Hey, y'all! It's me again. This chapter contains a bunch of ideas that were originally meant to go with other chapters but never did. However, they're all too important to not be included.

Recap: Chapter 18 -"It's moonshine," he tells her, and she does a double take, her eyebrows raised. "Liquid courage."
"Where the hell did you get moonshine, you're not old enough to drink?" He just smiles. Another part of her innocence, the part of her that's so sheltered. She is unaware alcohol was more accessible to him than food. There's always been alcohol… he had to learn how to hunt to eat though."One of merle's friend, skinny Pete, be making this shit at home." Friend is big word, more like one of Merle's clients.

It's late in the night
It's late in the night for a storm
It's quiet again
Too much for noise to go home
To fill up the space
To fill up the rooms on Sunday afternoon
For you lonely ears
Waiting for something to break this calm

Send you my love in this song

Noisy Sunday by Patrick Watson

Chapter 55 - Bonds and Brews

You had read somewhere that said, 'the sense of smell is the hair-trigger of memory,' but until today, the sentiment seemed abstract, almost poetic to you. Your day starts off ordinarily enough: the morning sun bathes everything in a warm glow, the weather being picture-perfect. As you step out of your home, the distant sounds of children's laughter and the occasional dogs barking fill the air. You walk briskly; you're running a bit behind schedule for Maggie's check-up at the infirmary. As you march, clutching her medical chart in one hand, you review her blood test results from last week, lifting your eyes only occasionally to exchange a few halfhearted waves with your fellow Alexandrians.

However, your thoughts are far beyond the paperwork before you or the tasks that await you at the infirmary. It's been two weeks since your supply run with Daryl, and the books you acquired from the library have proven highly informative regarding your antibiotic production. With Eugene's assistance, your research is showing promising progress.

As the infirmary comes into sight, something extraordinary happens.

Your stride falters, as if stumbling on an invisible obstacle. The air changes, thickening almost imperceptibly, until a familiar aroma of cigar smoke caresses your nostrils, clawing its way into your consciousness. This isn't just any cigar; it's the exact brand your father used to smoke. Suddenly, it's as if time has folded upon itself, and you are thrust into a different reality.

The memory of your father comes flooding back with overwhelming force, the vision of him so clear. In that moment, your body seizes up, and you're transported back in time. You're a child again, sitting in his dimly lit home office, legs swinging back and forth, a pristine chessboard between you and your father. The room is tinged with the amber glow from his lit cigar, its smoke lazily spiraling towards the ceiling, blending with the scent of bourbon in his glass. The gentle clink of ice cubes melting into his drink seems almost audible.

Your father's deep, gravelly voice echoes in your mind as he teaches you the art of chess—strategy, foresight, and all. The world outside fades away, leaving just the two of you in this intimate setting. His presence feels so vivid, so tangible, that you can almost reach out and touch him.

A booming laughter cuts through, and reality crashes back down around you. You didn't even realize you had your eyes closed until you open them. It's Abraham, his rifle slung casually over his shoulder, and that thick cigar burning at his lips, while he chats with Sasha as if they had just finished their watch shift together.

As they stroll past you, Abraham pauses mid-sentence, turning his gaze toward you, his free hand raised in a nonchalant salute. "Boss lady," he nods with a slight curl of his lips.

It takes you a moment to gather your thoughts and turn, and they're already a few feet away when you call out to him. "Abraham?" Your voice is soft, almost hesitant.

He pivots to look at you, his brows furrowing slightly as he takes in the expression on your face. Casting a brief glance toward Sasha, he murmurs something too faint for you to catch, and she turns her gaze toward you before nodding and proceeding ahead, allowing you some privacy. Abraham steps closer, withdrawing the lit cigar from his lips. "Everythin' alright there?" he inquires.

You manage to summon a small, reassuring smile. "Yeah, yeah," you say, waving off his concern. "I was just... those cigars. I was wondering if you have any more of those?"

Abraham glances down at the cigar cradled between his fingers, a glint of curiosity in his eyes. "Oh, you fancy a good cigar too?" he asks, the smoke swirling around him.

