God, work is killing me, which is why this chapter too so long. next one might be little late too.

Recap: Chapter 46 - "Yes, this is truly exciting," Reg remarks, rising from his seat abruptly. "Back when I was a professor of architecture, I used to tell my students at the beginning of each semester: Rome wasn't built in a day. Creating something complex takes time and requires creativity."
"Where are you going, dear? You know it's not happening today," Deanna calls out to her husband, a smile on her face.

Tell me somethin', girl
Are you happy in this modern world?
Or do you need more?
Is there somethin' else you're searchin' for?

I'm falling
In all the good times I find myself
Longin' for change
And in the bad times I fear myself

Tell me something, boy
Aren't you tired tryin' to fill that void?
Or do you need more?
Ain't it hard keeping it so hardcore?

Shallow by Tommee Profitt

Chapter 54 - Nostalgia

"Boom! Boom! Boom!" The unmistakable sound of video game mayhem echoes through the house as you carefully mix baby Judith's formula. She sits on your hip, her tiny fingers gripping your shirt as she eagerly awaits her dinner. Even from your kitchen, you can see Carl reclining on the sofa in the family room, half his face swathed in bandages. Opposite him sits Morgan, your chessboard between them. Your brows furrow in annoyance, knowing that the last thing Carl needs right now is the cacophony of gunfire and virtual explosions in his current state.

Balancing Judith securely, you start down the wooden steps, her small hands wrapped around the bottle as she hungrily sucks on it. Her innocent brown eyes gaze up at you, oblivious to the vibration of each explosion resonating through your feet, making it feel as if the basement itself is part of this video game battlefield.

At the bottom of the stairs, you're greeted by Jamie, Glenn, and Eugene, lined up on the sofa, huddled around the TV screen with intense focus. Eugene and Glenn seem to be in a battle, controls in hand while Jamie hovers over Glenn's shoulder, shouting instructions.

"Dude, go left! LEFT!" Jamie's voice peaks, his voice filled with competitive fervor as he physically shakes Glenn.

"I'm trying, man! Get off me," Glenn retorts, shoving Jamie away, his focus unbroken.

"You might be mighty proficient when it comes to real-world survival, but in the realm of video games, well, let it be known that I hereby declare myself the master," Eugene taunts with a sly grin.

"Master my black ass! I wanna a rematch!" Jamie scoffs, as your presence goes completely unnoticed.

"Hey, could you guys lower the volume? Carl needs his rest," you assert loudly, eyes darting around, searching for a familiar face. "Where's Merle?"

But Jamie's too engrossed to give you his full attention. "Go! Move it! Turn Now! TURN!" He urges Glenn, your plea barely registering.

A touch of exasperation creeps into your voice, "Did any of you even hear me?"

"Yeah, yeah, I gotchu." Jamie mumbles distractedly, reaching for the remote. "Merle's on watch. What about it?"

"Does he know you guys are down here?" You arch an eyebrow, wondering if they even have permission to make themselves at home in his personal space. But the trio's attention remains firmly on their game. "Aim... Now, fire!" Jamie exclaims, ignoring your question.

With a resigned exhale, you turn, deciding it's best to leave them to their devices, wondering why you even bothered.

"Can you believe them?" you huff to baby Judith, climbing the stairs back to the main floor. Judith, sensing your conversation directed at her, offers a gummy smile in return, the bottle's teat still held firmly between her lips, showing you her two tiny teeth, making you smile. "It's just you and me, now, kiddo."

Upon entering the living room, you beeline for the bookshelf to retrieve the scientific literature you started reading a few nights ago. However, you pause when Morgan's soft-spoken voice drifts. "You're a tough kid. You're still standin', still takin' breaths." He says to Carl, and your fingers hover over the books, observing the pair from your vantage point.

It has been nearly two weeks since the incident with the herd and the breached wall, and much has transpired since then. Efforts have been tirelessly underway to clean up the town and mend the damaged wall.

You vividly recall the shock you felt upon arriving just in time to witness Rick and the other Alexandrians bravely holding their ground against the relentless horde of walkers. Of course, you had jumped in to help, along with everyone else. Daryl, ever the quick-thinker, had set the town's pond aflame, using quite the dramatic technique in your opinion, involving diesel and an RPG.

However, victory came at a steep price. During your absence, Ron had tragically shot Carl in the eye, and the rest of the Anderson family had been killed by walkers. Fortunately, Denise stepped up and skillfully patched up Carl. You can't help but be proud of her; she had put her fear and anxiety aside and risen to the occasion.

Morgan's deep voice pulls you back to the present. "Losin' things, well, that's just a piece of this life, especially these days. It's the way we decide to handle it that truly shows who we are," he muses, his fingers grazing a chess piece, deep in thought. Over the last few days, you've been teaching Carl chess, aiming to distract him from the pain whenever you manage to spare some time.

"Dad, he told me, he warned me." Carl nods, his good eye fixed on the board. "He told me that I was not safe, no matter how safe everything looked. Ron aimed a gun at me before all this happened, and I... I let it slide. I should've killed him back then, done something about it when I had the chance."

"No, Carl, you gotta redirect those thoughts, the history that tells ya otherwise," Morgan says firmly. "You did the right thing. You chose to create peace instead of resortin' to violence."

"Yeah, well, look where it got me," Carl murmurs, bitterness edging his voice.

Morgan pauses, taking a breath before pressing on. "Do ya believe your life is precious?" When Carl doesn't respond, he pushes gently, "Go on, answer the question, son."

