I meant to post this last night but i passed out on the sofa. lol anyways here we go!
Recap - Chapter 24: "I gotchu the chocolate you like," he says after a moment, holding up a plain white plastic bag you didn't notice before. You want to scold him for showing up unannounced at almost 2 am with sweets you didn't ask for. Especially when your father is sleeping in the other side of the house. However, the look on his face, even in the darkness - a mix of sadness, regret, and longing - stops you in your tracks.
You let out a deep sigh and give in, opening the invisible door. "The minty kind?" you ask, and he immediately steps forward.
"Yes, and the orange soda you like," he replies, lifting the bag higher. You know it's not about the contents of the bag, but rather an excuse to see you.
Recap - Chapter 52: "We're running out of time, Eugene. We need a diversion." you hiss, your voice tinged with desperation. "You remember those old video games you told me about? Think of this as one of them. Only this time, it's not pixels on a screen—it's real life. Just one sprint, Eugene. One brave act."
Telling myself I won't go there
Oh, but I know that I won't care
Tryna wash away all the blood I've spilt
This lust is a burden that we both share
Two sinners can't atone from a lone prayer
Souls tied, intertwined by our pride and guilt
There's darkness in the distance
From the way that I've been livin'
But I know I can't resist it
Daylight by David Kushner
Chapter 56 - More, there is always more...
The darkness outside forms a stark contrast with the warmth and brightness of your home's interior. Inside, you find yourself alone with Jamie, and the quiet is interrupted only by his excited chatter. Merle is currently on watch duty, while Daryl has been absent all day, out on a scavenging mission with Rick. You lean against the kitchen island, nibbling on one of Carol's homemade cookies, your attention only partially fixed on Jamie's lively account of his time on perimeter duty with Rosita.
"And then, Rosita was like, 'you're trippin','" he exclaims, mimicking Rosita's tone. He's mentioned her name for the hundredth time in the past hour. It feels like Rosita is the star of every story he's told. "Of course, you know me, I had to bust out my moves, showin' her what a real New Yorker could really do," he boasts, punctuating his point with a comically exaggerated dance move.
You muster a half-smile, ready to chime in with a comment when a sudden loud bang from the front door startles both of you. Your eyes meet Jamie's, exchanging glances. You set your cookie down and head toward the living room, with Jamie closely following.
You swing the door open, only to be met with an unexpected sight: a pair of feet dangling in front of you. Rick is gripping onto the legs, and as your gaze shifts upwards, you see Daryl has a firm hook under the arms of an unconscious stranger, keeping him afloat. "Jesus, who the hell is that?"
"That's who he is," Rick grunts, his voice straining as he struggles to adjust the dead weight in his grasp.
"What?" Your confusion deepens as you glance from Rick to Daryl, both of their faces covered in grime and sweat.
But before you can press for answers, Daryl lets out a groan, adjusting his grip on the stranger's arms as the body threatens to slip from his grasp. "Sweetheart, he's kinda heavy," Daryl remarks, his voice tinged with exhaustion and frustration.
Quickly, you step back, making way for them to maneuver the motionless figure into the safety of your home. As they pass you, you get a clear view of the stranger—a man with long hair and a thick beard.
They lug the stranger into the family room, and you close the door behind them, your mind racing with questions. Whatever led this stranger to your doorstep, it's evident that it's been a challenging ordeal for Daryl and Rick.
Daryl unceremoniously dumps the man onto the couch with a degree of disregard, while Rick places his feet down gently. Your curiosity deepens, waiting for them to explain the sudden and strange turn of events.
Rick runs a hand through his hair, appearing both exhausted and exasperated. "This is Paul Rovia," he begins, nodding towards the unconscious man sprawled on the sofa. "But he goes by Jesus, and he took a pretty hard hit to the head; might need some medical attention."
Daryl looms protectively over your shoulder, casting an uneasy shadow, as you approach the stranger. The newcomer has an undeniable rugged allure, his long chestnut hair cascading past his shoulders from beneath a beanie. Gently, you take his wrist, pressing your thumb to his pulse. After a few beats of silence, you reach for his hat, revealing surprisingly luscious hair. You take note of its cleanliness as your fingers glide through it, searching for any bumps or injuries.