You shake your head, your smile tinged with melancholy. "No, cigars are not my thing. It's just growing up..." You exhale softly, your eyes adopting a distant focus. "For my father, it was a kind of ritual. After a long day at work, nothing beats a glass of bourbon and his favorite cigar." A wash of nostalgia envelops you, pulling you deeper into the past. "Hand-rolled, uncut, Cuban—always came in these beautifully crafted wooden boxes. That smell... I know it like the back of my hand... It's the exact brand my father used to smoke." As you look back at Abraham, you find his face softened, watching you with a thoughtful expression. "It reminds me of home," you add softly.

"Well," Abraham says, placing the lit cigar back to his lips before reaching into his inner jacket pocket. He produces a fresh cigar and extends it to you. "Looks like your old man had a keen sense of the finer things." he remarks, a hint of approval in his voice.

"Thank you," you say, your smile glowing with warmth as you gingerly accept his offering. You gently roll it in your hands before eventually bringing it to your nose. Your heart tightens as the familiar aroma of sweet tobacco and spices engulfs you. For a fleeting moment, it's as if you can hear your father's voice whispering, 'Mia figlia.'

Abraham observes you for a moment, his eyes filled with a silent understanding. He offers a curt nod before pivoting to leave. But just as he's taken a few steps, you call after him again. "Oh, and Abraham? About later?"

He stops mid-stride, swiveling to face you. "Yep, I ain't forgetting. I'll be there," he confirms, and you nod, your smile still firmly in place. Clutching the gifted cigar in one hand and Maggie's medical folder in the other, you make your way to the infirmary, your steps quickening but your heart considerably lighter.

You find yourself seated in a high-backed chair within your lab, your furrowed brow betraying the depth of your concentration. In the background, soft music wafts through the air, providing a soothing backdrop to the rather unusual task at hand. Your gloved hands operate within the sterile confines of a glove box, where the severed head of a walker has been carefully placed.

With meticulous precision, you manipulate a pipette dropper, allowing the organic solvent to trickle down onto the walker's decapitated head. Instantly, the bone begins to fizzle and sizzle under the chemical's influence. Setting the pipette dropper back into its container, you reach for one of the surgical knives borrowed from the infirmary. It glides through the softened bone as effortlessly as if it were butter. You carefully turn the walker's head to face you, prying the skull open with a sense of purpose. Even as you expose the walker's brain, it continues to blink, serving as a stark reminder of the horrific nature of your work.

It's quite brilliant, really, when you take a moment to consider how Michonne obtained your first test subject. She didn't merely sever its head cleanly from its neck; she also rendered it incapable of biting by removing the jaw too. Now, you have a docile walker to work with.

The echoing creak of the heavy church doors being pushed open drew your attention away from your work, and Daryl enters the lab. "Hey, sweetheart," he calls out, his voice echoing in the vast room.

"Hey," you greet him, pulling your arms out of the glove box. He's here earlier than expected, or perhaps time had merely eluded you. Nonetheless, you watch him casually move about, your experiment forgotten. You can't help but smile as Daryl's rugged, yet captivating presence seemed out of place amidst the cold sterility of the lab.

His eyes wander around the room until it settles on the glove box in front of you, housing your current experiment. "This is new," he observes coming forward to lightly tap on its thick transparent surface.

You nod, "yeah, Eugene built it." You watch him, intrigued by how engrossed he becomes, squatting to get a closer view of the walker's head inside.

His focus reverts back to you. "Got somethin' for ya," he murmurs, as his hand delves into his pocket, rummaging to retrieve a folded paper. Your eyebrows raise, and you lean forward watching him unfold and reveal a small green leaf. "It's a four-leaf clover, supposed to be real lucky and all. Figured maybe it'd bring ya some luck 'round here."

Your grin widens as you reach over to take the clover. He had preserved it between the sheets of paper to protect its fragile leaves.

"I love it," you exclaim, admiring the tiny leaf pinched between your fingers. Such a Daryl thing to do. "Come here, I've got something cool to show you too," you invite, wheeling your chair down the long table. Picking up an unused petri dish, you gently place the clover in its center, hoping you can find a way to preserve it.

Your laboratory is set up with two long tables stretching across the center of the spacious room, leaving an open space in the middle to facilitate movement between sections. One side of the table holds an array of chemicals, blood samples, a Glove Box, telescopes, and various machines. On the other side, stacks of books and laboratory notes are meticulously organized, with a chair reserved for Eugene.

Daryl makes his way around the table, approaching your workstation as you retrieve a pair of gloves for him. "Put them on," you instruct, pointing toward the telescope in front of you.