"Yeah, I guess," Carl admits reluctantly.

"Then, if ya believe your life is precious, then all life is precious." Morgan nods, conviction in his eyes. Your eyebrows furrow, and you find yourself wondering where this conversation is headed.

"Is that why you didn't kill those people?" Carl asks, moving his chess piece with a sheepish look. "I overheard Dad and Michonne talking about how you let them go."

Morgan doesn't respond immediately, but when he does, his voice is low and contemplative. "Yes, I didn't wanna take five lives if I didn't ought to," he admits, letting out a sigh. There's another pause as he seems lost in thought. "Back in the day, them folks, they coulda been bus drivers, school-teachers, cashiers… just regular folks. The world twisted 'em, but if they changed once, there's a glimmer of hope they could change back again."

Carl frowns, skeptical. "But isn't it naive to think they could change, that they would hesitate even for a moment from killing us?"

Your interest piques further as Morgan smiles gently, reaching into his chest pocket. "I keep a book with me, 'The Art of Peace'by Morihei Ueshiba." He produces a worn, yellowed book, thumbing through its pages until he finds the passage he seeks. "See, there's a quote right here: 'To injure an opponent is to injure yourself.' It's sayin' that violence just breeds more of the same. It's all about seekin' another path for dealin' with conflict… it's about creatin' peace."

"Even for people like that?" Carl questions.

Morgan looks up, his gaze unwavering. "We must see people not just for who they are, but for who they could become. 'Cause where there's life, there's potential."

You stifle an incredulous scoff. Though you respect the depth of their conversation, it's a philosophy you find hard to digest fully. Quietly, you pick up your book and head towards the front door, their voices drifting behind you.

"Do you like readin'?" Morgan inquires.

"Comic books mostly," Carl replies, just as you step out onto the porch.

And as the door swings shut, you catch Morgan's gentle voice one last time. "Perhaps you could give this one a shot?"

The night air carries a comforting warmth, and a gentle breeze rustles through the trees. In one hand, you light up the battery-operated outdoor lantern, while the other adjusting baby Judith, cradling her to your chest, as you settle into the rocking chair on the front porch.

With practiced ease, you gently remove the empty bottle from Judith's small mouth, replacing it with the pacifier hanging around her neck on a string, courtesy of engineer Carol. The child emits a soft, contented sigh as she starts to suck on it, her eyes half-closed in peaceful satisfaction.

This marks the third consecutive night that you've taken on the responsibility of caring for Judith, and you both slowly falling into a comforting routine, as Rick and Daryl are out on a scavenging mission.

Setting the now-empty bottle on the small outdoor table beside you, you lean back, the book resting on the edge of your lap. Judith nestles into your chest, her head resting against your chest, her soft, light hair brushing gently against your skin. She seems at peace, her tiny hands cupping each side of your breast as she snuggles closer.

With a contented sigh, you begin to gently rock back and forth, your hand moving to the book and the page marker you left. But there's something else there too… a folded piece of paper you've opened countless times. A letter, given to you by Rick, bearing the final words from Deanna. It's hard to imagine she's gone; it feels like you had just spoken to her yesterday. Yet, she was dead by the time you got back, having been bitten by a walker while protecting Rick during his leap over the breached wall. You exhale slowly, unfolding the paper one more time.

.

"Rome wasn't built in a day. Creating something complex takes time and requires creativity."

-Deanna

.

These were Reg's words; a phrase he had told you he says to his students at the beginning of each semester. Now, Deanna has passed them on to you, leaving you with this enduring message. She wants you to build it, her dream… brick by brick and block by block.

With a deep sigh, you return to the page where you left off and begin reading aloud. For a moment, the world falls silent, and your soft voice fills the air like a soothing lullaby, gently coaxing baby Judith into slumber. Her mouth is slightly ajar, the pacifier barely hanging from her lips. The night embraces a serene tranquility, and the outside world seems to fade away in a moment of peacefulness.

"'The synthesis of antibiotics typically involves the modification of natural compounds or the creation of entirely synthetic molecules with selective antibacterial properties,'" you recite from the book.

A soft creaking sound breaks your soft voice as the front door gently opens, and Morgan steps onto the porch. He glances toward you and offers a warm smile as he approaches.

"How's Carl doing?" You question, your voice barely above a whisper not to disturb the sleeping baby.

"He's holdin' up, all things considered," Morgan responds, his voice equally gentle, as he motions to the vacant chair beside you. You nod, and he takes a seat, leaning his staff against the porch railing. For a moment, silence reigns again, and you glance at your book, but your thoughts drift back to the conversation you had overheard earlier.

You close your book and adjust slightly in your chair. "About earlier, what you said to Carl… and before that, the incident with Denise and the Wolf guy... You do realize, if Denise didn't make it, Carl wouldn't be here today, right?"

There was so much you had to catch up on. The many stories you heard from Carol, mostly about Morgan and how he had "saved" one of the Wolves, leading to a chain of events you were still piecing together. While there was a lot on your plate, your primary focus had been the reconstruction of the wall, and for the most part, you had perceived everything that transpired as a win. However, as you sit here now, it seems like the right time to address Morgan's actions.

Morgan doesn't reply immediately. His gaze drops to the floor, and after a moment, he sighs, a note of regret clear in his voice. "I never intended to put her in danger. I tried my best to make her understand the risks, but I believed it was worth a shot. I had to try."