Daryl scoffs, unable to hide his annoyance. "This asshole here cost us a whole damn truckload of supplies."
Your eyebrows shoot up at the revelation, and you turn to Rick, who wears a sheepish expression. "It's at the bottom of a lake," he admits.
You decide not to press for further details. It's clear that whatever happened to result in the loss of their supplies is not a story he wants to recount at the moment.
"And you thought to bring him here?" you ask, returning your attention to the stranger, carefully prying open his eyelids to check his pupils for dilation, searching for any signs of a concussion.
"We couldn't just leave him out there like that." Rick replies.
Your gaze narrows on the unconscious man. Everything about him, from his cleanliness to his well-maintained hair, suggests he isn't some random wanderer. He most likely belongs to a group or a camp.
With a sigh, you straighten up. "He's okay, just knocked out. He should come around by morning." You turn your attention to Jamie, who's been quietly observing the scene from the doorway, snacking on cookies. "Jamie, can you take him to the holding room?" you ask, referring to the basement of one of the empty houses, which had served as a temporary holding area for Morgan.
Jamie nods, putting the Tupperware of cookies down on the side table. "Let's also put a watch on him until then," you add.
Without hesitation, Jamie moves over to the sofa and effortlessly hoists the unconscious stranger over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Rick steps forward to follow. "I'll pull someone who's not on shift," he informs you as they make their way toward the door.
Daryl, on the other hand, approaches you, leaning down to press a kiss to the side of your head. "He's one slippery son of a bitch, so I'm gonna make damn sure everything's squared away." As Daryl heads for the door, he can't resist detouring to the Tupperware, grabbing a few cookies, and stuffing one into his mouth as he exits.
You watch him leave with a fond smile before turning and making your way upstairs. The evening had certainly taken an unforeseen turn, but for now, all you could do was wait for morning.
Daryl's weary sigh resonates through the quiet hallway as he trudges up the creaky stairs of his home. Every muscle in his body aches from the day's challenges, but there's a sense of relief knowing the day's chaotic events are now behind him. Gently pushing the bedroom door open, he's instantly greeted by a sweet, fruity scent—a fragrance that has become an integral part of his evening routine.
Alie sits at the vanity, wrapped only in a towel, her damp raven hair cascading down her back like a shimmering waterfall, droplets glistening under the soft, dim glow of the table lamp. She meticulously brushes through its strands, seemingly lost in her own world.
The day has not only been physically grueling for Daryl—God knows how many miles he's run—but emotionally draining as well. Pushing off the door frame, he stealthily approaches her, his steps almost ghostly on the floorboards. Drawing close, he bends and presses a chaste kiss on the curve of her moist neck, his beard grazing her skin. Her brushing pauses momentarily, her lips curving into a knowing smile.
"Hey, sweetheart," he murmurs, words breath against her skin.
She chuckles lightly, catching his gaze in the mirror. "Is everything settled with our new prisoner?"
He nods, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind, pulling her into a comforting embrace. "Yeah, Jamie stepped up to take the first watch."
She hums in response, leaning into his touch as his lips trail along her shoulder. As he traces his fingers delicately along her skin, the towel inches down ever so slowly. "Daryl, I just showered, and you reek of sweat."
"That's 'cause I've been runnin' all day, trackin' that good-for-nothin'," he replies, his voice dripping with a blend of fatigue and longing as he lowers himself onto one knee, easing the strain echoing the toll of the day's pursuit.
She turns within his embrace, a soft smile curving her lips. "You've had a long day, huh?" she whispers, her fingers grazing his stubbled cheek, her touch feather-light as she sweeps stray hairs from his brow. "How about you shower, and I'll give you a massage," she offers, sealing the offer with a soft kiss to his lips.
Yet, instead of rising, Daryl lingers on his knee, his gaze locked onto her warm, honey-hued eyes. "I've had you on my mind all day," he confesses, memories of the day playing back in his mind like an old film reel. "Found them orange sodas you used to like. Figured I'd surprise you with 'em, y'know, try to put a smile on your face."
Her smile broadens, her eyes sparkling. "Daryl, I'm already smiling."