With a quizzical yet intrigued expression, Daryl dons the gloves, his eyes fixed on the telescope. You pull your chair back to make space for him to stand in front of you, and as he leans down to look through it. You wrap your arms around his waist from behind, fingers caressing his sides, as you wait.

"What exactly am I supposed to be lookin' at here?" he asks, glancing back at you.

"That," you announce proudly, your voice tinged with excitement, "is the walker virus. A sample taken from walker tissue, dissolved with chemicals, then centrifuged, and voilà, we got the molecular structure."

Daryl hums, his gaze returning to the telescope's eyepiece. "Just looks like a bunch of squiggly lines to me."

You snort, laughter bubbling up. "Well, those 'squiggly lines' took over the world."

Pulling back from the telescope, Daryl's eyes land on the two dozen or so petri dishes arranged beyond it. "And these here? What's with all this moldy stuff?" he questions, his fingers nearly grazing one.

"Don't touch," you warn, gently swatting his arm away before he can pick up the dish. "These are fungal cultures for the antibiotic we're gonna try to make. I've been growing them to see if any of them have penicillin properties."

Daryl wrinkles his nose, "Fungus? You tellin' me you're actually growin' mold on purpose?"

"Yep," you confirm with an amused smile, turning him toward you, your gloved fingers interlacing with his. "Back in 1928, a scientist named Alexander Fleming was studying a bunch of bacteria, but his work hit a snag. Then one day, he accidentally knocked his orange juice all over the petri dishes. Upset, he decided to call it a day and go on a vacation he'd originally planned for the next day."

Daryl listens, standing between your legs, his intertwined fingers playing with yours. "Two weeks later, he returned from his trip and found something remarkable on the petri dishes. All his samples were dead. It turned out, his 'moldy juice' had the ability to kill various harmful bacteria." Your voice swells with wonder as you finish your story. "That accident, a simple spill of orange juice, led to the discovery of antibiotics, saving billions of people."

"Oh, so you're gonna—" Daryl begins, waving towards the petri dishes, but gets interrupted as Eugene emerges from the basement, clutching his inventory chart and dressed in one of your lab coats that's a tad too snug for his frame.

"Mr. Dixon, no disrespect intended, but I gotta put my foot down here. You best clear outta this corner of the lab and do it pronto." Eugene declares, his voice laced with an air of authority, "you ain't sporting the proper protective gear or credentials to be touchin' things."

Eugene shifts his typically poker-faced, awkward expression in your direction. "Dr. Dixon, I was expectin' a bit more common sense from you. Might be wise to steer clear of displayin' any of that favoritism goin' forward."

You bite your lip, suppressing a laugh at Eugene's no-nonsense reprimand. You respond with mock seriousness, "yes, sir."

With a playful twinkle in your eye, you turn toward your husband, pointing at the red tape on the ground marking the boundary of the two sides of the lab. "Rules are rules," you tease, and Daryl looks from you to the tape with exasperated look, but complies, stepping out from between your legs to cross the restricted zone. You smoothly glide your chair to the other side of the tape as well.

As if on cue, the double doors of the lab swing open once more, and the voices of Jamie and Merle echo through the room, drawing your immediate attention. "I'm just saying, you've been telling me about them famous Dixon parties. Maybe it's time," Jamie says, following after the older Dixon brother.

"Party? What party?" you chime in immediately, looking between the two of them.

"Brooklyn here's suggestin' we throw ourselves a good ol' shindig," Merle explains, waves dismissively at Jamie.

"I'm just saying it could be good," Jamie elaborates, trying to make his point. "Unite us all as Alexandrians."

Your eyebrows arch skeptically. "Weren't we all at Deanna's party? Or did you forget all about that?" you remark, given the current rationing of supplies and the risks scavenging groups are taking, hosting a party is the last thing on your mind.

Jamie starts to respond but is cut off when your hand shoots out, slapping away Merle's attempt to grab the cigar from your table with a resounding smack.

"Hands off! That's mine," you warn, your voice sharp as Merle withdraws his hand feigning innocence. You can't help but wonder when he even moved to your side, or how he spotted the cigar among your books.

"What?" Merle retorts, his gaze flicking from his hand to you and then to the cigar. "Where the hell'd ya even get that?"

"It's a gift from Abraham," you reply, standing up assertively, poking your finger into Merle's chest. "And just so we're clear, if this cigar happens to 'magically disappear,' I swear to God, Merle Dixon, I'll douse your precious marijuana plants in gasoline and set them on fire."