You can only assume that Denise, still adjusting to the reality of this new world, naively offered her assistance anyways.

Morgan's voice grows soft, the weight of his memories evident in his eyes. "Awhile back... after losin' my Jenny and my boy Duane, I was drownin' in a darkness deeper than most folks can fathom. But somehow, I found my way out, found some peace."

"That's anecdotal, Morgan. Your experience isn't universal—" you begin, but he interrupts you.

"It can't just be me. It can't," he asserts, voice thick with emotion. "All life is precious. That idea changed me, it brought me back. The belief that everythin' in this world is about people, everythin' that's worth a damn."

His eyes, now moist, meet yours, searching your gaze as though he sees something in you that you don't. "You get it, I know you do. You're a doctor, a healer, it's in your line of work to understand the value of life."

You quietly listen, gently stroking Judith's soft, wispy light hair as you reflect on your own perspective. The way you were raised, your understanding of the world, is molded and shaped by the very law of nature, the predator and prey dynamic, where the lines between right and wrong blur in the face of necessity.

As you focus on the man sitting beside you, you notice the gentle smile gracing his face. "I saw it that day, out there in the cemetery. It was in your eyes. You spoke 'bout findin' a balance between empathy and logic, and I reckon it's in that balance that we find peace."

You inhale deeply, considering his words. "Let me ask you something, Morgan," you begin, "Do you believe in science?"

He doesn't respond, he simply looks at you, a hint of confusion in his eyes.

But you understand, even if you don't entirely agree with Morgan's philosophy, you understand their origin. In this chaotic and unpredictable world, people cling to ideologies that offer them purpose, something to hold onto in the face of despair and loss. For Morgan, it's the belief in the sanctity of life that anchors him, that gives him a sense of self and a way to cope with what he's endured.

"Newton's third law of nature states, 'For every action, there's an equal and opposite reaction.' But this concept goes beyond just physics in my opinion; it's about consequences, about cause and effect, decision and action."

You gesture to a house nestled at the end of the lane, "There's a little boy in that house; he's staying with Amanda now. He was orphaned by the Wolves. They savagely took his mother away from him, his last piece of family." When you look back at Morgan, his gaze drops to the ground. "Would you advise him to seek peace? Would you tell him that there's no justice for his mother, no consequences for their actions? That they can just change, and everything will be alright?"

You can tell from the way his fists are clenched on his knees that your words are hitting hard, but you press on. "And what about your actions? By sparing their lives, by stopping me from killing them that day, they had the chance to ambush Rick. They damaged the RV, preventing Rick from diverting the herd. Your decisions almost cost us our home. Deanna is dead, and so is the entire Anderson family."

You allow a moment of silence to let your words sink in, as you tilt your head, attempting to catch his gaze, "I'm not saying this to hurt you, Morgan," you say, voice softening, though you can see that it already has. "I just want you to understand that decisions like that, choices that affect all of us, have consequences."

Morgan exhales deeply, a raw vulnerability etched plainly on his face. "I'm just... lost, don't rightly know what to do no more... what's the path of right or wrong."

"We're all in the same boat." You reply, turning your gaze back to your book, fingers thumping the pages. "We're navigating uncharted waters with an uncertain compass."

He hums as he contemplates your words, and once again, silence descends, the weight of your conversation hanging in the air. However, that moment doesn't last long as you spot two familiar figures emerging down the street. Rick and Daryl approach the house, their steps unhurried, lost in their own conversation.

"Hey," you call out, shifting your gaze from your husband to Rick as they step onto the porch. You quickly scan Daryl, looking for any signs of injury. It has been Rick's idea to pair up a few teams for scavenging trips, while Maggie has been utilizing her farming skills, dedicating a section of the town to start with basic gardening. Though you know it's going to be a while before you see any crops growing.

The recent events, especially Deanna's death and the way everyone rallied together to defend the community, seemed to mend the division between the Alexandrians and your groups. This transformation is most notable in Rick, almost overnight his perspective has shifted from "them" to "us."

"Hey, how's Carl?" Rick questions, his mind predictably on his injured son even though they'd only been gone a few hours. Given that you're their next-door neighbor and Carl's doctor, it makes sense for him to leave both his children with you in his absence. This arrangement also provides Carol with a break, as well, since she has been the primary caretaker during the day when you're all busy.

"He's doing okay," you reassure, smiling. "Took his meds and seems to be in good spirits today."

A soft moan draws your attention to Judith, perhaps stirred by her father's voice. Her eyes slowly flutter open, sleepily gazing up at Rick and Daryl.

"Did she give you any trouble?" Rick asks, his eyes softening as he looks at his daughter.

Your hand instinctively goes to her wispy hair, softly petting her. "Nah, we've just been chilling and reading," you say, turning the book on your lap to reveal its title. "'Mims' Medical Microbiology,'" you read with a laugh. "It bored her right to sleep."

Rick chuckles. "She must've inherited that from me. School used to put me to sleep, too," he says, stepping forward, arms outstretched toward Judith.

"You want 'uppies'?" he coos, making a playful grabbing motion with his fingers. But Judith sighs, nestling closer to you, clearly signaling she'd prefer to stay put.

"No?" Rick playfully feigns hurt. "Alright. I guess I'll go check on Carl then." With a shrug, he turns and heads inside. Morgan, who has been observing the tender moment with a smile, rises from his seat as well, calling after Rick as he follows him inside.

