Start: July-11-2024
Finish: Sept-22-2024
Word Count: 26,773
a/n: Sorry for the long wait - I went down a Tom Hardy rabbit hole that, you know, one rightly doesn't want to climb out of. Pleasant for me, annoying for you LOL. I am still happily in it, and finally here is a long awaited update... that I'm splitting into 2 Parts because so many things just started to pop-up and I haven't even gotten to the 'funny little scenes' that I mentioned wanting to do in the last chapter's author's note FML. So, enjoy Part 1 of 2 of the adventures BEFORE finding The Prison!
Anyway... Hope you enjoy!
Chapter Summary: /The living room startled awake. Disoriented themselves, they still instinctually scrambled for their weapons, ready for the any threat-/
Chapter Includes/Spoilers/WARNINGS: canon-typical violence, blood & gore, angst, piranha action, suicidal ideation, referenced/descriptive child/infant-death,
...The walking DEAD...
Piranha
Chapter 10: Stuff...
Maggie stopped her lackadaisical pacing that portrayed itself as patrol as she finally spotted the men returning up the street. If she felt this restless herself, she didn't want to be Beth stuck in the car.
"Everything okay up here?" Rick questioned her.
Maggie nodded. "Couple walkers, no problem. We took care of the ones that'd been tailing us since town and finally caught up, but nothing too terribly exciting. Glenn stayed to watch the back." Rick nodded. "I take it you don't have better news?" Her green-eyes went to her twin.
"Michonne and Andrea aren't here. They never were." Marshall stated. "I figured we'd be able to crash at the house for a bit either way, but that is clearly no longer an option." He pulled out his bigger area map to spread on the hood of the Pinto. "I also don't think it's wise to stick around here..."
T-Dog's brows rose with apprehension at his implication. "I thought you said you didn't know what started the fire; you think other people did?"
Marshall could only shrug, adding a fresh little X in pencil on his map.
Daryl scoffed. "It wasn't an electrical fire."
"It could have been an lightening strike." Maggie offered.
Rick glanced back at the cul-de-sac with a frown. "Best to err on the side of caution." His palm pressed flat against the hood as he leaned in beside Marshall to regard the map. "Where, though, is the question."
"Hazzard County sounds interesting." Marshall smirked, tapping it with lead tip.
"Isn't that a little on the nose?" Daryl said.
"I've heard rumours about Hazzard County when I was on the force." Rick straightened, hands on his hips. "The County Commissioner and the Sherriff were crooked. Never crossed paths personally, though."
"Sounds fun."
"You wanna go there 'cause it sounds fun?" Daryl said.
"I'd rather take my chances in a place called Hazzard County than somewhere called Pleasantville." Marshall countered. "That's where the crazies are."
"We should also avoid Texas!" Beth called out. "All of Alabama, really. I've seen all those movies, okay? Shawn always used to make me watch them—half of them are based on true-stories. So... cross out Alabama." She pointed at her brother out the window. "I don't care how good that song is; I am not going to Sweet Home Alabama!"
"That is a good song." Marshall agreed.
"That's not a cue for you to start singing it, Marshall." Maggie quickly cut him off before he could try anything.
"It's a road trip song anyway." He mumbled with a pout.
"Alabama's a little far-off." Rick assured the teen.
"So... not Alabama, but Hazzard County?" Marshall gave a charming smile.
Rick carded a hand through his hair, the corner of his mouth ticking. "Since no one else has offered-up anything else..." He paused to allow for any interjection that didn't come, "I suppose Hazzard County it is."
"We're just choosing this place on a whim?" Daryl muttered.
"It's all just shots in the dark now, Hunter."
...
They raided a few houses and stores on the way out of town. When Marshall's Unit had been staying, visits to town were always a group effort and on an infrequent as-needed basis. There hadn't been much that they hadn't been able to track down in the cul-de-sac itself, after all.
They stayed at the first house they found on the highway along a dirt turn-off marked by a dented mailbox that still had mail bulging out the opening, ruined beyond recognition by the past winter elements. It was a promising indication that the house had long since been occupied by the living. Of course, Marshall was sure checking the mail became a sewer-tier bullet point on the To-Do List in the apocalypse.
Walkers came to greet them, drawn down the drive by the rumble of Daryl's motorcycle. Daryl stopped the bike, braced his feet on the ground and swung around his crossbow, shooting one in the head immediately.
It was a minor struggle to reload his crossbow the heavy machine braced between his legs, but it wasn't like he could politely ask the walkers to wait. It took him beats too many to get the string cocked back into place without the ground readily available for him to brace against, but he needn't have been worried as a pink-fletched arrow flew by felling the closest walker. Even though he was grateful for the back-up, it still annoyed him, not because of who assisted him but because it pointed out a flaw in his favoured weapon. Before, the slower process of reloading would just mean he needed to run a little faster after his prey if his first shot wasn't as fatal as it was supposed to be, but he would always catch up, he'd always get his dinner. Now, it meant precious seconds that could prove deadly for himself—but that was also what his knife was for, and after that, his revolver.
As soon as the string clicked back into place, he had his crossbow up an instant later, the bolt hitting its target a beat behind another arrow. With the 3 walkers down, Daryl put the stand down for his bike, crossbow braced against the ground as soon as he was off, muscling the string back into cocked much easier and more fluidly. He half expected Marshall to make some comment at him for being slow as the younger man passed, but he gave Daryl a mere short assessing glance before his gaze went keenly to the tree lines for any activity.
Marshall pulled his arrow from his first piranha, before pausing briefly at the one that he and Daryl both hit, his expression stone—with a bolt and an arrow sticking from its face was a young teenager.
Daryl came for his bolts, yanking it from the first walker, his crossbow swung around his back. Marshall braced his knuckles carefully against the rotted flesh of the piranha's forehead, pulling out the bolt more easily from its cheek and handing it over to the waiting hunter.
"Nice shooting." He resisted saying anything more; he knew that Daryl could take care of himself, but the shot of anxiety he felt when the man had struggled, if even briefly, to reload as the piranha continued to close the distance... it was one of the reasons, especially now in the face of these new predators, that he certainly had an exceeding preference for his compound bow; the speed and fluidity in which he was able to load an arrow, aim, and release all in easy succession.
Maybe Daryl was having the same thoughts as he grunted in response, wiping down his bolts with a rag. Marshall hoped he hadn't taken the comment as condescending, he had meant it genuinely. Daryl knew how to handle his crossbow like it was an extension of himself and Marshall had no problem watching the ripple of muscle under his clothes as he cocked that thing. Marshall also wasn't exactly expecting a returned compliment, so he turned back to retrieving his own arrow as Daryl kept an eye-out in return.
He had a marginally more difficult time getting his arrowhead out of the piranha's eye socket, loose skin shifting under his knuckles making him grimace as he carefully shifted the shaft, popped eye-goo leaking out. Marshall sat back on his heel with a sigh, arrow free and sticky as Rick approached the pair.
"You guys good?"
"Fine." Daryl said.
Rick nodded. "After that, I think it'll be better if we approach on foot, see what were dealing with, clear it out, then bring the cars and everyone else in."
Marshall stowed his cleaned arrows back into his quiver and the three of them each took a piranha, pre-emptively dragging them out of the way off the road.
T-Dog and Glenn were rounded up with the party to go check out the house, while Maggie, Beth and Athena stayed to be look-out for the cars. Hershel, Lori, and Carol respectively shifted into the driver's seats of the truck, Hyundai, and Pinto to make for a smoother possible getaway.
Rick's fingers briefly skimmed over the empty pouch in his belt where Marshall's kukri knife had sat close-at-hand all winter as they approached their hopeful residence for the night, before going back to were it now sat in its proper sheath at the small of his back. His fingers wrapped around the now familiar handle, only when he pulled, the blade stuck. He flinched at the unexpected touch to his hand but when he glanced back over his shoulder it was just Marshall.
Marshall's fingers were soft and guiding, "Down and away." He reminded.
Rick felt a little embarrassed. "Right." The blade came out smoothly under the younger man's direction. "Thanks."
Marshall gave him a small smile. "You just need to practice the motion in the quiet moments until it become automatic."
There was a minivan in the gravel driveway, steps leading up to a wrap-around porch, a descending ramp into a small closed garage. A large broken tree branch from an overhead tree was smashed through the windshield on the minivan. Through the gaps in the naked branches, they were able to make out the impaled piranha in the passenger seat, the other doors were left open and abandoned, the battery long since dead. Perhaps Maggie had been onto something with that lightening strike. There seemed to be no other piranha there to greet them.
"Alright. Daryl and T, why don't you two check around back and the rest of us will clear inside."
"You got it." T-Dog shared a nod with Daryl.
"Porch is clear around side." Daryl said in parting, crossbow held ready as he and T-Dog disappeared around side.
The remaining 3 men climbed the steps.
"Looks shut-up pretty tight." Glenn murmured.
"No kidding." Marshall muttered in agreement.
The storm shutters were closed tight, barred and bolted, but what really caught his attention was that the front screen door had been removed and replaced with a DIY sheet metal door. Hinges welded to the metal, a makeshift peep slot cut into it, and another two ports cut into the opposite side with thick chains running through them.
Marshall carefully took hold of one of the chains pulling it out as noiselessly as he could. It didn't come out very far, clearly secured from the inside. There was maybe an inch gap left between the metal and jamb on this side, but it wasn't big enough get in there and do anything about it.
"What do you think?" Rick asked.
"I think... there should be a pair of bolt cutters in The Banana Mopeel if Glenn wants to sprint back there and grab them. It'll be faster than trying to unscrew it by the hinges with my pocket knife."
When Glenn glanced at Rick for confirmation, the former Deputy nodded and he hopped down the porch and took off at a sprint.
"Like a spring-chicken." Marshall commented.
Rick chuckled with a shake of his head. "You say that like you're not just a few years older than him."
"My body's more experienced." Marshall countered, and Rick could concede to that. "Want to give the garage door a tug and see if we get lucky?"
"Yeah."
While Marshall inspected the garage door, Rick ducked into the minivan through the open back door, sliding his knife easily into the base of the walkers skull through the opening under the seat's headrest, finally putting it to final rest. He straightened and turned his attention to the other man.
"Did you find any of that luck?" Rick wondered.
"Looks electronic." He shook his head. "We'll just have to use the inside door."
"Did you try the walk-in door?"
"Bolted and boarded up." He gestured to it. "Would rather just wait for Glenn than risk a hamstring."
"Should I just start calling you 'old man'?" Rick teased.
Glenn returned, coming to stop on the footpath, hunched over as he panted, weakly waving the set of heavy bolt cutters above his head like a prize. "Got 'em."
"Good job." Marshall pat him on his baseball capped head, freeing him of the weight of the cutters. "Smell the roses, doll. Breathe-in quick through your nose for 2-seconds then breath slowly out your mouth with pursed lips; you'll catch your breath faster."
Rick followed Marshall onto the porch and held each chain steady for him to cut the link. He was forced to let them clatter noisily on the inside of the door when the port was too small to allow the lock through.
"That'll wake the neighbours." Marshall muttered.
"Glenn." Rick said.
"Coming." Glenn hopped up the steps.
Rick pulled the sheet metal door open, revealing the original door behind it. There was a push doorknob and a key deadbolt visible this side. It had a thin, frosted oval window. Marshall dragged the cut chains out of the way.
"I don't hear anything." Rick spoke after a moment.
"Fingers crossed." Marshall reached for the handle, not expecting much and was proven correct when the door didn't open.
They heard movement elsewhere, but when they looked, it was just Daryl and T-Dog finishing their circuit around the perimeter of the house.
"What the hell ya still doin' out here for?" Daryl questioned.
"It's a bit of a fortress." Glenn said.
"Yeah," T-Dog agreed. "The other doors around the house look the same."
"Anything interesting?" Rick asked the pair.
"Pretty big yard, fenced in. Looked secure." T-Dog answered. "Didn't run into anymore walkers."
"Good. Marshall?" Rick questioned in confusion when said man abruptly kicked over a dead potted plant by the door.
"I was hoping for a key." He admitted sheepishly. Daryl snorted. "Shuffle to side, gotta kick it in. Here." He handed off his bow to Rick, and turned his back to the door. He flipped up the tail of his maroon leather duster to free up his rear and squared up with the door. Marshall's boot landed solidly with a bang just below the handle, because of the type of knob, trying to land the blow beside it would just be a worthless endeavour because the sweet spot beside the internal locking mechanism was blocked by the handle itself, and kicking the actual handle would do nothing but fuck-up his ankle. He wasn't expecting it to slam about, not with the security they were already encountering on this place, and it didn't. After a brief glance, he lined up again. It was pretty splintered and another kick should do the trick if there was nothing else for him to contend with. Another boot. He felt the give. He turned to see the door cracked, held secure by one final hindrance—the security chain. "I am as equally as impressed as I am annoyed." He didn't bother to turn back around this time, and just front kicked it.
The small chain broke, the door swung open.
Marshall stepped back aside out of the way of the open doorway.
Rick handed his compound bow back as they waited. "Your hamstring alright there, old man?" Rick murmured.
Marshall just huffed back in amusement, gaze trained through the dim doorway. He took out his KBAR instead of his machete in deference to the close quarters. It'd be more efficient to stab than to swing.
"It's pretty dark inside." Glenn whispered quietly.
"With the windows how they are, it would be." Rick said
"The second floor windows aren't closed up like that." T-Dog pointed out.
"Walkers don't exactly climb like that." Daryl countered.
The fact that the house was still so secure from the inside left them all correctly wary on exactly what they might encounter on the inside. Even after all the noise they were making outside, they hadn't heard anything on the inside to indicate the presence of stirred-up piranha. Perhaps they were closed in to another room. Maybe the house's residents decided it was better to stay after the failure of leaving via the minivan and they either concluded it was better to hole-up—whether that eventually resulted in their death voluntarily or not.
Maybe they were armed, watching and waiting for someone to step through that door and into their castle... With that latest scenario in the forefront of his mind, Marshall decided it was best that his Berretta accompany his KBAR. Rick raised his eyebrow in silent inquiry.
"It's was secure from the inside." Marshall whispered. "And I didn't hear T say anything about any busted windows or open doors around back. There might be people." In response to that, Rick's Colt Python peeked its barrel into the air. Maybe Marshall should have brought Athena along, it would have cut through the suspense quicker. Guess he had to see for himself. "Breaching." He warned his Partner, entering the quiet house.
Rick instinctively and automatically fell into a clear pattern behind Marshall from his cop days. A beat later Glenn and T-Dog followed, while Daryl paused in the doorway to give the surrounding perimeter one last suspicious glare before turning into the house. With Rick in lead throughout the winter, they'd all instinctively mirror him when they searched houses, so the four of them easily cleared the main floor without issue.
There was no surprise walkers waiting. The place wasn't trashed or barren. No living person popped out of the hall closet shooting. There were no funky smells, not from dishes left our or mouldy food in the fridge. The place was clean and that made it all the more eerier.
"You 3 take upstairs," Rick whispered. "Mars and I will take the basement and the garage."
Daryl nodded and took the lead on the staircase.
"Basement first." Marshall decided and Rick nodded.
They pair approached the door in the back hallway, it standing out from the others by flip latch with a screwdriver keeping it secured. If that wasn't a Red Flag. Marshall took out his tiny flashlight, turned it on and stuck it to his Berretta. They could hear the gentle creaks upstairs from the others. Marshall nodded to Rick who silently pulled out the screwdriver (tucking it into his belt) and silently flipped the latch. He turned the knob and gently pushed the door open. It creaked gently, briefly, before it stopped halfway after hitting something at the top of the stairs. Stench wafted out on the air current, one that had been lacking from the rest of the house. It had been silent on the other side of the door, but Marshall know how silent piranha could be and the smell was a bit of a precursor—so when a rotten ghoul suddenly lunged from the dark, before the beam of his light even fully illuminated it, his finger pulled the trigger.
The body thumped and tumbled back down the dark stairs. He ignored the sudden scramble he heard upstairs and toed the door the rest of the way open. His small but sharp beam of light into the darkness below—and onto the bodies with obscured faces scrambling up the stairs. His trigger finger didn't hesitate. One, two, three. Four.
Daryl was first on the stairs, tense, crossbow ready as he looked over the railing at the other two, eyes scanning. "You good?"