"Ain't even do nothin'," Merle protests, but you give him a knowing look, well aware of his slippery tendencies.

You turn your stern expression to Jamie. "And you, no party," you declare, pointing at him, and he just raises his hands in surrender.

Merle takes a step back from your desk, with an exasperated sigh. "Well, sweet cheeks, ya called us here, and now we here. So, what's this about?" he asks, steering the conversation back to its intended purpose.

You survey the assembled group of men, including Daryl, who's leaning on the side of your desk, before getting down to business. "We've been doing research on producing our own antibiotics, and we believe you might have the expertise we need," you inform Merle.

Merle raises an eyebrow, clearly caught off-guard. "Me? Really?" he echoes, seemingly amused by the unexpected turn of events.

"Yes, I remember Daryl mentioning that you had a friend who made moonshine," you say, memories of a Fourth of July weekend with Daryl flooding back, reminding you of your first taste of what he playfully termed 'Liquid courage.'

"Yeah, that was Skinny Pete," Daryl confirms, glancing between you and his brother.

"Did you ever get involved in the brewing process?" you ask Merle, your curiosity piqued.

Merle shrugs nonchalantly. "Back in the day? Oh, sure. Most folks I knew dabbled in brewin' up a batch of moonshine or white lightning. What about it?"

"Well, Eugene found—" you begin, but Eugene, ever the eager beaver, steps in to present his findings.

"Based on our research, it's quite evident that both antibiotic production and the fine craft of brewing spirits share a set of crucial steps," Eugene explains, counting them off on his fingers. "You've got your fermentation, filtration, purification, and extraction in both cases. We're reckonin' you might just have some hands-on experience to lend to the cause."

When your brother-in-law looks toward you, you nod. "I want you to get us everything you think we'd need if we were to make homemade liquor."

Eugene is already ahead of you, pulling out a map he's been scribbling over. "Now, I've taken the liberty of mapping out a specific location where we seem to have ourselves a closest winery. All that's left is for you to simply scoop up what we require from said location."

Merle's face lights up with a smug expression. "Well, look at that, y'all, how the tables done turned," he says, addressing the men with a self-assured grin. "Once the black sheep, now the golden boy."

Just then, the door opens for the third time, and Abraham strides into the room. "Apologies for the tardy entrance, folks," he says, only to pause as he glances around the room. "What'd I miss in here?"

Jamie is quick to provide a humorous update from his vantage point near the door. "Merle is doing science," he announces with a goofy smile. "Who ever thought being alcoholics pays off?"

Merle, always quick with a retort, responds to Jamie's comment with a sly grin. "Brooklyn, it sure sounds like there's a touch of green-eyed envy sneakin' into that voice of yours, ain't it? Don't sweat it, city-boy, I'm sure your fifteen minutes bound to come one of these days."

Jamie rolls his eyes, but Merle shifts his focus to Abraham. "Red? What's this I'm hearin' 'bout them cigars, huh?" he asks, swaggering over to the red-headed soldier.

Abraham turns his gaze toward you, and you cringe slightly, silently mouthing an apology to him, knowing what's coming next. "What about it?" Abraham responds, seemingly unfazed.

Merle doesn't beat around the bush. "I'll cut straight to the chase, what's a fella gotta do to get his hands on some of them smokes, huh?" he questions, and you watch as the two men stand face to face.

Abraham smirks, leaning in ever so slightly. "Ain't a damn thing in this world without a price tag, my friend," he retorts. "How 'bout we make a trade? I'll hand over a roll, and in return for some of that holy bush of yours."

Merle responds by loudly spitting in his hand, and extending it out to Abraham, a gesture that leaves you somewhat exasperated. "Put 'er there, partner." You grimace when Abraham, surprisingly, reciprocates the gesture by spitting in his own hand before they shake on it.

"Hey, man, that ain't just yours to be bartering with!" Jamie interjects, pushing off from the wall.

Merle dismissively waves him off. "Don't sweat it; you'll get your lick."

Exhaling deeply, you turn to Daryl, who is watching the exchange quietly. You reach out and squeeze his hand to get his attention. "You take the lead on this run, will you?" you instruct, your eyes locking with his. "If things don't look right, just leave it, okay? We'll find another way."