You turn to Daryl, who stands leaning against the railing, observing the scene in silence. Your eyebrows raise slightly upon seeing his expression. He's fixedly staring at both you and the child, his gaze unblinking. There's a blend of contemplation in his eyes, along with an emotion you can't quite identify. "Are you okay?" you ask.

He appears distant, momentarily lost in his thoughts. He rubs the back of his neck and then, almost unconsciously, brings his fingers to his lips, biting his nails. When he speaks, it's with the distinctive low rasp you've come to recognize. "You're real good with her," he remarks, nodding gently in Judith's direction.

"No, she's just easy," you reply, glancing down with a smile. Daryl moves closer, the subtle scrape of a chair against the floor announcing his decision as he slides into the seat Morgan recently vacated. He stretches out his legs, reclining slightly, and lets out a weary sigh.

"How did the scavenging go?" you ask.

He shrugs, his eyes still flickering between you and the child. "Came up empty. Thinkin' 'bout headin' out north tomorrow. Hopin' them suburban homes might turn up somethin' better."

Judith watches Daryl with lazy attention, her half-opened eyes gazing back at him as her chubby hand kneads the side of your breast daftly.

"Hey, little ass kicker," he addresses her, leaning forward with a playful frown and pointing at Judith's wandering hands. "Them ain't yours to be squeezin', and I sure as hell ain't givin' you no permission for that."

You can't help but giggle, understanding that it's just a mindless action of a toddler, likely something that gives her comfort since she was never breastfed. Judith, as if sensing the conversation is directed at her, offers a big smile, her pacifier slipping to showcase her two baby teeth, but her little hand remains undeterred in its rhythmic motions.

Daryl's mock frown deepens, though there's a twinkle in his eye as he squints at her. "Oh, look at ya, now you're just showin' off. You're real lucky you're so darn cute, y'know that?"

"That she is," you reply with a chuckle.

As you shift your gaze, it falls upon the book in your lap. "You know," you begin, turning to Daryl, "while reading through this, I realized that after treating Carl and wasting a fair share of our antibiotics on that 'W' guy, our stocks are running pretty low."

Daryl's eyes drift to the book, watching your fingers gently trace the book's spine. You found it in the infirmary, likely belonged to Pete or the doctor before him. "Been thinking maybe we could start producing our own antibiotics."

He squints, an eyebrow cocked inquisitively. "Ya reckon that's possible?"

You offer a tentative shrug. "Well, if they managed it back in the 20s, it's worth a shot, right?" You're not starting from ground zero; Microbiology falls within your field of expertise, and antibiotics are a byproduct of microorganisms. You just need to research existing processes and recipes for antibiotic production. "Actually, I was thinking you could take me to the library sometime this week, see if we get some textbooks on what's feasible and what's not."

"Alright, don't see no reason why not," he murmurs, nodding slowly, "I'll check with Rick, figure out our schedule."

Daryl drives the car down the deserted road, surrounded by dense forest on both sides, you sit in the passenger's seat, heading toward the closest library he marked out on the map. The hum of the engine and a gentle breeze brushing against your skin create a soothing backdrop for your thoughts. Absentmindedly, you reach over and pop open the glove compartment, and inside, you find a few CDs with unknown musicians.

Daryl lets out a sigh when you insert one of them into the car's music player. "Oh, come on," he grumbles in exasperation. "Don't, please."

You can't help but chuckle at his reaction, playfully teasing, "What? A little music might be nice. Who knows, maybe I might even serenade you."

Daryl rolls his eyes, "Oh good God, I still ain't recovered from the last time you tried to sing to me." Feigning shock, you playfully smack his arm.

Fortunately for him, the unfamiliar tune saves him from any potential performance. You lean back in your seat, relaxing, your eyes never leaving Daryl. There's a sense of nostalgia in this moment, as the visual takes you back to your teenage years, with a younger Daryl sitting just as he is now in your old BMW, one hand nonchalantly placed on the wheel.

"Are you still upset?" you ask gently as you gaze at him.

Daryl responds with a non-committal grunt, his eyes briefly leaving the road to meet yours.

"About the bike and your crossbow?" you clarify, knowing how much that crossbow meant to him, a crossbow he had since he was a teenager. You understand he must be feeling a bit naked without it now.

He had told you everything that happened—why his walkie-talkie had gone unanswered, the couple he had attempted to rescue, and the tragic fate of one of the sisters. Part of you couldn't help but sympathize with the couple; they had acted in what they believed was their best interest, even though it had left you seething on behalf of your husband.

"No good deed goes unpunished, I guess," Daryl mutters, shifting his gaze from the road to lock eyes with you. "I stuck my neck out for 'em... Maybe Rick was right about not lookin' for more folks."

You shake your head gently, your smile softening. "You don't mean that, I know you don't." The very essence of Daryl is threaded with selflessness, even when it comes to strangers like them. "You tried your best, but shit happens. We'll find you another crossbow somehow, and I'm sure there are plenty of abandoned bikes out there waiting for you too."

Daryl hums, and the conversation leads you to another perplexing thought, the puzzling encounter with the Biker gang and their strange demands on behalf of a man named Negan. You've checked with Aaron, since he's been Alexandria's recruiter for quite some time, to see if he has ever heard that name before, and his answer is a resounding "no." Uncertain about what to make of it, you decide to let it be for now.

Your thoughts are interrupted as the car turns onto a long, desolate road, and you can't help but look confused as the landscape changes. Scattered homes give way to a more secluded area.