It had all begun with something seemingly insignificant—a request from Denise for an orange soda, something she had intended as a present for Tara. At the time, he hadn't given it much thought; it was just another errand, a token of affection for someone she held dear. But it was only when he stumbled upon that battered old vending machine that everything rushed back to him. There it was, that familiar orange soda, tucked away among the few forgotten snacks, the very same damn orange soda his wife once loved.
Side by side with Rick, they had wrestled with the stubborn machine, their efforts to tilt it punctuated by metallic clanks and muffled curses. Amidst the exertion, Daryl's thoughts drifted back to a different time. A time when he was a young man, helplessly in love, riding his beat-up motorcycle down pitch-black roads at 2 a.m. He recalled fighting to see in the darkness, with his motorcycle barely having a functioning front light, but that didn't matter. What mattered was the mission: to reach that 24-hour convenience store.
He remembered that night, how he had stood below Alie's window, heart pounding in his chest, softly tossing pebbles at her window to get her attention. His hand had clutched the plastic bag tightly, containing her favorite orange soda and the mint chocolates she liked, a treat he'd brought, hoping maybe, just maybe, she would forgive him for the shit he said.
But today had been a challenging day. Not only had he lost the truck full of supplies they found, but the sodas too. He and Rick had chased after the man who went by the name Jesus, running for miles, convinced they were going to catch him, only for the soda to pop, and the truck to slip away into the lake.
On the drive back home, anger and frustration coursed through Daryl's veins as the unconscious Jesus wobbled beside him. He couldn't help but feel a deep sense of disappointment; he had wanted that soda so badly to surprise Alie. But as the miles rolled by, his rage cooled, replaced by introspection. Why was he gettin' all riled up over a damn soda, especially one she ain't mentioned in ages or even asked for? The realization was poignant. In the grand scheme of their life, Alie had truly only ever asked one thing of him.
"I want you to give me that, Daryl."
"Yeah, you're right," Daryl replies, his thoughts suddenly focused, snapping back to the present and the woman before him. "But then I started thinkin' about that day, the last time I saw you, standin' there under them bleachers," he begins softly, the memory surfacing with clarity. His hand reaches for hers, gently pulling it away from his face. "I remember feelin' real desperate, feelin' like I was going to lose ya."
She had asked for some distance to make her father happy. That moment haunted him, the memories replaying over and over as he tried to piece together everything that had gone wrong after he lost her. Every nuance of that day was etched in his mind: her ponytail, the clothes she wore, and the tears that filled her eyes. He remembered the confusion and the burning ache he felt in his chest as her fingers gripped his shirt.
"I love you... look at me," she had said, gently guiding his face back when he tried to avert his gaze from her tears. "I'm in love with you. You're the person I want to spend the rest of my life with. Just you and me. Just like we planned."
"At that moment, I'd have done anythin' to be the person your folks wanted for you. Someone who could look out for you, keep you safe, and be worthy of ya," he remembers aloud. The memory of their final kiss, the lightness of her frame when he'd lifted her off the ground, his lips pressed to hers, and the agony of walking away, feeling as if he'd left his very soul behind.
"And here I am now," he chuckles, his voice thick with emotion, " tryin' to give you a goddamn soda." The absurdity of the gesture, against the backdrop of their shared history, wasn't lost on him. As he looks up, he meets her gaze, now filled with warmth and understanding. With newfound determination, his hand slides along her arm, stopping just under her armpit, his fingers resting where the contraceptive implant lies beneath her skin. "How do we take this thing out?" he asks, his question heavy with implications.
It takes her a moment to fully process what he has said, his request hanging heavily in the air. Her eyes widen in stunned silence before a torrent of emotions overtakes her. Tears well up in her eyes, and she clings to his fingers as if afraid he might vanish before her. "Daryl, are you serious right now?! Are you serious?!"
Biting his lip, he nods with unwavering conviction. "Yeah, I am."
Eyes full of tears, her voice trembling as she tries to find her voice, needing to be certain this is real. "Really? You want a baby?"
"I want what ya want," he whispers, trying to steady his voice against the lump forming in his throat. As her tears flow freely, his heart clenches, realizing the depth of her longing. "You ain't ever asked me for a damn thing, not once." What a damn fool he'd been! How had he been so blinded by his own needs and fears that he'd overlooked hers? The woman he loves, his sweetheart, who had always given herself to him, had asked for only one thing.