As you diligently follow Carol's handwritten recipe, chopping cucumbers for the casserole, you hum to yourself, finding comfort in the simple rhythm of your task. It has been several hours since Abraham, Jamie, Merle, and Daryl left in that beat-up truck to gather the supplies you need, and you're determined to have a warm lunch ready when they return.

Suddenly, the distinctive sound of Merle's laughter reaches your ears, and you set your knife down, curious if they've already returned. You wipe your hands on a dishcloth and make your way toward the kitchen window, peering outside. There, a few houses away, the familiar old truck stands parked. But it's Jamie's figure that catches your attention — sprinting toward the house, his clothes and face covered in some dark, gooey substance.

Without a second thought, you dash to the living room just as the front door swings open. You recoil as a heavy, rotten, tangy smell assaults your senses. Jamie stands there, dripping on the front porch, his face contorted like he's about to vomit. Whatever they encountered out there, it's clear that things didn't go as planned.

"No! No, absolutely not," you exclaim, pointing an assertive finger at him, while your other hand instinctively covers your nose.

"Alie, come on, please," Jamie practically bounces on his feet, standing right by the doorway, desperation in his eyes. "I need a shower now or I'll hurl right here."

"Are you kidding me? Hose off outside first!" you reply, your disgust evident as you glance down at his body. "What the hell even happened?"

"Let's just say one of the barrels had a walker soaking in it," Jamie explains, his gaze drifting past you toward the hallway leading to the upper level. Then, without another word, he bolts, leaving a sticky trail in his wake.

"JAMIE!" you holler after him, stepping back to avoid the mess.

His voice floats down from somewhere upstairs, presumably in the bathroom. "Sorry! Love you!"

"I'm not your maid," you mumble to yourself as you turn to retrieve the mop bucket.

You make quick work of cleaning up the mess, a moment of domestic normalcy. Just as you're preparing to give the living room another once-over with the mop, Jamie walks in, looking clean in a fresh set of clothes.

"Let me do it," he offers, carefully navigating around the mess on the stairs with his dirty clothes in hand. "Daryl's still out there?" he asks, opening the door to toss his clothes outside, probably to burn or trash.

You give a resigned shrug, stripping off your cleaning gloves, allowing Jamie to handle his own mess. Moving to the window, you peer out, scanning the area for any sign of your husband. "He's out there doing whatever he's doing with his brother," you comment, catching sight of Daryl and his brother's silhouettes in the distance.

"Can't believe he's still out there," he mumbles, catching your attention. Seeing your quizzical look, he elaborates, "The place wasn't a winery like we thought. It was some sort of distributor's cellar, crawling with walkers. One of the barrels tumbled, and Daryl and I got drenched in that fermented walker." He shudders, recalling the incident. "Of course, Merle thought it was hilarious. Tossed us into the back of the truck like we were his catch of the day."

You can't help but smile, picturing the chaotic scene, but you're glad they're all safe. As you turn back to look out the window, Jamie joins you, leaning against the mop. "I don't know how he does it. Just wiped his face and moved on with his day," he remarks, shaking his head in disbelief.

You chuckle, nodding in agreement. "That's Daryl for you."

"Was he always like that?" Jamie asks. When you meet his gaze, he elaborates, "Allergic to showers or immune to stink?"

"He's always been a grease monkey, but he does shower," you reply, thinking back to all the times you've seen him covered in bike oil or car grease. When Jamie gives a skeptical look, you defend your statement, "What? He does."

"I bet he only cleans up because he's got a lady now. Knows he ought to if he wants to get some," Jamie says with a laugh, prompting you to playfully slap his arm.

Your laughter fades as you look back out to your husband, and your smile becomes melancholic. Across the street, you watch Daryl sharing a loose cigarette with his brother as they lean on the truck, deep in conversation.

At the sight, you open up to Jamie, your voice gentle, sharing a side of Daryl few people know. "It's not what you think, or that he doesn't like showers," you begin softly. "Merle had moments with their mom, but Daryl, not so much. He grew up severely neglected. His mom was depressed, smoked, drank, and either couldn't get out of bed or numbed herself with whatever she could find. And their father… he was a monster."

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you continue, "Nobody cared about his personal hygiene; nobody even cared if he ate. That's why they're so skilled in hunting and tracking. Daryl, as a little boy, was fending for himself and feeding his mother too."