"Where are we?" you ask.

Before Daryl can respond, your eyes catch sight of the answer. A sign that reads "Kennedy High" stands in front of a large school building, its red brick walls looming ominously. Broken-down cars littered the parking lot, lined up as if to create a barrier.

You state the obvious, "This isn't a library," as you survey the surroundings.

Daryl, still seated in the car, squints at the map spread across the dashboard, before looking up at the school building through the windshield. "There's a library in there," he points out.

With a laugh, you open the car door and step out, slinging your rifle over your shoulder. Daryl follows suit, and you look at him over the car. "I was thinking more scholarly literature, not high school textbooks," you explain with a wry smile.

Daryl simply shrugs. "Well, maybe you oughta been a bit more clear about it."

"Or maybe you just wanted to bring me here…" you say with a wink, only for Daryl to scoff with a slight lift of his lips.

Rather than turning back and heading to the next closest library on the map, you feel compelled to move forward and explore. Perhaps it's the unexpected wave of nostalgia you've been feeling on the ride here. "Doesn't it remind you of our old high school?" you remark, drawing closer to the entrance. There, a rusted chain-link binds the double doors shut. A warning sign, its color faded but the message still clear, is ominously painted across them.

"Don't open, dead inside."

The letters were splattered with old, dried blood, but it doesn't prevent you from peering through the thick glass. Suddenly, walkers crash against the pane, their twisted hands and decayed faces pressing urgently against the clear barrier. Daryl is instantly at your side, and you release a shaky chuckle, your hand instinctively going to your chest.

The brief scare put aside, you continue to inspect the exterior of the school, moving cautiously around the perimeter. Daryl trails close, murmuring under his breath. The windows are reinforced with boards and metal sheets and based on what you saw earlier, with the line of cars positioned strategically in the parking lot suggests that the school might have served as a haven, possibly during the early stages of the outbreak.

As you round a corner, the back of the school comes into view, opening up to a vast field covered in tall, unkempt grass. But what draws your eye are the bleachers, encircling what once was a well-kept athletic field.

"Oh, look," you say, your face lighting up with a smile. You reach out, taking Daryl's hand and gently pulling him towards the field.

You sit perched high on the rusted bleachers, your gaze on the once-vibrant athletic field below, now a sea of overgrown grass and wildflowers, a testament to nature's reclamation of this abandoned place. The air is heavy with the musty scent of decay, yet there is beauty here in how the sun reflects off the greenery. "It's rather beautiful, isn't it?" you muse, your eyes moving to the lone figure in the center of the field. A long walker, its emaciated form half-crouched as if caught on something unseen in the long grass, stretches its decaying arm out toward you. "Even as humanity declines, the world somehow finds a way to heal itself."

Daryl merely emits a soft hum, his head tilted slightly to watch the scenery you've drawn his attention to. He's lying on your lap, much like the way you used to sit back in the day, a lit cigarette held loosely between his fingers as your hand move tenderly through his hair.

It had taken you a few minutes to hike through the grass, finding a few walkers almost decomposed to the ground. But it didn't matter to you how many walkers you had to swing your machete at; you climbed the bleachers with almost teenage excitement.

"This, right here, feels like old times," you begin, reminiscing in soft voice. "I remember how I used to rush through the cafeteria, grab our lunch, and dash over to our spot."

"Yeah, I do kinda miss them nasty-ass turkey sandwiches," he muses, exhaling a puff of smoke. You chuckle at the memory, though in hindsight, those cold, a little too wet sandwiches with too much mayo don't seem so bad.

You continue, your fingers gently tracing through his hair. "You know, when I was in college, I used to dream about that time of my life. The bleachers, the cliff, the meadow..." You confess, your voice taking on a vulnerable tone. You had been so depressed, almost debilitated during your freshman year, spending most of your time in bed, waking up to the harsh realities of life, crying and dragging yourself to class, which ultimately led you to seek therapy. "God, I was mad for you back then," you whisper, "I loved you so much."

Daryl's teasing reply doesn't miss a beat. "What? Ya ain't mad for me now?" His eyebrows raise playfully.

"Oh, hush," you chide, flicking his forehead playfully before returning to your train of thought. "Did you ever think we'd end up here?"

Daryl's response is swift. "Yeah."

"Really? You thought the world would come to an end, and we'd be living in some kind of zombie apocalypse?" you ask skeptically. His unoccupied hand reaches out to stroke your cheek, his touch reassuring.

"Nah, not quite like that," he says, shaking his head slightly. "I meant us. Back in them days, there was a part of me wonderin' why you even wanted me around, but deep down, I always figured we'd end up right here." he continues, implying your marriage. "Even when I thought I lost ya, it felt all kinds of wrong, like shit wasn't right in the universe."

A warm feeling wells up inside you, and you smile at him. "Hmm, so there was a part of you that waited for me," you observe. He tuts at you in a very Daryl Dixon manner, but the hand that had rested on your cheek moves to the back of your neck and tugs you down. You giggle as you press your lips to his, and his neck tilts up to meet your kiss, the taste of his cigarette lingering on his lips.

When you break the kiss, you let out a contented sigh, your eyes tracing the contours of his face, his eyes looking bluer under the warmth of the morning sun. The moment feels completely at ease, and you know deep in your heart that you are content.

Even with everything that has transpired in the past few weeks, everything that could have gone wrong did—people lost their lives, and you almost lost your home and everyone within it to hordes of walkers. Yet, against all odds, you chased after him, and you found each other in one piece.