Rick nodded and held a silent hand up to them to forestall anymore questions, his focus on his partner. The three came more calmly down the stairs with the immediate threat gone.
"That all of them?" From his position aside Rick couldn't see down the stairs and he didn't want to lean forward and get in the line-of-fire.
"Dunno." Marshall answered, not lowering his gun, nor turning his gaze.
"Anyone else got a light?" Rick fished his from a pouch.
"Yeah." Daryl said.
Glenn and T-Dog stayed at the top of the stairs in the hallway; T back from the door out of the way with Glenn halfway down the hallway keeping an eye back toward the open front door for any company those shots may have drawn as the others went down. Marshall squatted down on the step above the pile-up of piranha at the bottom of the stairs, gun and light cutting through the dark in the left of the basement. Rick mirrored him a step above to the right. Daryl towered on the steps above them with his crossbow, his small flashlight tucked into the corner of his mouth.
"Jesus Christ." Rick uttered in horror when his beam settled to the heap of walkers at Marshall's feet. Saw how small they were—kids. Just kids, fucking kids. How the light gleamed off the silver that still managed to cling to their wrists, the smudged plastics over their heads.
"I know," Marshall muttered just as quiet. "The others don't need to know about this, right?"
"No." Rick agreed, hand squeezing his shoulder.
He swallowed. "Did you see anything worth taking up out of here?"
"Not at first glance. You want to take a closer look?"
"Not really, but we need too."
Rick patted his shoulder. "Yeah." Marshall stepped off over the side of the open stairs to the basement floor and started to pull the bodies out of the way from the bottom of the stairs. Rick stood up and turned to Daryl, finally holstering his gun. "Did you have any trouble upstairs?"
"Just some dead guy dancing around up there—hung 'imself."
"Okay. Take anything useful from the room and then just shut the door, we never use upstairs anyway." Rick told him. "And tell Glenn to get the others. They would have heard those gunshots, they're probably worried."
"Got it." Daryl nodded. "An' you two?"
"We're just gonna give the basement a more thorough look through. Go through the rest of the house as usual. Wait." Rick said when the hunter went to shift back up the stairs, "Give the garage a quick look, see if it's clear. Never got to, got distracted."
"Alright." Daryl disappeared back upstairs.
Rick stepped down into the basement proper and watched as Marshall laid the last child out alongside the others. The eldest was no more than 12, the youngest 6. "Here." He grabbed a dirty blanket off the pulled-out sofa bed. Marshall grabbed the offered end and they spread it out over the small bodies like a shroud. "They were just kids. How could someone do that?" Rick couldn't help but voice his disbelief. It was clear what happened here; what the man who hung himself upstairs had done. He remembered Lori wondering if it wouldn't just be better to let Carl go instead of-
"A broken man. A desperate man. A scared man." Marshall said. "Probably his wife in the van... maybe she was the glue, that thing that kept him strong. And if he couldn't be strong without her here—he sent their kids up there to her. And himself down to Hell."
Rick swallowed, a quiet terror inside of him as the words lured the same fears to the forefront of his thoughts. He and Lori weren't exactly on great terms right now; it was a silent marriage, they orbited around each other with the inability to breach what needed to be spoken. When he'd woken up in the hospital from his coma alone, the world around him a horrific grave, the thought that Lori wouldn't be out there somewhere wasn't fathomed in his mind. His unwavering faith had been rewarded (even if she hadn't been out there waiting for him). But no matter the state of their marriage, she would always be the mother of his child(ren), he still cared, gathered strength from her and if she wasn't there anymore as suddenly as a fallen tree branch was- No. He was not going to breath life into the nightmare. When he walked up these stairs again, she would be up there waiting, safe, life in her hazel eyes and life growing steadily in her belly.
Marshall straightened, his gun and knife tucked away, small flashlight in-hand. "C'mon, let's start looking." He said softly. Rick nodded and they turned from the too small bodies.
It looked like the right side of the basement was turned into a game room of sorts, with a small bathroom off it. There was nothing exactly useful there survival wise, but Marshall put aside a few board games and cards—there was nothing worse than boredom when they had to hole-up inside like it was quarantine—and Rick set about collecting every pair of batteries he could find in any piece of electronic there was. The left side of the basement was the laundry room and storage area. Marshall stoically picked through the children's clothing there, Carl and Sophia, soon to be growing like weeds, would need all the clothes they could find. The storage boxes mostly consisted of old junk, Christmas decorations and... albums and pictures.
Marshall stared at the Happy Family of 6, looked like a happy camping trip. He closed the box lid and abruptly shoved the box back into place; that was not the smile of a man who'd suffocate his 4 children so cruelly not even a year before. In a way, he could understand it, remembered when Beth had voiced the same frantic rationalized suggestion—just kill themselves and get it all over with. He just couldn't understand why the man hadn't done it... gentler. Wasn't the point to give them back into their mother's safety and loving embrace? Why, then, fill their last moments with such utter terror and pain?
"Sophia's second piranha kill was a kid." Marshall remarked out of the blue. "At the farm. Had to be the same age as her. She had pig-tails and braces." He looked up to the other man. "I'm never gonna let that happen to my kid." And then added because Rick look pretty haunted by that as well, "Dentists are extinct now—she better brush her teeth every night."
It was a long moment before Rick was able to gather himself and respond, "You realize braces have nothing to do with cavities, right?"
"She still better brush her teeth. And her wisdom teeth better be wise enough to come in straight."
Rick groaned. "I didn't even think of that. I had to have my wisdom teeth taken out."
"It shows." He joked.
He snorted. "That was actually funny."
"Thanks, all this wit come from the wisdom teeth." He grinned.
"God," Rick voiced. "I remember the constant ache, the headaches it gave me. It was a chore to eat, to talk. I had to suffer through it for weeks before they got taken out—I failed a test because I couldn't focus."
Marshall laughed. "Well, you won't have to worry about Carl's grades."
"I'm serious, Marshall." He frowned. "He can't loose focus like that now, it's too dangerous. What are we supposed to do?"
"We won't have to worry about it for a handful of years." Marshall reassured, a hand on the worried father's shoulder. "Cavities, on the other hand, will be a true menace to contend with." He really hadn't meant to work-up Rick about this, he'd honestly been trying to ease the tension with a wry dental joke. "I didn't mean to freak you out about it. You can't worry yourself sick about every little thing that may happen, you're just gonna burn yourself out."
"That's the thing though," Rick denied. "It hadn't even crossed my mind. Things like that, that were just taken for granted Before."
"Then, like Before, you better make sure your kid brushes his teeth before bedtime." Marshall reasoned back simply. "And isn't that what Partner's are for?"
Rick stared at him for a moment, before he gave an explosive exhale, shoulders slumping. "You're right, of course."
"It's the wisdom teeth."
"You're good at this."
"Talking you down from the ledge, or talking you onto it?" Marshall wondered wryly. He did seem to have a bit a tendency to freak Rick out by voicing little idle thoughts that popped into his head about random shit.
"Yes, to both, actually, but I meant... being a dad. Papa," He corrected. "You're good with her. Already saw that at the farm. With Carl, too. Fatherhood looks good on you, Greene."
"Whenever she calls me 'papa', like, I feel so..." His voice took on a soft, reverent tone, "Proud and honoured. It has a weight to it, an expectancy, it's kinda terrifying but also... magnificent, you know? Does that ever go away?"
"No." Rick smiled, eyes soft. "It doesn't." He cleared his throat, "Let's head back upstairs."
All they took up was a half-filled laundry basket. The basement door was closed, the latch set and screwdriver replaced.
"Why'd you do that?" A curious voice piped up behind them.
"Carl!" Rick said in surprise.
"Where'd you come from, you little gremlin?" Marshall laughed. "You weren't there a second ago."
Carl looked proud.
Rick heaved a sigh, holding the basket in one arm as the other hand carded through his hair. "Please don't sneak-up on anybody, that's just asking for trouble."
He pouted. "Alright."
"Aren't you cute!" Marshall cooed, pinching his freckled cheeks.
Carl flailed to get away. "Stop!" Marshall giggled, straightening. "I'm not cute, I'm 12!" He declared, straightening his hat. "I carry a gun and a knife."
"Don't care. Your daddy's 33, carries a gun and knives, and he's still downright adorable."
Rick cleared his throat, embarrassed as Carl squinted at him with scrutiny at the other man's announcement. "You're weird." Carl finally decided and Marshall just shrugged with a smile.
"Here." Rick off-loaded the basket to his son. "The others settling in?"
Carl nodded as Rick steered him back down the hall to the front of the house was and where he could see the most activity. He sent an exasperated look back at Marshall, but Marshall winked with an unrepentant shrug.
"Why'd you lock that door?" Carl questioned again, hat knocking as he tried to glance back at his dad.
"There are dead walkers down there." Rick explained shortly, fixing the hat. "There's no need to go down there."
"Is that what those gunshots were?"
"Yeah." An inch of tension left the man's shoulders as he laid his eyes on Lori through the kitchen archway with Carol.
"Papa!" Sophia sprung up at the sight of Marshall where'd she'd been fussing around in a closet.
"What'cha got there?" He wondered.
"They have a cat!" Sophia held out the wire brush for him to see. "Did you find a cat?"
"I did not."
"Think I saw a little grave in the back garden." T-Dog said as he passed to go upstairs.
"Oh." She mumbled sadly.
"Sorry." The man said helplessly before moving on.
"If there's a grave then it must have happened awhile ago." Marshall tried to comfort her. "Both Marshmallow and Athena will love the brush." She brightened at that. "What else did you find?" He squatted next to her.
"Dishes. A collar and harness. A bunch of toys. I think this is a carrier."
He nodded in agreement. It was a hard carrier fit for a grown cat. "Soon Marshmallow will be too big for Chips, the carrier will be useful. This harness, too. You can pick a few toys to take when we leave again, but nothing jangly or noisy." She nodded, leaning on his shoulder.
"What's that?" She asked when he plucked out a small carton at the bottom.
"Looks like some flea collars." Marshall read the label. "We'll take these, too. The last thing we need is an outbreak of fleas in our clothes and bedding." He tickled her ribs unexpectedly, making her squeal in surprise. "It won't be nearly as fun as tickles." He took out the carrier and easily assembled the 3 loose pieces and used it as a bit of storage for the other loose cat items.
He left her to continue her search through the closet, heading toward the front of the house. The front door was still left open; along with people coming in and out, it was also the only real source of natural light in the house with all the downstair window shutters closed.
He stopped short before reaching it, though, after a glance into the kitchen. Carol and Lori were doing an inventory of the cupboards and pantry, and by the looks of the breakfast table, there was a lot of non-perishable foods left. From cereal to crackers to rice and pasta, a lot of canned goods, but what caught Marshall's eye was like a water oasis in the desert—he gasped sharply, startling the occupants in the kitchen to tense alertness as they spun to him
"Marshall! What is it?!" Carol questioned, hand pressed to her chest.
"Sorry." Marshall pointed at the table, "Is that powdered milk?!"
"Yeah..." Carol and Lori exchanged a confused look as the man looked at the bag like it was the Holy Grail.
He cackled quietly. "Sunny is gonna be so pissed she lost the bet—and after she was so smug about her chances of winning, too."
"Really?" Lori said. "You're this excited about rubbing it in a teenage girl's face?"
"My teenage baby sister." Marshall corrected. "So, yes. Completely and utterly. A bet is a bet, and if you think she wouldn't do the exact same thing..." He left it at that. "And there's flour." He grinned. "That means bread—that means powered milk in the bread!"
"Never thought I'd see someone so excited about powdered milk before," Carol remarked, "And not the tin of instant coffee we found."
"Is there anything better than all natural fresh milk directly from the teat? No. But this is a very close second. Calcium is especially critical for growing boys and girls and babies. It'll be good for everybody. Make the bread more than just filling."
"The pantry's pretty full, more than we've seen all winter." Carol said. " I wonder what made whoever was here, leave it?"
"Best not to dwell on things that cannot be changed." Marshall replied, the sudden shift from ecstatic to solemn was abrupt and jarring. "I'm going to be back for these later."
The two women once again shared a silent look as the man left as suddenly as he arrived, both having a similar thought about those earlier gunshots. Marshall knew exactly what happened to this family and he wasn't saying a word; after all they'd seen and been through over the winter, for him to be silent on the matter was pretty frightening.
Marshall finally completed his intended journey to the front door. His eyes grazed over the side table as popped his head out to look for the bolt cutters, with no success. "Glenn?" He called, spotting the baseball cap in the driveway.
"Yeah?"
"Know where the bolt cutters are?"
"Oh, uh, put them back in the trunk. Why?"
"The back door." He said distractedly.
"Okay. I'll grab them, give me a sec."
"'Kay." Marshall mumbled, and reversed a step back into the entranceway. And stared at the side table next the door again. It really couldn't be that easy...
"Marshall?" Glenn appeared in the doorway, bolt cutters in hand.
"Thanks." His right hand reached for them blindly, while his left picked up the heavy key ring with about a dozen keys attached from the shallow dish on the table that had been overlooked.
"Uh, you're welcome...?" Glenn muttered, watching his back as he wondered off back down the hall.
"You okay?"
Glenn jumped at the voice at his back. "Jeez! Y-yeah."
Beth chuckled. "So skittish. Why exactly are you just standing in the doorway for?"
"Your brother just... seemed distracted all of a sudden."
"Oh. Well," The sunshine blond in the trapper hat clapped him heavily on the back. "I'll check in. You in or out?"
"Uh, out." Glenn said and Beth stepped to the side so he could step back onto the porch and she could step inside.
"Beth?" Carol called from the kitchen.
Beth paused and turned. "Yeah?"
"Think you brother was wanting to talk to you." There was quiet amusement in her eyes.
Beth brows rose. "Coincidently I'm heading for him just now."
"Have fun." She chuckled.
Beth gave the woman a brief squinty-eyed look, Lori hadn't even looked over at the brief conversation, before she turned away. Athena trotted into the house and down the hall. Beth glimpsed the mattresses leaned against the wall at the top of the stairs and sighed; as fantastic as having her own room again seemed, the teen didn't even know if she'd be able to have a peaceful sleep anymore if she wasn't surrounded by a bunch of other breathing bodies. The screwdriver in the latch of a door in the hall got a brief curious look before she found Marshall at the dim back end of the hallway, the bolt cutters next to him with Athena yawning beside him.
"You won't be so lethargic with the surprise for you later, my queen." Marshall mused.
"What are you doing?" Beth questioned.
"Trying to find the magic keys." There was a faint jingle, then scrape of metal against metal, the muted clang of a chain. "The chains are short but I'm sure I can find some use for them." She leaned around him to see him fiddling with a crowded ring of keys when he suddenly paused, looking at her as if he just realized who exactly it was that he was talking to. "Sunny~"
Beth was instantly suspicious of the overly friendly, sugary tone. "What...?"
He had a had a Cheshire grin. "And how are you this fine day?"
"I'm not sure I appreciate where this tone of questioning is going." She told him, suspicious as hell, arms crossed defensively over her chest.
"My sweet, precious, bright little Sunshine." He cooed. "So suspicious of your wonderful big brother. So... rightly wary. There's no need to look so frightened as I look don't upon you from this very high horse."
"Alright already, with the gloating!" She growled. "Get to the point before I take those bolt cutters and prune your last plum."
"Always a sore loser." He chucked her under the chin and she slapped his hand away.
"And you can be a real petty dick when you win." Was Beth's rejoinder.
"So critical." He sucked his teeth. "I seemed to remember just earlier today, a little bet that was made on the drive over." He tapped his chin with the next key in line, "Something about finding chocolate before milk or vice versa..."
She stared. "You're a liar." Beth declared finally after a moment. "A big fucking liar," He gave a smug shrug. "Spoiled milk you found in the 'fridge doesn't count."
"Not spoiled milk in the 'fridge—though that is a very mournful statement."
"Shut up. I don't believe you."
"See for yourself." He shrugged again, this one fluid and lax, all confidence and no worry. He turned back to the sheet metal security door, trying the next key. The teeth of the key bit along in the inside tumblers, he turned it. "Ah." He exclaimed in satisfaction as the lock popped open.
Beth retreated back down the hall to the kitchen as he managed to get the key off the ring to leave it in the lock. Waiting for it, as the next key on the ring slid with the same satisfaction into the second lock on the bottom chain.