Jamie's eyes drift from the Dixon brothers to yours, a depth of understanding reflecting in them. "The scars on Merle's back, he told me in bits and pieces…" His voice trails off in thought before he resumes, sharing a piece of his own past. "You know, growing up, my mom and I, we were on welfare. We lived in this crumbling government-subsidized apartment, with her trying to make ends meet."

You turn your attention fully to Jamie, aware of his upbringing by a single, anxiety-ridden mother whom he deeply cherished.

Jamie's voice grows soft, almost a whisper. "There was a little boy who lived on the same floor as us. His mom was a crackhead, and as far as I knew, he didn't have a dad. But it was obvious he was seriously neglected. My ma, bless her heart, would often sneak him some food when she could."

He shakes his head at the memory. "I mean, he was just a little boy, three or four, but he roamed around completely unsupervised at all hours of the day or night. He was always filthy; his hair was this tangled mess, matted together, his face smeared with tear-stained and dirt, and his clothes... they were just rags, really."

Looking back at the Dixon brothers, he muses, "For that little boy, it's been like that all his life that he didn't see it as unusual. It was just... existence. I suppose, it might be the same for Daryl."

"Probably," you say, watching as Merle laughs about something while Daryl rolls his eyes with a hint of a smile. "But Daryl is trying. Trying to be a good brother, a good husband. He really puts his heart into everything he does. And while he may not say it, some things are still sensitive for him, so please, don't tease him about that."

"I won't," Jamie says with a smile before throwing his arm over your shoulder, pulling you into a side-hug. "You really love him, don't you? Like you really do." Instead of replying, you lean into Jamie's embrace. He chuckles before leaning down to press a kiss on the top of your head.

"You're still not off the hook from cleaning." You state, and Jamie snorts with a laugh.

The evening wraps you in a gentle embrace, cool and inviting. You sit snugly next to Daryl, with Jamie, Abraham, and Merle arranged around, encircling a flickering bonfire in the backyard. A joint lazily circles amongst the men, while you indulge in a glass of wine from the crates they had brought back from their supply run. The firelight casts warm glimmers against the night's canvas, and the scent of burning herbs mingles seamlessly with the woodsy aroma surrounding you.

"Take it up the chain if yer a pussy," Merle says, his voice dripping with sarcasm, sending soldiers into fits of laughter. Tears glisten in Merle's eyes from laughter as he regales the group with tales of his military career, recounting a confrontation with a superior officer that led to his dishonorable discharge. "Ya heard me, ya pussy-ass noncom bitch, you ain't deaf! Take it up the damn chain of command, or ya can kiss my lily-white ass."

You notice Daryl's simmering anger beside you, and understand this story isn't one for laughs, at least not for him. To Daryl, Merle's enlistment represented abandonment by his older brother, one that left him alone and vulnerable to their father's wrath. Merle's frivolous approach to his military career only amplified the deep-seated wounds that lingered in Daryl's heart.

"And then this idiot, he takes a swing… well after that," Merle says, wiping his tears of mirth. "Oh, ya should've seen the look on his face when I punched out his front teeth."

"Ain't no way!" Jamie exclaims, clearly entertained but still incredulous. "I know you're shitting me right now."

"I shit ya not, all five of 'em! POW! POW! Just like that!" Merle says, punctuating his words with animated gestures and throwing fists in the air as he relives the moment, inciting another round of laughter from the men once more.

"I done heard my share of tall tales back in my service days," Abe interjects, leaning back and exhaling a cloud of smoke. "But gettin' yourself kicked outta the service 'cause ya knocked your Captain's teeth out like it's some kinda hobby? Well, that's a whole new level of trouble, right there."

Daryl tsks beside you, "That's still the dumbest story, no matter how many times you tell it. Just one big ol' pile of bullshit." From where you sit, you reach over and slide your hand into his, your fingers interlocking.

Merle rolls his eyes, defending his actions. "That asshole had it comin'," he asserts, taking a deep drag from his joint, "Sixteen months in the stockade, that's what 'em teeth cost me. That was hard time, but by god, it was worth every damn minute of it, just to see that prick spit his teeth out."

He takes a long drag from the joint and exhales slowly. However, as he gazes into the fire, his usually steely demeanor softens, revealing a rare vulnerability. "But I reckon there've been some even rougher times," he mumbles. "When Officer Friendly locked me up on that damn roof, it was the lowest point in my life. Goin' through withdrawal, with the dead closin' in, and by the time the Governor found me, I was almost a goner, bled out, on the brink of starvation."