Maybe you really are lucky.

"Can I ask you something?" you question, and Daryl hums in acknowledgment, shifting his hand to press the cigarette butt, extinguishing it against the step below. "Do you even want kids? Is that something you see for us?"

"Alie," he sighs, turning his gaze toward you.

"You said we could talk about this after the whole quarry situation," your response is immediate as you explain yourself, "and now, the walls are repaired, we're rebuilding, and Michonne is even looking into the expansion plans."

Daryl slowly rises from his reclining position to sit beside you, gazing out at the vast expanse of the athletic field with a sigh.

"Of course, I want kids," he admits, his voice soft and low. "I've always wanted kids, and I wanted 'em with you, just like we talked about. But I reckon we're rushin' into things. We can wait 'til we're more settled, take our time, and do it the right way."

You turn, swinging your legs over the bench to fully face him. "I mean, it's not like we're doing it today. These things, they take time," you reason, your hand finding his, your fingers interlocking. He shifts his gaze to meet yours. "But we don't have all the time in the world, Daryl."

"I know," he acknowledges, his voice tinged with something indistinguishable.

"I'm not in my twenties like Maggie. I'm already in my thirties, Daryl, and the older I get, the more complications could happen and the riskier it gets," you explain, your voice filled with a mixture of emotions, knowing that with each year, your chances of conception decrease as well. "The world as it is, anything could happen, and I don't want to die before I become a mother," you whisper, your voice trembling with emotion, tears gather in your eyes. "I realize now that's all I want in this world, Daryl… to be a mother to our children."

As your tears make their way down your cheeks, he pulls you closer to him. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, feeling his lips press gently to the top of your head. "I want you to give me that, Daryl," you mumble into his neck, your voice laden with emotion. "I want to hold our babies."

That's all you want in this world—this longing for a family, a future where the two of you can bring a new life into this uncertain world and find a sort of meaning and purpose to everything you went through.

You pull back to meet Daryl's gaze, your eyes reddened from tears. He nods in acceptance, his vulnerability evident in his posture. "…okay, sweetheart, I'll do whatever ya want. Just stop cryin', alright?"

It's not the words you hear, but the tone of his voice. You study him through your blurred vision, observing the way he nervously nibbles on his fingernail, his tense shoulder… it's like he's choking on something. "you're saying that now but what are you thinking? Whatever it is, you know you can tell me anything, right?" You whisper softly, your voice filled with concern as you probe. "Daryl, talk to me."

He sighs, taking a moment before he responds, his voice carrying the weight of his thoughts. "It's just... I ain't like Rick. I don't know if I'm exactly cut out for this whole father thing," he confesses, avoiding your gaze, laden with uncertainty. "I know nothin' about what it takes to be a good dad. Hell, it ain't like I had a good example, you know."

Your eyebrows knit together as you gently grasp his chin, directing his gaze to meet yours, as realization finally dawns upon you. Of course, you should have known. This isn't just about deciding to have a child; it's also about his own trauma, everything he endured as a child—neglect, abuse, and the fear that he might somehow become like his father or that having a child might transform you into someone reminiscent of his mother. You recall, after all, that his mother struggled with postpartum depression following his birth.

"Listen, Daryl," you assert, your fingers gently brushing against the soft facial hair on his chin. "You're a provider, a protector, selfless, kind, and the most amazing man I've ever met," you affirm with conviction. "I understand that with everything that happened in your childhood and with this new, scary world—it must take on its own special flavor of what-ifs and possibly-maybes. But I want you to know that it's normal to feel this way."

"I know..." he mumbles, his fingers gripping your hand tightly. "It's just that this ain't somethin'... I can't fail at this."

"You won't, Daryl. You won't. Your history is not your destiny," you assure him, swallowing the lump in your throat. "You'll be everything your father wasn't—kind, nurturing, supportive, and I'll be right there beside you. You and me, like always. We can do this—you can do this," you declare, and it's your turn to pull him into a hug, holding onto the familiar fabric of his vest. "I don't want you to feel rushed, Daryl. I want you to feel happy and excited about this… so take some time and think about it… but just don't take too long."

He hums, and you pull back from the embrace with a smile, even though your eyes are still wet. You know he has pretty much agreed to it, but this is not just about you. You want him to take the time he needs to reflect on his own thoughts and fears.

You lean your head on his shoulder, feeling his hand stroke up and down your back. "You know," you begin, your eyes wandering over the tranquil field ahead, "you're not the only one going through this." You tilt your head to catch his gaze. "I think you should talk to Glenn. It might help you settle your fears, or at the very least, you'll see that your fears are entirely normal."

Daryl bangs on the wooden double door of the public library to attract any walkers that might linger inside, before cautiously venturing deeper into the dimly lit space. He holds his blades high, his senses on high alert to the eerie silence that envelops the place. He can't shake the unease that gnaws at the pit of his stomach. It strikes him, almost belatedly, as he stands outside the abandoned library, that this is the first time he's on a run with his wife.

Certainly, he knows she is more than capable; she has proven herself repeatedly. Yet, he can't help but feel that underlying concern, the ever-present worry for her safety. Even now, he feels her presence, her back pressed to him, her rifle equipped with a silencer at the ready, her face marked with determination, as they move in sync.