"Un-fucking-believable!" Came the exclaim from the kitchen.
Marshall twirled the key ring as he walked down the hall. "Did you read it? Are you weeping?" He teased from the archway.
"This doesn't count! This isn't real milk, Marshall!" She shook her head, letting the bag of powder thump back onto the kitchen table with a twist of her lips.
"Powdered milk is dehydrated milk." He pointed out, then huffed, "As if you wouldn't be gloating to high hell if there wasn't a fucking sachet of instant hot chocolate or something." She scowled because he was right. "Milk, milk, milk. Milk with forever reign superior over chocolate; from the Dawn of Time till the End of the Universe!"
"Actually," Carol cleared her throat, drawing the siblings' attention—and held up exactly what the elder Greene sibling had said. A single packet of instant, powered hot chocolate mix.
Now it was Beth's turn to cackle. She fucking cackled like a mad witch as she held the pack of hot chocolate to her chest like it was the most precious of baby ducklings.
"This is bullshit." Marshall muttered. He cast a look Carol's way, her blue-eyes bright with silent laughter. "How could you do me dirty like that, Carol? We share a spirit-daughter, you're my spirit-baby-mama." Carol's head went back and she laughed at his outrage.
"I want to snort it so it'll coat my lungs and every time I cough I'll be able to taste chocolate!"
Marshall stared at her, floored. "And everybody says I'm weird?!"
"Where do you think she got it from?" Maggie spoke up from behind him, a high arch to her brow.
"Whatever. I still win!" Marshall said.
Beth scoffed. "The hell you do. Chocolate right here, baby! It's a stalemate at the very least."
"This is a 3-pound bag!" Marshall pointed out. "That is a one-cup sachet."
"Size is irrelevant."
Marshall stared.
Beth raised a brow.
"Make all the innuendo you want—size is completely relevant in this instance." He backed out of the room to snickers. He went back to the back door, pushing open the sheet metal door to the backyard. "Come on, Athena." She followed him out, curiously sniffing around as he took in the backyard.
The backyard was boxed in with 6-foot tall wooden fencing, a barred gate on either side of the house. Walking the fence perimeter, he found a wooden gate in the fence at the back by a small shed; he set about finding the key for the padlock to the shed, flexing his hand as he shuffled through keys. There was nothing too exciting inside, just the standard gardening tools, though he found potential in the hoe, garden shears, and hand fork. There was also a little hutch in ruins, probably once home to bunnies or guinea pigs. A dead flowerbed along the fence, and a large jungle gym that sat at the center of the yard. But the true cake lay beneath the tarp cover alongside the house—a barbecue! He whipped off the tarp, only to immediately frown in disappointment at the lack of propane tank.
"Damn." He's already had grand schemes to create a makeshift oven to bake the bread in. He sighed, pulling the tarp back down. Maybe- He strode back into the house with purpose, hanging a sharp left and down a set of darkened stairs that lead to the subversive garage. He could hear soft activity inside, see the faint glow of a flashlight.
"Hunter, you in here?" Marshall called.
"Yeah." Daryl grunted but didn't bother to show his face through the shelves.
"Why didn't you say that there was a barbecue in the back?"
"Didn't have propane. Didn't see the point."
Marshall fished out his small flashlight and flicked it on, stepping into the garage proper. From what he could immediately discern was that this was clearly used as a item storage area rather than storage for another vehicle. "Well, did you find any tanks in here?"
Daryl grunted. "There's a locked up cabinent I haven't bothered with yet."
"And I have a convenient ring of keys." Marshall said. "Where- Never mind." His flashlight beam highlighted the locked metal cabinet on the opposite side of the garage from the water heater.
There was a sudden bang and a curse.
"You okay over there?"
"Fuckin' dog." Daryl growled.
Marshall had to bite on his lip for a moment to choke back the giggle. "Stealthy Queen, come here."
Athena woofed and sat at his heels a moment later. He patted her head before going back to the keys, humming. Daryl huffed from the other side of the garage and they went back to the previous silence. The scrape of an ill-fitting key, the soft clang of items being shifted around on metal shelving.
"Find anything interesting?" Marshall wondered. "Thought I saw fishing rods... Definitely grabbing those on the way out."
"Yeah." Daryl grunted. "Found some outdoor gear that'll be useful." Marshall suddenly found a light beam flooding across the side of his face. "You?"
"What?" Marshall shinned his own light back at the hunter.
"What did you an' Rick find in the basement?"
"Oh. Nothing too exciting. A rec room. Christmas decorations. Socks..."
"And them walkers?"
"What about them?"
"I ain't stupid. I seen all those family photos on the wall..." The way their flashlight beams were directed at each other, all Daryl could see of Marshall's eyes were shadows, the rest of his face lax with no expression.
"Then you don't really need to ask, do you?" Marshall said softly.
"Saw the latch. The guy that hung himself... he locked 'em down there to die."
Marshall turned back to the lock without response, going painstakingly through each key. Starvation was a very slow way to die. He supposed retrospectively, the minute or so of absolute terror it took to suffocate them was a mercy in comparison, no doubt the build-up to the event was horrifying. Their bound wrists... Did they watch each other die?
Daryl's light didn't leave him.
The key turned. The lock popped.
"How many?" The abrupt question was low and rough.
"How many, what?"
"Kids you killed."
Marshall stilled. An invisible, painful tension went through him like barbed wire. The silence was filled with Athena's quiet panting, a ringing rising in his ears that only he could hear. Athena's tail whacked him sharply on his bruised thigh. He dropped his chin to meet her amber eyes as she bow-wowed at him; his hearing returning with sharp clarity. When he finally responded, his voice was temperate, "Now... or Before?"
Daryl voiced after a moment, "I know you killed 'fore. You said as much in th' woods."
"So, now you wanna know exactly what kind of killer I am? A child killer..." He trailed off and paused. Ah. Was this a Dixon-esque of a leading question? "Is this about Sophia?" He murmured.
Daryl blinked. "What?"
Something untwisted in Marshall's chest. This was a conversation he was expecting to have with his daddy. Granted, it had only been two days and Marshall was both anticipating and dreading it. Solely judging by Hershel's frowns, he knew it wasn't going to go as pleasing as it had been with Rick. "I know you care about her." He voiced softly, like Daryl was now the cornered animal instead. "That was the first thing I learned about you. Nearly got yourself killed looking for her. Getting her, her doll back. She's the only one I've ever seen you let touch you-"
"What the fuck are you tryin' say?" He growled.
"You care about her." He repeated. "It's not some insinuation, it's not an insult. She cares about you, too, Daryl. Aside from Carol, me, and Carl, she trusts and is most comfortable around you. If she hadn't told me about Ed... I could have thought you for her daddy." Daryl was silenced as Marshall genuinely smiled.
"Ed was a piece of fucking shit with arms and legs. I know what it's like t' have an ol' man like that." Daryl muttered. "He got what he deserved."
"He did."
"I was lost in the wood 'fore. And no one gave shit enough to come lookin' for me, let alone realize that I was missin' in the first place. I wasn' gonna let that girl think no one cared."
Daryl was tense, practically vibrating with the anticipation; the questions, the pitying looks that always followed. The wariness. If he wasn't a flinching, cowing mess than he was an angry wrecking ball that would snap at any moment, hurt anyone in his path. Most times, being avoided was the preferred option to the pity and the wariness. Even better was the wilful ignorance. He got none of those. No sick curiosity, no pity or faux sympathy. Any wariness that Marshall had toward him was the exact same he seemed to hold for everyone else; simply that he was another human being and the possible threat that held.
Obviously, Marshall had known before he addressed it, even as non-specifically as he had now. Marshall had seen the scars, Daryl had been shirtless and on full display before him when he was injured. Had a close-up of every scar that his dad and even brother had given him throughout both his childhood and adulthood as a man who was now 38. Seen how none of them had professional care despite it being clear some of them needed it. There was a burn scar hidden at his hip and thigh from when Will Dixon had shoved him into the campfire; and at 12-years-old with Merle off in the Army, Daryl honestly still hadn't a clue as to how he didn't die from the septicaemia he got.
It was as clear as daylight what each scar was, yet the man never tried to press, insert a righteous opinion, or make a derided comment. Daryl was surprised but he realized that he shouldn't have been. Every time they'd interacted, if Marshall ever did show fear, it wasn't of Daryl, it was either for Daryl like when he'd been hurt, or fear of something else as he looked to Daryl for assurance like with Shane killing Otis.
People weren't supposed to look toward trash like him for things like that.
"You're a good man, Daryl Dixon."
There was a look in Marshall's eyes, it made his chest feel weird. Daryl knew violence and anger, he didn't know comfort and nice.
Marshall turned and opened the cabinet door and smiled, "You got a nose for these things, Hunter." Daryl didn't have an response to the flippant change in the man's attitude or subject. "I'm going to make bread. There's a veritable trove of non-perishables upstairs that'll last us to Hazzard County, supplemented with a fresh meat..." He tucked away his flashlight and grabbed up two tanks from the shelf, wondering if they'd be able to pack-up the barbecue in the back of the truck. "Well, I don't think we'll have to worry too hard until we settle."
Daryl uttered the question, voice gruff, more than happy to let the other subject fall into the grave: "You still want t' go to Hazzard even though we found this place?"
"Hm." Was the noncommittal response. He passed Daryl. "And in response to your earlier question... because you had to balls to actually add voice to that curiosity..." Marshall paused in the doorway, back to the hunter. "I was in the Army, Daryl. Of course I have blood on my hands that has nothing to do with being a medic. In war, the sad truth is... it doesn't matter who or what you are: man, woman; elderly, child.
"Do you think the person that fired that RPG gave a shit about who I was? You think they cared if I had a family back home? If someone was going to be sobbing over my empty casket 'cause I was blown to fucking bits? Do you think thekidwith an AK was anything other than proud when he shot me? Do you think I was thinking about anything other than my family when I shot him back?" He looked up at the faint light at the top of the stairs; and if that wasn't some kind of ironic play on light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel. "It's... survival, Daryl. Now. Before. That simple fact hasn't changed one iota.
"When Death's knock echoes in your head... that's when you'll truly know who and what you are. How far you're willing to go. What is most precious to you. Sadly, one day, we're all going to get the opportunity to figure that out.
"C'mon, Athena."
Daryl's beam lingered on the empty doorway, the fading footsteps. He hadn't a clue about anything that just happened, what had compelled him to press the other man, what urged his own confessions—maybe it would make more sense if Marshall had spent the winter with them—all he knew was that his heart was pounding in the chest. Sometimes, Daryl was too curious for his own good, that's what landed him some of his earliest scars—when his curiosity managed to overpower the fear.
...
Marshall went straight out back to the barbecue to hook-up one of the propane tanks after an inspection to make sure it was in good condition and working order. He made his intentions clear upon returning inside again to the kitchen; the rest of the Group had made significant progress in having the house set-up and searched through within the last 2 hours. Another thing of old-hat, everyone seemed to have their designated tasks for setting up camp and there was nothing Marshall could appreciate more than a smooth system. That was the Military in him.
After a short discussion of the logistics of it with Carol and Lori, they seemed to be the main meal planners of the group. It could be seen as 'genderist' as Andrea would point out, but Before both women were homemakers and Now, Lori was almost 6 months pregnant and wouldn't nor shouldn't be doing anything labour-intensive, and Carol wasn't exactly a front-line-fighter—yet. Marshall would sure love to see it; Carol had such a dismissive demeanour, as the saying went: it was the quiet ones you needed to watch out for.
It was agreed, that due to their current ideal conditions, that it was best to make all the bread now rather than try to stow away some of the flour away to do it later. Who know where they would be tomorrow and even a week from now? They could have to leave this place in a hurry and a bunch of supplies, but they could easily grab a loaf to hold them over enough that food would be the immediate concern.
Besides, doing the math... 12 people was a lot to keep sustainablely fed. Even with 3 meals a day, the portions were rationed, exempting the pregnant woman and children (3) getting more even if it was just an extra bite. So, even if they limited it to 1 slice per person/per meal, with each loaf (thanks to the magic of baking powder) garnering up to 20 slices like the average store-bought loaf: 3 slices x 12 people = 36 slices of bread = 1 & 3/4 loaf a day. They wouldn't even be enough loaves to last for an entire 2 weeks. But, with a slice of bread to fill out the meal now, it would help save some of the non-perishables for later when they were harder-up.
Carol and Lori were portioning the pantry food out into three bins to distribute equally amongst each vehicle as a precaution for if anyone got separated or they had to abandon a car, thus leaving behind their supplies, wouldn't leave them completely empty handed. Marshall claimed the length of counter as his work station, and recruited the idle hands of Beth, Sophia, and Carl to be his kneaders.
With a stocked kitchen, and equipment was easily located after a quick search through the cupboards, with even finds like plastic wrap, tin foil, and parchment paper.
Marshall mixed up a 2L jug of powdered milk from their always dwindling water supply—next on the immediate To-Do List was searching for a water source, but then, water would always be a constant concern—then loaded 3 large mixing bowls with the simple dry ingredients; flour, baking powder, salt, and sugar. Anything nutrient came from the powdered milk, of course.
He left his helpers to mix and knead as he ducked into the lower cupboards to dig out an assortment of baking sheets and pans for him to choose from. Unfortunately, there weren't any bread pans, just cookie sheets, muffin tins, cake and roast pans. He nixed any glass casserole dishes because while he could use parchment paper or tin foil to separated the loaves so they didn't bake into one monster loaf-
"Nice little arts and crafts you got going on there."
Marshall paused, sat on the floor surround by pans, parchment, and tin foil, having focused on his current objective with a single-minded focus that had faded the outside world around him. He licked his lips and looked up at Rick, "I take baking very seriously."
"You looked pretty intense, looked like some serious work."
"Yes, well, Beth should have given me a little kick." He remarked pointedly.
Beth shrugged at him from where she leant against the counter. "The dough needed to rise anyway."
Beth knew what she was doing, so when she saw how fixated her brother was at his task, she simply took over the task of making the dough and leaving it to rise.
He... got like that sometimes. Fixated on a little thing, one task, whether it was such a familiar task that his body reacted on rote as his mind went blank and time slipped by in a blink; or he'd fixate on the weirdest shit—like manufacturing the perfect bread tin because he needed the physical loaves to match-up with the calculations and math he'd done of portion size and rationing.
Fucking anal indeed, but proper food control in these times was a must. That's why he'd done the measuring himself, his and Beth's baking methods were on opposite ends of the axis. She tended to eyeball the measurements, while he used exact measurements with no excess and no waste. Detail-oriented was very useful tendency in regards to detecting and disarming explosives, tending wounds, but was hindering for simple things that should take 5 minutes but ends up taking an hour because he has nothing else that needed done to pull him away.
"Where are Sophia and Carl, or Carol and Lori for that matter?" Marshall questioned as he realized it was just the 3 of them occupying the kitchen.
"Turns out watching bread rise is as interesting as watching paint dry," Beth mused. "And you screwing around with tin foil in the middle of the floor."
"Touché." Marshall raised his makeshift baking sheet of bread pans over his head for someone to take, which Beth did with an eye roll. He more readily grasped Rick's forearms when the man offered him a hand up. "Ah." He grunted and groaned as he straightened.
"Little stiff there, old man?" Rick teased.
"No." Marshall denied, even as he squatted down. Something popped and he made a satisfied sound in the back of his throat. "Oh, that was nice." He straightened.
"Christ." Beth muttered and Rick chuckled quietly.
Marshall ignored the by play, simply turning to the covered bowls on the counter. "Beautiful." Coating his hands in a small amount of flour set aside for that purpose, he handled the dough from the first bowl, shaped it before sectioning it to smaller portions for his tins. He punched them down a little; while he wanted some rise and the baking powder would give him that, a denser body would be more filling in the end. "I'll be in the backyard."
With a baking sheet with each hand, he left the kitchen, whistling for Athena as he went. It was better to be cautious, while it kept Athena from underfoot of the activity inside, he wanted an extra pair of eyes and ears watching his back because while piranha may not be attracted to the scent of freshly baking bread carried away on the wind—living people sure as shit were. If Marshall caught the scent of baked bread over the constant of death and rot, he would definitely investigate; lead with his nose followed by his gun. True hunger could make people desperate and foolish, after all.