"I don't want to die before I become a mother," she had whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. "I realize now that's all I want in this world, Daryl… to be a mother to our children."
His eyes soften, regret evident. "I'm sorry it took me so long, sweetheart," he admits, a rueful smile touching his lips. "Whatever makes you happy, if it's somethin' I can give you, then I sure as hell will."
"Oh, Daryl..." Her voice breaks amidst her tears.
He rises, pressing his lips to hers, tasting the salty trace of her tears. "I love you," he breathes against her lips. "Let's do this, huh? Let's have a baby."
"Okay," she whispers back, her voice brimming with warmth and hope as she wraps her arms around him, pulling him close. He nuzzles into her neck, the sensation of her damp hair against his face as she holds him tight to her. "I'll go visit Denise tomorrow, have it taken out," she adds, her joyful laughter mingling with her tears. He hums, his fingers playfully tugging at her towel once more, drawing more giggles from her.
As he smiles against her skin, his thoughts wander back to that memory, the echo of her last words she ever said to him wrapping around him like a comforting blanket. "We will figure it out, okay? We will. Because in the end, it's just you and me, to infinity and beyond that."
You are pulled from a deep sleep with a jolt, your body reacting instinctively to the force that shakes you awake. "Alie, wake your ass up!" Daryl's voice, urgent and impatient, pierces through the fog of slumber, and you struggle to regain your bearings.
"Wha... what's going on?" you mumble, disoriented, your voice thick with sleep, trying to focus on the dim surroundings. Down the hallway, you can hear the voices of Merle and Jamie, their words muffled and distant, but the urgency in the air is palpable.
In your groggy state, you realize you're completely naked, and you quickly pull the comforter up to shield your modesty in case if the men decide to barge in.
Daryl, shirtless and with disheveled hair from your nightly activities, is hopping around the room, trying to pull on his pants while simultaneously grabbing his shirt from the floor. His words cut through the haze of your half-awake mind. "That asshole escaped again," he growls, his voice thick with irritation, clearly struggling to shake off his own drowsiness as he wrestles with his clothing.
Peering towards the window, you note the early predawn darkness. You let out a low whine of exasperation, throwing your head back onto the pillow. "Can't he have the decency to escape during normal hours?"
You've barely slept, not with Daryl keeping you up all night, and you're sore all over, especially between your legs. The last thing you needed was a middle-of-the-night crisis, yet it appears the universe, or rather Paul Rovia, has a different plan for your night.
After Daryl departs to join the effort to recapture the escaped stranger, you find yourself slipping back into a fitful sleep. Some part of you trusts that the men will handle the situation, and exhaustion tugs at your senses, luring you back into slumber.
However, your respite is short-lived. The second time you are awakened, it's Enid who shakes you. She avoids looking at your naked form as she delivers a message from Rick—the group is waiting for you.
There's no time for hesitation. You pull yourself together, splashing water on your face, tugging on your clothes, and running a hand through your hair before making your way to the Grimes' household next door.
The Grimes house, though similar in setup to your own, carries a distinct atmosphere of tension as you enter. The group is assembled around the dining table. Paul Rovia, or "Jesus" as he's been called, is seated at the head, flanked by Rick and Michonne, their gazes watchful. Jamie and Abraham stand by the doorway, and Merle is conspicuously absent, probably asleep. Daryl paces restlessly on the floor, gun in hand, his eyes never leaving the stranger.
You take the empty seat on the opposite end of the table from Jesus between Maggie and Glenn. The room's atmosphere is charged with anticipation, as if it has been building while they waited for you.
"Well, let's get started," Rick wastes no time, cutting straight to the chase, his voice firm. "How did you get out?"
Jesus's eyes scan the faces around the table before settling on you, a hint of curiosity in his gaze. "One guard can't cover two exits or a third-floor window," he points out, his attention alternating between you and Rick. A pause lingers before he adds, "Oh, you're in charge here?" He directs the question at you, seemingly piecing together the dynamics of the group.
You just smile, keeping your face friendly. "No, Rick's our leader," you clarify, though Jesus's tilted head suggests skepticism.