The musty scent of old books and decay lingers heavily in the air as they navigate the aisles between towering bookshelves, a graveyard of forgotten knowledge. Suddenly, the silence is shattered by guttural growls, as walkers start to drag themselves out from between the shelves. Without a moment's hesitation, Daryl's blade cuts through the air, each strike sinking into the dead's skulls, one after the other. Meanwhile, he hears the muffled pops as Alie dispatches the undead behind him.

Finally, when he glances back, he sees a dozen walkers now at her feet, each shot had hit its mark right in the center of the head. She smirks, winking at him, "I'm a Dixon now, didn't you hear?" she teases about her aim, moving past him further into the library. He shakes his head, a surge of pride mingled with worry coursing through him. He follows her, traversing the aisles, searching for the books she needs.

Daryl remains vigilant, on the lookout for any unexpected walkers they might have missed, but he can't help but steal glances at her between the bookshelves. His Alie is absorbed in her task, her focus unwavering as she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

Today, she's chosen to wear her hair down, allowing it to flow freely, dark waves cascading gracefully down her back. The image of her, right here, right now, surrounded by the books, all he could see is the young Alie he'd known before everything changed. Daryl takes a deep breath, his stomach still heavy with the conversation from just an hour ago.

"Imma scope out the children's book section for them little ones," he grumbles, his voice rough, and she hums in acknowledgment without looking away as she peruses the books, flipping through their pages. Daryl begins to pace through the shelves, making his way toward the children's section.

She wants a baby... she asked him to give her that. Of course, he'd give her anything, anything she desires, hell, even the damn moon if that's what she fancied. But the idea of being a father, the possibility of making mistakes... especially with the shadows of his own tumultuous childhood looming over of him.

Daryl can almost feel the scars on his back itching, memories of his father's angry outbursts echoing in his mind—'Yer nobody, nothin', a damn waste of space.' The sting of a slap, the weight of a punch, the biting lash of a belt, Merle's scream as he hides, the feeling of being trapped, the overpowering need to protect his mother… The fear, the pain, the regret. Would he end up like his old man? Could he break that cycle? Could he even keep his own safe from the horrors of this world? Could he put food on the table if everything goes to hell?"

Shaking his head, Daryl tries to dispel the intrusive thoughts. It's not fair to compare. He's not his father. And Alie is nothing like his mother. She's got faith in him, sees somethin' in him that sometimes he has a hard time seein' in himself.

Daryl lets out a sigh as he scans the shelves lined with colorful children's books. His fingers instinctively trace over the spines, taking in the vibrant illustrations and playful titles. Moving down the aisle, he finds himself standing in front of another bright section, but then, just a few feet away, a sign calls to him, a sign that says— Common Sense Education— with rows and rows of family education books. It feels like an ironic twist of fate, considering the heavy topic that has been weighing on his mind.

He steps closer, reaching out to randomly pull at a few books, their covers adorned with smiling families, radiating happiness, safety, and togetherness. But then… one in particular catches his attention—a pristine, new-looking book titled, "The Pregnancy Guide for Men: What to Expect When You're Expecting." The title alone feels like a direct challenge, daring him to confront the swirling emotions within him.

Daryl pulls the book from the shelf and holds it in his hand. Although it's physically light, it feels heavy with the weight of the unfamiliar experience it represents—an experience that could soon become his reality.

Glancing around the dimly lit library, he ensures that no prying eyes are watching, as if anyone other than the lifeless walkers down the hall could see this side of him—the uncertain, vulnerable side. With a quick, deliberate motion, he pulls his backpack off his shoulder, unzips and slides the book inside, burying it beneath the other items. It's a small step, a modest acceptance of the possible future awaiting him, but it's a start.

With that task completed, he quickly makes his way back to the children's section, pulling a few with colorful titles. The shift in his demeanor is palpable as he rounds the corner, clutching a few children's books in his grasp. "Hey, you ready?" he calls out, but the words fade as soon as he lays eyes on her.

Alie is engrossed, surrounded by a fortress of books, sitting at one of the library tables. Sunlight streams in through a nearby broken window, casting a warm, golden glow on her. The dusty air seems to shimmer around her, giving the scene an almost ethereal quality. Her expression is one of concentration, her eyes intensely focused on her task—a sight all too familiar.

A rush of memories overwhelms Daryl, transporting him back to a time long past. The hushed atmosphere of his old high school library, working on that stupid assignment from Mr. Lanigan, the soft hum of the overhead lights, and there she is—his Alie. He remembers how he would watch her, her glossy dark hair, the sound of her heels clicking against the floor, the bright sundresses she used to wear, the way she used to walk down the hallway with confidence, her head held high—all of it. Everything about her, a snapshot of youthful innocence and a love that had never faded for him, not even for a damn second.

Alice glances up, breaking him free from his reverie. "Yeah, I found a ton of source material for what we need," she says, her voice filled with excitement. But then she pauses, her gaze fixed on him. "What?" she asks, sensing something is amiss.

Okay, perhaps he can have it all. Maybe they can carve out a slice of happiness amidst the chaos. For his Alie, he'll try. For their future, he'll fight.

In just a few quick steps, he stands right in front of her. "What?" she asks again, her eye searching his for answers, but he bends down and presses his lips to hers. She chuckles against his lips and leans up to trace her open lips against his. God, he loves her—he loves her then, and he loves her now.

"Daaarylll!" she yelps as he swiftly scoops her up from the chair, his backpack tumbling from his shoulder.