Setting a pan on either of the barbecue's outside shelves, he opened up the grill and removed the top warming rack to make better room for his loaves. The propane tank knob, the starter, then the burners. He closed the lid to let it warm-up.
"Papa?" Sophia appeared at the back door, half shied away behind the doorjamb; Carl present at her hip, keen blue-eyes watching from under the brim of his Sherriff's hat.
"Yeah, Butterfly?"
Sophia chewed the inside of her cheek, blue gaze darting between him at the grill and the structure at the center of the yard. "Can we play on the jungle gym, please?"
"Hm." Marshall glanced back at the jungle gym before looking back to the pair with a sharper gaze that had them immediately straightening under the green scrutiny. "You're not tryin' to get out of any chores your mama's might give you?" To rapidly shaken heads and Marshall fought to smile how cute they were. "Mm, well, it's not me who'll get in trouble if you're lying..." A beat. "Alright, go on, then." He smiled, nodding back.
Twin grins split across freckled faces and they barely managed not to trip over each other getting out the door and off the patio, him chuckling in amusement. He saw the appeal as they clambered over the equipment with gusto; if he knew he wouldn't get stuck, he would've taken a go at the slide that was barely taller than him. Marshall had a weird enjoyment of doing the obstacle courses in training; it was physically punishing but he'd never been a stranger to that, mentally rewarding when he hit and the proceed to demolish that mental wall. The accomplishment of finishing, the time being whittled down.
He turned back to the barbecue, carefully arranging his bread tins onto the heated rack with space between them, peeling back the Velcro strap covering his watch face to glance at the time as peals of pure childhood joy filled the air behind him. That was a sorely missed sound in the world, and it rightly drew one of said mamas.
"It's been too long since I've heard him laugh like that," Lori murmured. "Almost started to think I wouldn't either, but he's been lit-up like a Christmas Tree since Sophia came back."
Marshall turned to watch them, too. "They're best-friends," He smiled. "It's like a feedback loop."
Lori was quiet, watching the man. "Like you and Rick?" The question slipped from her tongue before she could stop it.
Marshall looked back at her. Blinked a bit in surprise at the remark, before the smile pulled at his lips again, all bright, boyish, and fond. "Yeah."
Lori stared at him, not knowing what to think or feel about the man.
The state of her marriage and current relationship with her husband was her own doing, she knew that. She'd already been at her wits end when Rick had been shot in the line-of-duty. She didn't want to end up with her parents' marriage, a passive-aggressive silent marriage, and that was what it felt like they were falling into. So, she nitpicked about dumb things to try and get him to react, to yell, to show her that he still cared; it only rankled her further and made her feel like a neurotic bitch because no matter how frustrated or upset he got (she could see it in his eyes, the flex of his jaw), he didn't yell, he didn't shout at her, his voice went low, gruff, like his vocal chords were being choked. He was so controlled and sometimes she just needed him to loose it like her, to know she wasn't alone in this.
Shane- Shane had been the opposite of that. Shane reacted visibly, audibly. She knew how he felt- and that wasn't the point. The thing she couldn't seem to voice, to articulate to Rick... that Carl and Shane were the last she had of him in a dying world. She hadn't meant for it to happen, but when it did, she couldn't seem to stop herself and then it was simply too late. It was just a completely, messy convoluted disaster that neither could seem to bear address that festered between them with an aura of malaise that fluctuated through the group. They didn't talk about Shane. They didn't talk about the baby other than its health and needs, but not what it meant- So, she stared at the smiling man that found her prenatal vitamins, who helped kill Shane, who held her husband's attention—it was a conflicting melting pot of grateful, resentment, jealousy...
She couldn't fathom the sick question of what might have happened if Rick had really died in that coma, if he'd never shown up at the quarry. But one she played with was what might of happened if their rolls had been reversed: if Lori was the one who'd been in a terrible accident and in a coma during the initial outbreak and subsequent societal collapse; if Rick was the one that had made it out of Atlanta with Carl and Shane instead.
Obviously, Rick never would have ended up with Shane, though she knew Rick was bisexual (he told her about his first and only boyfriend in high school before they met), and Shane suffered homophobic tendencies that came with the macho alpha male persona. She was sure that Shane would still be alive now than dead, and the guilt of that hypothesis was drowning.
If they still ended up at the Greene Farm... Lori could all too easily see Rick together with Marshall, Carl between them. She didn't know if it was more comforting or wounding. She had no right to resent Marshall for protecting his own family (for protecting Rick), to resent Rick for things that were her own folly. She was the one that did this to them and she knew it.
"I can't remember the last time I smelled something so mouth-watering." Lori finally spoke at the smell that was finally starting to emit from the heated confines of the closed grill as the dough started to bake, because she couldn't keep letting herself get drawn into this black hole; it wasn't good for her, it wasn't good for the baby she was carrying. She hadn't been able to properly grieve (and she knew Rick hadn't either); there wasn't privacy to just comfortably let it all fall apart, to give voice and life to the wailing inside of her chest. "Makes me want to just sit down and eat a whole loaf while its still warm and fluffy—and wash it down with some melted butter."
"You know, that's great idea!" Marshall eyes brightening with realization, then chuckled when he saw her surprised expression. "I don't mean gorging on an entire loaf of bread—but- I can't believe I didn't realize!" He chastised himself. "Can you keep an eye on them?" He threw a thumb over his shoulder at the playing kids, "I need to grab some things from inside." Curious and confused, she nodded, watching him grab the empty baking sheets before fleeing inside, "You should sit, get off your feet. Be back in a few. Athena, stay."
Lori took one of the plastic chairs and moved it closer to the house and the barbecue; not enough to be affected by the gas fumes but able to still feel the cozy warmth. Her gaze trained on Carl and Sophia, and wilfully ignoring the dog sitting in the grass that seemed as equally willing to do the same to her. It was getting warmer and warmer every day, but the night still had a bit of a biting chill. The rising scent of baking bread nearly made her light-headed with the deep craving it awakened in her. Thankfully, she'd gotten over her morning sickness rather quickly. With Carl, she'd continued to get sick even well into the pregnancy. She ignored the drastic change and what exactly that may imply.
When Marshall returned some 10 minutes later, the baking sheets were covered in the remaining filled bread tins, a towel laid over them. A pair of oven mitts laid on top with an empty tin dish balanced on top of that, and finally there was something tucked under each jacket armpit. Before she could even attempt to give him a hand, he already had the trays set on the side shelves without incident. One of the items under his arm was a bottle of water; he poured some into the dish for Athena who eagerly lapped at the offering, and handed the bottle over to her.
"Thank you." She murmured, taking a sip.
"No problem." He also handed her what had been tucked under his other arm.
"And what's this?" She questioned, examining the mason jar and the yellowish-white liquid sloshing inside.
"Butter!" He beamed. "Figured we could spare a bit of powdered milk and water for it—with the addition of a bit of oil and salt for taste. All you gotta do is shake-it till you make-it." He glanced at his watch; they hadn't even been baking for twenty minutes.
Lori shook the jar, finding how her arm tired far too easily before two minutes even passed. Her attention was drawn from the kids as Marshall shed his long maroon jacket (she hadn't seen him without it since he'd returned to the Group a few days ago), and just off-handedly started to hum to himself and do squats.
Lori paused in her butter churning, resting her tired arms on her growing stomach swaddled behind her thick sweater and zipped jacket. She'd been shaking it constantly for five minutes already and it didn't seem to be thickening up.
"Want me to give it go? Give you break." Marshall offered
"I didn't think just sitting here and shaking a jar could be so exhausting." She admitted, but she sat forward, handing over the jar.
He took the jar in his left hand, not willing to risk his right giving him a surprise spasm and wasting food as a result, even as little as it was. "All your energy is focused on growing the baby inside of you, as it should be. I'd say that's more heroic than churning out some butter." He mused, continuing to do squats, starting to finally feel the burn in his thighs; his right hand crossed over to his left shoulder, while his left arm was extended in front of him, sloshing the cream mixture with rapid left and right twists of his wrist.
"I suppose." She agreed, staring at the straight line of his spine. Didn't make her feel any less of a burden on the Group; her 12-year-old son and the old man in his 60's did more for the Group than her.
Being pregnant didn't make her an invalid, but given their circumstance of the literal apocalypse and the hungry dead constantly underfoot, it wasn't exactly ideal. Carl, Carol, and Hershel were her constant minders and as annoying as it was (it was hard to get a minute to herself even when she hadn't been pregnant), it was necessary when she already needed a hand-up from the mattress on the floor.
Despite getting over the morning sickness in this pregnancy relatively quickly, there was other, more daunting history from her previous pregnancy that haunted the back of her thoughts constantly. Her doctor had already noted the likelihood of her needing a caesarean sections because of her narrow hips, even if they were to naturally widen as the pregnancy progressed and her body naturally adapted—only for a C-section to become a certainty when she was diagnosed later in the pregnancy with pre-eclampsia and given physical restrictions.
It was frightening to think about, but it was constantly hovering in the back of her mind. None of this would be a problem in the 21st Century with modern medicine and readily available doctors and surgeons, except they might as well be back in the 1800's. There were no ultrasounds to check on the baby, there were no blood test to check on her own health- it was just a constant source of stress.
Then there was this: in these circumstances, which was more dangerous... a natural birth or a surgical one?
Hershel had delivered 3 of his children, but those had all been natural, despite the troubles with Marshall's birthing. She continued to watch the younger man. While Marshall had more experience with treating humans, she doubted he had delivered any children while in the Army. Still. It was a conversation that her and Rick would need to have eventually because it looked like the two Greene men would be the ones delivering her baby.
At Hershel's last check he estimated her to be nearing around 6 months pregnant, give or take, that meant Rick was in the window when she fell pregnant; she couldn't know whether the baby was Rick's or Shane's, not until it was born, and maybe not even then. She hated how... tainted it made her feel, the fact that she even had to have these thoughts, but no matter what happened, whatever became of her and Rick, she knew that as much as Rick may hate her or resent her for her past transgressions, he would never hold that against the baby. She had that absolute comfort, at the very least.
"I wanted to thank you for those pre-natal vitamins you got me." Lori spoke. "Sophia gave them to me."
"That's not something that I needed to be thanked for," Marshall assured. "It's not much, but-"
"It's something."
"Yeah." He straightened from his exercise but continued to shake the jar despite Lori no longer able to hear the slosh of liquid. "I had a bunch of other things," He confessed, frowning in disappointment, "Before it all got contaminated with piranha—but there'll be plenty of chances to rectify that on the way to Hazzard County."
"We're not staying here?" Lori questioned in surprise. She knew of their intention to continue onto a new county, but she just figured-
"It does seem idyllic here, doesn't it?" He voiced.
There was a quality to his voice, just like he had in the kitchen—"Best not to dwell on things that cannot be changed."—it reminded her of when Rick confessed to her that Hershel wasn't going to let them stay on the farm when everyone just assumed they were. Before she could question it this time, though, he handed her over the mason jar.
She looked at the yellow-white that coated the sides of the jar; she twisted off the lid and looked inside. She could see a marginal bit of liquid at the bottom but otherwise it had formed into a thick heavy cream or more—it looked like a super-soft butter. "It's butter." She couldn't help but voice in wonder.
"It is." He chuckled as she screwed the lid back on before holding it to her chest in a protective, precious way like Beth had that hot chocolate sachet. He finally opened the barbecue hood, releasing a cloud of scented steam that had them both voicing sounds of craving.
Carl and Sophia ran over and watched Marshall switch-out the hot back bread for the raw dough before shutting the lid to trap in the low heat once more.
"Does that mean it's done? When do we get to eat it?" Carl asked eagerly and hungrily. Both he and Sophia momentarily hanging off the man.
"Dinner." Marshall informed them. "You can have a slice each."
"What's that?" Sophia questioned the woman, indicating the jar.
"It's butter." Lori said, showing them the coated jar.
"Butter?!" Both children exclaimed.
"Where'd you find it?" Carl questioned. "Wouldn't it be all gross by now?"
"Marshall made it; it's fresh."
Sophia looked at her papa with wide sparkling eyes. "Papa is amazing!"
Marshall booped her nose. "And you're adorable. I'm gonna bring these into the house to cool down—and so the others can also practice their self control."
Marshall knew he was being dramatic, but it honestly felt like as soon as he stepped in through the backdoor, all inside activity ceased as the aroma a fresh baked bread permeated through the house interior and as he walked down the long gauntlet toward the kitchen, all eyes followed his path hungrily.
"That smells like heaven, man!" T-Dog groaned, licking in his lips.
"Well, smellin' is all anyone's gonna do."
"You're a cruel, cruel man."
"Haven't you ever heard of: Good things come to those who wait? If the pregnant woman can control herself, then so can everyone else."
"Sadist." Maggie hissed at her twin, who simply winked at her.
"Guess I shouldn't tell y'all about the butter, then." He voiced coyly.
"Wait! Butter?!" Glenn exclaimed. "What do you mean 'butter'?"
Marshall merely chuckled as he disappeared into the kitchen, moving the hot loaves to cool on the counter, reclaiming the baking sheets once more. "You'll have a daunting task ahead of you come dinnertime," He joked to Carol, "They'll be coming at you like a pack of hungry jackals. Better come armed with more than a butter knife."
"Oh," Carol mused, "I think the butter knife will be plenty."
"Carol," He purred playfully, giving her a flirty sweep of his eyes. "Don't tease me like that."
And she could only laugh.
...
After all the bread had been baked and cooled properly, they were pre-sliced and portions of 12 were then wrapped in wax paper and plastic wrap. The sky was dimming and T-Dog volunteered to cook dinner, via the barbecue, despite the fact that there was no meat to grill (unless one counted the can of Spam); the warming rack piled with that meal's portion of bread slices. Everyone seemed to want warm bread with melted butter.
"Looks like you found a comfy little place." Marshall cooed, kneeling at the basket from the basement and the white-and-ginger ball of fur curled up inside. Marshmallow mewed, stretching, little toe-beans spreading before relaxing again at the attention as he started to purr.
"Trouper, c'mere." Marshall called when he spotted the boy from the corner of his eye.
Carl paused, looked over. Curious, he approached the man. "What?"
"Sit." Marshall said simply, rubbing Marshmallow's chin. Another beat before Carl sat on the floor, cross-legged. "You and Sophia wear the size shoe, right?"
Carl's freckled face scrunched in confusion. "I guess?"
"Good. Take your boots off."
"Huh?"
"Your boots. Come on, let's go. Off, off."
"Why?"
Marshall plucked a sock from the basket and waved it at him. "Because I said so, kid."
"Whatever." Carl muttered.
Marshall stopped petting Marshmallow and started sorting through the socks the cat was bedding on to match pairs. You could never have too many socks, only too few. "When's the last time you changed your socks?" Carl shrugged, focused on the knots in his laces. "Guess we'll see how much you stink up the place when you take 'em off." He mused.
Carl stuck his tongue out, tugged the laces looser, and put the toe of his other boot to the heel. With a grunt, the boot jumped from his foot and smacked Marshall. Carl waited to be scolded but the man merely tossed him the boot back.
"Woof, boy." Marshall said. "When's the last time you washed your feet?"
"When's the last time you did?" Carl challenged, pulling off his sock and tossing it at the man. Marshall dodged out of the way, only for there to be an exclaim of disgust:
"Who the hell just threw this nasty sock at me?!"
The absolutely horrified look on the 12-year-olds face had the 26-year-old roaring with laughter.
"Marshall, you asshole!" Beth jumped on his back, attempting to shove the sock into his still-laughing mouth, but Marshall had easily been able to capture her wrists. He sprawled on the floor with her on top of him, shaking from his laughter. "Stop resisting and take your medicine!"
"Hey, I'm not the one sitting here sockless."
That caused the teen momentary pause. Her eyes caught sight of the small bare foot, and followed the bent knee up to meet the mortified looking boy. "Carl?"
"Beth, I'm so sorry," Carl blurted quickly. "I threw it at Marshall but he moved out of the way."
"Well, you had good intentions, at least." She smiled.
Marshall sputtered at that. "And what's that supposed to mean, huh?"
Beth sat up with a huff. "That you probably don't have a leg to stand on. Your feet are probably on the ripe-side, too."