"They waited until you came to start," Jesus notes with a smile, implying the obvious hierarchy in the room. You continue to observe him, taking in every nuance. From the spark in his eyes to his disarming smile, you discern he's not just slippery but also clever and charming too.
Rick leans in slightly, redirecting the conversation. "You wanted to talk, right? So you talk to me."
Jesus nods, pivoting slightly toward Rick. "I checked out your arsenal," he begins with an observation, a hint of astonishment in his voice. "I haven't seen anything like that in a long time. You're well-equipped. But your provisions are low. Very low for the number of people you have—54, right?"
"That's a smart move. I guess you must think you've got us all figured out, don't you?" you interject. Clearly, he didn't just check out your weapons but also looked into your pantry too, and probably stumbled upon the inventory sheet with the distribution numbers for the community's size. You assess him openly, eyes sharp and deliberate. "Your beard is trimmed, your nails and clothes are clean… so where are you from, Paul Rovia?"
Jesus chuckles, a hint of apprehension in his eyes, recognizing the verbal chess match he's caught in. Yet, he deftly sidesteps your question. "Well, I appreciate the cookie," he remarks, a cookie you assume was given to him by Daryl or Jamie the previous night. "Compliments to the chef."
"Answer her the goddamn question," Daryl growls, closing the distance with a scowl.
Jesus sighs, relenting slightly. "Look, obviously, we got off to a bad start," he appeases, realizing that cooperation might be in his best interest. "But we're all on the same side—the living side. You and Rick had every reason to leave me up there, but you didn't."
Redirecting his attention to you, he answers your question, albeit vaguely. "I am from a place that's a lot like this one," he begins. "Part of my job is searching for other settlements to trade with."
Your brows go up at his statement, your mind processing everything he just said, and like a chess move, you see it five moves in advance. Other settlements? But Jesus shifts his focus to Rick, attempting to gain his trust as well. "I took your truck because my community needs things, and you both look like trouble. But I was wrong; you're good people, and this is a good place."
"Do you have food?" Glenn questions, focused on the practical need.
"We started to raise livestock, we scavenge, we grow," Jesus nods confidently. "Everything from tomatoes to sorghum."
Rick isn't easily convinced; his eyes narrow. "Tell us why we should believe you."
"I'll show you," Jesus offers, leaning in, his tone sincere. "We take a car, and I can take you back home in a day. You can all see for yourselves who we are and what we have to offer."
Maggie jumps in, echoing your lingering thought. "Wait, you're looking for more settlements—you mean you're already trading with other groups?"
With a smirk, Jesus reclines in his chair. "Your world is about to get a whole lot bigger."
"Paul Rovia, are you always this presumptuous?" you retort, leaning back, mimicking his confidence. "Let me ask you something." You give him a smug grin, "Looks like you checked us out under our skirt, but did you happen to check out our church?"
Jesus's brows knit together, clearly caught off guard. "Church?"
Let the game begin.
Daryl stands, leaning against the double doors of the former church, vigilant as ever, his watchful gaze trained on the newcomer.
"What is this place? An infirmary?" Jesus asks, casting puzzled glances at his surroundings, taking in the unexpected sight. The soft morning sunlight filters through the stained-glass windows, casting a colorful dance of light on the array of machines that line the tables.
"It's a laboratory," you clarify with a smile, stepping closer to your workstation. On your way to the church, you had considered the potential advantages that sharing this information might bring to your community. If you play your cards right, you might secure valuable alliances and resources.
"My name is Doctor Alice Dixon," you begin, your tone refined and self-assured. "I'm a virologist. I was working with the military, trying to find a solution for the virus when our base was overrun. We were on our way to D.C. when we found this place, this community."
Jesus's eyebrow quirks in intrigue. "Virus?" He echoes, his fingers hovering above the glove box, which houses the unfinished experiment with the decapitated walker's head, its brain exposed. "You mean the thing that caused the dead to rise?"
"Yes," you affirm, as it becomes evident that many survivors still don't have a clear grasp of the root cause of the world's downfall. "Here, we are working to develop a treatment—a cure to combat walker bites and ultimately give humanity a chance to fight back and reclaim the world again."
Emotions flicker across Jesus's face like scenes in a movie—surprise, astonishment, and, most importantly, hope. "Seriously? You have a cure?"