As he slips his tongue into her mouth with feverish intensity, she gasps, wrapping her arms around his neck, legs immediately locking around him as his hands eagerly explore her body. His movements are uncalculated, almost automatic, as he swipes the books off the table and places her right on it.

"Hey, I need that," she says pulling back, craning her neck to look down at the scattered books, but he just lightly shoves her back until she is fully laid out on the table, like an all-you-can-eat buffet. "Yeah, well, I need ya," he says. He wants her, but then again, when doesn't he? If it were up to him, it'd be every day, night, and morning.

But being here, surrounded by these dusty books, brings back all the old fantasies he had. It's something he had always thought about back in the days, as he watched her play with her hair or that stupid pen to her lips. He had dreamed about her too, almost every fuckin night, all sweet and looking up at him with those eyes, like she's doing now. He remembers waking up all hard and needy, ready to bust a nut.

His fingers trail downwards, heading toward the bottom of her jeans. His touch is forceful as he yanks the tight pants off her legs, taking her underwear with them. She smirks, helping him kick off the pants, with an eyebrow raised as his hand slides along her thighs.

"I knew there was a reason you took me to that high school," she giggles, her hair splayed out, her eyes warm. "You're just trying to get some teenage fantasy out of the way, isn't it?" she teases.

It wasn't. It was an honest mistake, but he plays along.

"So, what about it?" he says with a grip and a swift tug on her thighs, smoothly pulling her closer as he stands between her legs, his hardness pressed right against that sweet spot he loves so much. "You got a problem with that?" One hand drifts up her thighs, his thumb momentarily brushing up her opening teasingly before he moves up, taking her shirt with it, exposing her bra… her breasts…

She chuckles again, her voice husky and honey-sweet, and says, "Oh, no problem at all, Mr. Dixon." With that, she jerks him toward her, her hand grasping his vest, slamming their bodies together, her open mouth nipping at his lips. One of his hands clutches the swell of her hip bone while the other keeps its firm grip around her ass, as their tongues slide together, hot and silky and needful. There's something savage about this, and when she moans against him, strangled and wild, his hand moves, quickly working at his pants, the fabric pooling to the floor.

His hand moves between her moist pussy lips, her legs flexing on either side of him as his other reaches up to cup her full breasts, fingers pushing past her bra, running his thumbs over her nipples. His eyes sweep over her, drinking her in, all flushed and lustful, her body, warm and firm and soft all at once. He never wants to look away, as his fingers work between her wet folds. She's always so wet for him, always dripping of wet.

His hand leaves her breast and braces beside her head to keep himself from falling forward, allowing her to tug his vest off his shoulders. One hand grips his hair tightly, while the other drags nails across his back, his sleeveless shirt groaning under her fist. He knows her body intimately, recognizing all the signs of her readiness—the wet sounds of her desire and the tightening of her thighs around his waist.

With one hand, his biceps flex as he lifts her hips, positioning himself between her legs. He rubs his cock against her wet opening, and she moans as he pushes against her clits, his toes curling in anticipation of the tight warmth awaiting him. She watches him, mouth slightly open, her eyes briefly glancing down to see him slowly enter that snug, warm space, her gasp silenced by pleasure.

"Ah, Daryl..." she cries as he thrusts firmly, her eyes glossy with pleasure, her fingers clenching his arm. This isn't like their usual slow and gentle nightly sex; nah, It's intense plunge, rapid and hard thrust. "Fuck me harder, sweetheart... yeah, just like that." She pleads with each slap of skin.

All he does is watch, his heart beating wildly, his mouth slightly ajar, as he fucks her, drives her to the brink of ecstasy. Her breasts bounce, her pussy dripping wet around his cock, slurping noise… all his. All of it. She's entirely his, every inch of her.

"Do you even know how beautiful ya are, darlin'?" he moans, his voice rough and breathless. "If only ya could see yourself, takin' me all in."

She doesn't respond with words, only with a lustful gaze locking onto his, tears forming at the corners of her honey-colored eyes, half-lidded. God, he loves her, and he loves every damn thing about her – her body, her mind, her sense of humor, even that look she throws when she's good and mad at him. He loves that too, his desire for her insatiable.

Even now, buried deep inside her, he can't get enough, his body feverish as he feels every damp curve of her pressed against his chest. Her arms are anchored around his shoulders, clinging to him as if she'll never let go. She cries out into his ear, her desperate moans and sobs repeating his name, "Daryl, Daryl, Daryl!"

It doesn't take long for him to get worked up, and he can see her pussy already foaming with his pre-cum. He lifts off, moves both hands to grip her ass cheeks, elevating her off the table, as he pounds into her with all his might, her legs locking around him. She grips her hair in madness, his pubic hair bushing against her clit, her eyes rolling back in her head as she starts screaming his name. In that moment, he doesn't think about walkers or who might hear. All he knows is, her pussy is pulsating, her wetness dripping to the table, and he's teetering on the edge of eternity.

The softness of her skin, the scent of their sex mingled with sweat, and the way her warm pussy clenches around his cock, so tight, as she moves with him, rocking faster and faster, chasing her pleasure alongside his own. And just like that, she spasms around him, her cries dying on her lip as she reaches her climax. And he follows suit, waves of ecstasy washing over him, stars twinkling behind his closed eyes, his cock twitching as he unloads deep inside her.

He collapses, breathless, his face buried between her breasts. He huffs, half-smiling as he presses kisses to the side of her breast and neck, while she still trembled and gasped for air. Oh, yeah, this here's some good practice for when the time comes.