When Merle looks up, he catches your gaze as well as the group's attention on him. He immediately attempts to deflect with humor, "Damn, this here wine's creepin' up on me."

Before you can respond, Jamie interjects, diverting the conversation away from Merle's moment of vulnerability. "Lee!" he yells, welcoming a new distraction.

"Who the hell is Lee?" Abraham wondered aloud as all of you leaned forward to see Glenn emerging from the gap between the two houses.

"I told you Jackie Chan is Chinese," Glenn replies, a sheepish grin on his face. He noticed the puzzled expressions around him, so he elaborates, "He keeps calling us the 'Rush Hour Scavenging Crew.'" He says referring to Rick's tendency to pair the two of them for scavenging missions.

Jamie grins, looping an arm around Glenn as he settles next to him on the bench. "Come on, it's all in good fun! James Carter and Inspector Lee, badass duo! You know it." Glenn chuckles, gently pushing away Jamie's enthusiastic embrace.

"Want a hit?" Merle offers, extending the joint toward Glenn.

"Nah, I better not..." Glenn shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck. "You know, with Maggie and the baby."

Merle smirks, leaning in closer with a playful gleam in his eyes. "Speaking of havin' a bun in the oven, ya got some serious brass balls for pullin' a move like that, kid, I'll give ya that."

At the mention of Glenn's impending fatherhood, a sudden light ball goes off in your head. You've been looking for a way to create a moment for Daryl and Glenn to discuss this privately without it feeling forced. Seeing your chance, you abruptly stand, capturing the attention of the men.

"Oh! I just remembered, Jamie, I need your help with something," you bluff, feigning urgency.

"Huh?" Jamie looks up, baffled.

"Yeah, and you two as well, Merle, Abe," you add, motioning for them to join you. "It's a three-man job."

The trio exchange uncertain glances, and Merle responds skeptically. "What could ya possibly need at this moment?"

You wave your hand dismissively, urging them to get up. "Come on," you insist, "I'll tell you in private."

Jamie gets up without hesitation, and Abraham follows suit, though with a groan of exertion. Merle, on the other hand, isn't so easily swayed. "Why don'tcha go ahead and ask your damn husband, huh? He's sittin' there doing nothin'." he grumbles, but when he catches your glare, he concedes. "Fine, have it your way, woman."

Glenn, ever the helpful one, starts to rise, but you shoot him a reassuring smile, gesturing for him to stay put. As for Daryl, his eyebrows furrow, shooting you a questioning look. You meet his gaze, subtly nudging your head toward Glenn, trying to convey your intentions.

Merle slings his prosthetic arm over your shoulder, letting out a chuckle. "Very subtle," he comments, guiding you toward the house, following the ginger soldier. "Brooklyn, bring the booze," he called back over his shoulder.

Jamie followed behind, holding a bottle in hand, leaving Daryl and Glenn alone in the backyard. Just as you entered the house, you looked back at the pair with a mischievous smile, leaving your husband to confront his feelings and fears.

Glenn looks at Daryl, clearly caught off-guard by the sudden transition. "What was that all about?" Daryl merely shrugs in reply. Alie's intentions were as plain as day to Daryl, even if she ain't exactly hiding them. He leans over to grab the half-empty wine bottle, offering it to Glenn with a lifted brow. Glenn nods, and Daryl swiftly empties the remnants of Alie's glass into his own, then fills it generously before handing it over to Glenn.

Taking a sip of the rich red wine, Glenn grimaces slightly, reminiscing, "Man, I haven't had wine since... the CDC."

A distant look appears in Daryl's eyes, his voice tinged with nostalgia. "Feels like a lifetime ago." His thoughts drift back to their time in Atlanta, their journey since then, and all the people they've lost along the way.

Glenn nods in agreement. "I guess time moves differently when every day's a fight for survival," he muses, taking another sip of the wine. The crackling flames from the bonfire cast flickering shadows across their faces as they share a quiet moment.

Drawing a deep breath, Daryl finally broaches the topic at hand, his tone a mix of gruffness and hesitancy. "So, a baby, huh? Gonna be a dad?" he says, turning toward Glenn.

Notes:

Merle's military story is from season one, when he was locked on that roof. It's the story he tells when he's hallucinating.