Your smile widens as you sense his growing interest. The allure of a cure holds immense potential, and you are well aware that this revelation could tip the scales in your favor. "I have a blueprint."
Jesus moves closer, his voice soft and eager. "How—how far are you?"
You allow a brief moment of suspense to linger before responding. "It's a work in progress. Pieces of the puzzle are still falling into place. But with time, we'll get there."
You glance at Daryl, who has been watching the exchange from the doorway, giving a reassuring nod, a signal that everything is fine. "There is more," you state, gesturing for Paul to follow you as you head toward the door leading to the basement.
"More?" Jesus questions, trailing closely behind you, his curiosity now fully engaged. "More than the cure?"
"There's always more, Paul Rovia," your voice echoes through the dim corridor as you walk. You don't even blink as you step over the indentation on the wooden floor where your acid once consumed the W-man, as well as the ground, forever leaving its indelible mark.
"We might be challenged with our food situation," you begin as you guide him to the small room that had once served as the church office. "But we are advancing in other ways."
Jesus follows after you, his eyes surveying the thick plastic lining the walls and floor, designed to maintain the room's humidity, which crunches beneath his every step. His attention is drawn to two large wine barrels, almost to the height of your waist, fitted with transparent plastic tubes to facilitate oxygen flow when needed.
"These barrels—the scientific term for them is a growth medium," you motion, giving one a light slap, "Inside, they contain our first sample batch of antibiotics we're producing."
He reaches out to touch one of the barrels, astonishment evident in his eyes. "Antibiotics? You're producing medicine from scratch?"
"This is just the beginning," you assert, brimming with the potential of your community's vision. "We plan to grow poppy seeds, produce painkillers, and gradually expand. We intend to build Alexandria into a self-sustaining community in every sense."
You step closer to Jesus, your tone becoming more intimate. "Your community could be a part of this," you whisper, as though sharing a well-guarded secret. "There's only so much medicine you can scavenge, putting people's lives at risk in the process. And eventually, those resources will run dry."
Paul's unwavering gaze meets yours as he absorbs your words. "Get your people to join us," you continue. "Let's build a bridge, a network between our communities. Help us support Alexandria while it's still in its infancy. Consider it an investment you could all reap the benefits of in the future—a future where we can grow together, find a cure, and rebuild the world for the next generation."
He doesn't hesitate in his response. "Come with me—tell Gregory and the Hilltop," he suggests, information that clearly indicates his trust in what you've shown him. "Tell my people what you're telling me."
You shake your head slightly, "I can't come," you explain, your voice resolute. "I'm in the middle of something crucial, which is why I need you to deliver the message to your leader. How he responds now will determine our future relationship."
You stand by the front of the RV, observing Daryl as he tinkers with the engine, the hood open. "Keep an eye out for anything unusual, and make sure to take your walkie with you," you instruct, watching the group as they prepare for their journey to Hilltop. You wish you could see this new community for yourself, but you're well aware that the work you've been tirelessly laboring on for weeks is on the line.
"We'll be fine," Daryl reassures, his gruff voice carrying a comforting tone.
"I know. But we don't know him, and if you're not back in 24 hours, I'll bring a team for extraction…" your voice trails off, your attention diverting when something catches your peripheral vision. You turn to see Rick and Michonne standing on the front porch of their house, an undeniable closeness between them that's hard to ignore. The way Michonne reaches out to caress Rick's cheek, her eyes soft and affectionate, makes you raise an eyebrow.
Grinning, you nudge Daryl's arm, motioning toward the couple across the street. He pulls away from the RV, following your gaze, and the two of you exchange a knowing look.
"Since when are those two a thing?" you whisper, a playful tone in your voice.
He shrugs, seemingly unfazed by the development. "Dunno," he replies nonchalantly.
You turn toward him with a mischievous smile. "Listen, we're gonna need to step up our game," you say with a laugh. "We can't be the badass 'power couple' now, if they're together."
Daryl snorts in response. "You're such a goof."
You playfully smack his arm, laughing. "But they do look good together, don't they?"
At that moment, Rick's voice interrupts your musings. "Alie!" you see him approaching with his familiar sheriff-like stride. You move to meet him halfway.