"You know the saying: Where the sun don't shine?" He sat up, devilish look on his face. "Let me just tell you that my ass has definitely seen the sun way more often than my feet this last winter."
"Ugh. Why did I ever miss you?" She joked.
He pulled her into his chest and smooched her head. "Love makes us do crazy things." He pushed her back away and pointed at Carl, "Other boot, let's go." Carl made a face causing Beth to chuckle, the boy ducked his head and worked on his second boot. Marshall fished around in the basket for the matching sock in his hand, Marshmallow batting at his hand when the man tried to rummage under him.
"Bread's ready, y'all." T-Dog called out. "Get it while it's still warm!"
Marshall looked over in time to see two smoke trails to the kitchen.
"Carl," Lori said, confused at her son's bare feet as he danced around in anticipation as Carol spread a thin layer of butter on his warm, thick slice of bread, "Why are your feet bare? Where are your boots?"
"Marshall was making me change socks," Carl's gaze was fixed on the bread so he didn't see the frown that briefly marred his mother's face as she glanced over into the living room to the man that sat matching socks. "But I wanted warm bread, I'll do it after. Thank you!" He chirped at Carol, immediately taking a big bite of bread—A groan of appreciation immediately followed. That action and response seemed to follow other slices of bread as well, as everyone devoured their warm buttered bread before even glancing at the bowls of the main course.
Marshall raised his fist in the air in triumph, smiling at his little sister when he caught her eye. "To the Authority of Powdered Milk."
Beth rolled her eyes but could conceded. "Yes, Marshall. The bread's good, get over yourself already."
He blew her a kiss and rose. He went and tugged at a distracted Carl's shirt collar, tucking the pair of socks he'd found in there for him. "Clean and thick to help with any calluses and blisters; best not to be running around in bare feet, but don't bother with your boots, it's nearly bedtime anyway." Carl's thanks was muffled around his stuffed cheek. "You're welcome." He chuckled, playfully feinting in to poke a cheek.
With a wordless exclaim, the boy ducked and darted to hide behind his quietly chuckling father. Carl gulped down his mouthful and pointed at the man from around Rick with a glare, "Stop doing that!"
Marshall held his hands up innocently with a smile, a second pair of socks in one hand. "How do you expect me to resist those cute freckled cheeks, Little Grimes?"
"Sophia has cute freckled cheeks, too!" Carl pointed out with embarrassment.
Sophia blinked big, innocent blue-eyes over at them from she'd been quietly and unobtrusively eating her dinner in a claimed chair at the corner of the table.
"Yeah, and she knows it, too." Marshall turned his attention to his spirit-daughter.
"Papa, I'm eating!" She whined in protest.
"I know. Don't worry, it's not your cheeks I'm after." He grabbed the corner of her chair and tugged it out at an angle toward him so he could get at her dangling feet as he knelt. "I know it's been a few days." He started untie her shoe laces.
"Really, Marshall?" Maggie said. "You can't wait until after you eat?"
"Nope." Marshall grinned. "Touched worse things than stinky-feet."
"Papa!" Sophia groaned. "Just tell me!"
"Dunno. What's worse than poopy-hands, you think?" He teased her.
"Marshall, people are trying to eat." Hershel scolded.
"Sorry, daddy." He pulled off her shoes like she was 6 instead of 12-years-old.
"Don't tickle!" She warned him sternly, jerking her foot away when he pulled off her sock.
"Ah, don't worry, you're safe while you're eating. And I'll wait at least half-an-hour before I make any attempts so you don't throw-up your dinner." He teased. She pouted at that and watched him with a bit of a stink-eye as she continued eating. This girl is absolutely adorable, Marshall chuckled. He changed her socks without any sneaky business under her stern gaze; she definitely got that from her mama. "How's your leg?" He murmured, large hand gently cupping along her calf. "It didn't give you any trouble while you were being a monkey?"
"Mm-mm." Sophia shook her head. "It's okay, papa."
"Good." He pressed a kiss to her hairline and pushed her chair back into the table properly. "Finish your dinner." He grabbed the bowl that had been set aside for him, his piece of bread laid over top. He plopped down in the space next to Rick on one of the sofas in the living room. Rice, beans (God help Marshall's intestinal track), corn, and diced spam (canned dog food was healthier). The contents were lukewarm by now, and the underside of the bread slice was a bit damp from the steam but he didn't mind—still tasted like Heaven with sparing amounts of butter.
"What's the plan for tomorrow?" T-Dog questioned once Marshall finally started to eat.
"Hunting." Marshall said promptly. "You in, Hunter?"
Daryl grunted his affirmation from where he was leaned against the open front doorjamb facing the darkening exterior, and Marshall tried not to beam too hard. He covered it with a mouthful of food.
"I call dibs on cookin' whatever meat you catch." T-Dog piped up immediately. "I wanna take full advantage of that barbecue out back. I used to man the grill at the Church picnics—my ribs and burgers were unparalleled." He bragged.
"And I wanna take a small group check out the neighbours, look for more supplies, get a better idea of the area more. We'll take a car." Rick said.
"Does that mean we're staying here?" There Glenn went with the hard-hitting questions again—the same damn question that Marshall had already been hit with twice in the short time they'd been here, the one he responded to with ambiguous answers.
Blue and green met briefly, the horror in the basement rising in their minds simultaneously; of duct tape and plastic bags and too-small bodies.
"Undecided." Rick's answer was short, tone clipped, leaving no room for further questions or argument in the silence that followed.
The others were left confused, sharing looks. But Daryl had the picture, even if the details weren't quite right, but it was enough—and it gave him the damn itch to go down into the basement, to see if his hypothesis was right, to shut down that annoying spark of curiosity. There was also anticipation of a lash that would never come, at least not physically; he knew what had to be down there had to be bad for Rick and Marshall to be so quiet about it with the others, worse than the fact that it was a bunch of little kids...
The rest of dinner passed in relative silence. The used dishes given a quick scrub in a tub of water spared for that exact thing; the mattress that had been brought down from upstairs finally laid out in the cleared area in the living room, pillows and blankets unrolled as people claimed their shared space for the night. It wasn't 10 o'clock yet, but in the apocalypse it was always early-to bed-early-to-rise.
Marshall hugged and kissed his spirit-daughter goodnight before he went to take his watch shift. "Don't forget to brush your teeth." He reminded the girl automatically.
"I won't." Sophia said.
"You, too, Carl." Rick said at the reminder.
"What?" The boy asked, looking up from his torn comic book.
"Brush your teeth."
"Aw!" Carl groaned in complaint. "Do I have to?"
"Think of it this way," Rick countered equably, "You get a cavity... Marshall's gonna go fishing around in there with a pair of needle-nose pliers."
Eyes widened, Carl's eyes darted to Marshall who wiggled his fingers innocently. The boy gulped before darting over to his backpack, "Mom, where's my toothbrush? Mom!"
Marshall chuckled quietly. "That's one way to go about it."
"Sorry about putting you on the spot like that." Rick scratched his stubbled cheek.
Marshall shook his head. "Certainly got his ass into gear."
"Maybe everyone else's, too." He mumbled, catching some of the startled looks from the other adults—maybe they hadn't exactly thought about the long term results like him either.
Marshall sat out on the front porch for first shift on watch, brush in-hand, Athena vestless at his feet, tail wagging in excitement. His strokes started off short to get out the knots and tangles and blood in her fur, before becoming long fluid strokes, getting out all that fur she was starting to shed from her winter coat. He giggled quietly as she rolled onto her back, belly up, mouth open and tongue flopping out as he once more cleaned the brush, throwing the resulting clump of hair over the porch railing.
It had been quiet all day; other than the 3 that had come down the drive at their approach, there had been no outside piranha activity, or live human ones drawn in by the smell of cooking food. Maybe it was a good place to set-up stakes...
"Hey," Rick murmured in greeting from the doorway. "Can we talk for a minute about the elephant in the room?"
Marshall rose a curious brow, he wasn't exactly sure which elephant Rick wanted to talk about—he suspected the Group had several. He nodded. "Of course."
He closed the front door silently behind him, going to lean his hip against the corner rail, giving him a open view of Marshall and the front passed the cars. "We never really got the chance to talk about the next move: whether to stay here or continue on to Hazzard County." Rick spoke quietly so his voice wouldn't carry. "And why wouldn't we stay here? It's been quiet here—and I know that, that can change at any moment but-"
"Just like anywhere else," Marshall pointed out in agreement, "So, it's really a neutral point on the matter. Continue." He scratched Athena's chest and belly.
"I walked around the perimeter; the backyard is secure and while it is pretty open everywhere else, we seem to be pretty isolated. There'll be plenty of room if we utilize the upstairs, there's plenty of supplies to hold us over, and the reason that we share on not exactly being set on this place..." Rick shook his head with a sigh, "That's not exactly a reasonable contribute not to stay."
"Very rarely do sane people want to stay in haunted houses." Marshall said.
"They're all haunted now." Rick pointed out.
"True." He conceded. "Too true."
"Do you believe in ghosts?" Rick questioned after a couple minutes of silence. "I mean, you believe in Heaven and Hell, right? Don't ghosts sort of... go hand-in-hand with that?"
Marshall was quiet for a moment, absently taking the wire brush to a piece of clumped fur he found at Athena's armpit, he certainly hadn't expected the question. "I believe in spirits and souls." He finally spoke. Rick watched him with a keen interest. "Ghosts... not in the way that Hollywood depicts them, as such. Not physical manifestations, not literal tortured souls that haunt us. Ghosts, as I see it... are grief, anger, guilt. Ghosts are our regrets and our failings. A memory, a daydream, a secret. A wish. 'Baggage', as they say."
"I've never thought of it like that." Rick murmured thoughtfully, absently turning, turning, turning his wedding ring around his finger.
Marshall left him to ponder quietly on that and continued to brush Athena, gaze automatically shifting up at intervals to observe their quiet surroundings. "What?" Marshall wondered as he caught the look Rick was giving him, such a look of intrigue and wonder, similar to the one that the man got when he couldn't seem to decide what to make of Marshall Greene.
Rick gave his head a shake. "Just thinkin' that inside your head must be a very interesting place."
Marshall snorted. "It's a Goddamn nuthouse, I assure you."
Rick chuckled. "A fantastical nuthouse, surely."
Marshall shook his head in quiet amusement. "Anyway, it's easy enough to remove the bodies, but it's all kind of forfeit if we can't find a good and sustainable water source. I was praying to find a Lake House in Hazzard..."
Rick groaned. "Don't tease me with dreams of a Lake House, Mars."
"C'mon," He teased, "Sometimes you've got to dream a little big, Apocalypse Husband o' Mine."
[tWD]
Marshall woke the next morning, bright-eyed and bushier-tailed than typical since he returned to the Group, anticipation making his blood sing. His chipper attitude was catching him some side-eyes.
"Did you sneak a sip of coffee from someone's cup when no one was looking?" Beth questioned her big brother wryly.
Marshall snorted. "When would I even have the opportunity to do such a vile thing, when everyone's like a fuckin' gargoyle hunched so possessively over their cups of watery caffeine?"
"Hey, don't say that like you're not the weird-o in this scenario." Maggie accused her twin.
"Like a bunch of caffeine fanatics." Marshall added slyly, "How strung-out y'all gonna be when it runs out?"
"Why'd you have to go and put that out in the universe?" T-Dog questioned.
"How strung out are you going to be when we run out of powdered milk?" Beth quipped.
"I'm going to be super sad, Beth, but then I'll carry on. Unlike you lot, who'll get moody and twitchy, become lethargic in the mornings and restless at night... great weather this morning, though."
"Go already, before we descend upon your chipper-ass with pitchforks." Maggie pointed sternly to the door.
"Look, it's already starting." Marshall stage-whispered to the strawberry-blond girl. "Never drink coffee, Sophia," He told her in a mock-lecture voice, "It'll make a grump even outta someone as sparkly as you."
"I won't, papa." She responded obediently.
"Good girl." He patted her head. "While I'm gone, when you and Carl are done all your chores, you can play in the backyard again—Beth'll keep an eye on you."
"Alright." Beth agreed, smiling. "I found some jump rope, we can make room on the patio."
"Okay, and who's coming with me to scavenge?" Rick asked.
"In!" "Me!" Was called simultaneously.
Glenn sputtered, coughing. "Not fair, I was drinking!" He complained, wiping his chin.
"You snooze, you lose, honey." Maggie told her boyfriend.
"T-Dog already volunteered to cook dinner," Glenn countered, looking to Rick. "So, I should be the one to go out with you."
Rick could see the logic in that, though he knew it was mostly just Glenn not wanting to part from Maggie. He glanced at T-Dog, who shrugged in return: "Hey, man, to each their own. It's not me that'll be the third-wheel."
"Alright." Rick said. "Glenn and Maggie, then."
"Don't get so lost gazing into each other heart-eyes that you forget to watch Rick's back." Marshall told the pair; it was phrased a like a tease, but his gaze was serious.
"We won't." Maggie swore to her brother.
"Good." He murmured. "And you..."
Rick's brows rose up. "Yes?"
"You come across a wooden baseball bat in your scavenger hunt, I call dibs."
That had everyone flummoxed.
"A baseball bat?" Rick repeated.
"Yeah."
"Marshall, you know bats are pretty impractical when it comes to killing piranha," Beth reasoned. "That's why I finally gave-up my softball bat. It's too much effort for such little reward. Why do you want a bat?"
"Nostalgia and ideas." He said vaguely. "Don't get yourself killed over it, of course."
"Of course." Rick said.
"Just... if you see one, if you can grab it... grab it." Marshall shrugged.
"Sure." Rick agreed.
"Thanks." Marshall flashed him a smile. He addressed the other hunter, "We're ready whenever you are, Daryl." Quiver strapped to his waist, he shouldered his sorted pack, his bow secured to it.
"Yeah." Daryl grunted, gulping down the last of his share of breakfast's coffee. He exchanged his cup for his crossbow and nothing else.
"Athena, let's go." The Belgian Malinois woofed, trotting after him out the door. "We'll be back before sunset, daddy." The son informed the father sat out on the front porch.
"Alright. Come back safe, the both of you." Hershel said.
"Backyard-ho?" Marshall queried the other man, a questioning thumb thrown over his shoulder. Daryl grunted his agreement and the three shuffled around the side of the house, beyond the fenced yard, and disappeared into the wooded area behind.
Marshall sent Athena ahead into the lead, of course. She could scent a piranha or animal long before they'd likely even hear them, let alone spot a trail.
It had been such a long time since he had a hunting partner, his hunting partner. Had to remind himself it wasn't a ghost he was following, that it wasn't some dream. He had to remind himself not to fixate on his canine partner, to take in the surroundings around them, of the silent hunting companion shadowing his own steps behind and aside. Had to swallow back the sharp whistle when he lost sight of her for even a second behind a tree—even when she appeared not 2 seconds later, whole and hale and real, his heart still managed to make that jump.
Athena sniffed out explosives for a majority of her life, grew into adulthood under live-fire. She had been trained to kill and had killed. A weapon of the highest skill, yet- Yet, he knew her to be the most vulnerable of the Group. She was a highly trained weapon, an asset to the Group—yet she didn't have the means to kill piranha, their most vital and deadly enemy. It gave him the same fear that was borne out of Rocky, that same over-protectiveness. That need to hold tighter. That he was as content to have no more than 10 feet between them as she seemed to be since they reunited.
A dependency had been cultivated between them in war, for survival, for sanity. The kind of bond they formed on-duty wasn't just something that could be cut-down or cut-off. It was why he worked so hard to get her retired and adopted into civilian life with him.
It had been easy to ignore, to not be concerned, isolated and safe on the farm. Harder when he decided to send her away. He'd clung wholly to the belief that Athena and his sisters were safe and alive, laid it completely on theirs and Rick's shoulders. It had held him, unwavering; because to put stock into anything else was inexcusable. Those thoughts didn't deserve a second glance, let alone the first.
Like he'd told Rick: If he'd lost her...
He knew the grip would lessen over time, but right now, so soon into their reunion: It was Rocky all over again; He could sniff out explosives, but did not have the means to disarm them nor shield from them. And after what nearly happened with Sophia, who was indeed more capable of defending herself against piranha...
Stop. He took a deep breath, rubbed the left side of his nose and pushed back the spiralling what-if thoughts. History would not repeat itself. It was a vow, solemn swear. He would fight the Grim Reaper himself. Pay attention.
