daryl draws a hand through his hair, smearing more oatmeal than he removes, suddenly feeling sticky and angry, good feelings vanishing as though they'd never even existed.
Shane is at the fire, near Sophia and Carol, and still storming about and scolding the group at large. Sophia looks to be near tears, and Carol has her eyes downcast, fingers twisting together anxiously, shoulders hunched in. That is just about enough. "Hey, asshole, lay off," Daryl snarls, standing abruptly. He manages exactly three steps in their direction before Shane, still holding his shotgun, swings it up to train it on Daryl and everything gets really tense. Daryl stops, back rigid and fingers just itching for his crossbow, but it is sitting a few feet away from him and miraculously oatmeal-free.
"What was that? Wanna say that again?" Daryl really fucking hates it when people point guns at him, and for people that claim to be his friends this happens too fucking often.
Rick is hurrying forward, as are Dale and Glenn, Carol and Lori pulling the kids away. And he's willing to bet just about anything that these fuckers are going to side with the officious, domineering bastard yet a-fucking-gain. Then Rick puts a hand on Shane's arm, pushing down lightly. Shane resists, still bristling, and sneers, "Who're you to tell me what to do, huh? Goddamn good for nothing hick," and despite the gun Daryl takes another step forward, furious beyond reason. And then Glenn is standing between them (in between Daryl and the gun, the absolute idiot) and Rick is pushing harder until Shane is forced to move, and Dale is speaking, "Let's all just calm down, okay," and holding his hands out, placating and peaceable.
Daryl smirks at Shane and stalks off, grabbing his crossbow and heading for the woods. That wasn't quite what he expected, and he wants to be away from people so he can decide if maybe he was wrong.
Rick catches up with him later, he doesn't really know how long. He hasn't managed to catch anything, hasn't really been trying. His thoughts are too tumultuous for him to realistically concentrate on hunting right now.
Rick eyes Daryl for a moment, frowning, before stepping closer. "You know, you can leave any time," he says, and Daryl's head snaps around to look at him.
Rick's expression is impenetrable, his hands nowhere near his gun and it doesn't feel like a threat, exactly. But it has Daryl's blood pounding so hard he can hear it, roaring and thundering, and it has his stomach twisting in horrible ways. This is what he had been expecting, what he's honestly been waiting for since Merle disappeared. They've finally decided that he's no more use to them, they've gotten tired of having him around like everyone else does, would, if Merle hadn't been looking out for him. They aren't blood, and you can't trust anyone who isn't blood. He's been stupid and weak without Merle, and he's stayed too damn long. He'll be better off on his own, not feeding and protecting all this dead weight. And for what? Holier-than-thou bitches and heavy-handed ex-cops and chinks and niggers, and they don't even care (ain't nobody ever going to care about you except me, little brother); they're dropping him like a used rag.
"You finally decided you're better off without me, trying to get rid of me like you got rid of Merle? Well fuck that, I'm gone. I don't need you, and I don't need your bullshit," he growls. "Just see how well you do without me." He turns, walking back towards camp, half-hoping that Rick will try to stop him so that he can punch the man with an entirely clear conscience. After an intolerably long moment of silence, he hears Rick running up behind him.
"What? Wait, that's not it, not what I meant," Daryl slows, just slightly, but doesn't stop and doesn't turn to pay attention as Rick falls into step beside him. He can't help the weight in his chest from letting up just a little bit at those words, though, and it only gets better as Rick continues. "Just, don't feel like you have to stick around, if you want to leave and look for Merle. We're heading farther from Atlanta all the time and I don't want to make you come with us if it's not where you want to be. I know how it feels, being apart from your family."
Daryl pauses, considering, before he relents. "Yeah, I guess you would. Look, I don't know where my brother's gone, and he's too far gone to start looking. But he's alive and he can take care of himself, until I can find him again," Daryl admits, still not letting up on his frown, or looking over. He's still breathing a little too hard, still feels the hot, dangerous rush of anger and adrenaline through his arms and down his spine, and he still doesn't know that he can trust these people.
"Alright then," they walk in silence, although Rick drops a hand to rest on his gun now that it won't be taken as a threat.
"Daryl." Rick stops, brows furrowed. Daryl stops and tenses, listening for the shambling, uneven steps of a walker, but hears nothing. Rick chooses that moment to speak up again, eyes averted and looking uncomfortable. "We aren't trying to get rid of you, you know. And we- I. I appreciate how much you do, keeping us safe and fed. Even if it is mostly squirrels. Which. God, I am really learning to hate the taste of squirrel," he laughs, once. "And. Shane was out of line. So," long deep breath and he looks Daryl straight in the eye, "thank you. I'm sorry for Shane, and I'm sorry for your brother, and thank you."
This is… something. Unexpected. But the good unexpected, finding twenty bucks in the pocket of an old coat, rather than the much more common 'Oh-shit-walkers!' unexpected that Daryl is used to. It's strange and uncomfortably close to talking about feelings, but it makes him want to smile a little. It feels secure, comfortable. Appreciated.
Rick doesn't need to know that. "What, are we gonna hold hands, now? Frolic and sing to the woodland creatures? When'd you grow ovaries, sheriff?"
But the silence that returns afterwards is comfortable. Daryl is smiling, shoulders set loose and easy, walking with a hint of a swagger that had all but disappeared since Merle vanished. He brings down a squirrel before they reach the campsite and smirks broadly at Rick as he pulls his bolt free from the little body. "And this? This's just for you. Ingrate."
Notes: Squirrels! Next chapter should be a few days.