"I heard you're sitting this one out?" he asks, an eyebrow raised with a hint of confusion.
"Yeah, I can't. We're in the middle of introducing a carbon source to our fungal colony," you reply, shifting your gaze to the RV. There, Denise seems to have assumed your place next to Daryl. You watch as they exchange a few words, and then she hands him a bag of some sort of baked goods.
As you turn back to Rick, he's wearing a confused expression. "It's time-sensitive antibiotics stuff," you explain, waving it off with a dismissive gesture. "Besides, you guys got this."
"Yeah," Rick replies skeptically, still not fully convinced of Jesus' intentions, "We'll see about that."
Before you know it, the RV roars to life, with your group on board, and begins to back up. You stand beside Denise on the sidelines, eyes fixed on the departing vehicle, your stomach tight with worry and anticipation, leaving you and the younger doctor in a muted silence.
Once it's out of view, you turn to Denise, your gaze stern, your tone sharper than intended. "Are we going to have a problem?" you question, stepping closer to her.
Denise's brows knit together in confusion, uncertainty clouding her eyes. "What?" She stammers, her voice tinged with bewilderment.
"Daryl," you clarify, "You do know he's married, right? I'm not the kind of wife who tolerates other women flirting with my man."
Surprise registers in Denise's wide eyes. "What? No-no! It's not like that," she hurriedly reassures, her voice trembling slightly. "He just reminds me of my brother. I thought—I thought you knew I liked women."
Yes, you knew, but you tilt your head and slowly look down at your own body, insinuating without actually saying it. "Women?"
Denise's cheeks flush crimson. "Oh, my God, no! Obviously, not you! I mean—" She stutters, her words tumbling over each other.
"Why? Is there something wrong with me?" you arch an eyebrow in mock offense, biting your cheeks to stop yourself from laughing.
"What? No, no. Nothing is wrong with you," Denise rushes to assure you, stepping closer. "You're beautiful! And, and, smart, and you got that whole mysterious vibe, and I mean—there's Tara, you know?"
You can't hold it any longer and burst out laughing, the tension dissipating into the cool morning air.
Denise slaps your arm impishly, an embarrassed smile tugging at her lips. "Oh god, you're the worst!" she exclaims, but there's no heat in her words as she turns to march away.
You jog to catch up with her, your laughter subsiding, as you loop an arm around her shoulders, drawing her into a side hug. "That was not cool—you really had me stressed," she grumbles.
"You make it too easy," you retort playfully.
A light chuckle escapes Denise as you both continue towards the infirmary, your steps falling in sync. As the infirmary draws nearer, curiosity nudges at you. "So, Daryl reminds you of your brother, huh?" Your tone is light, yet probing. "Was he older or younger?"
Her smile is tinged with nostalgia as she answers, "Dennis was 6 minutes older than me."
"Twins?" You state the obvious. Denise and Dennis.
"Yeah, but we were nothing alike," she says, her pace slowing as her eyes seem to drift back into memories. "He was brave and... angry. He wasn't afraid of anything. We grew up in Ohio, surrounded by farms in the middle of nowhere town, and he was like a local celebrity—everyone knew him."
As the infirmary comes into view, Denise's voice softens, carrying a note of wistful reminiscence, "When I see them... it's like seeing shades of my brother. A bit of Daryl and a bit of Merle. And it's just..."
"You feel at home with them," you complete her thought. A memory of her, seated awkwardly between the Dixon brothers at a bonfire, passing a joint, flickers in your mind. Suddenly, her ease around Merle, despite his teasing and mocking nickname "little mouse," makes sense.
"I suppose that's one way to put it," she concedes, her gaze introspective.
Seeing the vulnerability on her face, you decide to lighten the mood, nudging her shoulder playfully. "So, tell me about this mysterious vibe that I have?"
Denise groans, her cheeks flushing a bright pink, and her steps quicken as she tries to escape the conversation. Your laughter echoes as you trail behind her into the clinic.
Inside, Denise busies herself with preparations for the day while you perch on the patient's bed, an anticipatory smile playing on your lips. When she turns, surprise lifts her eyebrows.
"I'm your patient today," you announce gently, struggling to contain your excitement.
"Is everything alright?" she asks, immediately on high alert.