He started humming; calming himself, centering himself.
He'd lead the Group on a wild goose chase; on his own whims, on his own feelings and while it did lead them to this grand shelter, it could have lead them into another herd. He needed to do better and he needed to start pulling his weight better than making bread. Hunting, taking some of the sole weight that laid on Daryl's shoulders in that regard was a good start.
So, he focused up.
Daryl's gaze flickered to the other as that damned, nearly inaudible humming reached him—and his own shoulders started to involuntarily relax. Ever since they entered the woods, it had been silent but nature and the quiet shuffle of their steps... and a fluctuating tension that rode through Marshall at random intervals that was more than just a hunter aware of his surroundings, or a soldier on alert.
"What's with you?" Daryl growled the low-voiced query. "You gotta take a piss or somethin'?"
"What?" Marshall paused, glancing behind at the hunter. Athena mirrored him a second later. "No... why?"
"'Cause you've been actin' squirrelly since we got out here."
He gave a short chuckle. "No, uh, no pissing needed here. Just... heh, wanted to go hunting with you since we met." Daryl's chest felt weird at the unexpected response. The hunter flinched when Marshall suddenly pointed at him, "And don't even try to say that squirrel we both tagged counts. It doesn't."
Daryl rolled his eyes with a scoff. "Whatever. Just calm your ass down before you scare off all the game with your fuckin' jitters—they can sense that shit."
"Whatever you say, big boy." Marshall smiled. "It's going to be great, you'll see."
Daryl only stared at his back for a moment as the man spun around and started off again, fucking humming under his breath, before following after with a tsk. Daryl had a few short hunting partners himself, Merle, his dad, and his Uncle Jesse and let's just say that he never would have gotten away so clean with that jittery or humming shit.
...
Daryl's attention strayed to the man from the corner of his eye as he readied his shot; balanced without a waver in a low crouch on the balls of his feet, hand drawn back to his ear, the way his body instinctively compensated for he shift in his center of gravity.
Daryl could appreciate the good form, the steady hand, the unerring aim—how quiet he could be when he actually tried; he didn't know how the man could move so silent and fluid in that damn maroon leather coat that went down to his calves, though, how every time he moved he didn't sound like a squealing squeegee. The bright neon pink of his fletching was a bit of an eyesore, but, you know, a weapon was a weapon.
It was over in a few short seconds as Marshall released. The arrow flew...
Once Marshall seemingly got his act together, the threesome made a steady progress in tracking and taking out their prey; even if it was all just small game thus far.
Athena was a good hunting partner to have around: The way she and Marshall worked together, moved together was more than simply just a hunter and his dog, they were extensions of each other, as keen of each other as they were of their surroundings. Communication between them a mere silent gesture, quiet sound, a twitch away. Daryl had seen it when they gone tracking down Dale through the swamp; it was symbiotic. He wished he could have used her during the winter but he didn't have her command, for tracking and to also have his back. Despite not being able to utilize her to her full potential without Marshall around, she was still a good dog, still very useful to the Group, especially as a walker warning system and sentry.
His own days during winter were filled with practically nothing aside from hunt-sleep-eat-watch. There were days where he came back with nothing at all and days he could weep simply from tagging a single scrawny squirrel. There had been days where he barely managed to make it back to the Group at all; escape frozen walkers buried in the snow like hidden bear traps, invisible until they're grabbing at your ankles, dragging you off your feet—not that he ever told the rest of them that. The elation of killing a deer and the pitfalls of having to haul the heavy carcass through the thick snow for however many miles, and defend against walkers that were like a pack of jackals. On the occasion he did take a partner out with him, it was always Rick. Rick was keen learner, like picking up the knack for tracking when they lost Sophia, he rarely got turned around in the woods, and knew how to be quiet.
In some ways, winter was a preference. Without the frigid temperatures to help keep fresh meat cold and preserved... with the coming Georgian heat waves, they were going to be forced to go through anything fresh that they caught faster lest it turned and simply went to waste. That meant more hunting trips, that also meant it would be more productive if they split-up instead of partnered up-
Muscle-memory had him reacting before his mind could even completely comprehend what he just witnessed. His finger pulled the trigger, his bolt whipped through the air felling the rabbit mid-air—because Marshall had missed the fucking target! Daryl's chest heaved as if he'd just run a marathon, adrenaline surging through him instead of just a simple curl of the finger.
In the beats of silence and stillness that followed, Marshall felt utterly humiliated even as you'd never be able to tell through the passive set of his expression. Of all the times for his own body to betray him... it wasn't his fucking pride taking a hit at Daryl seeing that (while it was a little embarrassing, it wasn't like it had been purposeful). No, he was absolutely grateful Daryl had been there to take remedy his blunder and bag the rabbit. Marshall had lost his unit many a hearty meal over the winter because his cramping hand didn't recover in time to take a second shot and his prey had long scampered to freedom.
He was supposed to be a provider for the Group, yet had missed such an easy shot. He knew a cramp was bound to happen sooner or later, it always did when using his bow; the continued flex and positioning of his hand when he drew, the strain that was put onto his shoulder... He knew he should have told daddy in the car when he was asked about the wound, but the disapproval had been rolling off the old man in droves already, a lecture already firing from the barrel, Marshall didn't want to deal with another about something that he could do nothing to correct. No exams or scans to determine the root of the problem, no surgeon there to fix it.
He knew the... quirk would out itself eventually. He hadn't been hiding it, even if he didn't directly voiced it to the Group; he'd just automatically been handling it, able to divert what may become many an incident by stretching his hand and shoulder out, or simply using his left hand instead of his right. Many of it came natural to him, having tried to teach himself to be ambidextrous if there ever was an occasion where he was injured and down an arm like he had been, but for the life of him, or anyone else for that matter, he could not shoot for shit with his compound bow when he tried to draw with his left and brace with his right, not even when he tried to shoot Before with the proper left-handed bow.
As Marshall lowered his bow, it was like the dropping of the flag that set Daryl into action:
"The hell was that?" Daryl jumped up, throwing his crossbow around to his back. "You almost let dinner get away!"
"You got it, didn't you?" Marshall dismissed, rising.
"Yeah." He said shortly, eyeing him. "Just wonderin' why you didn't."
"Just Shane Walsh laughing at me from Hell." He mused wryly, heading off for his stray arrow—he didn't get very far though.
Daryl grabbed the dismissive man by the lapels of his coat, jerking him close. "The hell's that supposed to mean?"
"So aggressive." Marshall's bland tone was the opposite of the low warning growl Athena released at Daryl at his said show of sudden aggression. Marshall simply held out his palm to her in silent command, he didn't actually feel threatened, he could see the swirl of confused concern in the man's blue-eyes, the frustration that birthed into anger at Marshall's dismissiveness. Athena quietened, though her amber focus was no less intent on the hunter manhandling her partner.
"Answer the damn question."
He couldn't and wouldn't lie to Daryl. "Bullets have consequences, Daryl."
"You sayin' you missed 'cause your shoulder?" Daryl's face tightened; he remembered the blood dripping from a limp arm and twitching fingers. "It's been months, ain't it healed?" Marshall rose his hands between them. Daryl twitched, expecting to be shoved off as aggressively as he'd grabbed the man, but instead of shoving the hunter away, Marshall pressed index finger to index finger, thumb pad to thumb pad, creating a small window with his fingers. Daryl's squinted and confused eyes continued as he stepped back, watching the man overlaid the frame of his fingers to his right shoulder, where Shane had shot him. "What're you doin'?"
"It's called the thoracic outlet; behind the clavicle and first rib lay all the nerves, arteries, and veins that come down the neck and branch off into the arm. Shane may have missed my head, but he still hit a sweet spot in the end. Bullet lodged right where the collarbone and first rib meet. Didn't break it, just cracked it but my fingers went all tingly before daddy took the bullet out. A branch in the nerve cluster must've gotten pinched or something from the compounded force of the bullet. Not a big deal, sounds worse than it is; Nerve damage." He shook his head. "My hand is just more likely to cramp up and spasm, that's all."
"That's all." Nerve damage. "Not a big deal." Daryl repeated. "You missed th' shot." He wasn't thinking about dinner though—he was thinking about walkers.
"Yes." He should have expected that; it was also something he thought about a lot. "Don't worry, Hunter." Marshall assured, giving him a single pat on the shoulder as he passed to go track down his missing arrow, "The moment I become a liability to my family, you'll know—because you won't see me again."
With his back turned to the man, Marshall didn't bear witness to the effect that comment had on Daryl, the beat of ignorance before the meaning, the implication behind the words—that Marshall would, what, opt-out if he became more of a hindrance to the Group than asset? Daryl was left to stare after his back as Marshall disappeared around a tree, Athena following on his heels, disappeared. How could he just say it so casually, so definitively?! Conflict rose within his chest: to beat some sense into the other man, to ignore the entire thing, or was he obligated to tell Marshall's family and Rick at the very least? Daryl uttered foul curses under his breath as he stomped to the fallen rabbit, ripping out his bolt with more force than was necessary. This was why he didn't make 'friends'.
"If I missed an easy shot like that, Merle'd kick my ass, don't matter the cause." He muttered to himself, wiping the bolt clean and tucking the carcass with the gaggle already at his belt.
"Is that your way of saying you wanna tussle, Dixon?"
Daryl did not jump at his silent return and scoffed. "What d'ya think you're gonna do with that gimp-hand?" Where anyone else would have given anger and hurt in equal return, instead he got bright green-eyes and a giddy expression:
"Thems are fightin' words, Dixon." Marshall purred.
"Fuck off." He swiped the air before turning and stalking off.
It had been a genuine question on the Ranger's part, though, not a tease. He'd totally be down for a friendly wrestle, a way to let out some pent up frustration in a safe and friendly manner, a way to foster better companionship between them—it was tradition between soldiers all the time during long bouts of inactivity. Given this was Daryl in regards to himself, Marshall wasn't at all surprised by the outright refusal. He might have to go poking at his sisters for it, though.
"Aw, c'mon, don't go getting shy on me now, Daryl." Marshall lopped after him, Athena shadowing alongside her partner. "We were doing so good, palling around. With the man-handling and the using-your-words. We've been having some meaningful conversations here—don't worry, Athena won't tell anyone." Daryl paused momentarily to brace his crossbow against the ground and recock, the action short, simple, and- "Smooth—like whip-cream." Marshall gave a low, slow whistle.
"Don't you know when to shut up?" Daryl lobbed rhetorically back over his shoulder, swinging his crossbow back over his shoulder as he straightened. He turned to the man with a vicious twist of the lips, "You think I'm stupid? You think if you blow enough smoke up my ass it'll stop me from tellin' the Group your dirty little secret?"
Now that- that was the remark that caused the hurt flash through the younger man's eyes before it was cleared away. "You actually think that I'd-" Marshall stopped, swallowed, stared. "I see." He took a moment to gather his thoughts, fishing in his pocket for a piece of gum and popping it into his dry mouth. "I guess the past 4 months changed nothing. That was my naïve assumption, but the compliment was genuine, Hunter, they always are." The silent offer to the other man was automatic and immediately rebuffed with a scowl. "It's not a secret, dirty or otherwise. Sophia, Andrea, and Michonne know."
"Right. The little girl and the two missing chicks." Daryl uttered a little scoff at that. "Your daddy know? Your sisters?" He challenged. Silence answered him. "That's what I thought."
"It's not a secret, Daryl." Marshall repeated. "I haven't been hiding it, it just simply hasn't happened since I've been back." Daryl couldn't help but roll his eyes at that. Marshall's jaw ticked. "Hold it against me, why don't you, for not wanting to get another lecture from my daddy on all the disappointing choices I make that can't be changed or-" He stopped as abruptly as he'd started, inhaling deeply before slowly releasing it, coiling the viper back up. "Never mind, not my therapist."
"Nah. That's Rick, right? Dr Grimes." He mocked.
"Yeah." It came out with an involuntary crack. "Soul of a Saint, that man, listening to my... pitiable whining about the consequence of my own actions." He blew a bubble, his expression and tone easily falling to placidity when he next spoke, calling an end to the enlightening confrontation, "We should get back to it," He pointed out, "Move on to a different area since we scared away all the critters... keep an eye out for a some kind of water source that will anchor us to this place. Come on, partner."
For a moment, a split second, Daryl actually thought that Marshall was talking to him, only for the man to pat his thigh and for his furry companion to blaze a trail ahead. So, instead, Daryl watched Marshall walk again in the guise of taking lead, any light that had brightened his green-eyes dimmed to darkness.
See? Daryl thought pettily, proving his point even if it just to himself. We ain't friends.
...
They were headed back even before the sun started to set to give them plenty of time to return before darkness; Daryl's rope of kills leaving a dull stain of blood on one of the wings on his leather vest, with Marshall's kill bag swinging off the back of his pack.
Even if the subject had been dropped, the silence of the rest of their trip spoke volumes—along with the weight of the hunter's stare every time he nocked and drew, stares that grew heavier still every time Marshall stretched his shoulder or flexed and kneaded the muscles in his hand. So many things he could interoperate it to mean, some more wild and accusing than others, but he steadfast refused to dive down that rabbit hole. Daryl never held back on letting Marshall know exactly his opinion of him, never had trouble delivering that cold-hard truth that could take Marshall out by the knees. No holds barred with that man, so if Daryl had something to say, then he could very well fucking voice it himself because Marshall wasn't going to give him the concession of doing it for him.
Marshall had hoped for a great many things on this hunting trip with Daryl. He'd hoped to come across a deer; with fantasies of taking advantage of the barbecue and even making a DIY smoker out of the shed in the backyard to help preserve the uneaten meat. He'd hoped to bond with the other man as simply more than two people in the same survival group; he supposed his hopes had been unrealistically high after their conversation in the garage the other day. He had hoped to bring up the idea training the others up on archery as well; see how receptive he was to the idea. Had hoped for them to find a river or a stream; instead of a creak bed that was just wet enough to cause trouble with one miss-step, but not wet enough to bear fruit to their plight. But he reckoned one of the purer objectives of that task had been met in the end—they came back with sustenance for the Group.
"Do you have a signal for whoever's on watch duty that you're back and a living friendly?" Marshall questioned, breaking the silence that had spread between them like a suffocating blanket.
"Not really." Daryl gruff voice answered shortly.
"And how many times have you nearly been shot for it?" He wondered wryly. In hindsight he knew it was something that should have been discussed before they left the Group, but it was something he was already so used to having in place with his unit that he hadn't even thought about it.
"You got one?" Was the sarcastic reply.
"Yeah, actually. Got a knock. Got a two-tone whistle for when I coming back from hunting so Andrea doesn't have an excuse to shoot me and claim she was taken by surprise and thought I was a piranha." Daryl squinted at him at that little tidbit. "Needed to cover all my basis with that one." Didn't matter that half the time he'd hunted on Boomer. "Shall I give it a go, then?"
"Don't you think hearin' a unfamiliar human signal will put 'em more on edge than thinking a walker's rustlin' around in th' bushes?"
"If Sophia's out in the yard she'll recognize it." Marshall reasoned.
He grunted. "Whatever." When the fence around the backyard came into view shortly, Marshall gave a two-tone whistle. "That's your signal?" Daryl scoffed at the short, almost eerie tone that carried through the air.
"Well, it can't be the same as any of my whistle-commands for Athena, that'd just be confusing for her. It's a jaunty little bing-bong-esque, like a doorbell."
"It ain't." Daryl told him. He might have been right because they were greeted with a muzzle coming through the gate in the backyard.
"Whoa, hey. Human, living, and friendly here." Marshall said.
"The hell was that, man?" T-Dog questioned in relief, lowering his gun upon seeing familiar faces. "That was creepy as shit, I almost shot y'all!"
Daryl sent Marshall some side-eye that clear said: Told ya so.
"It's not creepy. Alright?" Marshall denied. "And that's the return signal from now on, okay? Y'all should have already had that in place and I thought Sophia would be out here so that would have offset the panic of people."
"She's been inside all day." Daryl tossed his rope of game onto the table on the patio as Marshall frowned. T-Dog was happy to see some fowl in the mix, even if he'd been hoping for some venison steak to fry up on the grill. "Felt like I was in a damn horror movie. It's like finding that damn gnome all over again." T-Dog muttered and Daryl snorted quietly in agreement.
"Of all the things to find creepy in the world These Days..." Marshall's kill bag joined Daryl's assortment on the table. He righted the empty bowl on the ground with the toe of his boot and emptied the remains of his water bottle into it—Athena immediately B-lined for it, lapping thirstily at the warm water. "Anything fun happen while we were out?" He pet her head.
"It's been calm. Quiet." T-Dog said. "No sign of any walkers around the house. Rick, Glenn, and Maggie got back about two hours ago."
"That's good." Marshall straightened.
"You guys?"
"I'm sure Daryl will tell you all about it." It came out sounding passive-aggressive as he headed inside, slipping his pack off, but he was just distracted about the comment T-Dog made about his spirit-daughter.
T-Dog's brow rose as Daryl sent a sneer at the man's back. "What's that about, man?"
"Papa, you're back!" Everything immediately brightened at the strawberry-blond barrelling down the hall toward him. With that energy, maybe he needn't have been so concerned. She may not have barrelled into him with the force of a cannonball filled with the trust that he would always catch her, but her happiness at his return was not the least bit reduced at the simple action of her arms worming into his coat to wrap around his waist.
"I am." Marshall's arms wrapped around her shoulders as she continued to lean against him instead of pulling away. "Heard you've been hanging around inside all day. Wanna catch some sun and show your mama what a skilled little butcher you've become?" He stroked the ends of her braids at the nape of her neck. "Hm?"
"Mm-mm." She shook her head in denial against his stomach.
"No?" He murmured with a frown.
"She hasn't been feeling good all day." Carol spoke softly and Marshall's frowned deepened. "Your dad looked her over, said it wasn't anything serious, stomach craps, maybe. Nothing really to do but make sure she kept hydrated. Not to worry unless she throws up or gets diarrhoea."
"Hm." Marshall softly tugged a braid and Sophia peeked up at him. He gently touched her face, looking into her blue-eyes. A little pale, a little warm, but nothing that threw up any red flags. She looked uncomfortable but not pained, not like with her leg. His fingers trailed down and felt the glands in her thin throat just to ease his mind of Andrea's influenza rearing its ugly head. "Maybe you'll feel better after we get some fresh meat into ya instead of that canned atrocity of yesterday—I stand by wet dog food being far healthier and tastier." Sophia's freckled nose scrunched up cutely, a reaction mirrored by her mother. "Marks my words, Peletiers." He cupped her face and leaned down, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Looks like a Lazy Day to me. Layin' around, cuddling with Marshmallow, reading comics and playin' board games with Carl..." She mumbled her agreement against his stomach. "It'll be tough, but I know you can do it." He teased her, managing to pull a small smile from her before he shooed her off.
"It's not what Andrea had, is it?" Carol questioned quietly, arms wrapped her around her middle, her gaze following her daughter worriedly.
"No." Was Marshall's immediate and assured answered. "If it was, it would have put us out before we found the Group. Just a little bug."
"Little bugs can be deadly these days."
"You can't let yourself fall into that hole, Carol." He put a hand on her thin shoulder. "We all went down at some point in the winter with a cold, she bounced back from that just fine. As long as she doesn't get a fever or start throwing-up—and we keep the blood-letting to a minimum..." The look she gave him was not impressed at all. "Don't worry too much about it until it's something that actually needs to be worried about." He said more seriously.
"It's not a switch that can just be turned off, Marshall."
"I know." He agreed. "I think of it as a variable resistor, like a dimmer; you control the intensity of the worry."
"I'll be out back skinning and gutting." Carol said.
"Alright. I'll send Sunny back to help out."
"Thanks."
Sophia and Carl were sharing a mattress in the living room, with Lori sat on the sofa mending clothes and Marshmallow using the awaiting pile of clothes as a bed. Marshall found his sisters set up in the kitchen at the table, the surface crowded with an assortment of the Group's firearms before them; cleaning, loading, counting bullets. He knew exactly why Rick would have set them with this task if the Deputy didn't do it himself; when Marshall taught his siblings to handle guns proper, like with Sophia, Michonne, and Andrea he didn't skimp on the lessons and drills, he went the whole 10-yards with it, leaving them as efficient as a pair of trained soldiers.
"Hey," Maggie spotted him first in the doorway over Beth's shoulder, making Beth glance over briefly distractedly as she was in the middle of assembling a glock, flashing him a smile. "You're back a little early."
"Yeah." He said simply. "Hey, My Cleaver-Girl," He pulled his trapper hat back slightly to get a clearer look at her face, "Can you go out back and help Carol with the slicing and dicing? We didn't get anything as fantastic as a deer, but there's still a bit to go through. Make sure The Beast gets her share?"
Beth's blue-eyes flickered in question to her sister, who nodded her ascent back. "Okay, just give me a sec to finish this gun." He loomed over her shoulder, watching her slender, steady fingers squeeze the recoil spring back into place before lining up the slide, her movements as sure as if she were making one of her bracelets.
"Daddy may have hated me for drilling you three with this stuff years ago, but I'm glad I did." Beth made a noncommittal sound as slide clicked in place. Marshall's gaze narrowed for a minute; he intended to get the truth out of his baby sister soon enough on the subject of their daddy. The Banana Mopeel would act like a good enough confessional when they moved on, leaving her the inability to walk-away and him to needle. Both were more stubborn than a pair of mules, but he knew Beth would be easier to break with the teen's need to vent, and who better to vent to than her loving big brother? A full clip was loaded into the magazine and was set aside. "Where is daddy, anyway?"
Beth rose abruptly and left, leaving Marshall's old Army jacket on the back of the chair since she wouldn't be wearing it anyway. The twins stared after her for a moment.
"He and Glenn are in garage." Maggie finally answered.
"Oooh, daddy-and-boyfriend-bonding-time." Marshall teased. "You sure you don't want to be lurking in the shadows so you can swoop in swiftly when things get a little awkward?"
"Shut up."
"I like the confidence."
Where Maggie expected Marshall to take Beth's previously occupied seat, he instead went around the table to her side and wrapped his arms around his twin, hugging her from behind where she sat, his chin on her shoulder. "I see you and said cute boyfriend didn't get distracted making-out in a closet and leave Rick to the mob of an audience on your scavenging trip." Her eye-roll was loud. "I take that to mean everything went smooth?"
"Yeah." Though there was something in the background of her voice that made him think that wasn't quiet as truthful as it was supposed to be. "And you?" Maggie smirked, her tone suggestive and playful, "How was your 'alone-time' with Daryl?"
The tone of his sigh instantly had her switching gears; instead of dreamy and playful in turn, it was tired and... dejected.
"You know how it is..." Every time he's with Daryl, it seems.
"Just say the word," Maggie squeezed his forearm. "I'll give him a bit of what-for via my foot up his ass."
An amused sound birthed from his throat. "What a lucky foot that would be." She pinched his wrist in retaliation for being gross. "You know I appreciate the gesture," He pressed the kiss to her cheek. "It's not him, it's just... me getting ahead of myself, as always." Marshall's right hand fisted the material of her shirt at her shoulder—and the quiet but constant fear in his subconscious—that his family, that the rest of the Group would look at him like Daryl had, like he was a burden instead of an asset, a liability. It was one of his biggest fears, that was why he'd said what he'd said to the hunter; it was a promise, an assurance. He would sooner kill himself than be the reason he got the people that he loved killed. He'd told Sunny the same when he'd been laying in bed after being shot and she was speculating on if she'd be able to kill him like Rick had Shane. It would never get that far because he would do it himself. He would never put them through what Shane had to the Grimes Family, the Greene Family, the Group.
And Rick. Rick blamed himself already for getting Marshall shot, even though it wasn't on him. He did not want the man to claim more needless guilt for lasting repercussions of the wound. "You know I'm a menace in the face of social norms."
"I don't know how you made it in the Army." She remarked.
"Dealing with sensitive explosives tends to minimize the backchat. Just a bit."
"Just a bit." She agreed with some amusement. "But not the threat of Daryl shooting you in the ass with his crossbow?"
"That just sounds exciting."
She groaned, elbowing him off her. "Weird-o."
"Got to amuse myself somehow." He watched her rise, reaching over the table, putting some of the finished guns away to create more workspace. More serious, he murmured, "How'd the run go, really?"
"There was no making-out in closets. No close-calls. Just..." She turned around to finally face him, leaning her ass back against the table, fingers drumming the edges briefly. "I think you should talk to Rick." His brows flickered briefly in surprise at the addition. "He's been closed-off since we got back. I think he saw something that hit him pretty hard. He wouldn't let Glenn or I into the room; it must've been pretty bad."
"Alright." He murmured.
"You gonna give me any details on what happened with you?" She returned after a moment when he said nothing more, nor turn to leave.
"Who knows, maybe Daryl's gossiping about it right now." He cupped his twin's face, gazing into her green-eyes that were so much his own, their mother's. "Right now I just want to live in bliss a little longer."
His thumbs gently stroked over her cheekbones, and Maggie's worry sprouted and grew rapidly like a magic beanstalk. The way he was looking at her, like he was trying to memorize her face, this moment between them as if he was about to lose it seriously scared her. She took hold of his wrists gently, staring back in turn.
"Marshall..." But before she could find voice to the concern, his hands dropped away and he stepped back. Maggie could only stare after him as he went in search of Rick, she presumed, and she realized she was done fucking around. Done standing on the side-lines of him trying to find his own way of whatever the hell was going on between her twin and the Dixon. Not when Marshall always seem to have that look haunting the back of his eyes every time they interacted unsupervised or otherwise.
Marshall found Rick out front of the house beyond the cars, the setting sun hidden behind the thick foliage of trees, the fading light casting the sky in soft pastel colours. Even with just a simple observation Marshall understood what Maggie meant, something heavy was definitely weighing on the former Sherriff's Deputy's mind. Marshall didn't call out, just made him footsteps more audible so the man knew that he had approaching company.
Rick blinked at him for a second before giving his head a little shake, like he was trying to get rid of the previous train of thought that held him so captivated to address the new thing right in front of him. "Hey." His voice came out low and gravelly like he hadn't spoken in hours.
"Hey." Marshall silently offered him some gum; Rick stared at it for a moment in contemplation before accepting.
"You're back." Rick noted.
"Indeed I am."
Rick nodded, quiet for a beat before he asked the most immediate and pressing question: "Did you find a water source?"
"No such luck." Marshall murmured. "I take it the same goes for you?"
"Mm." Rick gave a grunt of discontent. Chewing the piece of gum that made his mouth water and wet his parched throat, he rubbed his stubbled jaw. "Was the actual hunting part better?"
"Loads better than the Dixon-socializing." Marshall said wryly. "You know why life is so interesting? Because you learn something every day, don't you? Anyway, it's more beneficial to the Group if we hunt separately, a higher chance of bring home more food."
"If that's what you think is best." Rick said softly.
"And you?"
"Me?"
Marshall nodded. "Mags mentioned something went down on your run and you refused to talk to her or Glenn about it."
"She tattled on me?"
"She's worried about you." Marshall corrected. "And looking at you now, so am I. Don't get me wrong, physically, you look about the same as the rest of us. No, it's..." He wiggled his fingers in the air around the man, "The vibes, babe."
"My vibes?" Rick deadpanned.
"You know what I mean." He flapped a hand. "It's clear that something's on your mind- You know what's wrong with this Group?" He interrupted himself abruptly and continued without waiting for a response, "This Group is just a bunch of people that won't talk to each other." Rick gave him a very pointed look. "Guilty." He held his palms out in surrender. "But I have a plan for that!" He declared.
"You're going to finally talk to your sister and father?" Rick wondered plainly.
"You've met them both, right? They're the two most stubborn people I've ever met in my life, and their stubbornness feeds off each other in a never-ending loop once they've set their mind's to something. So, using the opportunity presented that we can't stay here, I'm going to have Sunny sequestered in The Banana Mopeel with me away from daddy- Hey! Don't try and be clever with distracting from your problems with my problems."
"Marshall..." Rick sighed quietly, carding fingers through his greasy curled locks.
"C'mon, Rick. Whatever you saw, whatever's got you out here so hung up... You think if you ignore it, it'll go away?" He spoke softly. "I can tell you right now that it won't." He saw the irony and hypocrisy of that statement as he unconsciously kneaded the palm of his right hand, but utterly ignored it at the moment. Humans were contradictory by nature; 'Do as I say, not as I do' type of shit. "We're Partners. This is what I'm here for, isn't it? Can't talk to anyone else?" He spread his arms invitingly with a quirk to his lips. "Consider me your personal diary. I may even have some wise words to offer."
Rick looked at the younger man for a long moment, Marshall didn't look away, before he gave a slow nod of agreement. "Yeah, I know, Mars." His eyes shifted passed him and back toward the house.
When Marshall followed his gaze back, he was expecting to find some kind of audience on the porch but it was empty. He guessed it was the presence that lay inside that had Rick so troubled. "You know, walking helps with digestion." He walked passed the man and away from the house.
A moment later Rick fell into step beside him. The man only spoke when the house disappeared from sight. "One of the houses... there was a nursery."
Oh. That alone already had Marshall's understanding of Rick's closed-off behaviour. Even if one didn't have a baby on the way, the sight would depress anyone with an iota of emotional development.
"Looked like they were just starting to set it up when the epidemic hit..."
Marshall ignored the automatic, practical, and seemingly insensitive question of whether Rick grabbed all those baby supplies (if that were the case, he didn't think Maggie would be so confused), and waited. He knew it couldn't be that simple, that that was the end of it, even if he wished it could have been as they slowed to a stop, just the two of them.
"The woman- The mother... looked like she tried to barricade herself in the room from walkers. When I saw her, I just reacted. My knife in her skull. It wasn't until after... her dead on the ground, that I n-noticed the nursery. Saw- Saw her-" Rick stopped. His breath caught in his throat, trapped in his chest. Had trouble getting the words out.
Marshall kept a careful but subtle eye on the steadily declining composure of the affected man; it was obvious that delayed shock was setting in. Finally addressing the situation verbally, letting it become reality instead of living in ignorance of the last hours finally seemed to trigger the emotional shock that Rick had pushed to the side while he'd been in the active situation of the events.
Rick was pale and sweaty, there was bright hysterical edge into his watery blue-eyes. "She was pregnant, Marshall!" He heaved. "Oh, God! She was turned and she was pregnant, and- Her belly- She was bigger than Lori." His voice croaked hoarsely. "It was all torn up and-!" He finally doubled over, retching. The forgotten piece of gum, the remains of the piece of bread he'd mechanically eaten when they gotten back to camp, a string of bile and saliva.
He flinched at Marshall's initial touch but didn't jerk away as soothing circles were drawn between his shoulder blades. Shaking, he wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. Marshall's hand fell away when Rick finally straightened, but he didn't give the Ranger time to step away and give him space—hugged him instead. Much like at the barn, but this time Rick was the one that needed the comfort.
Though not exactly expecting the hug, Marshall didn't hesitate to return the gesture. Rick buried his face against the taller man's neck, as if he could hide away. He knew his grip must've been a little too tight, a little too desperate, but Marshall didn't give voice to any discomfort. Marshall stroked his back comfortingly, petting his head.
"I could see it." Came the horrified utter. "Moving. Writhing around beneath her rotten, stretched skin." He shuddered. "The b-baby's f-fingers through the- through the t-tears-"
Marshall kneaded the nape of his neck, a steady, grounding pressure as he fell silent again. "I'm sorry. I don't have any words that can make any of that any better. I'm sorry you had to see that, have it burned into your memory. And..." Selfishly, "Thank you for not letting Maggie—or Glenn—see that."
Rick's fingers dug into the leather of his maroon duster. "All I could see- I saw was Lori. The baby-!"
"Stop." Marshall whispered harshly into his curly hair. "Stop that. Here it is, okay? The wise words, the wisdom all the way from the back teeth." He didn't force the man from his sought comfort and shield, but if he couldn't look him in the eye, he was going to make damn sure there was no way for Rick to miss his words. Marshall tilted his head down, lips brushing the shell of Rick's knicked ear as he spoke softly but with no less authority:
"That's not Lori. That's not your baby."
Rick scoffed. "You can't-" He tried to push away with a shake of his head.
Marshall didn't let him get much further than an arm's length away. "Yet, here we are. And I'm saying it, because it's not. It's not, Rick. Lori's right back there," He pointed. "In that house, alive, surrounded by our people—worried about you brooding out here."