Your smile widens, "yeah, I just need you to remove my contraceptive implant."
Denise pauses, blinking. "Oh, you have an implant?" she asks, her medical instincts kicking in, brows knitting in intrigue. "That's pretty useful in a time like—wait, remove it? Really?"
You bite your lip, tears choking you as you nod. "Yeah, we're gonna try." You weren't even pregnant yet, but the prospect of motherhood has you already feeling emotional.
You stand in the lab's basement, dressed in your lab coat and gloves. Your focus is fixed on the wine barrels in front of you, while behind you, Eugene meticulously jots down every step of the process. Under the bright overhead light, the open wine barrels now hold a thriving microbial wonderland, shimmering with pockets of vibrant green, ruby red, and royal purple hues bubbling up, resembling little mushrooms gently floating in the liquid.
Despite the physical discomfort and the ache in your arms, now wrapped in bandages, you can't contain the sense of happiness welling up inside you. It took only a few small incisions in your inner arm to remove the contraceptive implant, leaving four stitches behind. But instead of a little plastic rod leaving your body, it feels like a massive weight has been lifted, making the world seem much lighter. Everything is starting to align, and the future looks more promising. Perhaps you will be able to build the future Deanna talked about after all.
A pronounced crunch breaks your train of thought. Turning, you find Eugene with his notebook in one hand and a bright red apple in the other, taking another noisy bite. There's a brief moment of eye contact as he continues to chomp away loudly. "You do realize these apples are meant to go in the barrels, right?" you quip.
The idea had come to you while feeding Judith her little jar of applesauce. Then you remember Aaron's mention when he first recruited your group; one of his selling points was 'plenty of apple trees in Alexandria.'
Eugene glances down at the bucket of apples at his feet.
"Like Alexander Fleming's spilled orange juice, we need a carbon source for the fungus to consume, aka sugar," you explain, nodding in the direction of the barrel. "See that? It's looking promising," you say, pointing to the colorful bubbles forming within. "We'll wait a week, and then we'll introduce the yeast, which will serve as a nitrogen source for the fermentation."
Eugene nods, slipping his half-eaten apple into his pocket. He begins documenting his observations, his neat handwriting almost mirroring yours, though his notes are as meticulous as ever. "Every day, we will perform a process called Agitation, which is just a fancy way of saying, stirring the pot to help distribute nutrition and oxygen," you inform.
Eugene hums, looking up at you with a contemplative expression, his pen pausing mid-curve. "Y'know, I'm well aware that I'm nothin' more than your trusty sidekick in all this, but I've been thinkin' of making a move of my own," Eugene declares.
You just stare at him, confused. "Huh?"
"What you're doin' here, maximizing your capabilities, thinking outside the box... that kind of ingenuity got me ponderin' my own potential, if you catch my drift," he explains. You nod, giving him an encouraging smile, recognizing that Eugene is smart and capable in many ways that you are not.
"That day when that wolf came at us, you showed me that one heroic act can change the whole game. You told me I had the chops to survive. Since then, I've been puttin' in the sweat and tears, sheddin' that old skin of deceit and trickery to make it in this new world. I reckon I've now joined you in stage two, the next phase of survival, and from here on out, we ride this journey as equals."
You blink, momentarily taken aback. "Okay..." you respond, the words escaping you.
You've noticed his efforts to improve himself, starting his time helping in the lab, training alongside Rosita, and you've recently heard that he wanted to take on watch duty as well.
Suddenly, Eugene redirects the conversation, snapping you out of your thoughts. "I've been chewin' on the idea of manufacturin' bullets."
Your eyebrows rocket skyward. " Bullets? You can make bullets?"
"I sure can, and I sure as shootin' will," Eugene's face beams with confidence. "Given the current state of affairs, I'd venture to say that ammunition is as precious as your antibiotics," he says, nodding towards the barrels. "A full cartridge is now the coin of the land."
The gears in your mind whirl, imagining the countless doors this could unlock, not only as a valuable barter chip but also as a safeguard for your community. "Damn," you whisper.
"Damn indeed," Eugene agrees, clearly proud of himself.
With a grin, you extend your hand. "Well then, Eugene, welcome to the next stage." He eagerly grasps your hand, sealing the impact of his growth and the bond the two of you share.