"You think letting her see me like this will be beneficial in any way?"
"You think she doesn't know anyways?" Marshall returned. "Anything that could happen, will happen. Some way, some when. That is a universal truth. It happened to those people, doesn't mean that it has to happen to you. You gonna let that happen to you?" He challenged, poking Rick's chest. "Well?"
"I don't know how I'm supposed to stop it." Rick's voice broke.
Marshall softened by didn't relent. "You just leave the birthing to her, me, and daddy, alright? Women have been doing this since the dawn of time. And daddy's an old-hand at it by now; he delivered Beth, Mags and me—and I didn't make it easy on either." He added wryly.
"He said you weren't breathing when you were born." Rick whispered.
Marshall's brow twitched up a little in surprise. He supposed that look Rick gave him a few days back made a little more sense if those were the kinds of stories his family was telling about him. "Well, then, that should just give you even more confidence in that matter, hm? I'm right here, ain't I?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah. And I've helped in a couple deliveries in the middle of war zones so the apocalypse will be a cinch. We have this corner covered, alright? So, listen closely to this next bit, okay?" Rick nodded, eyes locked to his like a drowning man seeking a lifesaver. "Nothing's going to get better if you don't talk to each other." Marshall said softly.
Rick gave a harsh bark of laughter. "You think I haven't tried?!" A rough hand carded through his hair as Marshall let him pace. "I've... tried. But I look at her, and when open my mouth—if I can even get that far—nothing ever seems to be able to come out." Until now, looking into green-eyes instead of hazel. "I just see Shane, dead. Remember the look she gave me and nothing comes out!" And it all just came pouring out: "She blames me and I blame me..." All the fears and the inadequacies that had been bottled and building and bubbling up inside of him since the farm (hell, since waking-up from his coma) (maybe- maybe before even then) because there had been no one there for him to be able to pour his heart out bare to. Marshall was right; he had been surrounded by people, yet had been unable to talk with anyone. One was in the ground. One was pregnant with the first's baby. And the Last had been missing for the past 4 months—until now: "I've had to watch my- my- I don't even know what we are anymore... Lori's belly grow bigger and bigger with each passing day, week, months and know- know that it's my best-friend's child growing in there. The best-friend that I killed. The best-friend that wanted me dead so he could steal my family! The best-friend that my wife would never admit that she fell in-love with!" He swallowed against the harsh lump in his throat; his voice hoarse with emotion rather than volume. "That I didn't fight hard enough. Or I just wasn't enough-"
Marshall let him rant and rave, get it out. Knew this was a long time coming. Rick had been too calm, too contained in the face of the matter. Pushed his own feelings back and back, putting the Group's needs first. There was never any time for Rick to properly mourn, let alone grieve Shane, never got to speak his truth over the man's grave. Grief was a complex personal matter under 'normal' circumstance, but these? Childhood best-friend saved his wife and child; blood brother slept with his wife; partner tried to kill him. How the hell did one go about that, particularly when one's other most trusted was just as twisted and tangled in it?
"It's just... so fucking hard, Marshall." Rick finally stilled in front of the other man, eyes broken and imploring. Pleading. "It's just... too hard."
"Most things worth it are, Rick." There was a wry quirk to Marshall's lips. "It's easy for me here, alright? To say all this shit to you. It's easy looking in from the outside. I'm not tangled in the web with the history and the emotion." They do say it's a fine line between love-hate-jealousy-obsession. "I can spout all this inspirational shit I want, make it sound all logical, say 'talk' like that's easy. Only, life isn't fucking logical, just look at where we are! Humans aren't fucking logical, who the hell ever thought that?" He shook his head. "I'm not some relationship guru. I've never been married, never been in a committed romantic relationship before, but I do know that in any relationship communication is key.
"It's sounds so easy yet at the moment, it probably feels like the hardest fucking thing that you'll have to do. It's hard because you're angry and hurt and you're angry and hurt because you love her, Rick, in whatever capacity that may be now.
"It isn't just going away—it's literally growing between you two. And it's going to keep growing. One day soon, they'll look you at and call you both 'daddy' and 'mama'. You know how emotionally perceptive children, especially infants, can be. You think they won't pick up on this silent... resentment between the two of you? They didn't get to choose who their sperm donor may or may not be. You gonna be one of those bastards who resent the child for something that they had no part in?
"This is the world that they're going to grow-up in; a world with monsters with human faces that want to eat them. This is all they will know. Can you really live with yourself knowing that this child, your child, whose safe haven, their one normality with their parents will be spoiled with quiet animosity? This baby doesn't deserve its parents' ghosts, Rick."
Rick's lips parted but no words escaped him. Marshall was right, of course, he knew it. Everything the man said hit home and it hit hard, and he just didn't have the mental wherewithal at the moment for any action toward it.
"Hugs don't solve everything but they're a damn good start?" Marshall offered softly. He wasn't all that much surprised when Rick seemed to take that as the go-ahead to collapse into him. Marshall knew that look in the man's eye; the one with the want to lay on the ground and not get up. Pure mental and emotional exhaustion, no will or capacity to interact with the surrounding world.
The previous hug had been the grasping claw of a drowning man desperately fighting—this was the drowned man washed ashore. Keeping a lookout for any sneaky piranha, able to smell the faint aroma of cooking meat carried from the house as the sun started its setting, Marshall gave him no more words, there had been enough words already. Instead he hummed Josephine's Lullaby, a low reverberation through his chest and in his ear, a soothing balm to the painful buzz in Rick's brain.
...
"Papa?" Sophia inquired when she finally approached him, Chips tucked securely under her arm.
Marshall had watched her hovering and lingering from the corner of his eye as she got herself ready for bed, waiting, curious as to what it was that made the girl need to work herself up to asking him. Marshall always loved to see the blush of excitement on her cheeks; when Sophia got excited her reactions were spur-of-the-moment, not bogged down by her shyness. More than that, though, he loved seeing the determined steel in her eyes when she desired something and pushed herself passed that learned wall of passive acceptance of what was given to her instead of taking it of her own will.
"Yes, Butterfly?" He murmured, giving her his attention.
She chewed on the inside of her cheek shyly, gaze darting away before settling on his patient face. "Can you rub my belly?" Her hands tugged and twisted nervously at the hem of her sweater. "Carl said that you rubbed his tummy when he was hurt and it made him feel better."
"Ah." He stroked her freckled cheek. "Still not feeling any better?" She had wolfed down her dinner so he knew that he didn't need to be concerned about her appetite, at least.
"Mm-mm."
"Of course we can cuddle, sweetheart." He said. "But I have watch in a few hours..."
"I can take your watch." Beth spoke-up before Sophia could nod her acceptance.
Marshall looked over to his sister with a raised brow.
"What?" The sunshine-blond crossed her arms in challenge. "Don't think I can do it? I'll have you know that I've taken watch before, alright? I know how to use a gun just like everyone else-"
"Easy." Marshall's hands fell to her shoulder, squeezing. "I never thought or said that you couldn't. I know you're a great shot—I taught you myself, after all—and I've seen you with a bat. And who knows what crazy things you got up to in the winter..."
"Probably saner things than you."
"No contest there." He agreed with a smirk. "Thank you, Sunny." He cupped the back of her head, shifting the trapper hat back enough to press a kiss to her brow. "I appreciate it."
Beth shrugged but smiled. "You're a great pillow to curl-up on—and you take snot like a champ."
"Thank you, I'm rather proud of the ability."
"Cuddle-whore." She teased.
"Affection-whore," He corrected, "Thank you very much. And I'm very flexible about it, too—a giver and a receiver," Beth made a face, "Best thing about being a Big Brother and a Papa for that matter." He finished innocently.
"Now I'm more than happy to sit outside in the dark if it means not having to listen to you." She deadpanned.
"Oh, so you're grown-up enough to make size-innuendo but you can't take finding out your big brother's a very generous affection-whore?"
"In front of your daughter, Marshall?"
"What?" He looked to the girl who was watching the siblings' by-play as she waited, "You enjoy my affection, don't you, Butterfly." Sophia's gaze flickered to Beth before returning to her papa, nodding shyly; Marshall flashed her a beam. "See?" He turned to his little sister. "At least someone's not ashamed of me."
Beth rolled her eyes. "I love you." She droned.
Marshall booped her on the nose. "I know, but it still makes me warm and fuzzy to hear you say it."
"I say it all the time."
"Hence, my constant warmed and fuzzed state. So warm and fuzzy, I am hardly in need of a jacket." He stripped from his maroon leather duster. Blue-eyes eyed it a little brightly as he held it possessively. "No," He tsked the teen. "I lend you this for the night and I'm never gonna get it back."
Beth pouted with big eyes. "Even after I'm taking watch for you?"
"Yes." He said succinctly, unaffected. "What game do you think you're trying to play? I taught you those damn puppy-eyes."
She smacked her lips in disappointment. "Fine—I'm still keeping the hat!" She tugged on the ear-flaps, holding them protectively as if he were going to try and snatch it off her head at that very moment.
"I know." He murmured fondly. "Little Klepto." Beth stuck her tongue out as she left. "Love you!" Marshall caught Carol's eye. "You okay with this?" He nodded at Sophia.
"Yeah." Carol nodded. She gave her daughter a kiss. "Goodnight, sweetie."
"Night, mom." Sophia hugged her around the waist.
"Alright. We're taking the couch, Butterfly, way better for cuddling. Dibs on the couch!" He repeated louder to the room at large as if the occupants hadn't already been silent witnesses to the whole thing.
He tossed his jacket over the back of the couch, and he unclipped his machete laying it on the floor by where his head was going to be in easy reach if something went down. His holstered sidearm became its neighbour on the floor seeing as he was putting his right-side to the back of the couch, his feet towards the door. His head laid on one arm of the couch, while his booted foot was kicked up over the other arm, his other knee bent and planted onto the floor.
"However you want to go about it, Butterfly." He patted his chest, "Rocky'll take care of you—just watch the knees and the elbows, hm?"
The 12-year-old eyed him for a moment like he was a math calculation before making her move. Aware of her sharp elbows and knees, she managed to miss the most important of the soft bits as she clambered over him; claiming most of his chest even as she squished against the back of the couch, his arm around her waist as she used his right shoulder for a pillow, her own legs curled around the inside of his raised one. When Sophia had herself settled on her papa comfortably, Carol spread a blanket over them. Athena took that as her cue to jump up and curl of in the space left by his legs.
Skin-on-skin contact was always best, Marshall found, it translated the comfort and the warmth better but with the way Sophia jolted at the simple touch of his palm initially splayed over her tummy, he knew the girl would be too ticklish to find any comfort in the touch unless there was a barrier to dull the sensitivity.
"Better?" He murmured as his left palm start slow, soothing circles over her sweater. Sophia gave a little nod, watching through half-lidded eyes as the rest of Group started to settled down for the night as well. "Want a song?"
"Please, papa."
In the same low voice, just for her, he started to sing:
baby love, baby child, you're gonna die
all your friends, all the flowers' gonna die-
He didn't even get through the song's opening before the room erupted into various exclaims and protests, cutting him off. Both spirit-father-and-daughter lifted their heads with twin looks of confusion.
"What?" He queried.
There seemed to be a bit of a stunned silence before his twin burst out indignantly at her idiot brother. "What? You can't sing that to her! I mean, what the hell, Marshall?!"
Marshall squinted at her sister. "Why not?"
"Why not-?! Did you know hear what you were saying?"
Marshall turned his gaze to the only one whose opinion on the matter actually counted; he also wondered if the other's who had protested even realized that she hadn't. "Spirit-baby-mama, do you have an opinion on this?"
Carol was quiet for a moment, watching him before looking to her daughter thoughtfully. The girl had been more startled by the Groups outburst than she did a song that said 'she and everyone else was going to die'. In a way, it was kind of amusing that the adults were more affected by it than the child was. "I actually know this song. It's good. Tone down the language a little though, please?"
"Radio version it is." He smiled. Marshall ignored everyone else and turned his focus back to his daughter, resuming rubbing her tummy and singing softly (with maybe a dose of pettiness as he started from the beginning):
baby love, baby child, you're gonna die
all your friends, all the flowers' gonna die
so why you so shy? why you so shut off?
you're running out of time
I want you to fly, I want you to pop off
way up into the sky
mama always said, "You gotta find yourself a mantra"
hell no
to living in a basement
hell no
to my one sweet life squeezed tight in a vice grip
hell no
to the 9-5 suicide, bleeding like a stuck pig
hell no, hell no
hell no to living in the matrix
Her fingers flexed in his shirt. His lips pressed against her hair. She pressed closer, her breath curling against the hollow of his throat:
I forgot all the time I'm gonna die
but then again, I'm divine, nobody dies
so why am I so stressed? why am I so depressed?
I'm running out of time
mama always said, "You gotta find yourself a mantra"
Buddha said, Voodoo said, Guru said, Rumi said
All the Dalai Lamas, all the snake charmers
"You gotta get cosmic, gotta kiss God"
but papa always said, "Gotta find yourself a job"
but mama said, "Nah, gotta find yourself a mantra"
Marshall was never going to let Sophia end up in the basement like those kids below their feet, the true horror of their death hidden by a mere dirty blanket taken from the sofa. No, she was going to strive and survive in the world. Nothing was going to hold her back or down, and anything that tried was going to be met with him:
hell no (baby love, baby child)
to living in the matrix
hell no (baby love, baby child)
hell no to my one sweet life squeezed tight in a vice grip
hell no (baby love, baby child)
to the 9-5 suicide, bleeding like a stuck pig
hell no, hell no (baby love, baby child)
hell no to living in the matrix
Athena's pawing and whining instantly had him awake and alert, green-eyes darting around in the dimness for danger—but everything was quiet, everyone continued to sleep. No imminent piranha ambush, the watcher's outside would be shouting up a storm, yet Athena continued to paw and whine and Marshall finally realized that it wasn't him she was concerned about—it was the girl curled up on his chest.
He craned his neck to catch a glimpse of her face pressed into his collar bone; her brow was furrowed in silent discomfort as she slumbered. She wasn't writhing around and moaning in pain, but Marshall knew better than to ignore it when Athena was trying to tell him something. Animals were sensitive to things that human's could not perceive, after all. He signalled her silence, hand reaching out to touch her head; she gave a final whine, ears pressed flat, amber eyes watching him as he pulled down the blanket that covered them.
"Papa-?" Sophia mumbled, sleepily and crankily at the brush of cold air.
Marshall fished his flashlight from his pocket, fingers obscuring most of the light so he didn't flood the room and awake everyone (the precaution didn't matter in the end).
"Papa?" Sophia repeated, more alert, squinting and blinking in the blinding if small light as Marshall stared down at her. "What's wrong?" She craned her neck down to see what her papa's light was so fixed on.
"Sophia-" Marshall started, voice calm and even, but it did little as all she saw was covered in crimson.
Confusion and fear and adrenaline ran through her like a terrifying jolt of electricity—groggy, disoriented and discomfited, the scream left her before she could think to stop it.
The living room startled awake. Disoriented themselves, they still instinctually scrambled for their weapons, ready for the any threat-
[Part 1..tbc..Part 2]
CARL: Why do you call him 'papa' instead of 'dad'?
SOPHIA: It just seems to fit better, like Papa Bear, y'know? Safe and warm, and like nothing can get to me.
...The walking DEAD...
Mother Mother - The Matrix
.
The Haunting of Hill House; Steven Crain
"A ghost can be a lot of things. A memory, a daydream, a secret. Grief, anger, guilt. But, in my experience, most time they're just what we want to see."
"Ghosts are guilt, ghosts are secrets, ghosts are regrets and failings. But most times, most times a ghost is a wish."
...
So, one-step forward, two-steps back with Daryl. Frustrating, but Daryl's a tough little nut to crack and Marshall didn't have 4 months cooped up with him to soften him up, so it's gonna take a little bit. Daryl honestly does not know how to handle Marshall being nice and genuine, so he falls back onto his default setting: Daryl 'Curmudgeon' Dixon. I'm sure I will eventually get Daryl to admit- out loud- the F-word that shall not be spoken somehow, someway before the story ends... likely on Marshall's deathbed. *slams the door and turns the lock* Part 2 coming soon...
